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ugh-yoongi · 10 months ago

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the very last thing i decide | pjm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is it, he thinks.

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

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

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

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

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

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m no one’s dog.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just how it goes.

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

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

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

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

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

Someone else’s, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

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

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

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

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

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

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

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

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

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taunting him.

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

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

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

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

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

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

“Done. Anything else?”

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

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

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

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

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

Doesn’t matter.

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

No one spares you a second glance.

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

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

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

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

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

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

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

Sorry.

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

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

What kind of life is this?

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

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

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The second time is nothing like the first.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re being followed.”

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

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

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

“Where’s Jimin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know it’s a liability.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

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

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

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

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

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

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

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

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

“Destruction.”

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

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

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

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

You watch him go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

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

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

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

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

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

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

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

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

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a waste of your fucking time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

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

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

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

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

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

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

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satorustyles · 1 year ago

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you can't fall asleep (sukuna x reader one shot)

pairing: sukuna x reader

warnings: none, just so much fluff! and soft sukuna, maybe? he's just not the typical angry and super duper evil dude in this one.

word count: 1,512

GOJO VERSION OF THIS ONE SHOT HERE!

NANAMI VERSION OF THIS ONE SHOT HERE!

It was game night.

It's the one night of the week when you, Yuuji, Megumi, and Nobara gather in the living room for an endless evening of video games. The PS5 was a present given to the four of you from your ever-loving, mostly annoying sensei Gojo Satoru last Christmas. Since then, it was tradition for the four of you to spend an evening together, with pizza and burgers and a shameless amount of slander against each other.

But tonight was different.

You won't be able to join them because you're sick. Headaches. Nausea. Dry coughs and the flu. It was all because of the most recent mission you've been on alone, and it already took its toll on you. Your three friends insisted on moving game night to a different date, but you didn't want them to postpone further. You've been sick for three days already, and for three nights, they adjusted for you. Tomorrow was the start of a new week, meaning you could likely end your streak of having weekly game nights. And you didn't want that.

"Guys, it's just one night. I won't die if I miss one." You told them with a shaky laugh, the cough in your lungs threatening to bark its way out your throat with every huff of your breath.

"y/n," Yuuji started as he walked over to your weak body on your bed, patting your shoulder gently. He had the most serious, determined look on his face. "I'll win this for you."

You smiled at how adorable he was and decided to play along. "Thank you, Yuuji. You're my hero."

The evening stretched on, and as you stayed on your bed, your friends yelled over each other in triumph and defeat, followed by loud laughs that would jerk you awake. Your head pounded at the loud sounds coming from the living room. Despite the closed door, you could still clearly make out their voices and their stomping across the wooden floor.

It only made your head hurt more.

But you didn't have the heart to get out of bed and ask them to be a little quieter. It's been a long week for everyone, not only for you. Megumi and Yuuji completed a mission before you, and Nobara was sent to accompany Toge after your expedition. It was a busy week for all of you, and game night was a way of easing everyone from their exhaustion.

"Megumi you prick!" Nobara shrieked, and your head pounded at the high-pitched tone. "I'm going to fucking kill you on the next round!"

You sighed to yourself, massaging your temples while your other hand struggled to pull your blanket closer to your chest. It was freezing. Your socks and the thick covers didn't help your case at all.

"That's how a game works, you loser!" Megumi shot back just as loudly. Then thuds. You could picture the two of them on the floor strangling each other.

Oh how you love them so much.

"Shut up, you brats!"

Your heart stopped. Silence followed after the sudden and unexpected outburst.

Despite your current state, it didn't take long for you to recognize Sukuna's voice coming from Yuuji's body. He seemed to have taken over while the other two were arguing.

Considering the abrupt silence, Megumi and Nobara must have also been shocked. The only sound that could be heard was the background music that still played on the screen.

"Not even an ounce of consideration for your poor comrade. Even an old man and a newborn baby would startle awake by your gaudiness!"

Your heart hammered against your chest when you realized that Sukuna was talking about you. Then, footsteps padded across the floor before your door was opened, and you froze in your place, closing your eyes and hoping that your breathing didn't sound too erratic.

"Just cut the act. I know you're awake." Sukuna mumbled next to you and you slightly flinched, surprised that he was immediately by your side. He turned your night lamp on, illuminating the darkness of the room.

You realized there was no point in even pretending. You sighed, opening your eyes and coming face to face with the King of Curses himself, his red eyes staring down at you and his lips curled in a slight smirk.

"What do you want." You croaked out. Your throat was already dry.

"Here to help you," He replied nonchalantly as if it was the most normal thing to do. "It was about time that brat brought me out. Couldn't even think about helping or at least leaving you a glass of water."

As if on cue, he places a tall glass of water on your bedside table before gesturing for you to sit up. "Have a drink. I brought some painkillers."

You slowly sat up, leaned your back against the headboard and took a pill before popping it in your mouth. Sukuna then handed you the glass, and you were quick to gulp everything down in seconds. The liquid felt satisfying running down your dry throat.

"Thanks." You sighed. You then nodded at the door. "You can let Yuuji out now. I'm sure he wants to play more. You've done enough."

You didn't mean to sound like a jerk. Technically, you were still confused about where you stood with your—friendship? Relationship?—with Sukuna, after Yuuji has been teasing you that Sukuna wouldn't stop talking about you in his head when you first encountered him. He would find ways to take over Yuuji's body, even resorting to bribery and negotiation just to get himself out. He wouldn't admit it himself, but he's been so taken by you that he always craved your presence.

"The brat and I made a deal. He won't let me out for a week starting tomorrow if I could have an evening with you."

Your stomach fluttered. You tried to shrug it off as the occasional nausea that you felt, but deep down, you knew that you had a soft spot for the King of Curses as well.

"I—" You tried to say something after a moment's silence, but Sukuna was already up and going over to the other side of the bed. You could only stare up at him, dumbfounded.

"Move over a little, yeah?" He muttered quietly, and you found yourself obliging. You could only watch as he made himself comfortable next to you, the black markings on his face and shoulders more prominent underneath the light of your lamp. The tight black shirt that Yuuji wore emphasized the muscles on his arms and chest and you could feel the heat slowly creeping up to your neck. You were subconsciously imagining what it would be like if Sukuna had a body of his own.

It would be chaos for everyone.

For you.

"Come on now, don't be shy." Sukuna teased with an amused smile as he stretched one arm over your head, urging you to get closer to him. But you could only stare at him, still processing everything, asking yourself whether or not you had fallen asleep and were already dreaming.

He sighed in defeat before letting his arm wrap around your shoulder and pulling you closer to his body. He then took your arm and let it rest across his stomach, guiding your head to rest on his chest.

"Better?" He whispered. In fact, it was better. The warmth radiating off his body helped alleviate the coldness you felt, and he also took the liberty of pulling the covers above the two of you.

You felt rigid against him and you knew that he thought it as well.

"Come on, you little brat," He sighed, but he sounded fond and soft, unlike his usual, annoyed tone. "Relax yourself. I'm not going to bite you. Unless you want me to, of course..."

He received a weak slap across his stomach and laughed lightly, taking advantage of hugging you closer to him. He let his longer legs intertwine with yours, exuding warmth down your feet and ankles. His hand then reached up to run his fingers through your hair, softly massaging your scalp while his other hand held onto your arm and kept you from pulling away from him.

You've never felt so relaxed tonight. Everything felt so much better, warmer, cozier...

You were finally dozing off, happy that your body found the comfort and peace it sought hours ago. You couldn't even bring yourself to feel so reserved around Sukuna anymore, and you found yourself nuzzling closer to him, rubbing your cheek against his chest.

"Thank you," You mumbled sleepily, your hand sliding underneath his shirt and feeling the warmth of his stomach on your trembling palm. He just exudes so. Much. Warmth.

You felt his lips on your forehead, keeping it there for a long time. His hand rested above yours, just outside the cloth of his shirt.

"Sleep, my darling." He whispered against your skin. "Recover. I'll keep a look out for you tonight."

It was safe to say that you didn't want the evening to end.

#sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #sukuna one shot #sukuna fluff #sukuna au #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #bear writes

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apomaro-mellow · 1 year ago

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Wrong Number 5

Eddie had been having a greatest time eating in his apartment that anyone could have. Because he wasn't alone. He was with Steve. And then he got to share one of his childhood favorite movies with him. Even though it was a first date, Eddie got the feel that casual was okay. So he'd started the video call with a red t-shirt and black jeans. He knew the odds of Steve seeing his bottom half but he wanted to look nice all the way anyway.

When Steve answered the call and Eddie saw him fill the screen with a very respectable "first date" shirt, he imagined the bottoms were probably a good pair of jeans or maybe even khakis. Steve looked like a khaki guy. What Eddie did not expect was to be flashed when Steve got up in the middle of the movie to get a drink.

But he got up, giving Eddie an eyeful of a bulge in navy blue lace. And then Steve turned and Eddie got to see it from the back. He had to have been hallucinating. There was no way he had actually seen that. It had to be an illusi-and he was coming back and those were definitely panties that Steve was wearing.

"....Eddie?" Steve looked at his wide eyes. The man hadn't spoken for a full minute.

"Baby...are you wearing something naughty?"

Steve bit his lip. "I wasn't trying to be naughty. Robin just thought that I could...well, use the confidence?"

"Don't tell me a pretty thing like you is insecure, I won't believe it", Eddie smiled.

"Well those were Robin's thoughts, not mine." Steve turned the movie down a bit and it was clear Eddie and lowered the volume on his end too. "Do you like them?"

"My brain went to moon. I think you're trying to kill me."

Steve's already high confidence jumped to the ceiling. It was nice to be appreciated.

"Can I see them again?", Eddie asked.

"I thought they were fatal?", Steve smirked.

"You know, I've decided I've lived long enough. And if I have my choice of how I go, I choose death by Steve."

"Okay, but if I have a choice, I'm keeping you alive. But if you insiiiist." Steve had returned to his seat on the floor when he got back from the kitchen, and now he rose up to sit on the couch. His legs were crossed, blocking Eddie's view.

The man on his phone whined. "Don't make me beg."

"Hmm, but what if I like begging?"

"Please, please baby, pretty please, lemme see you?" Eddie's hands were pressed together in prayer.

The way he was positioned (in the phone, on the coffee table) it was like he was kneeling before Steve. Slowly, he uncrossed his legs and even spread them a little, smiling when he heard Eddie's intake of breath.

"Shit...Were you planning on showing me this tonight?"

"If you were good...maybe", Steve teased. "What do you think? Have you been a good boy?"

Eddie nodded frantically, hair flopping, jaw dropped as Steve shifted and he got to watch the bulge between his legs move. He would do anything. Beg, kneel, bark, whatever Steve wanted him to do. Fuck, if he was really there, his head would already be in between his legs.

"I bet you could crack my skull with those legs, Jesus."

From his vantage point, Eddie could only make out up to the bottom of his mouth and while he liked his current view, that just wouldn't do at all.

"I've got an idea...What do you say to moving this to the bedroom?"

Steve grabbed his phone and started walking. Eddie straight up sprinted and collapsed onto his bed.

"You're not going to have anyone burst in with a 'code red', are they?", Steve asked as he got onto his own bed, laying down and holding his phone to his face.

"I have blocked out the entire night for you, Stevie. My crew knows that all Code Reds are to be handled by my second in command."

Okay, that made him feel a little special. Steve bit his lip. "I've never really done anything like this before..."

"What? Taking a date to your bedroom? Once again, I won't believe it. You're probably beating them back with a stick." Eddie was literally looking at him. There was no way he didn't have a line of admirers going down the street.

"I meant on like...video. So how do you want me?"

"Well I typically get a burger with my shakes", Eddie waggled his brows.

"Eddie", Steve laughed.

"Wait, I can do better! Can I get a split-top bun, since you've got a whole bakery in the back?" Eddie beamed as the screen shook while Steve was laughing. "Just get comfortable, baby."

Steve did just that, lying on his back, holding his phone above his head. Eddie was in a similar position in his own bed.

"Okay, I think I've done the whole 'teacher is secretly a model' bit before but Christ alive, it's like you've got no bad angles."

"Eddie, I think you're stalling", Steve grinned. At first, he had been nervous about doing this over video, but now it seemed like Eddie was the one who was anxious.

"If I stall by complimenting you, is it really stalling?"

"If you were here...what would you do to me?", Steve asked.

"I would kiss you so hard, you'd pass out", Eddie admitted. "Full on Pepe LePew treatment. I'd start on your hand and make my way up and then I'm not letting those lips go until they're raw."

Steve brushed his fingers against his mouth. It had been a while since he'd been kissed like that, but Eddie wasn't done.

"And don't think I haven't noticed how those moles go all the way down. I think if I get started kissing them now, I can be to your thighs by Christmas."

Steve didn't miss the strong implication of Eddie's physical presence. They hadn't really talked about meeting in real life yet, both of them aware of how risky it could be to meet someone like that. But as time went on, the dangers seemed to melt away.

Steve's hand trailed down his body. He made sure to angle his phone so that Eddie could see just that. "God, I've thought about your hands so much..." His hand came back up to touch his lips.

"I can tell you want to, baby. Go ahead and suck on them. Pretend they're mine."

Permission granted, Steve stuck two in his mouth. Enraptured, Eddie started to paw at himself through his jeans. Steve's mouth was so pretty and it was already so wet. It didn't hurt that he was already moaning. God, he needed to find out where Steve lived and buy himself a plane ticket. He needed to get his hands on him yesterday.

"Mmm, and you know, once my fingers are nice and wet, I like to put them elsewhere. Where do you want me to touch?"

Slowly, Steve pulled them out of his mouth. "Everywhere", he said, lightly panting.

Eddie's canines showed as he smiled. He unzipped his pants, purposely making it as loud as he could so that Steve would know. "I'd like that too. But let's narrow it down, beautiful."

"How's about I show you?"

Eddie's eyes got wide as Steve changed positions and even moved some pillows around and now he had a front row seat to the most prime ass he'd ever seen. Steve was on his knees and bent over slowly. He pulled his panties to the side with one hand and pushed one of his glistening fingers inside.

"Aaahh, Eddie", he moaned, bringing the other man back into it.

"Fucking hell, look at you." Eddie used one hand to pushed the band of his boxers down and bring out his cock.

Steve pushed another into him, pressing his forehead against the bed. He didn't know what he'd been so anxious about. He wanted nothing more than to have Eddie looking at him. Eddie getting hard and jerking off while looking at him.

"Eddie...I need, I need you..."

Eddie spit in his hand and kept stroking. "Tell me, angel. What do you need me to do?"

Steve whined and Eddie watched as his ass shook, fingers sinking in deep before pulling them out and pushing in again. He bet anything if Steve turned around, he'd see a wet spot on those panties.

"Don't worry, Stevie, I'm gonna tell you what to do. Is that okay?"

He saw Steve's head shake in what could've been a nod, but he was glad when he got the vocal confirmation. Eddie directed Steve and soon he had turned (Eddie had been right about the wet spot) so now he was facing the camera. The ass shot was hot but Eddie wanted to see his face when he came. He now also had a pillow under his hips to help with the angle.

And damn if he wasn't an absolute vision, rutting against the pillow, lips parted in a perpetual moan. Eddie had gotten some lube for his hand, but he knew his fist paled in comparison to Steve Harrington.

"Shit, I needa have you Steve. Wanna feel you, make you mine."

"I'm already yours", Steve said, making Eddie whimper. "I'm all yours, Eds, no one else's."

Apparently he was in a really possessive mood because that just put him right over the edge. This beautiful man was pleasuring himself and he only had eyes for Eddie. He made sure his cumshot was in the frame and watched as Steve's eyes glazed over. His licked his lips and bucked into his pillow, Eddie's name leaving his mouth on a sigh.

Eddie swallowed, his throat a little dry. "Can I see?"

Steve didn't need to ask what he meant. He picked up his phone and rose up on his knees, showing Eddie the tip of his cock peeking out of his panties, cum cooling on his stomach as his shirt had ridden up.

"Mmm, fuck. What's that rule in your classroom? About not wasting good food?"

"If you were here, I'd let you lick it all up", Steve said.

"Yeah, about that...can we...?"

"Talk? How do you feel about morning afters?", Steve asked.

"Usually they're pretty awkward", Eddie admitted with a shrug. "But considering I don't need to worry about you kicking me out..."

"Are you free for breakfast?"

"You mean brunch?"

Steve smiled. "It's a date then. Good night, Eddie."

"Good night, my darling."

Part 7

Tag Team (CLOSED)

@anne-bennett-cosplayer @estrellami-1 @newtstabber @omletlove @ifyoudonlysurrender @rehfan @morganski-19 @corvidcantina @dragonmama76 @just-ladyme @tinyplanet95 @goodolefashionedloverboi @idoquitelikebread @kittydeadbones @manda-panda-monium @rhapsodyinalto @paintsplatteredandimperfect @keylime-green @ihavekidneys @samsoble @honorarybrit81 @swimmingbirdrunningrock @aizawa-emma @deleataecount @thesuninyaface @fromapayphone @justmeinadaze @hbyrde36 @queenie-ofthe-void @resident-gay-bitch @bestwifehaver @dangdirtydemons @ellietheasexylibrarian @perseus-notjackson @pyrohonk @holysteddie @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @mrsjellymunson @geekymagicalpotato @notaqueenakhaleesi

#apo writes #stranger things #fanfiction #steddie #hurray i finally got to write pillow humping #one of my favorite things ever #next part should be the finale but dont hold me to that LOL

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loveisanimaginarydagger3000 · 1 year ago

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The Babysitter (4)

Parks And Puppies

Wanda Maximoff X Reader

Summary: In need of money and a way to escape the problems at home, you get a job babysitting two lovely boys named Billy and Tommy Maximoff. What happens when you start to feel things you shouldn't for their mother? Will it bloom into love or leave you heartbroken?

A/N- I would just like to say that there will be some sensitive issues in this story such as alcoholism, homophobia, anxiety as well as more mature content such as smut so, if you continue to read this, please consider this warning.

The Babysitter Master list | General Master List

Chapter 4- W/c 2.3k

Parks And Puppies

A loud ringing noise startles you awake, your hand shooting out of the comfort of your duvet to reach the device, eyes squinting as you see Natasha's name flash on the screen.

"Hey," your voice raspy from just waking up, your hand moving to cover your yawn as you flop back onto the bed, leaving your phone on speaker as you talk to your best friend.

"Hey Y/n, my best, best friend," her tone is too sweet, her words too complimentary making you groan.

"What do you want, Nat?" you grumble, only just looking at the time and realising she's woken you up at nine on a Saturday.

"Who says I want anything?" she answers back, you push your face against your pillow, wishing you could be swallowed up by sleep again and be left to bask in the warmth of your bed.

"It's nine in the morning Nat, tell me what you want now otherwise I'm going back to bed," you can hear her chuckle at your moody and tired tone.

"Well, Yelena is currently out for some school trip that's lasting the weekend and I'm in charge of looking after Fanny," you laugh at the dog's name as always, Natasha groaning at your childishness. "Really Y/n? Every time," you hear her mutter something else in Russian before continuing, "Any chance you would walk her with me? I don't want to go alone and, well, you practically love that dog more than me."

"Are you jealous, Romanov?" you tease, reluctantly sitting up in bed, back cracking in a satisfying way when you stretch a little. "I'll come on one condition; you pick me up to go to the park."

"Deal," she says, "What time do you want me to pick you up?"

"Ten?" you hear her agree to that and a bark in the background, "Tell my favourite resident of the Romanov household I love her, and I'll see her soon."

"Cyka," she mutters before saying goodbye, leaving you to get ready before meeting her.

Around an hour later, you've showered and gotten dressed into a simple outfit, pulling a hoodie on to keep you warm from the slight chill of outside. You check the living room to see your mum still on the sofa, not even bothering to wake her up and tell her you're going out. You do, however, grab a quick snack from the kitchen, only a breakfast bar as you're hoping to persuade Natasha to go with you to get food somewhere else, and start to head outside the apartment block, looking for your best friend and her car.

"Are you ready?" she calls out when you approach her car, confusing her as you walk towards the backseats with a grin on your face.

"Yeah," you answer, not wanting to ignore her and climb into the back where Fanny sits, Natasha rolling her eyes in the rear mirror as you hug the American Akita, ruffling her fur before making contact with Nat's green eyes in the mirror.

"Why don't I get a greeting like this?" she grumbles playfully, unable to hide her smile as you decide to move to sit next to her in the front.

"I can always do that to you," your hand jokingly goes to her hair, face pulling up into disgust and a grimace as you try to ruffle her red locks. "Oh, aren't you a good girl," you put on the voice people do when they talk to their pets, voice slightly higher than normal.

"Go away," she huffs out, fixing her appearance while you sit back into the passenger seat, a giggle escaping you, especially when Fanny decides to try and lick your face from the back of the car.

"You're the one who invited me," you retorted, her shaking her head at your antics before putting the car in reverse and starting the journey towards the park.

***

"Just so you know, as much as I love her, I'm not picking her shit up this time," you make clear, looking over towards your best friend as you see Fanny starting to sniff around a certain patch of grass.

"Fair enough," she mumbles, watching closely as the dog decides to walk away from that area and come back to you two, your hand instinctively scratching her side while her tongue sticks out, hot pants of breath showing in the cold air.

The three of you casually stroll around the park, Fanny wandering off occasionally to play with other dogs and coming back when called, you and Natasha talking about everything and anything. You can't stop the laugh that escapes you when you see a child fall over, Natasha hitting you softly on the back of your head as the child's parents look at you with annoyed looks.

"How on earth are you a babysitter?" she says in disbelief, walking away with you to evade the angry parents for your reaction.

"Oh, come on, that was funny," another chuckle leaves your lips as you replay the small child falling over, the way their face slowly changed from happiness to a confused and sad expression. "And, for your information, I'm great with kids, that's how I'm a babysitter."

"Doesn't seem like it," she mocks, bumping your shoulder to hers in fake annoyance as you continue to walk around.

"Y/n!" you hear voices scream your name, turning around only to feel two bodies crash into your legs, Natasha's arm stopping you from falling over.

"Mini Maximoffs!" your tone playful as you hug the two boys, looking up to see Wanda strolling up towards you with a smile on her face. Your breath hitches slightly, the sight of her making you speechless as she wears a long beige coat with a white shirt underneath, black high waist jeans accentuating her curves and long legs. Her hair frames her face perfectly as you peer up at her, now standing in front of you.

"Hello Y/n, sweetheart," she greets, your cheeks tinting pink that you're definitely blaming on the cold weather, not the older woman.

"Wanda," you manage out, giving her a shy smile while the twins notice the dog running up to you.

"Oh my god!" Tommy exclaims while Fanny sits by Natasha's side, looking up expectantly as she wants a treat. "A puppy!" Both twins move closer to the dog, looking back at their mother for permission who nods her head.

"Can we stroke it?" Billy asks Natasha who hands Fanny a treat.

"Of course, you can," she replies, crouching down and petting the dog herself. "She likes it like this," she shows the boys how to scratch the dog in her favourite way, her fur on her head being messed up slightly by the twins' small fingers.

"What's her name?" Wanda asks you as the twins busy themselves with the dog, you look back at the older woman and ignore the smirk your friend gives you.

"She's called Fanny," you say embarrassedly, Wanda's eyes widening and brows raising at the name. Her laughter makes you smile, the sound something you could listen to forever, her hand raising to cover her smile while you let out your own laugh. "I did not name her by the way, Yelena did," you clarify.

"Is that Yelena?" she asks, motioning to the redhead currently talking to her children, an indecipherable look in her eyes.

"Oh no, that's Natasha, Yelena's sister," you say before calling her name again. "Natasha," she stands up and makes her way over to you two, giving you an insinuating look before moving her gaze to the other woman, "This is Wanda, Wanda this is Natasha." They share a smile before Natasha starts to smirk, making you tempted to clamp your hand over her mouth to prevent whatever was about to come out.

"It's nice to finally meet you," she starts off, "I've heard so much about you." You want the ground to swallow you up, your blush darkening as Wanda looks to you with a teasing smile.

"Oh really?" Natasha hums in response, "I hope it's all been good things."

"Oh, it's all been good Miss Maximoff," she smiles at you while you scowl at your friend, quickly switching to a smile when Wanda looks over you.

"Why don't you show the boys the trick Fanny can do with the tennis ball?" you say to Natasha in a fake sweet voice, noticing how she's enjoying making you suffer. She raises her brow at you in a challenging way, the only reason she gives in is because of the way the boys practically buzz with excitement.

"Sorry about her," you say when the boys run off, Natasha throwing the tennis ball so Fanny can catch it in her mouth, cheers coming from the twins as they chase her playfully.

"There's no need to apologise dear," she chuckles out, walking with you to a nearby bench and sitting down, motioning for you to take the other seat by moving her head. "Billy has a present for you the next time you come over by the way," she says while a smile tugs at her lips at the way your face brightens.

"Really?" your voice shocked, teeth showing as you smile while looking at the boy currently trying to throw the tennis ball further than his brother could.

"Yeah, he's been drawing a lot lately and he said it's thanks to you," her voice is grateful, thankful that you've helped her son find something he enjoys doing.

"Not really," you try to dismiss, "I just told him whatever Vision said to him earlier was wrong." Wanda's face turns to confusion, tearing her gaze away from the twins to look at you, eyes scanning your features briefly before speaking up.

"What did Vision say to him?" there's a little coldness in her tone, you turning to look to your side, her green eyes swirling with curiosity.

"Billy didn't tell you?" She shakes her head, clearly unaware of the false information her husband had been saying, "Vision told him he should like science stuff or sports instead of art, calling it a waste of time." Her jaw clenches and you curse yourself internally for finding the action attractive.

"He really said that?" you nod your head, feeling sympathetic when you see the defeated look take over her. Fingers push her hair back, her auburn locks falling backwards as she lets out a sigh. "He didn't even tell me," her voice is barely a whisper, but you still hear it, "Billy didn't even tell me, his mother."

"Hey," you say softly but she just bites her bottom lip, a worried expression on her face as she ignores your words.

"Am I a bad mother?" you blink in response to her question, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"What? No," your quick to answer her, "The twins absolutely adore you Wanda, honestly, all they do when they talk about you is say how amazing you are." You watch her reaction closely, doubt still in her eyes, "It's 'my mom is so good at this' or 'Y/n did you know my mom is so cool when she does this?' all the time." A small smile tugs at her lips as you continue to tell her about how much her children love her. When you finish there's a small period of silence, Wanda letting the information sink in for a minute.

"Thank you," she murmurs, finger playing with her wedding ring, "It's just Vis would say..." Before she can finish her sentence, the boys come sprinting over, Fanny following behind and sitting at your feet.

"Mom, please can we get a dog?" Tommy asks, Natahsa following with a sheepish look.

"Please," Billy adds, both of them hugging the dog while giving their mother puppy eyes.

"I'm sorry Dorogies," she says, your eyes widening at her use of another language, "But your father is allergic to dogs." They both pout and decide to shower Fanny in affection, while Natasha looks at Wanda curiously.

"Are you Russian?" she asks, knowing that dorogies was the masculine version of darlings, you also interested in knowing the answer.

"Sovokian," she answers, you then accidentally speaking without thinking.

"You don't have an accent though?" luckily for you, the question doesn't seem to bother her.

"When I moved to America, I learnt to hide my accent, now I'm just used to it, sometimes it slips out though," she explains, and you wish you could hear her normal voice. You were about to ask another question but Natasha's phone rings, telling you it's Melina and moving away to talk to her mother.

"You don't have to hide your accent with me," you say a little shyly, not wanting to sound weird. Wanda simply smiles softly at you before moving forwards, wrapping you in an embrace that has you melting against her body. Her lips press against your forehead before she pulls back to whisper.

"Thank you Detka," your cheeks flush at the sound of her voice, her accent causing a slight rasp to her words before she pulls away, Natasha returning with a shit eating grin on her face.

"I'm sorry to break this up," you glare at her, "But Melina is inviting you over for lunch Y/n, if we're going, we need to start heading back now."

"Yeah, I can do lunch," you say, trying to think straight and calm your body down from the way Wanda's arms felt wrapped around your waist.

"It was lovely seeing you two," Wanda's words break you from your thoughts, the boys saying goodbye to Fanny.

"Bye Fluffy!" They both hug her one last time, you raise your eyebrow at Natasha while she swiftly hooks the lead on the dog and starts to walk away with you after you say goodbye to Wanda and the twins.

"Fluffy?" your voice teasing while Natasha rolls her eyes at you, groaning at your mocking tone.

"I wasn't going to have them screaming Fanny in a park and I also didn't want them to ask me what a fanny was either," laughter spills from your lips at her answer, her pushing your shoulder to move you away.

"I would have paid to see you try and deal with that," you chuckle out, wrapping your arm around her shoulders and walking back to the car with her, unaware of the set of green eyes watching you laugh and joke with Natasha, a disheartened look in them.

---

I used Google translate for the translations so if anything is wrong, please correct me (:

I hope you enjoyed :)

Please leave any thoughts/comments/votes <3 I really appreciate them!

Ao3- LoveIsAnImaginaryDagger

#wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda fanfic #wanda x you #marvel fanfiction #eventual smut #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff fanfiction #mommy wanda #fluff #wanda fluff #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #mommy issues #babysitter au #billy maximoff #tommy maximoff

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pricegouge · 7 months ago

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Fatted Rabbit Part Six on AO3

Contents

Bearshifter!Price x reader | explicit

Simon stands behind the bar like some sort of massive, brooding Aeacus. As if they were always bound to meet here, and John was always bound to spill his secrets, and wasn't John such a stupid little twat for not having ever realized that before? It speaks volumes that not even Simon's shit eating grin puts a damper on John's mood.

A/N: texts are displayed as screen caps, but alt text is available. Warnings for John being a weirdo about Bunny menstruating, and for disparaging comments about Bunny's weight (not from John, obv)

It speaks volumes that not even Simon's shit eating grin puts a damper on John's mood.

"You're relieved, Riley."

"I'll say. Didn't even need to have a talk with 'er about curfews."

"Well, I know how you worry. It went well, by the way."

"Didn't ask. How'd you manage not to muck it up?"

"I got this excellent relationship coach that gave me some great ideas."

"You keep adding to my workload and I'm unionizing."

"Yeah?" John laughs, "You and who?"

"That new barkeep seems easily impressionable."

"Mm. That what got your stamp of approval?"

Oh, it's always a good day when John can pry a real reaction from his head brewer. Simon doesn't squint, but there's a tightening around his eyes that suggest he would do, if he suffered such banal things as 'automatic response disinhibition.'

"Am I gonna need to sit you down with the harassment video again, Riley?"

"Don't technically work at the bar, cap. One Four One pays my bills." He's aiming for a sarcastic 'so what if I am,' lands slightly off center.

"Good point. You been putting a lot of thought into it?"

The pause is a half a beat too long. "Too busy thinkin' about having to cover my boss's shifts while 'e flits about with some young bird like 'e's in uni again."

"Aye. Gonna need you to do it again on Sunday, too."

"Sunday?" Simon barks. "You're training on Sunday."

"No, you're training on Sunday. By the time I get here he'll probably be good to go."

Now he does squint. "And if I got plans?"

"You'd've mentioned them first. Thanks, Si. I owe you one."

"You owe me the business at this point."

"Already in my will and testament."

"Mm. Keep trying your luck and I'll take what's owed sooner'n later."

***

Simon stays on to cook, a blessing considering it ends up being a decent Friday turnout. The early spring seems to be pulling in more than just the locals. John resolutely does not put on the hockey match he knows his rabbit's interested in because he doesn't want to listen to Simon's opinion on that, but he does watch the ticker tape at the bottom of the basketball commentary to monitor the score when he can. He's not sure why; he can't exactly participate in any informed conversation on the subject, but it seems like it'll be a good anecdote to know when they're skating.

Fuck, skating. He'd been a few times in his life and it had all been perfectly fine, but he usually sleeps right through the season so it's not something he's practiced in a while. He doesn't want to make an ass of himself, even if the rabbit had the same concerns. It's embarrassing enough being as twiggy as he is currently, he couldn't stand to be uncoordinated or in any way less physical in her eyes. He remembers how raptly she'd watched that match, the ways her eyes had tracked the men on screen. He hadn't found it in any way threatening at the time, but he doesn't want to be compared negatively to them. The fact that they're professional doesn't matter, of course, at least not to the beast in his chest.

John shoots her a sympathetic text when the team she'd been following loses (again. He's going to have to figure out how playoffs work here, the basketball announcers are even talking about multiple games) but he doesn't get a response until quite late, when he's on the roof enjoying a cigar after closing.

Christ, another game?

John damn near preens

He'd rather buy her those panels but he doesn't think she'd let him. More than that he'd rather drive her car into Whitefish Lake, but he supposes she'd be a little cross about that, too.

John nearly bites through his cigar. It's an honest struggle to force his bear back under his skin, the animal not fully understanding that such a challenge could be issued through miles of suburban landscape and a thirty foot drop off a roof. Much as he wants her here (on her knees between his thighs, mouth hot and wet through the fabric of his trousers as he shoves a boot under her cunt, preferably), it's probably a good thing she isn't because he doesn't want her on all fours their first time, his jaws clamped on the nape of her neck as he leans his full weight on her, trapping her big soft body between the mass of himself and the cold hard ground, uncaring if the whole city heard her whining, or screaming, or begging, or moaning. He wants to see her face as he fucks her, learn what she likes or doesn't. He wants to eat her out as if she's the only food he'll need for winter - until she's crying about how she has nothing left to give and then he wants to lick her tears up, too.

But right now the only thing he wants from her is her round arse presented in apology, the feel of her flesh between his teeth.

It's a struggle to be witty when your body is trying to prime you for both a fight and a fuck at the same time and your circulatory system feels like the Magic Roundabout, so John doesn't bother.

And that's -. Fuckin' -.

Just like that, she's got him back to heel. More pup than predator, eager to beg for treats from her hands. A brat he can handle; even his bear seems greedy at the prospect. If her challenges aren't in earnest - if she's simply trying to get a rise out of him because she wants him to fuck her hard, he's more than happy to allow it. Happy to let his bear take over and give her what she wants.

Fuck, he's hard. A green cub, can't even distinguish rational thought and animalistic impulses. No, she's not asking for an actual bear in human skin to take her to task, Christ. He needs circulation back to his brain STAT. And to think this all started with a Viagra joke.

***

Saturday is a lesson in patience. He feels unmoored, confused. A bit like standing in a cold stream waiting for the salmon run to leap into his mouth, weeks before they're due to arrive. There is so much to do. His rut looms in the distance like a sundog: a beautiful, bad omen. He should be preparing. Securing his mate, improving his den, padding his own body, ensuring she's equipped to carry both herself and his cubs through the winter.

Instead he's lying to QuickBooks about where his head brewer worked this week and hosing off beer mats, listening to some old coot veer dangerously close to homophobic remarks about the lesbian couple who own the boot shop across the way. It sets John's teeth on edge, makes him snappy. He spills the man's third beer across his lap as he hands it off and gets even more irritated when it only garners benevolent absolution. He wants a fight. Wants a fuck even more. Is turning in circles knowing he won't get either any time soon. Simon doesn't stop by, doesn't offer himself as a verbal, pricker-covered punching bag. The rabbit never texts. John would give his left eye to eat a porcupine right now, feel the satisfaction of the kill and the anger of his prey, both.

He closes shop early, finds his way to the edge of town. He hardly even bothers to hide his clothes in a sparse, budding green thicket before he's on all fours, lumbering off into the woods. Her scent has been growing stronger for him. In his human form, he can usually smell her from across town but like this, snout high in the air as he sifts through the noxious scent of the other humans in town, he can track her clear up to Lake McDonald. It's soothing, usually: the sweetness of the simple foods she eats, the saltiness of her skin. Her cunt. But it's sour tonight, distressed and distressing. He sets off in a blind panic.

He's nearing the Flathead when it hits him properly and he slows, relief and understanding washing over him. Poor rabbit, she's nearing her monthlies. He can smell it now, the stink of her discomfort and the impending blood. No wonder he was so off kilter all day. It speaks to the quality of their bond that he can already sense these things. Means when his rut comes around, she'll likely be impacted too, which sets his mouth watering. Although -.

If their bond was really that strong, she wouldn't be menstruating. Waste of bloody resources. A stupid fucking design flaw he could cure her of.

With a proper bond or a cub, whichever came first.

She's not parked in a proper camp tonight, just tucked away on a four wheel path safe from the main road. He considers not disturbing her for all of thirty seconds before he starts chuffing and sniffing like a hog around her wheel wells. He hears her shuffling about and then her little curtain moves and she beams at him.

"That you, big guy?"

John lowers at her and she pulls her screen down properly to get a better look. He doesn't raise himself half onto her roof this time, just remains on all fours and lifts his head enough to peer back at her.

"You know, we have to stop meeting like this. People will talk." For once, John doesn't think he'd mind. As if to test that theory, she shuffles around a bit and John sees her pull her phone out of the center console to power it up. She was supposed to get battery back ups today. Part of the reason he was so irritable; he'd wanted to speak with her. But if even he was feeling so completely out of it, he can't imagine she cared very much about a trip to the store herself. He waits patiently for her phone to power up. She keeps an eye on him, but he just continues to puff foggy breaths onto her window, unbothered. Eventually she tells him to say cheese and he makes a soft noise at her that makes her grin.

"I never knew bears could moo," she teases and John sneezes at her in annoyance which only makes her giggle. Christ, an honest giggle. She's so fucking cute he could squeeze her til she popped.

"I think that's my favorite noise you make. Though the huffs are pretty cute too." So John does it again, just to show off. "Yeah, that one! Gonna have to do some studying, figure out what those all mean. Just suppose I'm lucky you haven't roared at me yet."

Don't worry bunny, he'd never.

She putz around on her phone and John wonders how many people she's sending the picture to. He's being careless, he knows, but it's worth it to see her - to ensure she's thinking of him, even if she doesn't know it. She holds her stomach absently as she types and after a few moments her face scrunches and she winces, curling in on herself a bit more. When it passes, she eyes him with mock suspicion. "That why you're here, big guy? The bears can smell the menstruation!" That last bit is said in an affected voice, probably a reference to something he's too British to understand. "Thought that was a myth?"

It is, clever rabbit. For all but you.

She hasn't actually started yet, he doesn't think. Poor lamb will likely start right as they're due to meet at the rink. He wonders if she'll cancel. He's already making contingency plans, wondering if she'll let him take care of her or if she'll make excuses and leave him to figure out how to both pretend he doesn't know what's really going on and also make it clear she's allowed to ask him for help with it.

"Well, periods are a curse enough as it is. It's not fair that god sends his cuddliest looking creatures out to kill us, too. You look like an industrial size heating pad and the world's biggest spoon all rolled up in the fuzziest weighted blanket imaginable. You're a frickin' cure all come to kill me. Tease!"

Oh, he's the luckiest man to ever walk the earth. She's so perfect, already warmed up to his bear, no coaxing required. Soon, honey. You can cuddle up to his beast anytime you want. He can't help the constant chuffing noises her spiel has earned; or the way he presses against her car as if he can transfer some of his heat through the metal. He'd been struggling to keep his impulses in check all day, but in this form it's even harder. He's split between the elation of her accepting this form and the frustration that she won't let him help her. He wants to turn back right here, let her see, ferret her out of her den and let her use his body to cure her ails in whatever way she sees fit.

"You're so cute though, I guess I can forgive you," she continues, and it's a struggle to keep his grunting noises in check enough that he can still hear her. "You know, I told my friend about you. He said the bears around here can be pretty well socialized because it's such a high traffic area. You got other girls you're seeing on the side?"

Never, bunny, he snorts, never again.

"I promise I won't be offended. We can keep it casual." She puts on an overly breezy air, being silly. "I mean like, cause they're not like feeding or petting you either, right? Like, you're not… getting that from any girl at all, right?" A beat. John tries to play along by looking as contrite as a bear possibly can. "You whore!" she gasps, "Who is she?"

His response is to stand and lean against her car, ducking his head to nod at her.

"Mmm, nice recover. You know if you really wanted to make it up to me, you'd stop scraping my paint." Admonished, Price lowers himself back to the ground. The rabbit eyes him suspiciously. "I swear, sometimes it feels like you can understand me. Are you a circus escapee? Do you know any tricks?" She pauses, as if waiting. "Can you speak?"

Fuck it, John gives her a halfhearted, rumbling roar.

She laughs, delighted. "How about lay down? You know that one?"

And that sounds like a great idea so he does, makes himself comfortable with his belly on the muddy trail.

"What about roll over?" She asks, voice soft with apprehension; unfortunately, twice is a coincidence but three times is a pattern. John ignores her command in favor of chewing at the pads of his forepaw and after a moment, the rabbit breathes out a heavy, chuckling sigh.

"Might be going a bit batty, spending all my time alone," she mutters. Louder, she tells him, "I think you've got the right idea about getting comfy, though. I'm turning in. You staying there? You'd make some guard dog."

John just rolls his eyes to her and huffs.

"Right. Well, goodnight. Please be gone when I wake up so I can pee without fear." He snorts at her and she chuckles in response, shifting her weight around the car enough to make it rock a bit. She doesn't put her privacy screen back up, he notes with some frustration. He'll have to stay until the early hours just to be sure she's safe, but he doesn't mind. He's been tempted to spend every night exactly like this since he first spotted her rubbing herself raw in the early spring dawn. He's just happy to know she doesn't seem too freaked out by his presence.

***

Sunrise finds him fishing his damp clothes out of the bush he'd hastily tucked them into the night previous. They make for an unpleasant trip back, but he's warmed by a missed text from his bunny: a picture of himself captioned 'Think I made a new friend'.

She'd been asleep when he'd left her but even still, John cannot help replying right then and there.

***

John is leaning against his passenger door when he spots her big Wrangler pulling in and he makes his way to her with enough time to offer a hand as she slides out of the car. He maybe stands a bit too close, appreciating the way her thick, soft thighs rub briefly against his own as he helps guide her gracefully to the ground.

She's got on leggings and tall socks with converse and a thin henley under a worn denim jacket. She's so cute he wants to throw her in the back of her Jeep right then and give the suspension a run for its money. Compounding his dilemma is the strong scent of her monthlies evident through the thin material of her trousers. It's weak enough he doubts anyone else will notice, but the scent of the iron rich blood has his teeth itching.

Plus it's upsetting to be slapped in the face with such strong evidence that their bond isn't fully formed.

Despite his turmoil, John smiles at her warmly and kisses her on the cheek in greeting, making her blush.

"Good to see that bear didn't make off with you. Not sure I could win that particular fight."

She laughs as they make their way inside, "I don't know, he seems more of a lover than a fighter. You could probably win him over with some berries or something."

"So then I'd have to share both you and my food? I gotta run this bloke out of town." John can feel the rabbit eyeing him suspiciously, weighing the quality of his words. He, of course, doesn't flinch; simply holds the door open and guides her through with a palm on her lower back.

He's hoping she'll tell him he doesn't need to worry about sharing her, but it seems that's a bit much to expect from a casual second date. She motions to the door he's held for her instead. "See? And here you were worried about not being a gentleman."

John's laugh is a mean, hot puff of breath. "There's still time," he warns, standing too close.

He helps her into her cute little skates, lets her use his body to keep herself upright as they stand in the carpeted hallway waiting on the zamboni to finish up. He's maybe a little swept up in the domesticity of it, surrounded as they are by other couples and families with small kids. 'Stanley Cup hopefuls,' the rabbit calls them, and John nearly goes weak in the knees imagining her bringing his cubs back here one day, decked out in her team's colors. He stands too close but she doesn't seem to mind; and when he kisses her on the crown of her head and keeps his lips there, she just leans a little more into him and he sighs in contentment. And when the doors finally open, he is treated to the absolute delight of watching his rabbit trying to figure out how to keep her feet under herself, laughing all the while.

The crowd is a mix of old hats just trying to stay limber; pesky children who rocket by, trying hard as they can to get under feet and trip people up; and landlubbin' newbies like them. It's good, sweet. Gives John an excuse to keep his hands on his rabbit, and seems to take her mind off her cramps, if the way her sweat turns from acrid with stress to good clean salt is anything to go by. It would be perfect, John decides, if not for a pair of twenty-something boys that linger, skating big ambling circles around John and his girl. They're casual, keep their eyes mostly to themselves, but John is already on edge and something about their presence makes him want to stand his ground.

Of course, he can't quite do that when the whole point of free skate appears to be 'skate in a circle'.

"Might've had it wrong, bunny," John grins as he gets his hand around her thick waist for the dozenth time, catching her just as her right foot goes slipping out in a direction she didn't authorize. "Think you're more of a Bambi than a thumper."

"With these thighs?" she jokes, slapping her quad for effect.

John doesn't bother to hide the hunger that elicits in him. He's about to give her a tiny little smack of his own when -,

"Nice catch, man. Way to take one for the team."

"Yeah, they'll have to bring the zamboni back out if she goes down."

John is distantly aware of his rabbit going stiff and quiet, her gaze drifting somewhere down by her feet. He keeps hold of her arm but it's more an instinctual comfort than a conscious decision, as all his higher brain function is dedicated to not growing fangs between which to trap these boys.

"They'll have to bring it back out if I use your teeth like an auger, too." John's voice is low. Possibly too low to be strictly human. It gets the point across anyway. The twiggy twats who have been circling like sharks all morning take one look at him and decide they have severely misread the depth of his feelings for the soft girl they've targeted. Finding no easy prey here, they mumble an apology (to John, the gits, not his rabbit) and dart off to pester a gaggle of teenage girls. John draws himself even closer to his girl, waits until he's certain he can control his voice better. "Fucking bellends. Sorry about them. You okay, honey?"

"Yeah, it's fine. Thanks for that. Sorry I clammed up, I can usually fight my own battles."

John scoffs, unamused. "No need, sweetheart. Unless you'd rather, of course. Actually, sorry if I overstepped. Knee jerk reaction."

"Oh, no, trust me, you're fine. Not mad at all." Her breath is soft, nearly amused, and John can't help but feel a little proud at having turned her mood around so quickly.

"Do you want to go do something else?"

"And let them know they bothered me? Absolutely not."

John grins, hums appreciatively. "That's my girl." His grin only widens when she blushes at the term.

They talk about their hometowns when they're not busy stumbling. John tells her about Hereford and his mom, and she tells him how similar this area is to where she grew up. She deflects a bit when asked about her family and John doesn't pry. He wishes she would tell him everything, of course, but can't help being a tiny bit selfishly pleased at the knowledge there's no tight knit family waiting for her back home. He tries asking about Dallas instead but the answers she provides are stiff and rehearsed, and her body language locks up so much it negates the small progress she's made in her skating abilities. John quickly moves on to film preferences and she's quick to loosen back up (she likes period dramas and high fantasy and isn't immune to a night in with a kid's movie).

Eventually her discomfort seems to catch up with her and John thinks he has the unique experience of realizing she will need to make a sanitary run to the bathroom before she does. He debates how best to handle it for exactly thirty seconds before his mouth is moving.

"Do you want to go get lunch?"

The rabbit stops, turning to face him fully. Well, John stops. She grabs his coat sleeve and tries to convert her momentum into a quick u-turn. It's mostly successful in that John has to swing an arm around her back to keep her upright. It's extremely successful in that the momentum carries her right on through and into his chest, where he keeps her pinned tight just because she seems quite content there. "You don't have to work?"

John shrugs, knowing Simon may well quit. "What's the point in being the boss if I can't bang in late every now and again?"

"I guess, but you don't want to -?"

Whatever she's about to suggest is interrupted by the very loud sound of John's stomach growling.

"Oh so that was more a cry for help than a suggestion?" the rabbit laughs, cute little nose scrunching up.

"I may be bloody famished, yeah."

"Oh, poor pumpkin. What are you feeling, then?" she asks as she heads off toward the exit, confident as she skates out of his arm's reach.

"Burgers. Maybe steak. Or lamb." Really, he wants an entire barrel of fish and perhaps some apples, but he wants to feed his poor little mate a mouthful of iron supplements more.

"It's lunch time," she laughs at him.

"Burgers, then?"

"Yeah, alright." He helps lower her onto the hall carpet and squats to help her with her laces. "You don't have to do that," she tells him but he just shakes his head at her.

"Want to." She's quiet after that, perhaps a little contemplative. She excuses herself while he returns the skates and when she comes back she smells like the fake, perfumed chemical they coat feminine products in which always sticks to his nose.

Honestly, cunt is supposed to smell like cunt. Even when it smells like a bloody cunt. Humans are fucking ridiculous.

"Hope you know I'm driving you there," John informs as he holds the door for her yet again.

"That doesn't even make any sense," his rabbit laughs. "You're gonna drive me all the way back here before going into work?"

"Might do. Or: new bartender starting today. Might let you be his guinea pig all evening."

"Oh yeah? You trying to loosen my morals?" Her tone is light and airy but something has shuttered behind her eyes.

"No," John's voice is confident but quietly reassuring. "I'm trying to get you all lushed and cute tonight and then maybe try my hand tomorrow when you're charmed and impressed by the breakfast I make. How well you handle a hangover depending," he tacks on with a teasing little wink.

She blinks once, twice.

"That okay?"

"No. Well, yes, but uh -. It's not a good... time."

John just cocks his head at her, knowing full well what she means but needing to hear her say it so he has an excuse to spoil her.

The rabbit sighs, "It's just -. Christ this is embarrassing. If that's your end goal you should maybe know I'm on my period. Just so you don't get your hopes up too much."

"Oh, poor lamb." John's smile is wolfish, the cat that got the cream. "And here I've had you on your feet all morning. Do you want to get lunch? Or would you rather just curl up? I can make you something if you'd rather not stay out."

"No, that's - um. Lunch sounds good, thank you, but uh -. You're not… mad?"

A beat. John's smirk slides slowly off his face. "Mad?"

"I mean, if that was your plan and I'm… you're not upset?"

"No, honey…" John's not entirely sure how to handle this turn. Logistically he knows the first step should be reassurance, but there's a desperate, cloying, insightful little creature in his chest that wants to push all these niceties aside and demand why she would think he was mad. "A man can dream, but I had no expectations. There's nothing to be mad about." She gives him a wan smile and he can't help but continue, "In fact, I oughta give you my mum's number. I ever seem mad about that, you go ahead and tell her to sort me out."

It works, the quiet giggle she lets out has a touch too much relief for his taste, but he'd take that over whatever the hell misplaced anxiety she'd just been exhibiting.

"Can chastise you myself, you know. No mum's needed."

"Oh thank God. Would way rather you do it. She can be proper scary."

"And I can't?"

"Rabbits aren't scary. You ever yell at me, it won't be fear makes me change my ways."

"Not scary? They don't make kids sit on the Easter bunny's lap back home? I still gotta steer clear of malls this time of year."

John grins again, can't help the mental image she's conjured of him having to scare off a man in a pink bunny suit for her. "So I'll have to wait at least a month to spoil you with a shopping trip, noted."

She splutters. "You don't have to do that ever!"

He shrugs, "Told you, want to. Now get in, I'm hungry enough I'd eat you if you held still long enough." When she blanches, scandalized, he can't help but grin.

"Okay, yeah, let's go. But -."

John resolutely doesn't let his smile drop lest she thinks he's mad again, but he can't help the punched out feeling her continued protests elicit.

"- if I'm spending the night, I do definitely need to drive the Jeep to a more anonymous parking lot. That thing gets towed, I'm screwed."

Yes, it sure would be a shame if someone hobbled her speedy little den before she realized she belonged with him. Still, "I'll tell you what. You keep letting me treat you to lunches and dinners and whatever other little excursions we can come up with and I'll let you park at the bar whenever you'd like, hm?"

"What, so I can deal with the noisy neighbors?"

"Have it on good authority the second floor's pretty well sound proofed. You can hang your hat up there if it ever bugs you," he winks. "But fine, go get your bloody buggy. I'll send you the address, yeah?"

Next>>

#bearshifter!price #captain john price x you #captain john price x reader #john price x you #john price x reader #bear!price #fatted rabbit #💷🔪

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moonlight-prose · 4 months ago

Text

WADE'S WORLD

LET'S DISCUSS

a/n: *hands the mic to wade* take it away dipshit. divider by the beautiful @saradika-graphics.

The squeak of the leather couch is what makes him smile.

"No don't write that."

Audible backspacing.

"Hello thots and whores (respectfully). It's your old pal Wade W. Wilson here to remind you: always wrap it before you tap it. Seriously the amount of condomless dicks on this website is ridiculous. And that's coming from a man who can only get it on to the sounds of chinchillas-"

*insert information you probably don't need to fucking know here.*

"Right. Off topic."

He shifts with another squeak, his hands clasped in his lap like a nerd on the first day of orientation-

"Now that's just rude."

His suit is leather, the couch is leather, and both don't make for a combination of fun. In all honesty this a waste of time, but he insisted on having a voice.

"I'm the one speaking here thank you. And not a combination of fun? Tell that to Hugh Jackman in Van Helsing. That movie is a leather pandemonium. I'm surprised he didn't get chafing on his penis."

He sighs...dreamily.

"But who can deny a long haired werewolf when he barks for you? I sure can't. And neither could Kate Beckinsale-"

Middle finger. Middle finger. Middle finger. Middle fing-

"RIGHT! Back to our regularly scheduled program of moans and groans. As you all have probably seen on that lovely little masterlist created by..."

He squints at the screen.

"The bitch who just wants to get this over with. I'm here to be your guiding light. Your candle in the window on a cold dark winter's night, as REO Speedwagon put it best. Because I certainly can't fight this feeling anymore."

"And you're probably wondering: but this is supposed to be a Logan fic. Where's all the smut? This writer sure likes to take her sweet ass time in updating. No worries. You have me to fill that empty void between your ribs and legs as Logan works up the nerve to finally stick it in."

In whispered hushed tones, he creeps closer. "He's shy."

"And that little magic button down below is the spot even Wolverine himself can't find. That's right my padawans the cli-"

Goes to shut down computer.

"No wait! Sorry I'll be good."

Another squeak echoes as he lays down as if he's Rose ready to be drawn like a French girl.

"Yeah that's good. That'll reel 'em in."

"So click that button and talk to me about our favorite two hundred year old man and the love life he's currently trying to find. Julia Roberts in Eat Pray Love has nothing on him, I can tell you that. I'll be here...waiting...and watching this shitshow of a fic go down like I do on a Saturday night."

"See you there."

♡THE CLIT♡

#right where you left me #wade's world #my writing #......and his

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bomberqueen17 · 9 months ago

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fic update: chapter 3 of Eagle Sable

I know! out of left field here.

I wrote the first draft of this chapter in 2022, and it wasn't ready yet in the timeline exactly, but Thronebreaker had recently gotten onto my radar and I was excited about using those characters for evil. Anyway. The first draft, I was shooting for snark and missed, and Hobbit wisely pointed out that it was winding up in a really unpleasant dynamic. So I set it aside and figured I'd have to come back to it, and eventually did. But in the meantime, Sass had read it, and loved part of the scene, and did a sketch-outline of a comic about it, and I was like ok, it's not that I just like that bit, it's that it's genuinely resonant in some way. So I finally, finally got my shit together and did a scorched-earth rewrite-- the way I do it is I got my elderly laptop out and plugged in and called up the doc on the screen there, and then hand-type every word of the new doc on my current working computer, even bits that I'm keeping the same. Because you can't copy-paste and make big radical changes without getting mired-down in it. Well, I can't, anyway. (When I didn't have an elderly laptop the way to do it was to print it out, so.)

Anyway finally we know what happens next when Iorveth gets stoned, LOL.

Chapter 3 of An Eagle Sable, a Lozenge Gules, on AO3

“There’s not much company in this world that can intimidate me,” Gascon said, “but this is-- rather a bit much.” Unexpectedly Roche laughed, not a harsh sarcastic bark like Gascon had heard before, but a surprisingly warm little exclamation. “Do you think we’ll eat you?” I wish you would, Gascon was just barely sober enough not to say.

yes yes i keep slipping from friday updates. i might give up on fridays for now, just because other things keep getting scheduled on fridays.

#my writing #fic update #peace-tied #iorveth/roche #gascon brossard #going with the dog theme #the witcher #witcher 2 #thronebreaker

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bonny-kookoo · 1 year ago

Note

Just read the new snowball fic, now I'm curious how the conversations with jungkook and management/jungkook and yoongi would go

Everyone is present- well, everyone who can be present, that is.

"Its not our place to decide what you do in your free time." The leading manager says. "But what you do on-screen does concern us. Therefore, we had to make a decision here."

Jungkook is nervous. He's playing around with the pink Cooky toy you've forgotten in his lap before you had to leave the room. You're currently with staff while the whole mess created is being taken apart and somehow solved as best as it can be.

"The public is already convinced that you-" the man nods towards Jungkook, "-have an intimate relationship with her. Fans have started to dig up and analyze old videos as evidence, and it's hard to really come up with a reasonable explanation for everything." He sighs. "So we have decided to-"

"Dont make her leave!" Jungkook instantly buts in. "It was my fault, don't make-"

"Jungkook let him talk." Namjoon scolds him, and the manager nods.

"I know it might not seem fair to you all, and I understand that, but right now it's the best form of damage control we have." He offers, and Jungkook feels his throat clog up at what's about to come. He feels horrible.

You'll have to leave because of him.

"Again, we have nothing against your relationship with her. That's not it at all- I personally have a hybrid too, I know how it works for them." He kindly offers the bandmembers in the room, Taehyung already having his arms crossed defensively. "But the bigger part of the public doesn't accept these types of relationships."

Namjoon nods. He's not even mad at Jungkook- one look at Yoongi and he's reminded of the fine line the rapper has been walking as well.

It would've happened at some point. Jungkook was just the one to make that mistake first.

"So we've decided to confirm the relationship between her and Jungkook-ssi only, without any mention of the rest of you guys."

It's dead silent in the room, and while Jungkook's eyes are as wide as dinner plates staring at the manager, the rest have mixed feelings about it. Though down the line, they know it's for the best.

"Its either that, or we will simply have her removed from you guys entirely. Meaning that she will be given her own apartment somewhere private, and won't be allowed to contact any of you moving forward." The manager says. "It's either this, or the former."

"I'm okay with the first." Yoongi nods. "As long as she stays."

Taehyung is quiet, before he nods, sighing. "I agree with that too."

Jimin nods as well, facial expression a lot more soft and calm than the rest. "I'm totally okay with that. Considering Jungkookie can't ever keep his mouth shut, I think it's the smartest idea to have him be the public boyfriend." He teases, making Jungkook's cheeks turn red.

"Hey!" He barks defensively, and the whole interaction seems to lighten the mood.

"Alright, we'll do that then." The manager nods. "Now, Jungkook-ssi, please keep in mind that this will most likely affect your promotions moving further." He reminds the youngest of the band, who nods. "And please don't overdo it just because we'll make it public. You're giving most or the staff migraines with your spontaneous livestreams these days." The man jokingly scolds, and everyone laughs at that, agreeing.

And later that day, he's got you on his lap eating icecream while he scrolls on his phone through the comments under the official statement of his company regarding you and him- and he's somewhat relieved. Most seem to not be surprised, even the more negative one's aren't very bad. There's the occasional flood of crying emojis and tearful words such as 'but he belongs to us not her!'- but overall, it's alright.

Especially when he locks his phone and puts it on his coffee table, holding you a bit tighter while resting his face on your shoulder.

He can deal with the hate.

As long as you stay.

#bts imagine #bts fanfic #bts fic #jungkook imagine #hybrid imagine #jeon jungkook x reader #yoongi imagine #jeon jungkook imagine #park jimin imagine #bts taehyung imagines #bts namjoon imagine #ot7 hybrid fanfic

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aetherdoesthings · 9 months ago

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HANAHAKI!READER x ROBIN EPILOGUE

forethoughts: well, it's been a fun ride taking this series home. just wanted to tie a sweet little bow to this present for my lovely EL anon who's been here since the beginning. merry christmas, EL anon. thanks for sticking around.

notes: it's like 12am and i have to wake up at 4 (don't ask). i've never written an epilogue before, so yeah. nevertheless, an ending is an ending, whether happy or sad. gn!reader, hanahaki au, high school au, modern times.

Peace. That was where you were. You strolled around an empty park, your shoes rolling across dry autumn leaves, the wind plastering onto your face like a cool hug. No recollection of your past, any memories that made you who you were could be found. All that surrounded you was nature. A giant cherry blossom tree was erect in the center, its flowers and petals whisked away by the gentlest breeze.

Pain was nonexistent, as was suffering. All that surrounded you was peace and serenity, coating your body like a warm blanket or the softest hug.

You admired the scenery in front of you, watching the leaves dance in the wind and flowers join along. But as you watched the tree in this never ending realm you were in, enjoying the feeling of the wind brushing your skin, something wasn’t right. The tree was losing more petals and leaves, the wind whisking them away in one current. Eventually, the bark started to fly off the tree, joining the flow of leaves and branches. Like a tornado, the tree broke apart itself, joining its earthly brethren in the spiral flow that pointed upwards. You took a step back, unsure whether to run or stay put. As the tree disappeared, your breathing began to ease. Expanding your diaphragm felt easier and your throat didn’t itch or burn at all. It was a miracle. Air flowed through your body without any problem or obstacle, with no urge to cough or regurgitate. Everything was-

“And that is our presentation about Queen Elizabeth I. Thank you for listening!” Robin exclaimed. Everyone clapped as you stopped screen sharing your presentation, before heading back to your seat with Robin. She smiled warmly at you, mouthing ‘good job’ to you. You tried to smile back and sit down before your legs gave out, but you were only successful in one of the two tasks.

“Alright, that’s all of our presentations done. Good job, class. Glad to see you’re better in health to do the presentation in person too, Y/N.” Thankfully, before any further embarrassment could be dealt, the bell rang, as the sound of chairs sliding across the ground, computer lids closing and chatter filling the room. You calmly packed all of your stuff, a small smile on your face as you exited the room. A hand wrapped around your wrist, dragging you against the current of the crowd.

“Hey! Watch it!” You protested, watching Robin drag you into an empty toilet stall, swiftly locking the door behind the two of you. She gently pressed your body against the wall, her hands quick to each side of your cheek. Her lips enveloped yours, giving you a taste of heaven and ecstasy. You leaned into the kiss, mentally mapping out the dimensions of her lips just so you could think about it whenever you weren’t with Robin.

Robin lifted her lips away from yours to your disappointment, but the small giggle she let out in the end was all worth it. Robin gazed into your hazel brown eyes with her ocean blue ones, a perfect sunset created in your eyes.

“Good job, partner.” Robin giggled, pecking a kiss on your cheek. “That was amazing.”

You blushed profusely, trying to find a spot in your vision that wasn’t covered by Robin. “I-It was nothing…”

“Our grade will say different.” Robin hummed. “Come on. School’s ended. Would you like to go get Starbucks together?”

The corners of your mouth shot up to your eyes. “I’d love that! I mean… if you’re okay with it…”

“Y/N, I’m asking. Of course I’m okay with it.”

“Oh. Right. I didn't know. Sorry… I'm not used to people talking to me. Especially you, now that we're... you know.”

“It’s fine, Y/N. Don't worry about it, alright? Be yourself, that's all I care about. Be as awkward and weird as you want. I'd still love you nonetheless. My treat, okay? To completing our project. And to our first date~”

“You shouldn’t be saying that out loud...”

“Because people'll hear me? So what if people hear me? Why’d I try to hide my wonderful girlfriend from the world?”

You buried your head in the crook of Robin’s neck, letting the heat simmer and wash away from your cheeks. Robin simply laughed at your action, taking the opportunity to plant one more kiss on the top of your head.

Her fingers ran through the locks of your hair, before ruffling it a bit. You couldn’t help but protest at her action as you looked up at her, worried she would ruin the hair that you had styled specifically for Robin. She stopped at your protest, letting out a chuckle at the sound that came out of your mouth. You gazed into her eyes, drowning in the sea of comfort and serenity.

“Can we go shopping too? Together?” You blurted out.

Robin gleamed at your offer. “Of course! I’d love to!”

Fire shot up from your guts to your cheeks, lava pooling on both sides. “G-Great!”

“Did you have something in mind you wanted to buy?”

“Well… not really… I just like to look around. Maybe I’ll buy something.” You murmured sheepishly. Truth be told, you did have something you wanted to buy. It had been sitting on the top of your buylist for a while. You had the money to buy it too.

“Come on. We’re not getting anywhere by staying in this stall all day, dear.” Robin unlocked the door, whisking you away before anyone could ask any questions about two girls exiting the same stall together. It still baffled you about how you ended up here. Robin by your side. Your grades finally higher than a B-.

But hey, since the world didn’t end three days ago, you might as well treat yourself, right?

cheers, EL anon. thanks for taking me on a ride with you.

-aether<3

#one piece #op #nico robin #nico robin x reader #hanahaki #aetherasks #ELanon #wait why do i sound emotional #*cue see you again*

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 year ago

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Serializing the opening of “The Lost Cause”

On October 7–8, I'm in Milan to keynote Wired Nextfest.

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a hopeful tale of the climate emergency, which comes out on November 14. Kim Stanley Robinson called it "an unforgettable vision of what could be":

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865939/the-lost-cause

I'm currently running a Kickstarter campaign to pre-sell the audiobook, which I produced and narrated myself (for complex and awful reasons, Amazon won't carry my audiobooks, see the Kickstarter campaign page for details). You can also pre-order the ebook and hardcovers, including signed and personalized copies:

http://lost-cause.org

For the next week or so, I'm going to be serializing the prologue of the book, which gets it off to quite a spicy start. Here's part one!

I thought that I was being so smart I signed up for the over nightwhen pager duty for the solar array at Burroughs High. Solar arrays don’t do anything at night. Because it’s dark. They’re not lunar arrays.

Turns out I outsmarted myself.

My pager app went off at 1:58 a.m., making a sound that I hadn’t heard since the training session, GNAAP GNAAP GNAAP, with those low notes that loosened your bowels offset by high notes that tightened your sphincter. I slapped around my bed for my screen and found the lights and found my underwear and a tee and then the cargo pants I wore on work duty and blinked hard and rubbed my eyes until I could think clearly enough to confirm that I was dressed, had everything that I needed, and then double-checked the pager app to make sure that I really, actually needed to go do something about the school’s solar array at, I checked, 2:07 a.m.

2:07 a.m.! Brooks, you really outsmarted yourself.

Gramps’s house had started out as a two bed/one bath, like most of the houses in Burbank, but it had been expanded with a weird addition at the back—again, like most of the houses in Burbank—giving it a third bedroom and a second bath. That was my room, and it had its own sliding door to the backyard, so I let myself out without waking Gramps.

It was warm enough that I didn’t need a jacket, which was good because I’d forgotten to put one on. Still, there was just enough of a nip in the air that I jogged a little to get my blood going. Burbank was quiet, just the sound of the wind in the big, mature trees that lined Fairview Street, a distant freight train whistle, a car zooming down Verdugo. My breath was louder than any of them. A dog barked at me and startled me as I turned onto Verdugo, streetlit and wide and empty, too.

Two minutes later, I was at Burroughs, using my student app to buzz myself into the school’s gate, then the side entrance, then the utility stairs, and then I jogged up the stairs. I was only supposed to get paged if the solar array had an error it couldn’t diagnose for itself, and that the manufacturer’s techs couldn’t diagnose from its camera feeds and other telemetry. Basically, never. Not at 2:00 a.m. 2:17 a.m. now. I wondered what the hell it could be. I opened the roof access door just in time to hear a glassy crashing sound, like a window breaking, and I froze.

Someone was on the roof with me. A person, glimpsed in the corner of my eye and then lost in the darkness. Too big to be a raccoon. A person. On the roof.

“Hello?” Gramps’s friends sometimes made fun of my voice. I’d hated how high-pitched it was when I was a freshman and had dreamed of it getting deeper someday, but now I was a senior, weeks away from graduation, and I still got mistaken for a girl on gamer voice-chats. I’d made my peace with it, except that I hadn’t entirely because I was not happy at all with how it squeaked out over that roof. “Hello?” I tried for deeper. “Someone there?” No one answered, so I took a step out onto the roof. Glass crunched under my feet. It was dark and it stayed dark when I slapped at the work-lights switch next to the door—they should have been tripped by the motion anyway. I found my flashlight and twisted it to wide beam and checked my feet. Smashed glass, all right, and when I swung the light around to the nearest solar bank, I saw that each panel had been methodically shattered. I took a step back toward the door, and the light beam swung up and caught the man.

He was wearing a head-to-toe suit—a ghillie suit, Gramps’s friends called them—and holding a short four-pound sledgehammer with a handle and head painted in nonreflective black that swallowed my light beam. He was coming toward me. I reflexively hit the bodycam 911 emergency switch on my screen and it sounded its “Warning, bodycam recording” alert in a warm woman’s voice that I’d chosen for its nonthreatening tone. Mostly I bodycammed when I was having an argument with someone and the calm voice was a good balance between cooling things out and satisfying California’s two-party consent rules for recording.

As he raised the hammer, I wished that I’d chosen the cop voice instead.

“Wait,” I said, taking a step back. The roof access door had closed behind me. “Please.”

“Shit,” the man said. He was using a voice-shifter, either a separate unit or part of the ghillie suit. His voice was deep as a diesel engine. “Dammit, you’re just a kid.” He used the hand that wasn’t holding the hammer to flip up his nightscope goggles and peer at me. His eyes, visible in the ghillie suit’s slit, were bloodshot and wrinkled and blue. He squinted at my light and brandished the hammer. “Shit,” he said again. “Get that out of my eyes, dammit.”

“Sorry,” I squeaked, and lowered the beam, casting it around.

It seemed like 80 percent of the panels were ruined. Why had I said sorry? Force of habit. “Shit.” If he could say it, I could too.

“Shit. What the hell are you doing, man?”

“You’re recording this, kid?”

“Yes. Livestreaming.”

“Good, then I’ll explain. You just stay there and we won’t have a problem. I was gonna have to make a video when this was done, you’re just saving me the trouble.” He lowered the hammer and let it dangle. I thought about rushing him, but I’m not a fighter, and he was still holding the hammer. Same for turning and trying to get out the door before he could catch up with me.

“Kay, listen up. This world we’re in, it’s debased. America’s been rotted from the inside. First it was immigrants. You might think I’m a racist, but I’m not. It’s not immigrants I object to. It’s illegals. You want to come to America, you come in the front door, on the terms your gracious hosts here are offering. You don’t skip the line or break in through the window. That’s what a criminal does. You let in a criminal, let ’em become citizens, soon enough they’re voting for other criminals.

“You know just what I’m talking about, don’t kid yourself. The money we’re spending now? This Green New Deal? This Jobs Guarantee? These fuckin’ solar panels? Bill’s gonna come due on this. There’s no such thing as a free lunch. Chinese hoaxed us into believing in this climate garbage, then they got us to go into hock to them up to our eyeballs to buy their shiny crap, and then they’re gonna charge us interest, and our kids, and their kids, and their kids. Mortgaging their future? Shit, what future? They’re headed for debt bondage for eternity. Biblical. It’s Biblical.

“All this mumbo jumbo about ‘money users’ and ‘money creators’—it’s just word games. There’s two kinds of people in this world, and it’s not ‘money users’ and ‘money creators’—it’s ‘makers’ and ‘takers.’ The makers create all the wealth, the takers elect politicians who confiscate it and redistribute it.” “Redistribute” came out like another f-bomb.

This was crazy, but it wasn’t unfamiliar. I’d heard versions of this conversation around Gramps’s place ever since I came to live with him, back when I was eight. More, I’d heard these specific words before. I pressed my recollections, tried to put a face to the words. All the faces in Gramps’s living room had a sameness, a whiteness, matching haircuts and the same Maga hats, faded and frayed. Who had said those words? I could bring the face to mind now, the rest of the face that went with those blue watery eyes peering out of the ghillie suit.

Now, the name. Mark. Not Mark. Mike. Mike! Mike, uh.

“Mike Kennedy?”

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/06/green-new-deal-fic/#the-first-generation-in-a-century-not-to-fear-the-future

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a hopeful novel of the climate emergency. Amazon won't sell the audiobook, so I made my own and I'm pre-selling it on Kickstarter!

#pluralistic #the lost cause #clifi #science fiction #books #serialized fiction #kickstarter #audiobooks #crowdfunders #kim stanley robinson #bill mckibben #climate emergency #climate #hopepunk #solarpunk #burbank

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galexystern · 1 year ago

Text

butterfly wings

chapter one; spring 1983

pairing; steve harrington/reader, eddie munson/reader, eventual steddie/reader

rating; M

warnings; fluff, au - canon divergence, fucked up the timeline a bit, made steve a bit more of a player

word count; 3k

desc; you meet new friends, steve, and eddie when you move to hawkins.

read on ao3 / series masterlist

You're helping your sister Nina carry your brand-new couch into your newly-renovated apartment when you have your first glimpse of your new next-door neighbor.

Nina is inside the apartment, you are outside in the hall, the couch in between you. It's become stuck in the doorway, and as Nina's boyfriend Mark inspects the problem, you take a breather. You turn your head just in time to see some pretty little thing duck into the apartment next to yours, followed by a guy your age, who stops in the doorway. You actually start to admire him—wildly gorgeous hair, strong jaw, nice smile—when he looks back at you and winks.

Yes, winks.

After that, he disappears inside and the door closes. Then Mark's directing you forward and you forget all about your neighbor. It's not until the couch is in place in the living room and the three of you have collapsed on it, watching something irrelevant on TV, that you remember the encounter.

"Have you guys met our neighbors yet?" You ask nonchalantly, keeping your eyes trained on the screen.

Nina hums. "Only in the apartment to the left. Name's Steve. Seems nice enough."

"Steve? From Hawkins High?" Mark asks.

Nina looks at him and shrugs. "I guess so?"

Mark barks out a laugh. "I can't believe you guys live next door to King Steve."

"King Steve?" You question.

"Oh yeah. Like king of the school. Probably the most popular guy there."

"What's he like?"

Mark looks straight into your eyes. "You don't wanna know."

You exhale heavily. "Good to know."

Good to avoid.

;

The next day, after everything is moved into the apartment, if not unpacked, you bundle up, grab your current read, and escape up to the roof. It's the best feature of the new place—the building is tall enough that you can see for miles, and it's green all the way around. Well, white, since it's January. You've been wanting to spend time here since you first saw it. And it's just abnormally warm enough to do so.

You've settled into a spot facing your favorite scenery and are deep into reading when you hear, "Hey there."

You freeze and look over your shoulder to see King Steve standing behind you. You immediately notice that he looks really good, in jeans, a white t-shirt, and a letterman jacket, hair perfectly coiled—you catch yourself and try to think about something else instead. It doesn't really work.

You turn your head back to your book. "Hello," you say, trying to keep the disdain in your voice and only partly succeeding.

"Hi," he says again. You hope he's feeling at a loss. "Have we met yet?"

"No," you answer while turning a page.

"Ah." He walks until he's standing in front of you, leaning against the railing. You can see the sunset behind him haloing him like he's an angel from heaven from the corner of your eye. You have to tell your heart to calm down. "I'm Steve. Steve Harrington."

With an internal sigh, you raise your head and finally lock eyes. You give him your name and he grins.

"You're the new neighbor, right? Living with your sister?"

"Mhm," you hum while nodding.

"And how are you this fine evening?"

"Oh, I'm just peachy. How are you?"

"Fantastic! I feel great."

"Good for you."

You stare at each other. Your face starts to heat up the longer it goes on, and Steve seems to notice and smirks at you. At that, you duck your head.

"So, beautiful, tell me about yourself." Your heart skips at the compliment. "I like to know my neighbors, especially when they look like you," Steve continues and you feel yourself start to smile.

You tamp it down and reply, "Well, I'll be a freshman at Hawkins. I like pop music, traveling, and not taking long walks on the beach."

Steve grins. "And books."

It's kind of infectious, and you half-grin back. "Yes, and books."

"I could tell," he says with a wink.

You feel a blush coming on again and rush to ask, "And what about you, Steve Harrington?"

"Well," he starts, crossing muscular arms across his chest. "I'm also a student at Hawkins, but I'm a sophomore. I also like pop music and traveling. Though I love taking long walks on the beach." You laugh and he smiles and now the electricity is flowing between you two and you sort of wish it wasn't. "I also love sports."

"Oh, you are? Wow, I totally didn't realize that, what with all the patches," you reply sarcastically.

"This thing?" He motions to the jacket. "This is definitely not mine," he says back, just as sarcastic.

"It has your name on it," you point out teasingly.

"It does? Dammit," he says, dramatically faking frustration. "You're sharper than I thought." You laugh. "You've got a nice laugh."

"Thanks," you say quietly.

"No problem." His voice is just as gentle.

You're gazing at each other intensely, and the colors in the sky behind him make him look really good, and maybe that girl from yesterday was his girlfriend? And they broke up last night? And he's opening his mouth to speak again—

"Hey, Steve!"

Some girl bounds up out of nowhere and Steve startles into standing upright. You both turn to look at her and her face lights up after catching his gaze. She's a completely different girl from yesterday.

He clears his throat. "Hey, Maria. Guess you found the place okay."

"Yup!" Her voice is unnecessarily perky. "Though I had to really search to find you. Who knew you'd be up on the roof?" She laughs and you cringe at its high pitch.

"That's where I said to meet," Steve says under his breath. Your mouth twists and you try not to smirk as he turns back to you. "Maria, this is my new neighbor. It's her roof, or partly so."

"Hi!" She sticks out a hand and you just stare at it.

"Hey," you finally say and stand to shake her hand mechanically. "I, uh, I'll go. Let you two enjoy the roof." You grab your book and rush to the door as quickly as possible. You hear Steve call your name, but you're already down the stairs.

;

"How was your first day of school?" You hear Nina call from the kitchen when you walk through the apartment door. Closing it, you sigh and toe your shoes off. You walk through to where Nina is, dropping your backpack onto a chair and opening the fridge.

"Fine," you answer while pulling out a lemonade. "Just like all the other first days."

She makes a face at you from the stove, where she's stirring something that smells great. "More words, please."

You slide into a chair and take a long drink, thinking of the day's events. "Well," you start, "Mark was not kidding about Steve."

He really wasn't. Getting to school and finding the office and locating your homeroom wasn't difficult. But the party didn't really start until Steve Harrington walked in. Fellow jocks shot up from their seats and surrounded him, clapping his back and giving him high-fives. Girls started swooning and self-consciously checking their appearance. Nerds shrunk into their desks to go unnoticed. And the slackers rolled their eyes and got grumpier.

Once the group had dispersed, Steve was left standing with a guy and a girl.

"That's Tommy Hagan and Carol Perkins," someone said beside you, and you startled. Looking over, you saw a girl with flaming red hair and bright smile looking back. "And I'm Vickie."

You shook the hand she presented to you and introduced yourself. "I'm new."

Vickie laughed. "I suspected," she replied, not unkindly. "Nice to meet you. Welcome to Hawkins."

"Thanks." You gave her a small smile back and turned to face the front of the room again. Steve, Tommy, and Carol were all still talking, Steve lounging on the teacher's desk. A minute later, someone came sweeping into the room.

"Harrington, Hagan," they called out, "to your desks. And Miss Perkins, let's hope you have enough time to get to your own homeroom."

Carol rolled her eyes but gave Tommy a kiss on the cheek and ran out. Steve and Tommy leisurely made their way to their seats. You caught Steve's eye, and he grinned and nodded at you. You nodded back awkwardly.

"How do you know Steve Harrington already?" Vickie whispered as the teacher got set up.

"He's my neighbor," you replied, keeping your eyes straight ahead.

She just hummed in response, but you didn't like the tone.

After the bell rang to signal homeroom's end, everyone stood and left as quickly as possible. You got swept up in the crowd, which spat you out into the hall, completely turned around. You glanced at the schedule in your hand and the nearby classroom numbers, despair starting to set in.

"Where do you need to go?"

You whipped around to see Vickie standing behind you, reassuring expression on her face. You sighed in relief, just handing her the paper.

"Okay, lemme see." She took it and scanned quickly. "We've got a couple classes together! But not until third period. Right now, you're gonna go down there," she pointed to the right, "make a left, and go into the third classroom on the left. After that, you'll keep going down that hall and then into the fifth classroom on the right—from the start of the hallway. Then you'll backtrack and pass this room," she threw a thumb behind her at the homeroom, "and go into the classroom at the end of the hall, dead ahead." She looked back up, beaming. "Then you're with me for the rest of the day! And I can be your tour guide."

"Wow," you said. "That was amazing."

She shrugged. "It's a small school. You'll get to know it real well." You cracked a smile. "Go, so you're not late. I'll see you in a few hours." You nodded, following her instructions, as she went the opposite way.

True to her word, Vickie did stick to you like glue after third period. She even let you sit with her and her friends at lunch; you've never felt luckier. You shared the period with Steve, you'd noticed, who was holding court across the room. It was hard to keep your attention off him and on the conversation. That magnetic quality of his definitely contributed to the king status.

He'd also been in your last two periods as well—kind of. Your last period was study hall, which Steve was technically in, but as soon as the bell rang to signal the beginning of class, he, Tommy, and Carol (also in the study hall) saluted to the teacher monitoring and just walked out. The teacher had just nodded and let them go.

Vickie had caught you staring at the interaction. "Mr. Catcher is the football coach. He's tight with Steve and Tommy," she explained. You'd nodded in acknowledgement and tried to focus on your schoolwork. Study hall being last period had been a nice idea to you—a chance to get your homework done before school was even let out—but you guessed King Steve didn't think the same way.

Who would've thought.

"Oh?" Nina says, bringing you back to the present. "How so?"

You blow out a breath, wondering if you could even describe it all. "Let's just say he really embodies his king status," you settle on.

"Okay," your sister replies slowly. "And classes? Teachers?"

"Classes good. Teachers good."

"Nice to hear, caveman," she teases and you roll your eyes. "Any friend possibilities?"

"Yeah," you answer nonchalantly, but the approach doesn't work on Nina, who turns excitedly. "OMG, what's their name, what are they like, when can they come over?"

"Chill! Her name is Vickie. She helped me find my classes. She's nice."

Nina realizes that's all she's gonna get and so turns back to the food. "Cool," she says, so uncoolly that you laugh. She joins in. You can tell the meal is almost done, so you go get the plates and silverware to set the table, and the conversation fades away into the clatter of eating.

;

A month or so goes by and you get settled in at Hawkins High. Thankfully your friendship with Vickie was not a one-day-only deal, and you become closer. She explains everything she can about the school and its students, and you begin to understand that she's a major gossip. You enjoy it and love learning about all the dirty details of people you barely know.

She introduces you to some of her friends and you become friends with them too. A few of them are in your other classes, so you don't feel lonely at all—a blessing from heaven.

You start to notice the patterns of the students around you, and file them away. There goes the girl who only wears heels but can barely seem to walk in them. There goes the group of kids you thought were genuinely arguing every day but are actually debate club members and constantly practicing their arguments. There goes the guy who wears a black handkerchief in his back left pocket and strums an air guitar as he walks and always shoots you a wink as you pass him between fourth and fifth period.

There goes King Steve, leaving last period study hall as soon as it starts. Until he doesn't. That day, you watch as Tommy and Carol strut out, while Steve stays behind and lounges at a desk, practically napping. You mark it off as a one-time fluke. But then it happens every day for a week.

"Hey," you whisper to Vickie while Mr. Catcher is preoccupied. "Why is Steve still here?"

She looks at you like she has juicy gossip you have to hear immediately. "So," she starts excitedly, "it seems that King Steve here has a crush."

Your heart speeds up. You and Steve had been greeting each other as you passed in the apartment building, his smile blinding you every time. Your sister had even invited him to eat with you two one day, but he'd had practice and had to politely decline. But he'd said he wanted to come in the future.

"Who is it?" You ask, hoping your voice isn't shaking.

Then Vickie speaks and crushes your small hopes. "Nancy Wheeler."

"Who's that?" You're trying to rein in your venom. There's no reason for it. You don't want it to be present at all.

"Another freshman. Apparently he's been waiting until the end of school to leave so he can give her a ride home."

"That's nice of him." Your voice is faint, trying not to keep glancing at Steve and failing. He's dozing. He looks sweet.

You shake your head. "Or maybe not." You say firmly.

Vickie smirks. "I don't know. She's a good girl through and through. I think she's making King Steve work for it."

"As she should."

"You got that right."

As you turn back to your work, your mind wanders. You hope he doesn't break her heart. That might break yours.

;

He doesn't. He steals it.

Nancy makes Steve work for it for a few more weeks, and then they become official halfway through the spring semester. They're glowing and wrapped up in each other. It makes your heart twinge. It makes you look away from them every time they appear.

You focus on other things. You get closer with Vickie and her friends Jesse and Hailey. You join the drama club, performing in the spring play. You learn black handkerchief guy's name: Eddie Munson. He tells you after he catches you walking to your car after drama club, springing back when you spin around, ready to punch him.

"Sorry for the scare," he continues with a sheepish grin, running a hand through his long black hair. "Didn't mean to."

You breathe deeply. "It's okay. I'm just glad you're not a murderer."

"Nope, definitely not a killer. At least, in reality." You give him a "what the fuck" expression and he laughs. "That's actually why I came over. You were really good in there." He smiles at your blush. "How do you feel about the fantasy genre?"

Having no idea where this is going, you shrug. "It's fine, I guess? Why?"

"Well, I need an apprentice."

"What are you, a wizard?"

"Close!" He chuckles. "I run the Hellfire club. We play Dungeons & Dragons. I'm the DM—Dungeon Master." You raise an eyebrow. "I know how it sounds, but! It's a fantasy role-playing game. We have a lot of fun. And I need someone to succeed me as DM once I graduate. I think you would be perfect for it."

"Why me?" You ask suspiciously.

"Because, like I said, you were great in there. Really believable. You connect to people onstage. And that's the kind of energy you need to play D&D."

"I don't know..."

"Think about it. No rush, just wanted to put it out there." He grins endearingly. "If you're interested, you know where to find me." And with a bow and a wink, he disappears into the dark.

Very dungeon master, you think.

You think about it very briefly and then you forget. You're too busy with drama club and your friends and your sister and the part-time job you get to prepare for the summer. But Eddie continues to wink at you when you pass him in the hallway. It always makes you smile.

The school year ends with good grades all around and you're so relieved to not have to see King Steve and Queen Nancy parading around the school anymore, as much as you don't want to be. You pick up more hours at your job at the bookstore and spend days at the beach with your friends and take camping trips with Nina and Mark. You barely see Steve—or Eddie—at all.

chapter two

#steve harrington x eddie munson x reader #steve harrington x reader #eddie munson x reader #steddie x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #mine

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empressofthesunwriter · 1 month ago

Text

Cosmic Phantoms

What do you get if you put a sassy Half-Ghost, a bubbly Magical Ghostly Girl, a strongwilled Goth and a skirt-chasing Tech-Nerd together?

Well, the greatest Ghost Hunting Team on Earth!

Join Danny, Julia, Sam and Tucker on their crazy adventures.

Puberty is a joke against the forces they are up to!

We can all agree that Sam blackmailing Danny and Tucker with a picture of them hugging was homophobic, so I changed it up.

And with that, please read and comment!

Two of a Kind

(*)

Night has fallen over Amity Park and at the harbour ghosts roam the scene.

Who are these ghosts you might ask?

Well, the local half-ghosts Danny Phantom and Julie Cosmos are hunting any ghosts who came out of Fenton's Ghost Portal to return them to their world.

Currently, they follow after a portly ghost in overalls.

Phantom punches him through a warehouse, but the ghost phases through a wall and crashes into a pile of boxes.

The Halfa's also phases through the wall, and the three turn visible.

"Beware! I am the Box Ghost!" shouts the Ghost, gesturing at the boxes around him. "I have power over all containers, cardboard and square."

"Okay, can we get this over with? We've got a test to study for.", says Phantom annoyed.

"Study? There will be no time to study--", Box Ghost's hand begin to glow green and he raises boxes into the air "--when you find yourself crushed beneath the forgotten possessions of...", he reads off a shipping label" "Elliot Kravitz of Arlington Heights, Illinois!"

He turns to Phantom and Cosmos, his eyes and the floating boxes glowing green, and sends the boxes and their contents flying at them. Unimpressed both teens turn intangible and the contents hit the wall behind him.

"We don't have time for this!", reminds Cosmos with crossed arms.

"Hey Tucker, let's go!", calls Phantom their backup.

Tucker and Sam kick down the door and jump into the room.

He is carrying a Fenton Thermos and she a biology textbook.

The Techic-Lover opens the Fenton Thermos and activates it.

"Good night everybody!"

Phantom grabs the Box Ghost, throwing him into the beam of the thermos. He screams and gets sucked in.

Smug Tucker caps the thermos.

"Perimeter secure."

"Perimeter secure?", repeats Sam. "What are you, a Navy Seal?"

Phantom and Cosmos land beside their friends as Phantom gives his answer: "Seals: aquatic mammals that bark. They're canines, right?"

Sam checks the biology book.

"Wrong. That's zero for twenty-one."

"Seals, are a widely distributed and diverse clade of carnivorous, fin-footed, semiaquatic, mostly marine mammals.", answers now Cosmos.

"Right. That's twenty-one out of twenty-one."

"I'm no teacher, but I'm guessing that's an 'F' for Danny and an 'A' for Julie.", mussed Tucker while spinning the thermos on a finger.

"Come on, you guys.", bemoans Phantom. "If you're gonna be superheroes sidekicks, you're gonna have to be a little more focused. You, Sam, are supposed to be helping me study for the test tomorrow. You Tucker you're supposed to be helping me catch these ghosts so I have time to study! And you Julie as my partner have to help me fight this ghost and not show off how smart you are!"

"I'm not showing off.", says Cosmos annoyed, her arms crossed. "We just had this unit in my Gynamsium before I moved her. Sorry that I still remember it."

Phantom makes a face and signs.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I'm just frustrated."

Tucker, who still spins the thermos on one finger laughs: "Relax, buddy, they're all right here."

Of course, at this moment, the thermos falls off of Tucker's finger and onto the ground.

The word "RELEASE" appears on its side screen and the cap bursts off to release multiple ghosts in business suits, who phase out of the building. The Box Ghost is also released and flies into the air.

"Ha ha! I am the Box Ghost! You cannot hold me within the confines of a-", he laughs and mimics the shape of the thermos with his hands. "-cylindrical container."

With that, he phases also out of the building.

"That's weird.", mumbles Tucker checking his PDA. "According to my schedule, we should be done catching ghosts by now."

This earns him twin looks of annoyance from Phantom and Cosmos.

None of them wiser that a certain ghost, who hunts rare ghosts, set his eyes on them.

(*)

Our quartet are in the school library, just got their tests back.

Sam, Tucker and Julia all did good but...

"I got a D?!", cries Danny desperately. "All this ghost hunting is taking away from my study time."

"So much for the Fentons being a family of geniuses.", jokes Tucker.

Julia, who is sitting at a computer with Sam, turns around and hisses: "Be nice Tucker!", before she looks at what Sam is researching.

"I can't get a D in biology. My parents will kill me.", says Danny.

"Not if you pull your grade up by doing an extra credit biology assignment...", tells Sam showing him the website Julia and she were looking. "On this magnificent creature."

"A purple-back gorilla?", reads Danny a-loud.

"Yep. Extremely rare. Only two left, both male. After this, they're gone forever. Which is why you are going to prove he deserves to be set free.", proclaims Sam excitedly.

"Sam, honey, this is not going to turn into you changing the menu and we had to fight the Lunch Lady Ghost.", reminds Julia.

"Exactly. I don't have time for extra credit...or your agendas.", agrees Danny.

"Actually, you do.", disagrees Tucker. "You just have to learn how to manage it better. I decided to become your time manager. It's the least I can do after Sam made me let all those ghosts out."

For that, the girls give him the evil eye.

He was the one who let this ghost lose!

Danny signs: " I don't know."

"It'll be my job to keep track of your schedule so you can do your schoolwork and catch all those ghosts that Sam let loose."

Sam and Julia glare harder at Tucker.

"Remember what happened when I let you manage the thermos?", asks Danny.

"And I've already scheduled 'Remember: not to let Tucker handle the thermos.'"

"I suppose we could have a trial period."

"See? I've also scheduled some zoo time so we can check out that gorilla. Let's go."

So the quartet leaves the library to go there.

It's actually quite nice from the zoo that they can watch Sampson from an observation tower.

Only there is one problem.

It's boring as hell!

"There he is: Sampson. So gifted, so...majestic.", says Sam in awe, while watching the gorilla through binoculars.

The other three lean bored and tired on a desk.

"Sam, we've been watching the gorilla scratch his butt for, um, how long?", wonder Danny.

"Six hours.", answers Tucker yawning.

"How time flies when you scratch your butt majestically.", adds Julia, also yawing.

"It's only a matter of time before Danny finds out something about Sampson nobody's ever learned!", tells Sam. "You should go and try to communicate with him."

The Goth turn around only to frown at a sleeping Danny on the floor.

"Ugh, great. Tucker, you're his manager, can you--"

She stops as she sees Tucker curled up asleep next to Danny.

"Julie, please help."

No chance, the red-haired girl, is beside Tucker, also sleeping.

Then Danny and Tucker turn to each other, cuddling, while Julia spoons Tucker. All three start to suck their thumbs like babies.

"I'll do it. But first...", grins Sam mischely and takes a Polaroid Picture of the three. "Sucking thumbs makes any yearbook funny."

With that Sam leaves them to watch Sampson up closer and the three sleep like babies.

Well, till they hear a gorilla pounding hard at the wall next to them.

It wakes the three up, who scream and, realizing they're still holding each other and sucking their thumbs, let go and scream again.

They then see Sampson and scream once again.

"Gorilla! Loose!", shouts Tucker.

"I got him! I'm going ghost!"

Danny turns into Phantom picking Sampson up by the arms and phasing him through the wall outside into the air and back in his cage.

The others joined him there.

"Danny, I meant to tell you, there was a gho--"

Phantom doesn't let Sam speak to the end.

"I wonder who let the gorilla go...Sam?"

"Yeah. Wait 'til we tell everybody at school you let out a four-hundred-pound gorilla.", adds Tucker grinning.

Unimpressed Sam holds up the Polaroid Picture she made earlier.

Julia blushed, while Phantom and Tucker agreed they would say nothing.

Sam smiles in triumph.

(*)

The next day our quartet goes to Danny's home.

They find his parents and Jazz talking to a woman in a business suit and tape recorder.

As Maddie sees how tired Danny looks she tutts gently: "Danny, look at you! I'm not sure I like this overnight zoo research."

"Mom, come on. We're just a bunch of kids. In the zoo. At night. Alone."

Everyone stares at him.

Way to make it sound suspicious.

"We'll be in my room."

The four teens go up.

They reach Danny's bedroom door and Tucker tells him: "Here we go, Danny. Home in time for some well-deserved rest."

His PDA beeps and he checks it.

"But keep it quick, because you've got thirteen minutes."

Suddenly Danny's ghost sense goes off and Julia's necklace burns.

He opens his bedroom door and Skulker, the ghost who hunts ghosts, turns visible in the doorway.

"Hello, Ghost Children."

Skulker traps the two halfa's in a net and pulls them into Danny's room, the door slamming shut behind him.

They can hear how their friends yell for them, while this imposante metal ghost stands before them.

"The human ghost children in their natural habitat.", musses Skulker.

"Who are you?", asks Danny.

"I am Skulker. A collector of things rare and unique. And you, Ghost Children, are that and more."

The metal ghost laughs and stomps on a model rocket.

"Hey, my rocket! I built that!", yells Danny.

"Pity, though. I'd hoped you two would put up more of a fight."

"Oh, don't worry.", says Julia as she and Danny transform and phase through the net. "We will!"

Together they punch Skulker so that he crashes into a wall.

The bigger ghost growls.

A wild and chaotic fight breaks out between the three since they are in a room and Cosmos and Phantom don't want to destroy Phantom's room.

Skulker has less worry and just attacks them with his weapons and Phantom furniture.

At one point Skulker throws even Phantom's computer at them, till Phantom remember it's his sister.

The metal ghost managed to slam them both through the ground, into the kitchen, landing on the kitchen table and destroying it.

Both Phantom and Cosmos hurt and feel dizzy.

Skulker jumps down through the ceiling in front of them.

"Come, Ghost Boy and Ghost Girl. Time to see your new home."

He grabs Phantom and Cosmos and phases them through the floor into the lab, the teens yelling along the way.

When they are in the lab Skulker holds Cosmos under one arm and Phantom by his throat.

"What are you doing?", demands Phantom to know.

"Bringing you back to my world, where I can put you two on display."

"What?!", shout the two Halfa's shocked.

The Ghost-Ghosthunter presses a button on his wrist that turns on the nearby Ghost Portal.

"Ha! At last.", laughs Skukler in triumph, walking with his prey towards the portal. "Time to put you in your cage."

"Noooo!"., yells Phantom, while Cosmos cries: "Please not!"

Out of nowhere, Sam slides between Skulker and the portal, holding her arms out to block him.

"No is right, Danny and Julie. Cages are wrong. How do you think Sampson feels being in a cage?"

"But--", stutters Skulker surprised.

"He's a beautiful animal and deserves to roam free!"

"I..."

"Should be ashamed."

Phantom takes advantage of Skulker being distracted and kicks him across the room freeing Cosmos from his grip.

Skulker goes flying towards Tucker, who yells and runs out of the way before the ghost lands.

As he sits up, Skulker sees Tucker's dropped PDA next to the fallen Tucker and picks it up.

"That technology: so sleek, so...advanced.", says the ghost in aww. Then looks at the old control panel on his wrist, then back at PDA. "Hmm, I wonder..."

He yanks the busted, outdated control panel off of his armour and drops it on the floor, then replaces its slot with the PDA.

The PDA begins to spark and the dangling wires wave around.

"Hey, I got three more payments on that!", whines Tucker.

Unimpressed Skulker smacks Tucker away with his hand and looks back at his wrist.

"Marvelous."

The dangling wires connect to the PDA, causing Skulker to glow.

Cosmos and Phantom fly at him, but Skulker fires new ecto-blasters from his wrists back at them.

Both hit the wall, their arms and legs bound by ectoplasm.

"Way to go, Tucker. You just made the bad guy more bad!", scolds Sam him.

"How was I supposed to know my PDA was ghost-compatible?", he shoots back.

Skulker stands before the captured Halfa's.

"Say goodbye to this world, children."

Points his wrist at them.

Suddenly the PDA beeps and he looks at it.

"What?", Skulker wondered and read aloud: "Fly to the library? Get a book on the eating habits of purple-back gorillas?"

His jetpack pops out and turns on, blasting him towards the ceiling.

"No, stop. The hunt is not over!"

He phases through the ceiling and invisibly passes up through the living room.

At the same moment, the ectoplasmic binds on Phantom and Cosmos disappear.

"What happened?", asks Sam, helping her two friends up.

"Who cares? At least I got a minute to relax and figure this out.", says Phantom.

That's when they hear how Phantom's mom knocks on his bedroom door and calls for him.

Like a rocket, he phases back into his room.

Cosmos detransforms and she and Sam look after Tucker.

Luckily the hit from SKulker didn't hurt him.

A wonder!

(*)

Nerveoulsy Danny and Julia look around as they step up the stairs to Casper High, Tucker and Sam of course with them.

"Any sign of him?", asks Danny into the round.

"Nope.", tells Tucker and checks his new PDA. "He hasn't bothered you and Julie for...thirty-eight minutes. Maybe he's hunting somebody else now."

"That would be a dream come true.", mumbles Julia.

"How many of those things do you have?", refers Sam to Tucker PDA.

"Just two. Good thing I beamed all your info in here and backed it up. Global thinking, Danny: the sign of a quality time manager."

The PDA beeps and reads "GO TO CLASS!" Tucker pushes Danny into the school.

"Come on, you're late."

The others follow after him.

After their English hour with Mr. Lancer, they walk up together to Danny's locker.

As students leave the hallway, Danny opens his locker.

A series of glowing chains jump out of it and wrap around Danny's and Julia's torso and arms.

Tucker and Sam shout for their best friends.

Skulker materializes out of a blue mist in front of the Halfa's.

"I have you now, children."

He readies his blaster at them but gets interrupted again by the PDA.

"What? "Go to the newsstand and purchase a magazine with an article about purple-back gorillas?""

Skulker's jetpack activates and he flies up, crashing through the school's ceiling.

The chains on Danny and Julia dissipate.

Curious Tucker checks his PDA.

"Hmm, I have the same thing on mine."

"I think we'll blow that one off.", says Dann, with Julia nodding along.

At Lunch, they sit on the bleachers on the football field.

Only Danny nor Julia can eat.

"Julie, Danny, eat something.", says Sam.

"I can't eat now.", answered Danny, looking around. "He could be anywhere."

"I'm with Danny, I am way too nervous to eat.", agrees Julia.

"Hey, this food was scheduled to be eaten.", musses Tucker and opens Danny's milk carton.

Two glowing blue orbs pop out of it and wrap themselves around Danny's and Julia's heads.

They yell.

"Danny! Julie!", yell also Sam and Tucker.

Skulker steps on the bleachers.

"Now, boy and girl, once more, I, Skulker, shall--" His PDA beeps and he reads aloud: ""Take photos of gorilla?""

His jetpack activates and he flies away.

The restraints on Danny and Julia disappear.

"Well, at least he's regular.", points Sam out.

"Yeah, almost like a schedule.", realizes Danny. "What's the next thing you have scheduled for me, Tucker?"

"Gym. Why?"

"Oh I think Danny has a hunch!", grins Julia, seeing the mischievous smile on her friend's face.

Indeed he had a hunch, which he proved with the gym hour.

When Skulker put Tucker's PDA into his technology, he became bound to Danny's schedule.

He has to go where Danny was going to go next.

It was time they hunted now the hunter!

(*)

Skulker was watching Sampson in his habitat through his binoculars from a tree.

Annoyed he put them down.

"Where are they? According to this infernal device--" The PDA playing the game Pong. "--which I cannot reprogram-- the ghost boy and with him the ghost girl was supposed to be here an hour ago."

The ghost jumps down and frustrated yells at Sampson: "You were supposed to be the bait, you stupid animal."

"Sampson" turns around to reveal Sam and Tucker holding up a fake Sampson suit.

"Sampson's not stupid!", correct Sam angry.

"He's also not here.", tells Tucker, holding his PDA and a STylus in his hands. "Can I take a message?"

"You two! You'll pay for this!", promises Skukler, aiming multiple weapons at them.

Sam throws off the Sampson suit, while Tucker chirps: "Oh, I don't think so..."

Tucker presses "SEND" on his PDA.

Skulker's PDA beeps and he checks it.

"Time for push-ups." What?!"

He tries to resist as his body automatically starts doing push-ups.

"Stop! Stop! I can't...stop!"

Phantom and Cosmos fly into the cage.

"We can help with that.", they choruse together.

They fly at Skulker and punch him into the wall of the habitat.

Phantom then punches him five more times, while Cosmos shoots her silver ectoplasm blast at him as pieces of metal fly off Skulker's suit. Skulker dodges another punch and blast before he aims an eco-blaster on his shoulder at the Halfa's.

"Ah-ah-ah. 10:11, polish armor.", tuts Tucker and sends the command.

Skulker's blaster turns into a buffer and he starts screaming as it polishes his face.

"Stop fooling around, Tucker.", scolds Sam.

"Power him down already.", says Phantom.

"Now, please!", adds Cosmos.

"Relax.", answers Tucker, waving his PDA around. "Everything's totally under--"An arrow hits the PDA and pins it to the tree. "--control? Aw, man! I had four more payments on this one!"

The arrow came from Skulker's bow.

"Tucker, you're fired.", tells Phantom annoyed.

"Very well.", begins Skulker, putting the bow away. "I planned on simply capturing you and letting you two live the rest of your lives in a cage. But now, I will rest your pelt at the foot of my bed, boy and you girl, your pelt will decorate my trophy room."

Cosmos makes a disgusted face, while Sam speaks out her thoughts: "Okay, that's just gross."

"Well, Ghost Boy and Ghost Girl any last words?"

"Danny?", whisper-shoutes Cosmos.

"Just this.", says Phantom patting his head, covering his eyes repeatedly and pounding his chest with fists.

All stare at him.

The most Skulker.

"What are you doing?"

Phantom is now kneeling and scratching his butt.

"Calling a friend."

Sampson suddenly flies in and crashes into Skulker.

"You learned his language?", says Sam surprised.

"Well, sure. All he does is this.", explains Phantom, still scratching his butt.

The purple-back gorilla continuously hits Skulker and rips his armor apart, as Phantom, Cosmos, Sam, and Tucker both cheer him on and wince at the hits.

Sampson then throws Skulker, whose arm has been ripped off, down on the ground.

"But I still don't understand why a ghost needed a high-tech battle suit," Tucker said, wondering what everyone had been thinking.

It didn't make sense.

Only it did, as Sampson continued to demolish the suit.

Skulker's head armour was thrown, and Phantom caught it.

Two small green legs kicked out from inside the head.

"Let me go! I am the Skulker! The Skulker! Do you hear me? Fear me!", yells a squeaky voice.

Phantom pulls on the legs to reveal Skulker's true form: a tiny green blob with a face and limbs.

The quartet is shocked.

"I am the greatest hunter in all of Ghost World. You will all fear me.", continues the little blob to yell.

"Naww.", gushes Cosmos. "He would be cute if he didn't want our pelts!"

This makes Phantom snort.

"Thermos, please."

Cosmos holds the thermos out and activates it and Phantom drops Skulker into its beam.

"You haven't seen the last of me! I shall capture you all. You shall all be mine. Mine, do you hear?!"

Elegant Cosmos closes the thermos.

"Maybe in your next life, shortie."

"Julie, he is already dead."

"Oh yeah, true Sam."

Phantom and Cosmos detransform.

"Let's go home, guys.", says Danny.

"But you didn't get anything you could use for your report. You're still gonna get a D.", reminds Sam.

Danny kneels down to pick up Skulker's PDA.

"Ah, that's okay. We stopped the bad guy, saved the gorilla. If that's all I got done, then that's-- "

He trails off as he sees Sampson stepping closer to him.

Danny turns to look up at him but is shocked at what he sees.

"Oh my gosh!"

(*)

"Brooding genius Daniel Fenton did what no other researcher dared to do. He got close enough to this rare purple-back gorilla to realize Sampson was actually a Delilah.", read Mr. Lancer the next day aloud the article about Danny in the Genius Magazine to the whole class. Stupidify he turns to Danny. "Nobody at that zoo ever bothered to see if it was a boy or a girl?"

"That's weird, huh?", agrees Danny. "Well, maybe they were respecting her privacy."

"Well, Fenton, I have to admit I'm impressed. Wanted to get your grade up so bad, you risked getting mauled by a gorilla."

Mr. Lancer puts his new grade on his desk.

Danny can't believe it.

"A C?! I almost get killed by a gho--rilla, and all I get is a C?!"

"Life's a big mystery, isn't it, Fenton?"

The school bell rings and their classmates walk out.

Before Mr. Lancer leaves he advises Danny: "Next time you want to get your grade up, try the library."

His friends step to a frustrated Danny.

"Well, it's better than a D, right?", tries Sam to cheer him up.

Julia nods along.

"And at least you can say you were on a genius magazine cover. Lancer was just salty because he wasn't."

"Yeah, thanks.", signs Danny still frustrated. "Oh man, if only I had something I could take this out on!"

Suddenly the quartet heard the Box Ghost yelling at a box of files in the back of the classroom.

"I am the Box Ghost! And once I empty you of your useless papers, your marvellous squareness shall be mine!", laughs the portly ghost evilly.

"Hello, misplaced aggression.", grins Danny as he goes ghost.

"I will leave this to you!", smiles Julia.

Tucker checks his newest PDA.

"You've got five minutes."

"Which is four more than I'll need. "

With that his three friends look on with smiles as Phantom kicks the Box Ghost behind, all the while the ghost screaming beware.

(*)

I hope you liked how I solved the picture problem. ^^

Thanks for reading and PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT!!!!!!!!!!

#danny phantom #danny fenton #sam manson #tucker foley #original character #lgbtqia #jazz fenton #vlad masters #danny phantom x oc #danny fenton x oc #sam manson x oc #tucker foley x oc #no comments no chapter

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