#it kinda makes me want to do a wip meme

[pynkhues]

20 questions for writers

Tagged by @riosnecktattoo, thank you!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

93

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

1,007,385 which is an insane number

3. What fandoms do you write for?

A bunch! I've written for Good Girls, Succession, Stranger Things, Bridgerton and The Umbrella Academy most recently. I'll probably post little things from Shogun and Interview with the Vampire in the not too distant future though.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Like an Unsung Chorus

An Antique Form

Show Me How to Fake It (Touch Me in the Dark)

Playing House

Cross Your Fingers

All Good Girls fic!

5. Do you respond to comments?

I try to, but I sometimes get a little overwhelmed by them and don't really know how to reply. People are very nice, haha.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I don't really write angsty endings overall - I'm a happy endings sort of writer when it comes to fic - but some of my Succession fics have pretty loaded endings, so probably Stay Soft, Get Eaten or Unsprouted.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Probably I Could Be Your Welcome.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

No, I'm pretty lucky in that sense.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I do! And mm, I guess I'd say smut-with-baggage, haha.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Nope, not really. I read them sometimes though.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

To echo Taylor, not that I know of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Someone asked once, and I said yes, but I'm not sure if they ever did it.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I did waaaay back in my LJ days, but I haven't since I moved to ao3, no.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Honestly an impossible question!

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Mmm, probably the parents group AU for Good Girls. I love that fic, and still think about it sometimes, but it's feeling further and further away.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I think I'm pretty good with character and conveying their motivation, so even when readers don't like a choice, they hopefully understand why the character's made it. It comes from asking my own writing why? a lot, haha.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I think I definitely and often have saggy middles. I like writing beginnings and endings, and can get lost in the weeds in between. I also have worked really hard recently at getting better at writing action and mixing up gestures and character movements. I find I can get repetitive and fall back on the same descriptions which is something I'm really trying to fix at the moment.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

If you don't speak the language yourself, you should at least try and get a beta reader who does to ensure it makes sense.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Oh, man, way back in the day, it was probably Digimon, hahaha.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

Mmm, probably either my Succession fic Despicable Animals orrr my Good Girls fic, Drive You Mad (wear me out) I'm pretty attached to my Stranger Things fic, I Might Be Great Tomorrow (but hopeless yesterday) at the moment though too.

Tagging: @nakedmonkey @carry-the-sky @misshazelevers20 @kimwexlers-brownhair and whoever else would like to do it. :-)

[ugh-yoongi]

the very last thing i decide | pjm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is it, he thinks.

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

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

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

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

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

But you do.

And, inexplicably, Yoongi listens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m no one’s dog.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s just how it goes.

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

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

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

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

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

Someone else’s, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

But, god, he needs to know.

Needs answers.

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

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

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

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

Can’t you feel that?

He needs to know.

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

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

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

“What you said to Taehyung,” he answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there’s nothing gentle about the first time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taunting him.

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin is blond when Namjoon sends you to South America.

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

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

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

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

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

“Done. Anything else?”

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

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

“Tell him he’s a bitch, then.”

“He’ll kill me if I say that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It comes out more like a plea.

—

You’re good at your job.

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

Would Namjoon let you go if you asked?

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

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

Doesn’t matter.

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

No one spares you a second glance.

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

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

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

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

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

You know who it is, you fucking dickhead.

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

Sorry.

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

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

What kind of life is this?

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

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

It’s time for Namjoon to let you go.

—

Something is wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The second time is nothing like the first.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin mouths at you until you forget.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimin’s hair is pink when—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re being followed.”

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

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

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

“Where’s Jimin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know it’s a liability.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you.

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

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

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

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

Eyes that now contain nothing.

“Jimin, what the fuck happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namjoon should’ve let you go.

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

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

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

“Destruction.”

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

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

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

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

You watch him go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve gotten sloppy.”

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

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

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

“Who?” Jimin manages to choke out.

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

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

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

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

No one talks to Namjoon that way except you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or what, Kim Taehyung?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a waste of your fucking time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m—that’s not—knock it off.”

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

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

Jimin’s hair isn’t dyed at all.

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

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

[arkarti]

Hi, I hope you're doing well! If you don't mind me asking, what is your whole drawing process and how did you manage to develope your style? I really love your artwork and it's inspired me to try practicing in a similiar art style, but the problem is I'm still kind of a beginner and don't know where to start lol. Even just some general tips as I struggle a lot with perfectionism.

It's perfectly fine if you don't want to answer or have any advice, regardless I wish you the best and want you to know how awesome your art is! And also make sure you're not overworking yourself, but other than that have a good day :D

First of all: aww thats so sweet! thanks anon 😊�� And for drawing: The more you draw, the more you see what you actually like from your artworks: for me it was the rather sketchy/loose lines with flat colors. kinda messy, kinda rough - not 100% polished all the time. Fun fact: started out with semi realism, then came back to "simple" flat colors 😂 actually did the spongebob meme irl:

Anyway, this style works the best for me, cuz I don't get hung up in too many details (like I usually do). I can draw something relatively quickly in a few days rather than spending weeks on one drawing. I have like 300 wips at once so I gotta draw EVerYThInG as soon as possible 👀 idk how to really describe finding your style - I guess it comes naturally? 😅

Now, for starting: it's best to draw something you're passionate about: animals, fanart or whatever you like! biggest motivation ever. And of course the classic fundamentals: - learning anatomy (first thing) - perspective and framing - color and all that jazz

start simple: break things down into simple shapes 🙏 for example this hand:

step 01: ALWAYS use a reference when drawing - it helps! step 02: If you can't see shapes you can always try to draw them over the image to help you understand things better - great for learning!

There are plenty of great drawing tutorials on youtube where u can learn :3

And finally: don't be too hard on yourself! 🔥

[lavellenchanted]

wip wednesday

I was tagged by the lovely @beachy--head about a million years ago

I am deep in clerith brainrot right now, so I have several wips going and this is a section from one of them!

--

"So you're my new bodyguard, huh?"

Aerith leans back against the edge of the table, head slightly tilted, eyeing him curiously. Something about her gaze makes Cloud almost feel like like she can see right through him, and if he were less disciplined he thinks he might have started shifting nervously where he stands.

Instead, he lifts his head up and gives a short, sharp nod. "Yes, ma'am. If --"

"Oh, no. Don't ma'am me," she cuts him off, waving a hand. "Makes me feel old. Besides, it'll be strange to be so formal when we're going to be spending a lot of time together, right? Aerith's fine."

"Uh. Right. Aerith." Cloud stumbles over her name a bit, but she beams up at him when he says it and for a moment all he can do is stare. He's never had a client greet him so . . . unguardedly before, like he's here for a friendly meeting and not because of threats to her safety. It's left him a bit wrong-footed and he scrambles to remember what he was saying before she interrupted and slip back into the cool, professional demeanour he's worked so hard to perfect. "I know Zack will have sent across my basic background information but if you have any questions or want me to run through my skills so you feel more comfortable --"

Shaking her head, she interrupts him again. "I don't mind about all of that."

He pauses. ". . . you don't?"

"No. I think Zack sent some stuff but I didn't really look at it. I just asked him to send me the cutest guy on his payroll."

Cloud blinks, at a loss for how to respond. Finally, he manages a half-strangled, "You what?"

With a blithe grin, Aerith continues, "Well, yeah. If I'm going to have someone hanging around me all day, they might as well be easy on the eyes, you know? I kinda thought he might claim that title himself, but I think he definitely made the right call sending me you."

The tops of his ears are burning and he can't stop the warm blush spilling across his cheeks.

What is he even supposed to say to that? He opens and closes his mouth several times but nothing comes out. He's not sure if he's should thank her, or tell her how goddamn idiotic it is to care more about your bodyguard's attractiveness than their skills, or get Zack on the phone to ask him what the hell he was thinking.

Then, through his embarrassment, he notices the laugh playing around Aerith's mouth and the way her eyes are sparkling and it suddenly hits him.

"You're teasing me."

"A little." She offers a brief, apologetic grin, "Do you mind?"

Usually his answer to that would be yes. He's never enjoyed being teased or laughed at. But somehow, watching her trying and failing to suppress a smile, he finds the corner of his own mouth curling upwards and he shakes his head. "No, it's fine."

Her shoulders relax a bit and she nods happily.

"I did read some of the stuff Zack sent - but what I actually asked him was to send someone I could trust, and feel safe with," she says softly, more seriously than anything she's said so far. Her eyes meet his, and Cloud has the sudden realisation that she's far more scared than she wants to let on. "He told me he had just the guy."

--

I'm tagging @emilykaldwen, @apinchofm, @roboticonography and my favourite meme buddy @theawkwardterrier ✨

[transparentlyfallingasleep]

7. How do you choose which POV to write from? (Especially for starbucks)

25. What fic do you wish you got more of a response on?

26. Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?

39. Share a snippet from a WIP

aw wow! People never ask me questions on here.

let’s see number 7. Honestly I tried to come up with a better answer than this but it’s just the vibe of the thing. The first story was really just a response to “Clint Barton shows up 15 minutes late with Starbucks” insert Troy with the pizza meme that was out in the ether post his absence in Winter Soldier. I decided to try making myself write from Natasha’s perspective after the Clint heaviness in marketplace etc but in the Starbucks sequel I just wanted to imagine/ write down the Robert Downey jr voice in my head reacting to spy kid 3D. And then they all joined in. Clint’s voice is my most comfortable place to be Natasha, Cap, Maria, Jarvis the least but I think that’s because being that fucking competent seems heptapod level alien.

25: I wish people read unfinished business more… it was my first story in the marvel space and my second fanfic ever. And I still kinda like imagining it’s running in the background of the avengers… and it could have too if not for that pesky Joss Whedon. I also I’m proud of my Game of thrones fic. It was an attempt to self sooth and I think it turned out rather well all things considered.

26. I’m not sure I do wild rides I’m definitely not much of a plot writer. I tend to focus on small intimate character moments. Probably because I suck even more at the other stuff, possibly because being a speech pathologist I’m better at getting voices of characters ‘right’ than I am at making things happen. But I am proud at how I salvaged age of ultron for the rewriting in Market Place and how much I was able to reuse, reduce, recycle might be surprising to readers.

39. So my clinic shut down suddenly in September. If you are Australian I will just say this about it. The NDIS and in particular the Government have been making it harder and harder to work as a paediatric disability clinician and hell bent on telling our clients that it’s because we are rorting the system. I didn’t want my clients to loose their therapeutic alliance and a speechie that has known them most of their lives so I started my own sole trading. It’s long hours, crazy stress and I don’t even know if I will be able to afford the audit come 2025 but for now my kiddos are safe and getting therapy. All the govt has managed to do is privatise the old block grant system and lie about choice and control and that’s all I have to say about that. As a result I’ve got no real WIPs but I have this… you can see that I write dialogue first.

If you’ve come to tell me I’ve besmirched my honour, that the castle is in an uproar… I care not. 

Your grace. 

Ser Davos I am no princess. 

The laws of the realm say

So Tyrion Lannister crowns my brother and frees the north for my sister and now I am smothered by titles? I knew I should have killed that-

Id never really thought about it like that Milady. Allow an old man a small courtesy? I accepted my title for services to Stannis Baratheon. Plenty of times I thought better of it but I did it for those who came after me. Lord Gendry well he doesn’t say, quiet sort that he is -

Surly 

As you say, but i think I’m right in saying he had similar thoughts. I don’t think either of us thought that there might be others on the other side of it. Born to the titles and the power and wanting none of it, wanting to be rid of it. 

He is a good lad lady Arya. Give him longer. He can’t stay this angry for long. 

I can’t stay ser Davos

Forgive me but I’ve lived longer on decking than I have on dry land or had till your brother made me hand. The tides they come again. Like circles they are. Why not tarry even if he’s determined to make himself unpleasant. 

He doesn’t have to put effort into that. He’s had it mastered for years. You are married Ser, children? 

Aye My Lady

[imsoveryveryconfusedatlife]

Tag Game: Writeblr Interview

Thanks @tildeathiwillwrite for the tag here!

I hesitate to tag as many people as this is one of those things where there’s no point in doing it twice but tagging:

@xenon-writes-sometimes, @rumeysawrites, @rivenantiqnerd, @leahnardo-da-veggie, @kaylinalexanderbooks, and an open tag!

This is going to be a long post so I’m adding a break here

Short stories, novels, or poems?

I cannot stand most poetry. Maybe it’s because I’m still in school and have to analyse it but I can’t deal with how abstract it can be. I want to write more short stories but my one and only WIP is probably gonna be closer to a novel, if and when I finish it.

What genre do you prefer reading?

Fantasy, especially high fantasy. Murder mysteries and detective stories in general are a close second. Most other genres are reserved for spin offs or fan fiction.

Are you a planner or a write as I go kind of person?

I make a plan that I then actively ignore my OCs force me to not use

What music do you listen to while writing?

Most of the time I listen to the one Reddit podcast I’ve listened to every episode of because I can zone out and I don’t miss anything important. This one is a bit of a bad habit because it distracts me, but EPIC the musical is my current hyperfixation and I listen to that constantly as well.

Favorite books/movies?

Because I have the reading comprehension of an 11 year old we have Murder Most Unladylike (I would die for this series), its spin off the Ministry of Unladylike Activity, The Hunger Games but only really the first book, How to train your dragon but only really the Netflix show and the first movie (the books are great but I haven’t read them in 7 or 8 years and because they’re so different from the movies I’m not sure if I’d like them anymore)

Any current WIPs?

Gold, Greed and Gods which is a vaguely Victorian fantasy about the main cast trying to find a cult before it engulfs the world in literal chaos. And also magical shenanigans and timeline fuckery

Create a character description of yourself:

Honestly I’d rather not. Sorry!

Do you like incorporating actual people you know into your writing?

No it kinda weirds me out. The closest I’ll get is asking my one irl mutual about their experiences with stuff that I (as a someone who is cishet and perisex) do not understand

Are you kill happy with your characters?

I’m not the biggest fan of angst so no. If anyone was gonna die you aren’t allowed to get attached to them so I don’t get attached them hence why the only dead characters in my WIP die before or very soon after it begins. That isn’t to say my characters aren’t affected, but I can only imagine any potential readers will be neither here or there about those characters.

Coffee or Tea while writing?

I don’t really like hot drinks but I hate the smell of coffee so tea?

Slow or fast writer?

A secret third thing which is I wrote 5000 words in 3 hours yesterday so for atleast the next week I won’t be able to string a sentence together

If you were in a fantasy world, what would you be?

A healer would be fun? I wanna be a doctor so I guess that’s close enough. I cannot imagine I’d survive very long without my glasses/ contacts in any case.

Most fav book cliche:

Not really a book cliche but horny bard memes will never not be funny. I also love juxtaposition between characters, if done tastefully, eg. Ray of sunshine is best friends/ dating the grumpiest character alive. I also just love ray of sunshine characters in general. Also, calm/ happy go lucky/ mentor figure characters who have really high body counts and it’s just kind of an open secret are really fun.

Least favorite cliche:

A lot of romance tropes are tied for last place: miscommunication, any reference or idea that firsts=better (virginity, first loves, one true love etc.), not like other girls

Also love triangles. The only good love triangles are the ones that end in polycules. No exceptions (/hj)

I probably just have a problem with like most romance stories

Favorite scene to write?

I love when characters reference unique worldbuilding things that I actually had to think about. Similarly, if I feel I’m doing them well, exposition dumps can be fun.

Reason for writing?

Because blirbos in my head yearn for freedom

On a more serious note, I’ve gotta do something healthy with all this escapism and maladaptive daydreaming.

—

Questions:

Short stories, novels, or poems?

What genre do you prefer reading?

Are you a planner or a write as I go kind of person?

What music do you listen to while writing?

Favorite books/movies?

Any current WIPs?

Create a character description of yourself:

Do you like incorporating actual people you know into your writing?

Are you kill happy with your characters?

Coffee or Tea while writing?

Slow or fast writer?

If you were in a fantasy world, what would you be?

Most fav book cliche:

Least favorite cliche:

Favorite scene to write?

Reason for writing?

—

Thanks again for the tag!

[j2zara]

🖊🌝🧠💭and 💋for tell me more about j3's pov in stay/leave bc I remember you rewriting some snippets of it from his pov for another ask meme and it was so fun!

OOPS this ended up kinda long my bad! Sorry this took a while i was just kinda worn out yesterday ty for ur patience

🖊 Post a snippet from a current WIP.

I’m feeling generous so i let this go on way too long. I’m probably revealing too much but what the hell

J3 grins at Porter, ignoring her completely. It makes her feel strange and small. “‘Boyfriend’? Porter, what are you talking about?” “Just a joke, darling. Having fun?” “Loads. So are you, I can see.” J3’s eyebrows are raised, a hand on his hip. His eyes flit back and forth between the two of them. J4 tries to parse his expression, look for any sign of—what? Anger? Jealousy? Satisfaction? He remains impassable. J4’s heart is pounding, ready to leap into her throat. J3 takes J4 by the hand, intertwining their fingers as he pulls her toward him, and away from Porter—and she ignores the brief jolt of distress at that, of being away from Porter. “Come dance with me.”  “In these heels?” asks J4, watching her own feet so she doesn’t stumble. But she doesn’t protest, she follows until she’s in his arms, practically nose to nose with him. Up close, she can see his pupils are blown out. He’s going to be a pain later, and the next day, she just knows it, she can’t even bring herself to resent it. Right now, she doesn’t have it in her to be anything but happy—his touch like the relief of sunlight at dawn.  It may be the substances, but at least they’re talking. “You’re doing great!” he whispers, just as he steadies her, hand resting at her waist. The strange moment of kindness puts a lump in her throat. She doesn’t deserve this. “Whup! Hate to pull her away from you, Porter, but she’s so much fun. Don’t you agree?” J3 is nuzzled against her neck, and the gesture is so familiar, so comforting, they’re their old selves again—until he peaks just enough to flash a teasing smile over at Porter. “We talking about the same J4?” says Porter. J3 ignores him. He touches her face, their eyes meet, and J4 gets a Message from him. Kiss me. Her breath catches. You sure? He’ll like it. A sinking feeling in her stomach. Oh. It takes everything in her to remain impassive in front of Porter. And that’s a good thing? Trust me. (She’s getting what she wants, right? Surely—that’s what everyone wants when they run. To be chased?) A slow flutter of J3’s lashes, mouth parting. A J3 signature, used at the end of their movie nights, when the lights are dim and the credits are rolling.  Used it to get a kiss and a hit of gorgunfern from a burly dwarf who J3 said worked at the steel factory, too. She knows what he wants—even if she’s one of many. J4 cradles his face in her hands—hesitates. Watches him exhale and lean forward as her thumb brushes his cheek. Despite her wariness, her shyness, at being a spectacle for Him—she does as he says and pulls him in for a kiss. His soft fluttering gasp against her mouth is enchanting. J4 aches to disappear into this moment, will it to be nothing but quiet and peace and perfection—but she knows what this is to Porter. It’s him getting Jace, every part of Jace, all to himself, just as he’s always wanted. The unfairness of that hits her even while she’s sucking face. Even as she’s hyper aware of her God’s omnipresent gaze, she’s desperate to imbue this with as much meaning as possible—maybe if she’s eager enough, if she wants it enough, if she puts on a good enough show, then J3 will know, somehow understand, that this moment—that she—exists only for him. For a moment, she does exist only for him. J3 smiles as they part. “Like what you see?” he asks—a reminder that they’re not alone. “Can’t complain.” J4 doesn’t take her eyes off him. How can you stand this? she Messages. You know me. I’m shameless. Again, he’s unreadable. She forgets sometimes, how much J3 likes being Jace for Him. The thought makes her angry—how Porter doesn’t even see him, just his beloved Saint Stardiamond.

anyway I'm saying too much but oh well!

🌝 Who is one character you haven’t yet written for that you would like to?

I already answered this one earlier (in that I said it would be fun to write DurDawn or Mailee of ATLA fame. And yes, it is also ironic as zukkacore i have not written zvkka.) But thinking more on it…. My only real brush with Porter POV was the tiny tiny snippet in IYWD and tbh i think Porter POV is so fun b/c he’s so fucked. I also think writing anything in like a Bad Kids Pov would be fun but i have no idea what it would be for. Oh! Also maybe writing Jawbone????? I’d love to feature jawbone in something i write sometime. Whether its starbreaker related or clone related or whatever or something else.I think so many of you guys are so good at capturing his voice like he’s always so funny and warm and distinct and i laugh so much when you guys get an anecdote of his that just feels so RIGHT and i don’t have that. 

🧠 What’s an idea you have that you can’t quite call a WIP yet?

Someone else asked me this and i did spout off abt Jace Hireling AU and Clone Game Changer AU but. Beyond that… I think writing anything involving Jawbone would be fun im not sure what. Maybe that J2 gets knotted fic of my heart LMAO he deserves it. On a similar note! I’m a sucker for werewolf J4 and vampire J3 and i think writing something with one or both would be so goddamn fun but i have no idea what the specifics would look like.

I also think it would be fun to write something for Jace + the Jaces au aka bandverse. Not sure what tho

This is SUPER new as in only hours old in conception but i did state in another one of these ask things. my headcanon that is super self indulgent that the clones do Make It after ragenarok b/c don’t they deserve that? Like. I know i write so much clone tragedy and that’s kinda the point is that they’re all doomed but in my heart they get to make it out of the torment nexus. Anyway. My super indulgent headcanon is that the clones get granted True Life by Ankarna but its in the form of like. Reincarnation. (I also think a way to swing the reincarnation angle is to have it to do with like. Aguefort’s whole thing with Chronomancy and Phoenixes since Ayda is half phoenix and does reincarnate). So J4 gets her wish to not be Of Jace but the clones are separated and have to find their way back to each other. It’s very “anybody got a match” “and so we sing it again and again and again” coded to me. Anyway. I’m not typically that into reincarnation stuff (It just depends i think it can just be a contrived way to get characters to care abt each other but when its done right recognition through multiple lifetimes is so so so so so good) but like. A part of me wants to make it work but ugh.

💭 What is a headcanon you have about your own work?

Again I got asked this and I was like. I’m literally such an open book i blab so much abt my own stories and the headcanons that go with them i never ever ever ever shut up abt it. So finding something to talk about it so funny

Ok. So. I feel like i’ve kinda talked abt this but. I do think if Jace hadn’t gotten back with Porter, J2Porter… might’ve been able to work out?? For as long as that would even sustain itself considering we know ragenarok and also J2 is a clone and stuff. I know that’s crazy and. That’s very indulgent of me to say maybe due to my soft spot and like i haven’t even accounted for whether J3 would still be homewrecking in this scenario. Like it sounds crazy for me to say that b/c Porter looks past J2 constantly but also…. That was already happening with Jace. I’m not saying it would’ve been perfect but i do think it only would’ve been like. Marginally worse than Jaceporter already was. I don’t even think it would be marginally worse it might’ve honestly been the same level of screwed.

OH. I’ll talk about something else, too. This is so silly but I think in terms of weird differences in the clones. I’ve joked bc j2 having a tighter curl pattern than Jace. I actually think J4 has a looser curl pattern than jace, her hair is the closest to straight. I also think J4 is the only Jace that likes a middle part for her hair.

Um. Last thing I guess? I think J4 is the only clone that sincerely picked up the smoking habit for a substantial period of time, and she quit but she does cave when she’s stressed. People are free to do as they please with the clones but to me Bluejay does not smoke (I do love esme’s whole joke tho that J2 watching J4 quit cold turkey was so stressful that he starts tho i think thats pretty funny). Like. Idk bluejay is cringe i think he’s like the kind of person who is like “my body is a temple and a gift from god so i can’t destroy it!” even if Jace smokes and he is Very Very Curious. (I think gorgunfern would fix him but. He doesn’t know that). And J3 is like. A social smoker in the same way ppl are social drinkers, and maybe a stress smoker? He’s tried everything once out of curiosity obviously, he’s j3, and he prefers sex to get some sort of hit or like release when he’s stressed but like. Sometimes he’ll take this instead.

💋for tell me more about j3's pov in stay/leave bc I remember you rewriting some snippets of it from his pov for another ask meme and it was so fun!

OHHH this is such a fun question thank you!

Tbh those were fun to do!!!! bc like. I was struggling so goddamn much with stay / leave and I wanted to get it done ASAP so bad so I felt kinda bad I was distracting myself with these weird sidebars but like. They ended up being really helpful bc I made some significant edits to J4’s pov to match what I wrote for him. I give myself so many annoying self-imposed limitations for certain characters and I think j3 is the one who is hardest a for me to write bc he’s so so so so so so bad at expressing what he wants and so it only comes out in these weird flighty circular “well I want what you want” etc ways. It’s was such a self imposed barrier for Biggest Lie, and having a J3 voice already made it slightly easier but Biggest Lie is the reason i have these self imposed boundaries anyway lol. The J3 snippets were purely snippets I did for the ask, but like. Scanning the text and trying to reverse engineer something was fun because its like. I was playing with that concept of Homophrosyne, of two people who understand what the other is thinking. So there was a lot of mirroring in J3’s pov. 

To get more broadly into J3 POV and not just those snippets like. I mentioned so so so briefly as a half joke during the writing updates that the reason J3 was being so dramatic was because the story was Post IYWD, which means he’d essentially been ditched for Jace. So J3 is being a little bit of an asshole here, and that question J4 has of whether he misses her or misses someone felt very important b/c of that whole J3 Being Disposed Of thing. I liked it b/c it heightened the stakes. We get j3 at his most desperate to fill a void. J4 at her most angry, an d maybe even most righteous in her anger as well.

I just looked back at what I wrote (j3 pov):

“Alright.” He’s trying to keep his cool, but he can feel his face grow hot. J4 always sees him for who he is. “Well, I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says, a half-truth, because he’s picturing what might happen if he goads her, and he wants. “But… You could always tell me off.”  A smile curls on his lips. He feels the hand yanking at his hair before he can even process that J4 is kneeling beside him. His head is forced back, pressed into the couch cushion, and he hisses at the pain tugging at his scalp. It feels good. J4 leans in, mouth practically against his skin, and he can feel his breath catch as he waits for her to speak. Finally, she murmurs, “You’re being a pest.” Making warmth shoot through his entire body. Oh… He thinks it, but the sound escapes him before he can help himself, a thrill from being at her mercy. “Are you mad at me?” he asks—somewhere between a goad and a plea before devolving completely into a whimper. He’s played this game before, but something about this. This feels real. It frightens him.

Again this idea of. J4 at her most angry because her anger is usually spared for people who deserve it in her eyes, and she’s so soft on J3 in comparison. And J3 being a greedy little gremlin desperate for any kind of experience, any kind of sensation whether positive or negative. There’s mirroring with the scene as exists in text because j4’s getting off on the idea of punishing, he’s getting off on the idea of being punished. Lol. And J4 taking pleasure in her more sadistic impulses when she caves, as opposed to repressed. Being Portercoded. The part where she called him a pest was actually one of the easiest parts to write for me—idk it was so clear in my head.

Actually. My fav addition to j4pov that came from doing those little j3 detours was. The idea of her basically stealing one of his moves? That came from me writing the J3 pov. B/c i loved the idea of him “giving The Move to her” because she does it better, like that concept just seemed so funny and interesting. Like their approaches to charisma casting are so different and J3 is very rehearsed, so i’ve always found the idea of LJ3 like, borrowing from each other and taking each other on a bit to be a compelling idea. “I’ve built a you within me” etc etc.

 Plus, my self imposed guidelines for J3 are not… consistent but I do still try to maintain when possible J3’s role as a Jace Cypher, being more passive when he’s with people. In the original draft, J3 just kissed her, which is fine, but there’s something about the role reversal of J4 intentionally goading in this submissive, flirtatious way that i thought was more interesting.  Especially b/c J4 says its like. A move that works EVERY time. So when she tries it, it works. On him. He breaks his passivity for once and kisses her. And on the other end, for J4, i liked it because she’s trying to prompt him into taking action, which is a big thing for her, wanting him to articulate and take what he wants. And she gets what she wants, but she’s breaking her own principles for herself, now she’s the one playing coy. Something something he is more myself than i am ya know.

[jailforwriter]

Hey, good lookin'!

Greetings and salutations, fellow word-arranger! I see that you also enjoy the art of reshuffling letters until they spell out cool stuff. That sounds like a pretty solid basis for a friendship, hmm...

This is a little nook for all things writing! It covers everything from tips and book reviews to the very backbone of society (memes, duh). The aim here is to build a nice community and foster friendships and support and all of that good stuff. Writing can be pretty lonely, so let's make it a little less so!

About me

Hey, I'm Alai. I'm a queer Venezuelan girly, mid-20's, looking to become more active in the writeblr community. Some of my other interests include philosophy, Greek mythology, all sciences (I have an Honors degree in Laboratory Medicine!) and everything to do with the Classics.

My focus is on fantasy and queer romance, but I'm open to all sorts of genres and do very much read other stuff on the reg. Also really into Sci-Fi, Thrillers, Horror and Literary Fiction.

Most of my work is novel-centric, but I also love reading short stories and poetry and cannot resist a good out context quote lol.

Lover of all things character-driven and morally ambiguous, pyrrhic victories, interpersonal drama, tragic losers doomed by the narrative, and the liberal use of Catholic Guilt™️ as literary garnish.

I'm an only child who once heard that sharing is caring, so please hit me with your best WIP and let's chat about it! We can even hold each other (accountable so we can get it DONE).

WIPs

The Paradox of Nonchoice (Adult Fantasy/Romance)

Summary: Nahia is an angel who, after years of studying human culture and behavior in the heavenly realm of Zion, is finally sent to Earth on her first assignment: to grant the deepest desire of the first person she meets. With the support of her mentor and sisters, along with a promise to reunite with her mother should she succeed, the stage is set for God's newest angel to carry out His word. However, when Nahia learns that her ward – a disillusioned handywoman by the name of Rory – wants something she isn't altogether prepared to give, the indentured angel must decide whose orders to follow: if God's, or her heart's. Note: there's a TON more to this plot, I promise!! But unfortunately, any particulars I may give would constitute an absolutely gargantuan spoiler lol. Tropes: soulmates, forced proximity (kinda if you squint), co-workers to lovers (squint a bit more just trust me lmao), absolutely rancid sibling dynamics, mommy issues, daddy issues, crisis of faith, Everything Is A Lie Nothing Is Sacred, loser women cringefailing, "ah, you're one of them queers", The Catholic Church. TWs: religious trauma, suicide, violence, blood, slight body horror, France (mentioned).

Will be looking for betas and feedback very soon, so please stay tuned! Updates to come on this blog. If anyone's at all interested, any sort of engagement would be very welcomed and appreciated :)

Happy writing!

[pluviowriting]

20 Qs for fic writers

I was tagged by my beloved @crushribbons and I love me a tag meme or whatever these are called thank you bby xoxo <3

How many works do you have on AO3? - 2 on AO3, but on here I've got 8

What's your total AO3 word count? - AO3 = 5,552 ; Tumblr = 15,815 wowzers

What fandoms do you write for? - HogLeg and that's about it. It's what got me back into writing fic

Top five fics by kudos? - I just did by Tumblr notes BUT : Study Break, Her Biggest Fan, Brain Break, Served Cold, and Catnap (and I did hunt on my original sideblog and do math bc I wanted it to be Accurate)

Do you respond to comments? - I do if it's my moots but otherwise interacting with people who have read my things makes me Uncomfy bc perception but I do love them and I love you if you leave me one I pinky promise <3

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? - Absolutely none of them I like my angst in the middle where it belongs

What is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? - Literally all of them. I am a HEA or nothing kinda bitch so uh :) everything will eventually be a happily ever after

Do you get hate on fics? - Not yet. I'm sure it'll come one day. Maybe?

Do you write smut? - Absolutely I do (3 out of the top 5 are my smuts)

Craziest crossover? - I'm not really a crossover girlie

Have you ever had a fic stolen? - I hope not and also sincerely doubt it

Have you ever had a fic translated? - I have not but it would be neat if any of them ever did!

Have you ever co-written a fic before? - Way back in my pre HogLeg days, when I was but a baby on Wattpad writing and reading things I should not have been

All time favorite ship - P. Percabeth probably idrk

What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? - I have this found family fic in the drafts and I had the idea when I was feeling bleh but I lost the brain juice for it

What are your writing strengths? - Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Thoughts on dialogue in another language? - I speak one (1) language but like if you either know the other language or you're doing it well (or at least making an attempt) and it suits the character, you do you babey

First fandom you wrote in? - Twas in fact One Direction on Wattpad. With a Hunter Hayes feature

Favorite fic you've written? - Her Biggest Fan, hands down

wow no real 20th question but I am stealing what laney said: I love you <3

No Pressure Tags: @applinsandoranges @writing-intheundercroft @marketfreshfics gotta throw it to some toes and the cryptid

[pjsk-blogs-lists]

tumblr search system can be kinda bad so hopefully this can serve as a good reference for everybody! if you are having trouble with the links, try the ‘#masterlist’ tag on this blog.

feel free to interact and i will add you! similarly, feel free to lmk if you want to be taken off any of these lists or not be tagged. my only criteria is your blog must actually be project sekai themed, at least primarily.

there is a lot of blogs to keep up with, so if you find blogs that are no longer available / have changed, you can let me know. it’s helpful and i appreciate it!

my rp blog list is a wip for an indefinite amount of time, but you can still ask me to make lists for communities of blogs any time and i’ll see what i can do!

Masterlist Links:

♫ daily blogs by character

♪ the pharmacity

♫ daily blogs by group

♫ daily blogs by ship

♫ stan blogs

♫ spotted blogs

♫ meme blogs

♪ “i do [this] to [character]” blogs

♫ transparents / resources blogs

♫ miscellaneous

♫ rp blogs (list by @/mafuyu-asahina-official)

lil note: i am not checking for activity, some of these blogs may be inactive/inconsistent. this is not a criticism of anyone, just a note to consider :) some blogs in the daily sections may also be weekly / infrequent. i only want to remove blogs if they’ve been deactivated or the blog runners don’t want their blog on the list.

tags:

#masterlist ➙ actual masterlist posts

#answered asks ➙ ask box

#maintainance ➙ major blog announcements / updates / the like

#mod chatter ➙ pretty much everything else that’s not any of the other above categories; general conversations / sharing thoughts / etc.

[forthlin]

6, 51 & 79 for the fic writing meme! ✨

HII !!

6 what’s the last line you wrote?

oh this is giving nothing but here's the last thing i wrote from my lennison WIP!!

George’s lids fluttered a bit, over widened eyes that watched John raptly.

51 does what you like to write differ from what you like to read?

agh this is kinda tough to answer because i would loveee to write what i like reading in fic but i'm afraid my abilities do not lend well to that more grounded, unpredictable & sucker-punch writing style (if that makes sense) that i can't get enough of! mine tends to be more light-hearted and dialogue-based

79 do you have any writing advice you want to share?

OOH some of the best advice i've got recently was to not write what you don't want to, especially in regard to transitional scenes. for me, this was realizing that i don't have to write the walk to the car and the drive to the hotel - i can just cut from the gig to the hotel room. as long as the break off points tell the journey, you don't have to draw every single movement out :')

fic writing ask meme

[bean-in-dice]

WIP meme

Thanks for tagging me @thelaithlyworm !

Rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

(Hope I'm doing this correct lol

Also, i usually name things after Im done writing, so none of these have names as they are wips)

1. A Bai Jintang and Gongsun Ce fic (for SCI: The Mystery Novel). I think I meant to name this something like "Blood, Glass and Bone Ashes"

With introspective GSC pov, where I analyse their horrific relationship start, and what continuing meant for both of them, and where they stand now. Though I HATED them in the first few books, by book 4 they had unexpectedly grown on me and I wanted to do something about that, but to my regret I only wrote like 500 words at the time and postponed it till I've read all of SCI, but by book 5 I kinda started losing interest on the series therefore I keep pushing this Wip to the back shelf. Sorry, fic. Maybe one day I'll get back to you🫠

2. Baby Pangzi fic

Probably will never happen because I wrote a baby Xiaoge fic and included all the best baby shenanigans in it already. Dui bu qi, Pangzi! Ive done you great injustice 😭

3. A Heixie fic that acknowledges Pingxie, Huaxie, Pangxie, Heiping and Heihua all at the same time.

Will probably finish this, it kinda feels all over the place but this is a headcanon so dear to me so I will try my best to brush it up.

4. A One Million Yen Girl (jmovie) au for Zhang Qiling

I've written like 1/8 of this, I really want to write it but I feel like it's beyond my abilities and it stopped being fun. There was this aloof and extremely introvert atmosphere in the Japanese movie but that's what... uh, handwaves....the Jmovie vibes tends to be like sometimes but that's so not the C-story vibe, not even in the most thought provoking, languid and quiet Cmovie/Cdrama, and I thought I could make it work because Zhang Qiling is aloof himself but the more I write the more I feel like this only looks appealing on visual media not when you write it.

OR it's not actually as bad as I think but because I already have this exact image in my head, inability to achieve it makes me more dissapointed. One needs to be careful when they adapt a story from one culture to another that is quite different from the first one, and if you are feeling awkward you better stop. Some things only work in your head and not on paper.

Now for the tagging

Hmm

I don't know a lot of dmbj people on tumblr huhu. @missfangirll @mekare-art @epicwalrus if you will? 🙈

Oh well, I realise I've left nothing for anyone to ask about anw, I've already provided descriptions. Should I remove them, then? Nvm 😂

[broken-everlark]

WIP Title Ask meme

I was tagged by the lovely @justonemorewallflower

Prompt: Make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

I'll just tag the few main fandoms

Wednesday⤵️

The Black Cat ch 7

Behind the Mask ch 2

Hard to love

Love you anyway ch2

Rock and a hard place (may change name)

Reunited

Another way out

Into the Unknown

Darker side of me (may change)

Harder to breathe

Good boy

Anyone but him (may change)

Mercy

Parasite

Girl like you (may change)

Rumors

Ones titled office sex pt2🤣 doesn't have an actual name yet

Our Journey (may change)

(Newish one that idk if I'm allowed to do but have a name for.) Prompt by @alysia5706 -- Angel in Hiding or Angels Fall or Skin of a Saint. There are so many good names🥺.

THG

To the ends of the earth ch 3

I've kinda sorta scrapped some of my wips for everlark. Only until I get into the mood of writing for them again. Basically going to focus on ends of the earth

No pressure tagggs -- @nouklea @iamfandomcrazy and anyone else who wants to do this!💙❤️

[doppelneer]

Yeahhhhhhhhhhh remember this wip?

I have finished it and I was right it is more disturbing...

Here is a bunch of trigger warnings just in case. (Full page + close up images below)

Tw: body horror, melting, drowning, violence, implied death, worms, and maybe a little trypophobia???

This page took forever but I think it was worth it.

Doppelneer spying on Cannoneer. First thing that was drawn on the page.

Something is at the end of a hall

Glimpse of WYRM. (Reason for trypophobia warning)

Relating to a bad ending (Also can't unsee Arthur shaking fist meme)

Drowning again... but the bubbles were fun to add

Both of these are part of another potential bad ending idea... it's the worst one my brain has come up with so far. The last image here took the longest, tbh. Melting be difficult but fun. Kinda blends together and hard to make out what is going on but that was intentional.

Here is a lil update, I guess.

I think I'm going to take a lil break from the horror for a bit after this... Focus on some more light hearted stuff and details to balance things out for me. Also been working on a document of sorts to get my ideas out, brain storm, and keep track of head canon's for the AU / Abyss crew. Idk if I will ever share that quite yet but we shall see... that's about it but wanted to say if you like what I have been doing so far for this project, thanks. It means alot that people care even if only a Lil or just passing by... and seeing what people say in the reblogs brings me joy. ^^

[cottagecorezemo]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Thank you for the tag @zsparz :3

1. How many works do you have on ao3? 13 (one's art, so really, 12)

2. What's your total ao3 word count? 111,676

3. What fandoms do you write for? The MCU and The Alienist, mainly, but right now I'm also doing a Pokemon AU.

4. Top five fics by kudos: Shoot Through the Blur and Under the Ashes (I'm On Fire), then Hot Under the Collar, Russian Dwarf Hamster Roulette, and finally (Been An Awful Good Boy) Santa Zemo.

5. Do you respond to comments? I do :3 I really appreciate comments and the fact that it takes time and effort to leave them.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? I don't really think I do angst??

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? I don't really think I do happy endings?? Like, I guess I tend not to write stuff that feels like it even has a definitive ending.

8. Do you get hate on fics? Not in this fandom.

9. Do you write smut? Yes! Love to write smut.

10. Craziest crossover: I hold that my winterbaron/Lilo & Stitch crossover is very sensical.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? Yes, although not in this fandom. I had a fic get yoinked and turned into a Tony Stark x Reader fic, and have been plagiarized numerous other times. Just not under this pen name.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? Yes, waaay back in the day, like eight pen names ago.

14. All time favorite ship? Look, I wanna be cool and say Winterbaron or Laszky, buuuut it's Wincest. There's just something really enduring and special about Wincest and it's hard to beat.

15. What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will? The third installment of Shoot Through the Blur is really hard and I'm in a weird place with writing right now (in that I can barely do it). But, never say never.

16. What are your writing strengths? I don't know my strengths, only my likes and dislikes about the writing process, and characterization is what brings me the most joy personally. Nailing a character's voice and mannerisms and making something unbelievable feel believable via the characterization. It's something I generally pay a lot of attention to.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? Plot. I'm not really a plot person; it's never the primary thing that grabs my attention, even as a reader/viewer. I'm very much a character person.

18. Thoughts on dialogue in another language? I like it, but I have strong opinions about it too, sweatdrop.

19. First fandom you wrote in? Power Rangers, when I was a little kid. I wrote my own episode in script format.

20. Favorite fic you've written? In the WB fandom, it must surely be Russian Dwarf Hamster Roulette. It was very much a fun write. (I generally judge a fic by the writing process rather than the end product. I kinda hate my own writing. I just love to do it.) I loved writing Zemo POV. Plus for some reason people were really nice about it!!

As usual I'm where memes go to die, and I think everyone's already been tagged for this!! I'm way behind :"]

[nightimedreamersworld]

20 questions for fic writers

Big thanks @artsyunderstudy and @prettygoododds @confused-bi-queer @bookish-bogwitch tagging me in this! And to everyone else who's tagged me in a tumblr meme recently. It's been a while since I've done one of these.

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

33!

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

Around 370k, but of those about 40k aren't mine. So in reality, something like 330k?

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Only Carry On! I don't have the attention span for more of one at a time lol

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1. How I wonder what you are aka baby fic

2. Mess is mine aka secret dating fic

3. Every little helps aka snickers fic

4. You and I will not be shaken aka huddling for warmth fic

5. From across the room aka my FIRST fic

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I don't 😭 which makes me feel guilty and ungrateful, but alas. Every time I've tried to in the past, I'd run out of steam after half a dozen comments or so. Don't get me wrong, I love comments, they fuel me etc etc. Replying just makes me unreasonably anxious

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Technically it's Love of Fate because it doesn't have an ending. It was supposed to be a prologue to something longer that would eventually have a happy ending, and that I simply never wrote lol

That said, the true angstiest ending is probably my All there's left is a ghost of you series - same moment, one from Simon's pov, the other from Baz's. Set between carry on and wayward son, which tells you everything about why it's here :) (Although arguably, those are hopeful endings. Kinda.)

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Almost everything I write has a happy-ish ending, but the one indisputable happiest ending is probably How I wonder what you are

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not necessarily hate, but one time I did get someone mocking my fic for a mistake I made. Which, like, I deserved, for straying so far out of my comfort zone lol

Anyway. I have upped my research game since, so. Lesson learned?

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yes! The kind I want to read lol

Seriously, though, I tend to write weird stuff I can't find elsewhere. Someone once mentioned there's little mirror sex fic in the fandom, and BAM! I got the itch to write one. I've also tried my hand at web cam sex, body modification, and... [reads smudged handwriting] cemetery sex?

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I haven't yet, but never say never, right? Although I'm much more likely to just write AUs instead. As in, take the world of the original, chuck the characters and just replace them with snowbaz lol

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Probably not? I mean. I hope so lol

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope. I've thought about doing it myself, but there's roughly any engagement with fics in Portuguese on AO3, so it doesn't feel worth the trouble

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Birthday man! Though I might be open to it if a) someone with a compatible style is interested, and b) I find some free time to actually write lol

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Do I even need to say anything? (It's snowbaz)

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Sigh. It's probably Let your colours bleed, because It's been 3 years, so I've just... sort of grown past the story? Which makes me sad, because I still like the concept, I just can't connect to anymore

There are a handful other WIPs still hanging on my ao3, but I still have hope for them.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I like writing plot! And also actions scenes. And banter, maybe a bit too much lol

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

The beginning of a fic. And also the ending. And also the mid-

Seriously though, I find that I tend to be either too verbose or too succinct when I don't know exactly what I'm trying to say. Like, I either charge through it and the thing falls flat, or I drag it on for several paragraphs that amount to barely anything. Hopefully, I can mitigate that with the power of editing and beta readers

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I think it's cool depending on context! Like, is this a situation in which this character would simply switch to another language? Also, why?

I haven't done it yet, though.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Take a guess. (It was actually Harry Potter)

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

Dance Like a Flame! My specialest baby. My little darling. My magnum opus.

I'll jump at literally any chance to talk about this fic, so beware.

Phew! Can't believe I actually answered one of these for once... now, I'm pretty sure almost everyone has done this already, but I'm going to tag a few people anyway just so this doesn't get lost in the abyss

@palimpsessed @captain-aralias @cutestkilla @larkral @aristocratic-otter @hushed-chorus @whatevertheweather @ivelovedhimthroughworse @whogaveyoupermission