#need to get jake seresin out of my mind though fr

[growup-thatbeautiful]

love the whole bullet proof universe!!, saw your post about young tan and maybe you could write something about first meeting/those couple years of pining/getting together. i live for that stuff

omg yes! i went for pining :) i like the idea of writing the first meeting, though! maybe in the future...

Bullet Proof Masterlist

Taglist: loves: @venusthepirate @shadows-of-nyx @syd-vixious @thefloatingpickle @sallyp-53 @fictionalcomforts @s-hanster @the-bisaster @phoenixhits @wee-little-mouse @cupofstarss @eefos @slut-f0r-u @kpopgirlbtssvt

Warnings: explicit language, violence, death, pining, slight angst

professional casualties

“Be safe,” is what you end up saying every time you want to tell him you love him. It’s not a confession, not the “I love you” that you want to scream at him, not the “get home safe” that you could probably get away with. You stopped denying these things a long time ago. You can’t get him out of your mind, the way he smiles at Lemon when he doesn’t think anyone else is watching, and the way his eyes are always cunning, always hunting and grey.

“I always am,” is his response every time, a grin on his face as he gives you a two-fingered salute. You’ll watch him walk away until he’s out of your eyesight, and whatever deep-colored suit he’s wearing will take the clean smell of his cologne with him. The gun in his waistband is hidden from everyone else, but you know it’s there, protecting him.

It never gets easier, saying goodbye. You thought it would be at this point, having worked with him for so long. You’re coming up on two years of working with Lemon and Tangerine on odd jobs here and there, but it’s more recently that you’ve noticed how often they’ve been asking you to join them on their jobs. This is the third one in a month, and you don’t know why it’s getting harder and harder to say goodbye.

It’s the end of a job, and you have to go back to your silent flat where there’s nothing waiting for you except for an empty fridge and cold floors. Lemon wasn’t on this one, so it was just you and Tangerine up against the others. It wasn’t a hard job, nothing Tan couldn’t have done by himself, but it was nice to spend time with him. After the bloodshed of this weekend, you don’t really want to let him walk away. You want to go home with him, to be a source of comfort in his life, not someone he only knows as a killer. That, however, takes a lot of nerve that you don’t have. It’s better to be his work accomplice or his friend than to be nothing at all.

The walk home is longer than you want it to be. With blood staining your clothes and dripping down your wrists. You instinctively scratch at the dried blood that crusts your face as you shove open your front door. It opens with a groan, protesting against your weight. You’re used to it at this point, having lived at this flat for a few months. It’s an absolute shithole, with a leaking sink and water stains on the ceiling, and it doesn’t really have any special meaning to you. It’s not even safe most of the time, hence the various alarm systems that ring in your ears as soon as the front door cracks open.

Slowly, you make your way to the panel where your alarms are set and enter the code. The alarms stop and the relief of silence fills the small room. In a daze, you go through the motions of taking your overcoat off, putting your weapons in their designated places, and changing into more comfortable clothes. You don’t really have the brainpower to shower right now, and you’re used to the feeling of blood drying on your skin: it’s not as uncomfortable as it used to be, at least.

You can’t help but notice the way your hands are shaking, which in itself isn’t that weird following a job, but usually, they’re steadier by now. You chalk it up to the fast pace of the mission, but deep down you know what it really is. There was a moment, brief and fleeting, during the job when things had been going pretty badly. You were on the second floor of the building, holding off one of the guards, while Tangerine was on the floor below, fighting the two others. For a moment, lost your eyesight of him, and all you could hear was the various sounds of fighting. Then, a gunshot.

You’re a professional. Under almost any other circumstances, you know how to stay calm, and how to avoid panicking. But this was different. For a terrifying moment, you didn’t know if Tangerine was okay, which isn’t out of the ordinary. You should be completely used to the idea of his death, and you’re not even with him on all of his jobs. However, the idea of him bleeding out beneath you was completely unbearable. Without thinking, you finished off the guard you were fighting with a knife to the throat and tripped down the stairs, rushing over bodies and weapons to find a figure standing over two bodies.

They turned around and you were met with clear grey eyes and a furrowed brow. “What are you doing, love?” he asked, a grin creeping onto his face. “Were you worried about me?”

You had denied it, of course, but you couldn’t get it out of your head, the vision of him with blood pouring out of an open wound. The possibility that, for a moment, Tangerine was hurt haunted you, and it still does, if you’re being honest with yourself.

You’re pouring water into your tea kettle when your phone rings. Strangely, it’s not your work phone, which is unusual. With a groan, you reach for it, swiping across the screen at the unknown number. “Hello?” you ask, holding the phone up with your shoulder. With your free hands, you start the sink and scrape the blood out from under your nails.

“Did you get home safe?” a familiar voice asks. Tangerine’s never called you after a job before. Sure, he’s brisque and the point, but it’s better than nothing at all.

“I did,” you answer. “Did you?”

“Yeah,” he replies shortly. Then, in a softer tone, he asks, “Is- are you safe?”

“I’m at my flat,” you say instead of answering the question. Because you’re not really safe here, you never really are.

“Yeah, I fucking know that,” Tangerine sighs, “But are you safe? I can’t have you getting caught on my ass.”

“Let me guess,” you grab one of your mugs and pour the tea, “I’m a liability because I’ve seen your face.”

His voice is dry when he responds, but you can hear the trace elements of tiredness seeping through. Somewhere in the background, you hear the low hum of the television and Lemon’s voice. “Yes.”

“So sweet of you,” you respond sarcastically. “I can’t believe I have such a gentleman looking after me.” You take your tea and head to the bedroom, placing it down on your dresser and flopping down onto your bed.

“Hey now,” he chides, “I’m a fucking gentleman. Or, at least, I know how to pretend to be one. Right, love?”

You hum noncommittedly and turn your phone on speaker so that you can put it off to the side. “I would need more evidence.”

“You’ve got plenty,” he protests, “I held the door for you the other day.”

“I was fucking shot in the leg, you didn’t have a choice.” You still have the bandage wrapped around your thigh from where a bullet grazed it. You know how to take a shot and how to fight with an injury.

“Yeah, well I never curse in front of kids,” he attempts to defend. “That’s gentlemanly of me.”

“You cursed in front of children yesterday. A whole fucking rant in front of that poor little boy. I wouldn’t say that that makes you a gentleman.”

“I apologized though.”

“Doesn’t matter if you traumatized him,” you state matter-of-factly. “Still counts,” he says. “I should probably let you go, then. It’s getting late.” You don’t even know what time it is, but based on the moonlight beaming in from the small window, he’s right. You never sleep well on jobs, or when you come back from them, but you might as well try.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Call me if you have another job you need my help with.”

“I will,” he promises. You’re about to hang up when he continues, “Actually, Lemon and I were thinking about adding you to our team permanently. I- we- like having you around.”

“You do?” you ask quietly, turning onto your side and curling under your covers.

“I swear to God, don’t make me fucking say it again,” Tangerine groans. “We want to work with you. Is that so fucking hard to believe?”

“I always knew you were a big softie,” you tease. “I guess I’ll see you soon then, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’ll see you soon. Get some rest, okay?”

“I will,” you promise. You hold up the phone and pull the covers over your head, thinking about his voice. It’s a dangerous thing, seeing more of him. It certainly won’t make things easier for you, and you know that he’ll find out about how you feel. There’s only so long you can hide behind phone calls and the thin walls of your flat.

But just the idea of seeing him more makes you want to wake up tomorrow. That’s enough, for now. It has to be.

“I always knew you were a big softie,” you tease. “I guess I’ll see you soon then, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’ll see you soon. Get some rest, okay?”

“I will,” you promise. You hold up the phone and pull the covers over your head, thinking about his voice. It’s a dangerous thing, seeing more of him. It certainly won’t make things easier for you, and you know that he’ll find out about how you feel. There’s only so long you can hide behind phone calls and the thin walls of your flat. But just the idea of seeing him more makes you want to wake up tomorrow. That’s enough, for now. It has to be.

[kpopgirlbtssvt]

Love!!!

love the whole bullet proof universe!!, saw your post about young tan and maybe you could write something about first meeting/those couple years of pining/getting together. i live for that stuff

omg yes! i went for pining :) i like the idea of writing the first meeting, though! maybe in the future...

Bullet Proof Masterlist

Taglist: loves: @venusthepirate @shadows-of-nyx @syd-vixious @thefloatingpickle @sallyp-53 @fictionalcomforts @s-hanster @the-bisaster @phoenixhits @wee-little-mouse @cupofstarss @eefos @slut-f0r-u @kpopgirlbtssvt

Warnings: explicit language, violence, death, pining, slight angst

professional casualties

“Be safe,” is what you end up saying every time you want to tell him you love him. It’s not a confession, not the “I love you” that you want to scream at him, not the “get home safe” that you could probably get away with. You stopped denying these things a long time ago. You can’t get him out of your mind, the way he smiles at Lemon when he doesn’t think anyone else is watching, and the way his eyes are always cunning, always hunting and grey.

“I always am,” is his response every time, a grin on his face as he gives you a two-fingered salute. You’ll watch him walk away until he’s out of your eyesight, and whatever deep-colored suit he’s wearing will take the clean smell of his cologne with him. The gun in his waistband is hidden from everyone else, but you know it’s there, protecting him.

It never gets easier, saying goodbye. You thought it would be at this point, having worked with him for so long. You’re coming up on two years of working with Lemon and Tangerine on odd jobs here and there, but it’s more recently that you’ve noticed how often they’ve been asking you to join them on their jobs. This is the third one in a month, and you don’t know why it’s getting harder and harder to say goodbye.

It’s the end of a job, and you have to go back to your silent flat where there’s nothing waiting for you except for an empty fridge and cold floors. Lemon wasn’t on this one, so it was just you and Tangerine up against the others. It wasn’t a hard job, nothing Tan couldn’t have done by himself, but it was nice to spend time with him. After the bloodshed of this weekend, you don’t really want to let him walk away. You want to go home with him, to be a source of comfort in his life, not someone he only knows as a killer. That, however, takes a lot of nerve that you don’t have. It’s better to be his work accomplice or his friend than to be nothing at all.

The walk home is longer than you want it to be. With blood staining your clothes and dripping down your wrists. You instinctively scratch at the dried blood that crusts your face as you shove open your front door. It opens with a groan, protesting against your weight. You’re used to it at this point, having lived at this flat for a few months. It’s an absolute shithole, with a leaking sink and water stains on the ceiling, and it doesn’t really have any special meaning to you. It’s not even safe most of the time, hence the various alarm systems that ring in your ears as soon as the front door cracks open.

Slowly, you make your way to the panel where your alarms are set and enter the code. The alarms stop and the relief of silence fills the small room. In a daze, you go through the motions of taking your overcoat off, putting your weapons in their designated places, and changing into more comfortable clothes. You don’t really have the brainpower to shower right now, and you’re used to the feeling of blood drying on your skin: it’s not as uncomfortable as it used to be, at least.

You can’t help but notice the way your hands are shaking, which in itself isn’t that weird following a job, but usually, they’re steadier by now. You chalk it up to the fast pace of the mission, but deep down you know what it really is. There was a moment, brief and fleeting, during the job when things had been going pretty badly. You were on the second floor of the building, holding off one of the guards, while Tangerine was on the floor below, fighting the two others. For a moment, lost your eyesight of him, and all you could hear was the various sounds of fighting. Then, a gunshot.

You’re a professional. Under almost any other circumstances, you know how to stay calm, and how to avoid panicking. But this was different. For a terrifying moment, you didn’t know if Tangerine was okay, which isn’t out of the ordinary. You should be completely used to the idea of his death, and you’re not even with him on all of his jobs. However, the idea of him bleeding out beneath you was completely unbearable. Without thinking, you finished off the guard you were fighting with a knife to the throat and tripped down the stairs, rushing over bodies and weapons to find a figure standing over two bodies.

They turned around and you were met with clear grey eyes and a furrowed brow. “What are you doing, love?” he asked, a grin creeping onto his face. “Were you worried about me?”

You had denied it, of course, but you couldn’t get it out of your head, the vision of him with blood pouring out of an open wound. The possibility that, for a moment, Tangerine was hurt haunted you, and it still does, if you’re being honest with yourself.

You’re pouring water into your tea kettle when your phone rings. Strangely, it’s not your work phone, which is unusual. With a groan, you reach for it, swiping across the screen at the unknown number. “Hello?” you ask, holding the phone up with your shoulder. With your free hands, you start the sink and scrape the blood out from under your nails.

“Did you get home safe?” a familiar voice asks. Tangerine’s never called you after a job before. Sure, he’s brisque and the point, but it’s better than nothing at all.

“I did,” you answer. “Did you?”

“Yeah,” he replies shortly. Then, in a softer tone, he asks, “Is- are you safe?”

“I’m at my flat,” you say instead of answering the question. Because you’re not really safe here, you never really are.

“Yeah, I fucking know that,” Tangerine sighs, “But are you safe? I can’t have you getting caught on my ass.”

“Let me guess,” you grab one of your mugs and pour the tea, “I’m a liability because I’ve seen your face.”

His voice is dry when he responds, but you can hear the trace elements of tiredness seeping through. Somewhere in the background, you hear the low hum of the television and Lemon’s voice. “Yes.”

“So sweet of you,” you respond sarcastically. “I can’t believe I have such a gentleman looking after me.” You take your tea and head to the bedroom, placing it down on your dresser and flopping down onto your bed.

“Hey now,” he chides, “I’m a fucking gentleman. Or, at least, I know how to pretend to be one. Right, love?”

You hum noncommittedly and turn your phone on speaker so that you can put it off to the side. “I would need more evidence.”

“You’ve got plenty,” he protests, “I held the door for you the other day.”

“I was fucking shot in the leg, you didn’t have a choice.” You still have the bandage wrapped around your thigh from where a bullet grazed it. You know how to take a shot and how to fight with an injury.

“Yeah, well I never curse in front of kids,” he attempts to defend. “That’s gentlemanly of me.”

“You cursed in front of children yesterday. A whole fucking rant in front of that poor little boy. I wouldn’t say that that makes you a gentleman.”

“I apologized though.”

“Doesn’t matter if you traumatized him,” you state matter-of-factly. “Still counts,” he says. “I should probably let you go, then. It’s getting late.” You don’t even know what time it is, but based on the moonlight beaming in from the small window, he’s right. You never sleep well on jobs, or when you come back from them, but you might as well try.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Call me if you have another job you need my help with.”

“I will,” he promises. You’re about to hang up when he continues, “Actually, Lemon and I were thinking about adding you to our team permanently. I- we- like having you around.”

“You do?” you ask quietly, turning onto your side and curling under your covers.

“I swear to God, don’t make me fucking say it again,” Tangerine groans. “We want to work with you. Is that so fucking hard to believe?”

“I always knew you were a big softie,” you tease. “I guess I’ll see you soon then, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’ll see you soon. Get some rest, okay?”

“I will,” you promise. You hold up the phone and pull the covers over your head, thinking about his voice. It’s a dangerous thing, seeing more of him. It certainly won’t make things easier for you, and you know that he’ll find out about how you feel. There’s only so long you can hide behind phone calls and the thin walls of your flat.

But just the idea of seeing him more makes you want to wake up tomorrow. That’s enough, for now. It has to be.

“I always knew you were a big softie,” you tease. “I guess I’ll see you soon then, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’ll see you soon. Get some rest, okay?”

“I will,” you promise. You hold up the phone and pull the covers over your head, thinking about his voice. It’s a dangerous thing, seeing more of him. It certainly won’t make things easier for you, and you know that he’ll find out about how you feel. There’s only so long you can hide behind phone calls and the thin walls of your flat. But just the idea of seeing him more makes you want to wake up tomorrow. That’s enough, for now. It has to be.