#there is hardly ever a case where the world is this black and white

[lovingk9z]

Been getting into Thor/Piratesoftware's content the past few days (found him through a super interesting stream with Alok/Healthygamer) and wanted to see if there were any fans of his on Tumblr since he seems to be a huge positive force in the indie game dev community!

Onlyy to see one of the top posts under the Piratesoftware tag is people saying to uninstall his game Heartbound because he decided to stream Hogwarts Legacy 😭 you guys are so unbelievably annoying. Use your brains man.

It was so tiring to watch the storm you guys caused over that fuckin game. As if trying to boycott the game was gonna make any kind of dent in JKR's wallet. As if it was gonna change her, or anyone else's views on trans people.

And then mindlessly wishing harm on people you don't know/don't care to know because you've decided to jump on the bandwagon of "Hogwarts Legacy is an evil to all trans people", trying to rally together to ruin the lives of creators who ever dared to have their own opinions on the matter.

I'll never forget the shit people started over Hasan wanting to stream the game. That man's raised MILLIONS for the causes he supports and you couldn't let him do the same for us? Trans people are being stripped of their rights and you'd give up the opportunity to raise a significant amount of money, just so your streamer doesn't play the stupid Harry Potter game??

It blows my mind to this day.

And then seeing the same bullshit for Thor, like come on. It takes all of two seconds to understand the person he is and the damage you're doing by attempting to take down everything he's built for playing a game you've incorrectly labeled as a harm to trans people.

Use your fucking head. Jesus.

[pearlessance]

Watch Duty - Idle Threats [i]

Series Summary — Joel has watch duty with Jackson’s twenty-year old, smart-mouthed brat and gets more than he bargained for.

Pairing — Joel Miller/Reader

Warnings — Explicit sexual content MDNI, brat taming, age gap, mean!Joel

SERIES MASTERLIST

[cross posted to AO3]

There are certain, non-negotiable ways of post-apocalyptic life. For instance, food must be rationed, and in most cases water, too. Energy is to be conserved for necessary things. Looting is for food, water, medicine, and weapons first—then for things that improve the way of life. Everyone must be willing and able to shoot to kill. And in a commune like Jackson, someone must always be on watch.

Joel Miller knows these things. He’s been living in the end of the world for years now, has grown accustomed to this cutthroat way of life. Sometimes he even convinces himself he was meant to live in a world just like this one.

When he settled in at Jackson a few short weeks ago with Ellie and was assigned his job, he was grateful to be a watcher in the homemade tree blinds. Simple, easy, to the point. And, most importantly—quiet. 

There’s always two people on the south side of the commune and two people on the north side. Joel is thrilled to learn he’s been paired with Mike, a middle-aged man with a penchant for crossbows. Mike is a man of few words, which just so happens to be Joel’s favorite thing about him. 

Every night, they’d relieve the daytime watchers, nod to each other once, and start their shift. Mike brings a large thermos filled with hot water, and Joel smuggles in a plastic bag of instant coffee in his pocket. A rare commodity these days—but he’s willing to share it with Mike in appreciation of his silence.

Joel enjoys his nights of quiet. Especially after he and Mike make an agreement to allow one another to sleep in rotating shifts. It’s a blessed routine. Simple, easy, to the point. 

So, when Tommy lets him know that Mike will be going out on a run for a few weeks, Joel isn’t exactly happy to hear it. He tries to convince his brother to let him be on watch alone—but Maria puts a stop to that before Joel even finishes getting the words out. 

It’s too dangerous. What happens if you're ambushed? 

Joel is capable of handling himself. They know it, he knows it, but Tommy agrees with his wife. And once the two of them decided on something, there was no use arguing. 

His dread escalates when Tommy tells him you will be taking Mike’s place. Joel’s hardly ever spoken to you—has gone out of his way to avoid you, in fact—and anxiety spikes in his chest at the idea of being in that tree blind, stuck with you, completely alone. 

The third day he spends in Jackson is the first time he sees you. He and Ellie are sitting at a table in the dining hall, eating a peaceful breakfast, and you waltz right up to the table where Tommy and Maria sit. Flakes of snow cling to the ends of your hair and your long lashes, making you look a little ethereal, like some vengeful snow goddess. You’re wearing tight jeans that leave little to the imagination and a white, low-cut, long-sleeve shirt that’s drenched and left completely transparent.

Joel has to force his eyes away from the sight of the black lace you wear beneath because the feelings it evokes are so wrong.

There’s something clutched tightly in your hand. Joel can’t see what it is, even as you slam it on the table in front of Maria. You lower your head to look her right in the eye, hands braced on the wood between the two of you. “The next time you have a craving for bullshit, go and get it your goddamn self. I’m not your fucking errand boy.” 

Tommy raises a hand. “Hey, now,” he reasons. “Everyone’s got a job to do—”

“I almost died! I almost died for this!” If your near nakedness didn’t command the attention in the room, your shouting certainly does.

Joel tries to ignore the fury lashing at him from the inside. You’re just a girl—a young girl, and you might as well be naked for all that wet shirt covers. Was everyone in this town so fucking nosy? They should be turning away from you, not toward you.

Never mind the fact that Joel, it seems, is incapable of doing just that. 

You pick up the item and throw it at Tommy’s chest. It’s only as his brother catches it and sets it back on the table that Joel recognizes the foil package of barbecue flavored chips. 

“You’re a runner,” Tommy tries to reason. “That’s what you’re supposed to do; go on runs.”

But you don’t hear him and his calm logic. You point a finger at Maria, whose face has gone crimson in embarrassment, and bare those pretty white teeth in a snarl. “Go fuck yourself, Maria.”

She opens her mouth to respond, to offer an excuse. Only she never gets the chance before you turn away and storm back through the dining hall, slamming the door behind you so hard it rattles the windows. 

When Joel asks his brother about it later that night, Tommy explains that that’s just how you are. Explosive, defiant, easily provoked. But you’re the best runner Jackson has, which was why you specifically were assigned to Maria’s task for her pregnancy craving. 

But the run had gone south, and you’d narrowly escaped an encounter with a small group of men who’d happened across you on the way back to Jackson. Tommy doesn’t explain what exactly happened, but he mentions the jacket you returned wearing that was so soaked in blood you had to burn it. 

The next time he sees you, Joel and Ellie are walking through the streets of Jackson. Ellie is poking fun at him, cracking some joke about Joel being old, when you come barreling out of one of the buildings in the middle of town.

Mike’s wife owns a bakery, Joel knows. And it looks like you’ve just done something that’s made her real mad—because she’s standing at the threshold, shaking her fist and yelling your name. 

You’re running fast, sweet sounding laughter falling from your lips. You nearly run right into Ellie, but stop yourself a moment before you crash into her. “Hey, kid,” you say, a grin stretching wide across your pretty face. “You ever had a strawberry scone before?”

Joel snorts when her mouth hangs open as she shakes her head, eyes starry as she stares up at you. “Uh…no—no. Never.”

You pull a plastic-wrapped scone out of your pocket and peel off the cellophane packaging. 

Joel watches eagerly as you carefully split the pastry in half. Your hands are small and smooth. They look soft, so soft , and he wonders what they’d feel like against his back, his hips, between his legs. 

Ellie takes the halved scone with a smile, and it’s reflected back on your face as you watch her tear into it with her teeth. Her eyes widen as the sugar reaches her tongue.

You and Joel both laugh at her reaction, but all amusement leaves him as you take a bite of your half and let out the prettiest sounding moan he’s ever heard. 

No, Joel suddenly doesn’t think anything is funny anymore. He clenches his jaw and says, “I hope you paid for that.”

When you roll your eyes, Joel resists the urge to take your face in his hands and squeeze. “Oh, please,” you say, voice filled with sarcasm. “I’ve brought that woman so much sugarcane this last week, there wouldn’t be a bakery without me. I think I’m owed a little scone now and again.”

Joel is inclined to agree, but the blatant arrogance in your tone stops him. Don't you have any civility? Any manners?

You turn back to Ellie and say, “If you want another one, go on and give Stella some puppy dog eyes. She’s a real sucker for the kids.” 

“No, Ellie,” Joel says, fixing a scowl on his face. “If you want another scone, we’ll pay for it. We don’t steal from our own people.”

You roll your eyes again and start to walk away. Joel wants to watch you, wants to turn one hundred and eighty degrees to get a full glimpse of the back of those jeans. But he knows he shouldn’t. 

Ellie distracts him, an awestruck look on her face as she chews another bite of pastry. She looks up at Joel and says, “I think I just fell in love.” And then she’s clutching at her jacket like she’s having a heart attack. “Oh god—is that what this feels like? Holy shit.”

Joel just grunts in annoyance at her dramatics, but he ends up thinking about you for the remainder of the day. 

It’s wrong, he knows, to find you so appealing. You’re half his age, so full of life you’re bursting at the seams with it. And Joel is nothing but a grumpy, old man. Your polar opposite, really. 

He has to refrain from asking Tommy about you during dinner that night. But there’s so much he doesn’t know, so much he wants to unearth. How did you end up in Jackson? Why are you the only runner they allow out alone? What happened to you?

There’s something that happens to everyone these days. Joel’s is Sarah—and then Ellie. He wants to know what your something is. He wants to know why you’re so explosive, defiant, so easily provoked.

When he crawls into bed that night, he tells himself he’ll stop thinking of you tomorrow. He’ll put his curiosity to bed and allow you to continue wreaking havoc in the commune without any interference from him.

Except Joel dreams of you. He dreams about that white shirt, about those skin tight jeans. He dreams about the black lace. He dreams about what’s beneath even that. About your softness, about that gritty fight he sees in you. Joel dreams about taking you over his knee and showing you what discipline feels like, and he wakes up the next morning with sticky sheets like he’s some pillow-rutting teenage boy.

It’s embarrassing. Even though no one else knows, even though he’ll never, ever tell another soul, Joel feels shame at the realization that a mouthy, twenty year old girl is what does it for him.

Joel pushes his dreams and filthy thoughts far, far away as he makes his way to the tree blind that night. He’s running a little behind, and he can’t deny that the sole reason for his tardiness is you. 

You make him nervous. Uneasy, on edge. He never knows what to expect from you, and it drives Joel just a little bit insane. 

He expects you to arrive before him. But when he sees that both Bonnie and Greg remain and you’re nowhere to be found his jaw ticks. “She didn’t show up?”

When Bonnie shakes her head, Greg says with a shrug, “We thought she’d show up with you.”

The answer leaves Joel’s blood boiling. How could you be so inconsiderate? The two of them have been on watch for hours—likely counting down the minutes until they could be home with their families. It’s rude, Joel thinks. And he has a few choice words to say to you. He holds up a hand and says, “Give me five minutes.”

Jackson is small, and Joel is…observant. He knows you live at that little white house down on the corner. And he takes the steps of the porch two at a time, banging a fist on the door. You don’t answer, and so he’s hitting it harder, well and truly furious now. 

“What the fuck?” You rip the door open, brows pinched together. You’re wearing nothing but a pair of flannel pajama shorts and a sweater that’s two sizes too big, and Joel’s hands shake at the sight of you.

“What are you doing?”

There’s a light in your eyes, he notices—excitement maybe, or mischief. Either way, it sends off warning bells in his head, loud and demanding. “I was trying to sleep, asshole.”

The curse word on your lips sends him into a blind rage. Joel grabs you around your bicep, hard enough to bruise. “You have a job to do. We all do. Your little attitude doesn’t make you exempt.”

You snort incredulously. “You’re talking about my watch duty,” you infer, seething. “That’s such bullshit. It’s just Maria’s way of trying to get back at me for that day in the dining hall. I’m not doing that shit.”

“Yes, you are,” Joel states. He’s not sure why, exactly, it’s so important to him all of a sudden. Hadn’t he nearly begged Tommy yesterday to let him be on watch alone? “Even if I have to drag you down there myself.”

With a hand on your hip you say, “Then drag away, because I’m not mov—jesus christ!” 

Joel’s got his hand tangled in your hair, pulling you out of the house and onto the porch. It feels like silk between his fingers, and he wants to wrap it around his fist. But, more than that, Joel wants you to take this seriously, to take him seriously. He pushes you towards the steps just enough that you stumble. When you look up at him, there’s surprise, anger, and something a little more heated in your eyes. “Go,” he orders, leaving no room for negotiation. 

Much to his delight, you actually listen. You turn away from him and lead the way through Jackson, toward the edge of the commune. Joel realizes you don’t have shoes on, either, and the smallest bit of guilt weeds itself into his chest as he watches snow melt beneath your fuzzy pink socks. 

When you dismiss Bonnie, she offers you her coat. But you mutter under your breath, “No, thanks.” And the words themselves aren’t rude, but the tone you use is, and Joel wonders where the fuck your parents are. You’re not old enough for them to be gone, but even if they are, they’ve done a real shit job at teaching you to be respectful.

As Bonnie and Greg walk away with apologetic looks on their faces for Joel and what he’ll have to endure for the remainder of the night, he holds the rope ladder to the tree blind steady. “Ladies first,” he says. 

A wicked smirk tugs at your full lips. You take a step back and sweep an arm out in front of you. “By all means, ma’am.”

Joel doesn’t laugh, but it looks like you might. And your childish stab only serves to rub him raw. “You’ve got about five more seconds before I force you up there myself. And, believe me, little girl, I don’t make idle threats.”

You raise your brows in astonishment. “Fuck you, dude. Seriously.”

“Four,” he says sternly, eyes fixed on yours. He enjoys the way your mouth parts just slightly. “Three.” And the way your sweet, pink tongue darts out to wet your lips. 

“You think that’s gonna make a difference? You’re not—!”

“Two.”

“Okay! Jesus,” you huff, shoving him out of the way hard and starting up the ladder.

Joel holds it steady for you, ensuring you make it up nice and safe. And, yeah, maybe he does it for his own benefit, allowing himself to marvel at your thighs, at the swell of your ass poking out of the bottom of your shorts, the sight of all that bare skin.

He climbs up after you, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. The tree blind isn’t spacious, and Joel finds himself wishing that it had a little more room because you and your sweet-smelling skin take up too much of it. You’re sitting in one of the wooden chairs, arms crossed firmly over your chest and a glower on your face.

Instead of taking the seat beside you, Joel walks the perimeter slowly, trying to find any disturbance outside. It looks quiet tonight, though, the only movement born from the two patrolmen walking the outer walls and the song provided by the wind in the trees.

Twenty minutes in, you let out a frustrated sigh that’s a little too loud for his liking. “How many times are you going to check before you realize that nothing is happening out there?”

It’s true, but he can’t bring himself to sit that close to you. “I’m just being cautious,” he says. He’s worried about wandering thoughts, about wandering hands. Joel’s sure you hate him, and if you didn’t before tonight you most certainly do now. But that look you’d given him after he’d pulled you by your hair is what keeps him standing. Because Joel Miller has morals, but at the end of the day he’s still a man. And he’s self aware enough to know that all it would take is one look—one fucking look that gives the smallest bit of permission and he’ll be throwing caution to the wind.

“Cautious,” you mock. “Of what, the wind?” His brows pinch together, a little unnerved at how parallel your words are to his inner thoughts. “Better be careful. The universe might huff and puff and blow this blind right down, huh? Fuckin’ stupid.”

“You watch your mouth,” he snaps. He’s tired of the disrespect, of the attitude. You’re a goddamn brat, Joel thinks.

You turn in your chair, facing him with your shoulders squared in challenge. “Fuck-ing,” you repeat, annunciating every letter. “Stu-pid.”

Joel can’t help himself, morality be damned. He crosses the small space in one step and wraps a calloused hand around your neck. You try to pull him away, clawing at his wrist, hissing in pain at the force. But Joel holds firm, leaning over to look you in the eye. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he says lowly. “You might be able to pull this shit with Tommy and Maria, but it’s not gonna work on me. It’s in your best interest if you just keep silent. You understand?”

There’s something on your face that gives him pause; something more than amusement, more than gratification. It’s hot and heavy and needy. And as you stare up at him through those long lashes, your grip on his wrist loosens in submission. 

He leans down, lips inches from your ear. Joel feels you shiver in his hands as he repeats, “Do you…understand?”

Your breath gets caught in your throat. He can hear it stutter, can hear you swallow nervously. Good, Joel thinks. He likes that he makes you nervous, edgy, restless. He feels you lean slightly to the side, pressing your cheek against his greying stubble. “Yes,” you whisper, and the submission is so sweet sounding in his ears that he feels himself growing hard.

It’s that particular realization that has him pulling away from you, nearly outed by his own body. Joel finally takes the seat next to you and stares pointedly forward, out at the far end of the perimeter. He’s thankful when you slowly turn back around and remain quiet.

This he can handle, Joel thinks. As long as he doesn’t look at you, as long as you’re not spouting off at the mouth…he’ll be just fine. He’ll remain a man with his morals intact.

You pull your legs up to your chest, holding them against your body. Even though the tree blind provides a fair bit of shelter, it’s still the middle of winter in Wyoming. And Joel suddenly feels guilty about dragging you out here like this with nothing but shorts and fuzzy socks on. 

He shrugs off his coat and lays it across your legs without a word. 

But you have something to say about it, of course, suddenly forgetting your agreement of silence. “You’re real chivalrous for a brooding asshole.”

“What did I just say about that goddamn mouth of yours?”

Your eyes round and your mouth hangs open in hilarity. “Do you hear yourself? I mean, really, Joel. Seriously?”

It’s the first time you’ve ever said his name, and it sends a shock of delight down his spine. Even if you do say it in annoyance, it’s still his name in your mouth, and fuck, his resistance falters. “C’mere.”

“You can’t just tell me what to do,” you say, defiant. But you stand to your feet and set his coat on your chair. “I’m not just some little girl you can boss around.”

Joel spreads his legs wide, allowing you to stand between them. Even though he’s sitting and you’re standing over him, you look so small. Joel smirks up at you and asks, “Liked that, did you?”

“No,” you answer, too quickly for it to be true. “I didn’t like it. Not…not even a little. I don’t know how you got it in your head that you’re the boss of me but…but you’re not.”

He doesn’t speak. Instead, Joel takes a selfish minute. He lets himself drink you in real slow, raking his eyes over your face, down the smooth curve of your shoulder. Your sweater is too big, but Joel can tell you’re not wearing a bra beneath, can see the hardened peaks of your nipples through the material. Your hands hang loosely at your sides, but they tremble just a little. Joel thinks it’s real cute, how you’re pretending not to be afraid. Your legs are smooth, thighs thick and delicious.

Joel raises his hand, letting his fingertips ghost across the soft skin. He waits a couple of seconds, staring up at you, giving you the opportunity to run far, far away from him. 

But you don’t. Of course you don’t. You stay firmly planted between his legs, chest heaving with each ragged breath.

He searches your face for any apprehension as his hand begins to move, knuckles running along the top of your thigh. He finds nothing but heat in your eyes, and Joel ventures a little further. When he presses his hand between your legs, he watches as your eyes flutter closed and you take your bottom lip between your teeth. 

Your skin is searing, so hot he wonders how plumes of smoke don’t emit from you in the cold night air. He squeezes your flesh, delighting in the peaceful little sigh you give in response. He does it again, a little higher this time. And then the side of his index finger is pressing hard against the seam of your shorts, and you raise a hand to cover your mouth. 

“Joel,” you breathe. “Joel, you—”

He stops, hand freezing between your legs. He expects you to shake your head, to take that opportunity of fleeing once and for all. He’d allow it. Encourage it, even. He was no good, proved even further by the fact that he’d touched you even knowing he shouldn’t.

But you do none of these things. You only press your fingers against your mouth and squeeze your eyes closed real tight. 

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

Defiant as ever, you keep your mouth sealed firmly shut for once. Instead, you use your free hand and reach for his wrist, turning it so his hand is cupping the warmth between your thighs. Your hips shift forward slowly, experimentally. 

It’s the hottest thing Joel Miller has ever fucking seen. You’re so needy, so desperate that this little bit of friction has you moaning.

The sound is so much sweeter when it’s him making you feel good instead of some pastry, Joel thinks. 

And as much as he wants to let you use him for your own benefit, as much as he wants to see you fall apart just like this, rutting against his hand, right here, right now—Joel wants to teach you even more.

He pulls his hand away, grabbing your hips and pulling you close. You stumble towards him with a gasp, eyes snapping open. You put your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself as Joel pulls you down, forcing you to straddle his thigh. He places one hand on the small of your back and tangles the other in the hair at the base of your skull, gripping just tight enough that it hurts. 

“Gonna listen real good now, aren’t you, little girl? Hm?”

You’re nodding frantically, and Joel can feel how wet you are even through his jeans. When you start to move your hips, grinding against his thigh, Joel pulls your hair hard. 

“Did I say you could move?” 

You stop moving, even though you spit through gritted teeth, “I didn’t ask.” 

That fucking mouth on you. He has half a mind to fill it up to quiet you once and for all. But Joel’s a patient man, and he wants to see you squirm, wants to hear you beg. He tilts his head menacingly and orders, “Apologize.”

“What?” 

“You heard me,” he answers. “You said you’d be good. Now, go on.”

The glare you give him in response brings a depraved smile to his lips. But then you lean forward, pressing a kiss to his neck. The touch sends a shiver down Joel’s spine, and his cock throbs in his jeans, begging to feel your wet mouth. You kiss him again, just below his ear, and then run your tongue along his pulse. “I’m sorry, Joel,” you whisper.

And then the hand on the small of your back is pushing you forward, forcing you to grind against his thigh again. You let out a moan at the friction, nails digging into his shoulders through his flannel. He’s weak, so fucking weak. Completely at your goddamn mercy, desperate to hear the sounds you make. 

He lets you move a little faster, lets you grind yourself against his leg at whatever pace feels best. A dark spot forms on the denim spread over his thigh, and it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. 

You nestle your head against the crook of his neck, your breath warm and wet against his collarbone.

“That’s it, baby,” he says. “See how good it feels when you behave? See that?” You’re so soft, so pliable in his hands. It’s such a stark contrast to the unruly girl you were just moments ago. Joel could tell, even before he ever set his hands on you, that you were capable of being good. It just took a little discipline, that’s all.

The hand he has on your back drifts down, over the curve of your ass, even lower. When he snakes his hand below you and you drag your hips backward, his fingertips brush up against your entrance. “Oh, god,” you whimper, grinding against him even faster now, more desperate. “I’m close, please don’t stop.”

He almost listens. You sound so fucking pretty when you beg, and Joel thinks he’d be perfectly content to listen to you for the rest of his life. 

But no. No. You could apologize and beg all you wanted. That doesn’t mean the lesson is learned. Joel pulls his hand away and forces you off him, back onto stumbling feet. 

“What the fuck, Joel?!” Your hands are clenched into fists at your side, but your fury only proves his point. 

“What did I say about that mouth? Hm?”

Your lips part, and Joel has no doubt there’s another insult on the tip of your tongue. But the threat in his eyes must be enough to dissuade you because you’re rendered silent, deciding to close your sweet mouth and clench your teeth instead. 

“Not so hard, was it?” Joel shifts in his seat, settling lower, very much enjoying the glower on your face. “Don’t worry, little girl. You won’t forget your manners anymore when I’m done with you. Take off your shorts.”

The muscle in your jaw feathers, but you do as told. And Joel is proud of you, really. So, so proud of you. He watches as you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and pull them down, kicking them away with your feet.

Seeing you bare before him is magnificent, so beautiful it hurts him. Your face turns a sweet shade of pink as he takes you in; memorizing the way your pussy looks. Joel adjusts himself through his jeans, cock aching painfully. You don’t deserve an ounce of praise, not right now. Not after all the attitude you’ve given him. But the words escape him anyway. “You’re so pretty, baby,” he says. “The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.” 

Joel leans forward, presses his mouth to your belly. And again, lower this time. His kisses are slow and soft, his stubble tickling your skin. Your fingers thread themselves through his peppery curls, tugging softly, and Joel can’t hold back his moan at the sensation.

You feel so good, and Joel knows you’ll taste even better. He convinces himself that it’s for him, not for you, as he runs his tongue along the seam of your pussy. He does it again, licking desperately, wondering if he’ll ever get his fill of you. It’s just for him, he reminds himself. 

You’re so wet that every soft stroke of his tongue makes an obscene sound, but it’s the sounds you’re making that keep his mouth between your legs.

“God, Joel, yes—mmm. That feels so good,” you moan, pressing his face against you harder. You start to tilt your hips against his face, spreading your legs wider. Joel glances up to see your head thrown back, goosebumps rising over your throat. He can’t tell if it’s the cold or him that creates them, but he selfishly hopes for the latter. 

He sucks your clit into his mouth, circling it with the tip of his tongue, and he feels your legs begin to shake, hears your breathing slow. And then he pulls away, and the sight of your eyes as they turn glassy in desperation makes every bit of his own suffering worth it. 

You know well enough by now not to scream in protest like last time, but he can see that you want to. You’re learning. Good, Joel thinks.

“Turn around,” he says. And you do, but he can feel the rage radiating off your skin. He pulls you back into his lap, laying your legs over his, spreading you real wide. 

When you finally realize his intention, your whole body melts against his chest. And it’s trust he senses then, a warm feeling that cuts through him like a razor. You’re trusting him to make you feel good, Joel knows—and he has every intention of doing just that. 

His hands are cold as they drift up the inside of your thighs. He drags them back down, and then back up even slower this time. He does this again and again, feeling you, tracing patterns into your skin, savoring the feel of you in his hands. By the time his fingertips ghost across your pussy, you’re trembling in anticipation. “Please,” you beg.

Joel presses one hand to your belly, just below your navel, and uses the other to slide his middle and index fingers through your wetness. He moves easily, gliding them over your clit, down to your entrance, circling it with the pads of his fingers but never sinking in. You tilt your hips towards them, desperate to feel them inside of you. 

You’re so beautiful like this, Joel thinks. All needy whimpers and frantic movements. He swipes his fingers over your clit, back and forth, picking up speed as your moans grow louder. 

“This all for me, little girl? You’re so wet. Look at you, makin’ a big mess in my lap.” He presses a kiss to the side of your neck.

Your knuckles turn white as you grip the arms of his chair. “Joel,” you cry out. “Joel, please, I’m gonna—!”

He stops, pulling his hand away completely. He winds it around your trembling thigh instead, spreading you so wide your muscles burn. He clicks his tongue right next to your ear, and you can feel him smiling into your hair. “ Nuh uh, baby,” he says. “Not yet. Not until I say so.”

You raise your hands to the back of his head, pulling on his hair, writhing in his lap like a woman possessed, grinding against nothing. Your slick drips down your legs, and even though you’re near to tears, Joel knows you’re enjoying this. Knows you need this. “Please,” you beg. “Please, please, just—!”

“Shh, s’alright,” he says. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’m gonna take real good care of ya as long as you behave.” His words seem to relax you a little. Joel works the tension from your muscles, massaging slowly. He doesn’t touch you again until your breathing evens out.

Joel slips his hand beneath your sweater, palming your breast, squeezing the supple flesh between his rough hands. His thumb smooths across your nipple, hardens it into a perfect little point. 

It feels so good that you close your eyes and lean your head back against him, so focused on the feeling of his calloused hands that it takes you by surprise when his fingers find your pussy again. 

This time, he circles your clit once, twice, and then he’s pushing two fingers inside of you. He slides in easily, your body so worked up and desperate for him that it pulls him in. His fingers are thick, stretching you, pressing in deep. He hooks them upwards, searching, searching— there. “Ohh, yes —yes, please, Joel, fuck.”

He begins to slide his fingers out of you, but you grasp his wrist and push them right back in.

“Wait, no! No, no, please, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, god, just touch me, please, please, please, ” you rush out, all in a single breath. 

Joel thinks you look like damnation as you fuck yourself with his hand, moving it of your own accord, whining when you can’t get enough pressure. “Oh, baby,” he says, wiping away the tear that’s spilling down your cheek. “That’s alright, hm? I know you don’t mean it. I can see what a good girl you are. S’okay.” He presses his thumb against your clit and begins moving his hand again, thrusting his fingers inside you, caressing that sweet spot you can never reach on your own. 

Silently, Joel begins to panic. Because you’re so tight, so wet, so perfect. His perfect little girl. And he knows this is wrong, knows that while, yeah, technically, you’re an adult, Joel fucking knows better than to touch someone like you. He knows what other people will think of him, what they’ll say behind his back, what they’ll whisper about in the dining hall. He should stop it right here, right now, while there’s still a sliver of redemption to be had for him. 

But he can’t. He can’t. Not now, and he worries he’ll never be able to. Because no one, fucking no one has ever felt like this.

He picks up his pace, trying to push the thoughts from his mind. He feels you clamp down around his fingers, feels your walls tighten so much it makes a deep groan rumble through his chest. You’re close, he knows. He can see it, can feel it. 

“ Joel,” you plead when he pulls his fingers out of you. Your tears are falling freely now. Big, fat, alligator tears on your flushed cheeks. You let out a ragged moan as he pinches your nipple beneath your sweater and for a split second, he thinks he’s fucked up. Thinks he’s strung you so tight that the little bit of pain and pleasure has you tumbling over the edge.

Thankfully, though, you’re only shaking in blissful agony.

“Oh my god,” you cry, hands trembling as you scratch at his arms. Every small movement of your hips has your ass rubbing against his erection, and it’s almost enough. Watching you shake, hearing you beg for him. It’s almost enough to do him in entirely. Almost.  “Please, Joel, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good, I promise.”

He presses a kiss to your jaw, licking the salt from your sweat-slick skin. “I know you will be, baby,” he says gently. “I told you, didn’t I? Told you you’d remember your manners by the time I was done. And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

You’re whimpering, so desperate for his hands, his mouth, for anything, that you don’t even notice what he’s doing as he reaches beneath you. No, you’re too busy grinding against his hand to notice as Joel unzips his jeans and pulls his cock out until he’s holding it against you. 

He’s got his cock between your pussy and the palm of his hand, pushing it against you hard. You feel so good against him, so warm and wet, and Joel’s moaning right along with you. Your clit is so swollen he can feel it as you grind it against the head of his cock, delicate fingers wrapped around his bicep. “Ohh, yeah. Feels real good, don’t it, pretty girl? Jus’ like that.”

“I want it, Joel,” you say, voice sweet and whiny and angelic. “Put it in, please, please.”

“Gotta get you right on the edge first,” he says, palming your breast. “Gotta make it hurt. Haven’t you learned by now, little girl?”

“But it does! It hurts, Joel, please!”

Joel leans his head back and chuckles lowly. “I know it does, I know, baby. You can take a little more though, hm? Just a little more so you remember this lesson.” So you remember me.

The thought comes wicked and unwanted. But it’s there, it’s there, embedded in his brain. Joel swallows, can feel your exhaustion as the tremble in your legs returns. And then he stops. He pulls his cock away from your warm heat and taps it against your clit as you cry out for him.

“Shh, I know, sweetheart,” he coos in your ear. He wants to wait until your body calms back down, until you’re loose and pliable again. But he can’t wait another minute, not one more goddamn second. “Don’t worry, I’ve got ya,” he says. Joel lines himself up against your entrance, so wet it’s already dripping down over him.

You’re panting as he pushes in slow, stretching you wide. You’re so tight that Joel’s not sure it’ll fit despite how soaked you are. But he works himself in inch by inch, and once he’s fully seated inside you he’s met with a wave of pride so intense he wraps his arms around your middle and rests his head against your shoulder. “Yes,” you cry, breathing a sigh of relief. “It’s so big, Joel. God.”

“You take me s’good, baby.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder, your cheek, your temple. “Gonna fuck you now, hm? Gonna fuck this little pussy real good, promise.” Joel pulls out almost completely and thrusts himself back in, slamming his hips up against yours. You let out a whine so loud he chuckles and uses a hand to cover your mouth. “Shh, quiet now,” he tells you. “Don’t want anyone getting any ideas about what we’re doing up here.”

When you stick out your tongue and suck his middle finger into your mouth, Joel’s cock twitches inside of you. Your mouth is so soft, so fucking soft he thinks he might die. Might have a heart attack right here, still inside you. You meet each of his thrusts by grinding down against him, moaning around his fingers, the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. 

Joel reaches his free hand down and rubs your clit, and two seconds later your pussy grips him like a vice. “Hold it,” he orders.

With a shake of your head, you bounce in his lap harder. “I can’t, I can’t, I—!”

“Yes you can. You can. Not till I say so, little girl. Hold it,” he says. And just because he’s decided he likes you, Joel grants you a little relief and lessens the pressure on your clit. Your walls flutter around him, and it nearly does him in. He wants to hear you, wants to fucking see you. 

He straightens in his seat, allowing for a better view. He leans over your shoulder and watches where he disappears inside you, fucks into you a little harder. 

With one last kiss against your forehead, Joel says, “Go ahead, baby. Come for me.” 

That’s all it takes. You go silent for a moment, breath held in your lungs, And then you’re shaking in his hands, a whimpering mess, flooding his lap. You say his name over and over, a prayer, or perhaps a curse. 

“That’s it, little girl. Ohh, it’s so good, hm? Feel so good when you earn it. Good girl, baby. Good fuckin’ girl. My good little girl. Yeah, there you go.” He’s talking you through it, watching it all unfold, watching you tighten around him so hard you’re nearly pushing his cock out. But Joel keeps it buried inside you, forcing it right up against that sweet spot.

It’s right then that he knows. 

Joel will never, ever be free of you. Not now. Not knowing how it feels to be inside you, knowing how it feels when you lose yourself because of him. Whatever redemption there was for him is gone now, evaporated into thin air, never to be found again.

He pulls out with just enough time to spill his come onto your thighs, fisting his cock in his hand. It’s almost a painful end, not being able to finish inside of you. 

But then you reach between your legs and run your hand through the stickiness. You bring it to your mouth and suck your fingers clean. 

Joel watches every movement, hard again at the sight.

As you stare up at him, he knows you feel it, too. That energy shift, intense and wicked and damning.

Wisps of your hair stick to your forehead, the back of your neck. You pull your fingers out of your mouth, and your swollen lips curve into a grin. You look so beautiful that it pains him. You stand back up on wobbly legs, using his thigh as support while you pull your shorts back on. 

Joel thinks you look even better as you slip your arms through his coat. It swallows you up, but it’s his and it’s on you and the sight feels like a kick to the gut. He stuffs himself back into his jeans before he can ravage you again, before he makes the situation even worse. 

You pick up his rifle from the floor and settle back into his lap. Joel has half a mind to push you away, to get some much-needed distance, to give you your last chance at freedom. 

But he’s a selfish man. So he doesn’t. He lets you lean back against him, even wraps his arms around your waist. You lay the weapon across your legs carefully. “If watch duty is always this good, tell Maria to sign me up.”

[part two]

[kingofbodyrolls]

Whalien52 (m) | pjm

you’ve been working for the New World Order as an assassin for years, guarding secrets without batting an eye or asking questions. But when a striking pink haired man shows up at the headquarters stealing information, he makes you question everything. With all of humanity at stake, what will you do? 

→ Pairing: Jimin (kitty gang!jimin) x reader (female) → Genres/AUs: apocalyptic, survival, dystopian + angst, fluff and smut. → Tropes: strangers to lovers → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 10.6k → Warnings + triggers: changing povs (between reader and Jimin), action, weapons, guns and swords, blood (it’s not in extreme detail or anything, but blood is mentioned a few times), death (people are dying, but no important character dies!!!), wounds, shooting, self defense, m*rder in self defense, sickness (cancer due to radiation), mention of a cure and treatment for said cancer. Explicit smut in the form of unprotected sexy, oral (female receiving), dirty talk, degrading names, multiple orgasms, creampie, kissing. → Author’s note(1): okay, so I’ve been struggling a lot with this one too, lol. I miss writing sappy romance I think. This isn’t sappy, and I’ll hardly call it romance, well, it’s in there, but there’s honestly so much action in this one, compared to the Yoongi one. It’s also more fast paced, and shorter. I hope it’s alright! It was fun to write, even though I know nothing about writing action, I hope I did it well! And to everyone who’s scared or reluctant to read it because there’s angst and it’s kinda heavy/dark themed— IT HAS A HAPPY ENDING. There, I spoiled the ending for you 😇 + This story is a gift for my friend @remmykinsff! Thank you so much for sharing your Kitty gang Jimin folder with me, and letting me use you for motivation and inspiration to get out of my writer’s block 💜 → Read on AO3? [link]

[navi]*: end of the world // end of the world: a flickering hope // shower drabble // whalien52 // end of the world: epilogue *this story is technically a stand alone one-shot (and can be read just as is), but it is also a spin-off from another one-shot (that got a sequel, so a two-shot?). The characters and the story are the same, but the first two stories takes place before this one, and it’s with Yoongi x reader (not the same reader though).

It’s raining again. Lately, it’s always raining. The rain is everlasting, it seems, drenching the city in a ceaseless, oppressive downpour. The Capital is perpetually shrouded in darkness and gloom, a place where the sun is a distant memory. You’ve grown accustomed to it, ever since you were recruited by The New World Order to guard their secrets. You’ve been trapped in this godforsaken city ever since. Do you like it? Not really, but it’s a job that pays well. They give you a roof over your head and enough to survive—luxuries in this ravaged world.

You came from nothing, clawing your way up since the war began, fighting for every scrap of existence until The New World Order caught you. They gave you a choice: die or work for them. You chose to live, naively hoping that working for them wouldn’t be so bad. But it turns out, it can be quite bad. You’ve done unspeakable things to keep their secrets safe. You’ve killed for them, just as you had killed for yourself before they found you. Now, you don’t even flinch when you have to eliminate someone who gets too close to the truth. Part of you wonders what these secrets are, but you’re not interested. It’s just a job, nothing more.

Tonight is another shift. You head to the New World Order building, ready to patrol the city under the cover of darkness. First, you gear up: leather pants, a basic white shirt, and a black leather biker jacket. A belt around your waist for support, with a strap around your thigh that holsters your gun. A small knife is sheathed at your back, just in case.

You glance out the window. The world outside is as bleak as ever; night has fallen, and the rain taps a morose melody against the glass. You sigh, watching the neon signs flicker, casting a purple and blue glow that dances across your room. Grabbing your keys, you lock the door behind you and sprint down the stairs. This apartment is nothing special, but it’s a step up from the streets where you once lived before the war. It’s a small comfort in a world gone mad.

The rain soaks your skin, but you don’t bother with an umbrella. It’s just rain. You run down the dimly lit main street, the few wandering souls avoiding eye contact as they scurry to obey The New World Order’s curfew. Your boots splash through rain puddles on the unpaved, muddy road. It doesn’t take long to reach the towering New World Order building—its looming presence still sends a shiver down your spine, but you step inside anyway. Scanning your security card, you brace yourself for another night of duty.

You start your shift monitoring security cameras and patrolling the eerie hallways for any sign of suspicious activity. As you return to the front desk, you catch sight of a man attempting to bypass the card reader.

“What are you doing here?” you growl, your hand instinctively hovering near your gun.

The man fumbles with the machine, clearly lacking a security card. Desperation edges his voice as he yells, “I want the data that The New World Order is keeping from us!”

“You’re not getting that,” you reply coldly, assessing the intruder. He seems harmless, more frustrated than dangerous, so you relax, slightly.

“Do you even know what it is that you’re protecting?” he spits, abandoning his futile attempt to climb the machines as the alarm blares. The piercing sound echoes through the corridor, and you quickly pull out the phone issued by the New World Order to silence it.

“I don’t care what I’m protecting. You’ve got no business here. Now leave,” you say through gritted teeth.

“You shouldn’t be so blind to the secrets you’re safekeeping for them,” he hisses, making another hopeless attempt to scale the security machines.

His efforts are laughable, a pathetic display of defiance. A dark chuckle escapes your lips. “Leave, or I’ll shoot you.” This is his final warning. If he doesn't heed it, he’ll meet the cold, indifferent justice of your gun. So be it.

He freezes, uncertainty flickering in his eyes as he gauges your resolve. Your unwavering stare breaks his spirit, and he quivers in fear before backing off. Without a word, he turns and bolts, likely retracing his steps. Fool, you think, watching him flee. 

The encounter leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. He’s not the first to suggest you should question your work and the secrets you guard. Maybe you should. But you know the moment you do, you’re dead. You’ll lose everything you’ve achieved and everything you hold dear. That fear keeps you in place, and you reckon that’s the point of it all—the New World Order instills fear in everyone, ensuring their control remains absolute.

“Are you sure you’re okay to go in there alone?” Bora asks, her voice tinged with unease. It’s understandable—years of meticulous planning and reconnaissance are culminating in this moment. Whalien52 is about to attempt the impossible: stealing the cure for cancer that The New World Order keeps hidden away.

Jimin isn’t scared. He’s accustomed to these kinds of missions, though this will be his most significant one yet. A good kind of nervousness tingles through him, a mix of excitement and determination. “Yeah, Hobi’s done plenty of research. I know exactly which room to hit,” he says, flashing Bora a reassuring smile.

He gets why she’s scared. Bora and Yoongi have been through hell, and with both of them sick, finding the cure is personal. Yoongi’s condition has worsened over the years, a stark reminder of the injustice that The New World Order perpetuates by hoarding the cure while people die from radiation-induced cancers. The thought makes Jimin’s blood boil.

It’s this anger that led him to join Whalien52 after meeting Jungkook in the wasteland, a desolate remnant of what the bombings and wars left behind. The new government organization threatens to transform the remnants of humanity into a dystopian nightmare—if it hasn’t already.

Jimin thrives as an assassin, driven by a relentless quest for truth. The thrill, the chase, the stealth—it’s all part of the adrenaline rush he lives for. But beneath the excitement lies a deep-seated hatred for the rich elites who hid in their bomb-proof bunkers, safeguarding their technology, only to reemerge and rebuild a civilization for themselves amidst the ruins. Their swift reconstruction of the Capital stands as a bitter reminder of their enduring power.

The injustice has turned him bitter. It’s why he’s vowed to do everything in his power to change the world, to help Whalien52 make knowledge free and accessible to everyone, not just the rich. The gap between rich and poor has become a chasm, with only the vetted elite allowed to live in the Capital. The rest of humanity is left to fend for themselves, struggling for survival in a world that hopes they’ll destroy each other.

Jimin won’t stand for it. This mission isn’t just about stealing a cure, or getting data on possible treatment—it’s about justice, about leveling the playing field, about giving hope to those left in the dark. And he’ll see it through, no matter the cost.

Yoongi comes up to him, interrupting his thoughts. “I’m serious. You don’t have to do this for me,” he coughs, his voice so raspy it sounds like he’s been smoking forever.

Jimin places a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder, his gaze shifting briefly to Bora before settling back on Yoongi. “We are doing this for you. But I’m also doing this for everyone else,” he begins, his voice thick with emotion and a glimmer of hope. “You’re not the only one suffering from cancer because of the radiation. We want to help everyone; we can’t just let people die.”

Yoongi flashes a soft smile and sits down to rest, the effort of standing too exhausting for him now. Jimin will do this for him, for Bora, and for the rest of humanity. He doesn’t mind risking his own life in the search for a cure—he might need one later himself.

“I’ll go get ready,” he says, turning away from Bora and Yoongi. He walks past Jungkook and Taehyung in the dimly lit hideout and heads into his room. He pulls on his leather pants, a white shirt, and then his favorite leather bomber jacket, adorned with pink, silver and purple sparkles. The jacket complements his pink fluffy hair perfectly. He retrieves his gun, tucking it into his back pocket—risky, he knows. Then he picks up his katana, swinging it over his back into its sheath. The sword, his preferred weapon, feels reassuringly familiar.

Now he’s ready. Ready to infiltrate the fortress of secrets and retrieve the cure. Ready to fight for a future where knowledge and healing aren’t hoarded by the few. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the mission ahead, a mission that could change everything in this dystopian nightmare they call life.

He says goodbye to everyone, hugging each of them tightly, aware that any moment could be his last. This mission is perilous, and while he has infiltrated The New World Order before without getting caught, this time is different. He will be venturing deeper into their stronghold than ever before.

After bidding farewell to his friends, Jimin strides outside to his motorcycle. The powerful machine, stolen from the Capital, gleams with a sleek, futuristic design. Its pale metal body has an industrial look, and its size dwarfs Jimin as he mounts it. Neon lights flicker to life as he revs the engine, the bike purring beneath him. With a flick of his wrist, he speeds towards the Capital, sand flying from the back wheel.

He knows he must be cautious once he enters the city. Stealth is crucial to avoid detection and successfully infiltrate The New World Order’s building. Failure means everything will have been for nothing.

The rain is endless, a perpetual downpour that defines the Capital. He doesn’t know why it always rains here, only that it does. The empty streets are illuminated by the neon signs adorning the various buildings, casting a colorful glow in the darkness.

He parks his motorcycle near the New World Order building, at the secluded back entrance where security is minimal. This is his best chance. 

Taking a deep breath, he opens the door. 

It’s all or nothing.

It’s getting late, and the monotony of patrolling the building is wearing you down. The nights are usually quiet, save for the occasional curious stranger trying to access the information you guard. You sigh and head back to the surveillance room, your eyes scanning the screens for anything unusual. Suddenly, you spot a figure moving on one of the monitors. A shot of adrenaline surges through you, breaking the dullness of the night. 

The absence of triggered alarms tells you the intruder is a professional. No amateur could bypass the sophisticated security systems. The thought excites you, your heart rate spiking as you dash through the corridors, your hand hovering near your gun. You search each room hastily, growing more anxious with every empty space, until you reach the final room—the one that holds the most guarded secrets.

You pause outside the door, peeking in cautiously.

Inside, a well-defined man with pink, fluffy hair, leather pants, and a sparkly bomber jacket stands with his back to you, working at one of the computers. This is the information hub, where all vital data is stored. This is bad, but you have the element of surprise. Steadying your breath, you draw your gun and step into the doorway, your voice commanding, “Freeze!”

The man doesn’t freeze. Instead, you watch as he swiftly pulls a USB drive from the computer, moving with a grace that is almost dance-like. Before you can react, he glides across the floor and stands before you, a sword at your throat. A thrill of excitement runs through your body.

You stand still, a smile twisting on your lips, locked in a standoff with the pink-haired intruder. He’s chosen the wrong weapon to threaten you with. “You brought a sword to a gunfight?” you laugh, despite the blade pressing against your throat, your gun aimed at his chest. Who really has the upper hand here?

“Oh, I have a gun too,” he smirks, his voice sweet but laced with danger.

“What are you doing here?” you seethe, standing your ground.

“Getting information,” he replies matter-of-factly, not even breaking a sweat.

“You’re stealing. I can’t allow you to leave,” you spit, but he doesn’t flinch.

“Do you even know what kind of information you’re guarding?” he challenges, his words striking a chord. He’s not the first to ask you this today, and it makes you pause. “I know nothing, and I don’t care,” you respond after a moment’s thought.

“You really should,” he says, stepping closer until your gun is pressed against him. He doesn’t seem afraid, almost as if he’s an adrenaline junkie like you. But no, he’s not scared. He’s reckless. Your finger hovers near the trigger, but something makes you hesitate. You don’t know what it is, and you don’t like it.

His eyes, dark pools of obsidian, glint with amusement. He chuckles, and before you can react, his boot slams into your stomach, sending you sprawling to the cold, hard floor. Your gun slips from your grip, clattering away.

The man towers over you, his boot pressing down on your pussy, the katana poised at your throat, its cold blade grazing your skin. You raise your arms in a defensive pose, trapped and weaponless. He smirks, waving your gun tauntingly.

“You’re guarding information that can save humanity. What you’re doing is sick,” he spits, pressing his boot harder into you. Why does that feel hot? Why do tingles shoot through your body? Damn it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you growl back, genuinely confused. Your mind feels hazy with adrenaline and something else.

“The cure for cancer,” he snarls, his anger palpable.

Your eyes widen. The cure for cancer? You’ve heard whispers, but you didn’t know that’s what you were guarding. You know there’s treatment, but the New World Order has been hoarding those as well, making treatment inaccessible for the common people.

He presses his boot into you even more, a mix of pain and pleasure surging through your body.

“Oh my god. Are you getting turned on right now?” His voice drips with dark amusement, mocking you.

“Fuck no!” you yell, even as your body betrays you, responding to the pressure of his boot. You know you’re aroused, but you refuse to let him have the satisfaction of knowing that.

“I can smell you from here. There’s no point in lying,” he chuckles, lifting his boot from your crotch, though his sword remains at your throat.

You hate how observant he is, and you need to change the subject, to find a way out. You growl, “I’m not. And you’re not getting away. I don’t care if it’s the cure for cancer or whatever you’ve stolen.”

“I have my katana at your throat. I’m sure I’ll make it out just fine,” he replies, his dark chuckle sending shivers down your spine. “I’ve got what I came for,” he says, smirking down at you. “I’m flattered you’re turned on. Maybe if we met under different circumstances,” he adds, his eyes glinting with dark lust. “You should look into the secrets you’re guarding,” he says, withdrawing his katana and retreating, tossing your gun far out of reach.

You scramble to your feet as soon as he’s gone, snatching up your gun and bolting after him through the corridors. He’s silent, almost ghost-like, but you chase him nonetheless. He can’t leave with the vital information. The New World Order will have your head if they find out. You hear the click of a door—it’s the backdoor. You rush outside, the heavy rain stinging your face as the neon lights flicker on the deserted street. You catch sight of his motorcycle’s tail light disappearing into the rain. 

Fuck.

As soon as he crosses the threshold between the Capital and the dystopian suburb, the rain ceases abruptly. He twists the throttle of his motorcycle, speeding through the desolate landscape back to the hideout. His heart pounds, but he doesn’t look back. He doubts he’s being followed.

The journey back is swift. As the hideout comes into view, he decelerates, parking his bike with a sense of triumph. He’s relieved not to return empty-handed and, more importantly, to have survived the mission. Reflecting on the encounter, a smirk forms on his face. You were easier to deceive than he anticipated. A part of him hopes to see you again, intrigued by your reaction to seeing him. 

He wonders if he could sway you, make you see the truth about the secrets you’re guarding for The New World Order. Could he enlist you in his cause? The thought intrigues him, though he doubts it. You seemed too ignorant, too indifferent to the atrocities made by the regime.

The night is still young as he dismounts his bike and strides toward the door. It opens easily—unlocked, as usual. They really should lock it; you never know who might come by.

He’s greeted by a flurry of curious eyes as his friends jump up, their eagerness palpable. “Relax,” he gestures, “sit down.” Reaching into the pocket of his leather pants, he pulls out the USB drive. The tiny piece of tech holds the key to saving the world— the cure for cancer. Something they had all doubted, but had uncovered through relentless investigation, exposing the dark secrets of The New World Order.

He strides over to Namjoon, whose eyes glitter with excitement, his fingers itching to grasp the device and run an analysis. Jimin hands him the USB drive with a proud smile. “Here,” he says, “I hope everything’s on there. I was interrupted while pulling the data.”

“Thank you,” Namjoon responds, already heading into a back room, eager to delve into the contents.

Jimin collapses onto the spot Namjoon vacated, feeling the weight of their stares. 

Bora clears her throat. “You said you were interrupted?”

“Ah, yeah,” he chuckles, revealing his crooked teeth. “A security guard. But she was easy to handle.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Yoongi grunts, his voice strained and raspy.

“It was,” Jimin shrugs, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. In truth, it had been almost too easy. He can’t shake the thought: had he overlooked something, or was fate simply on his side this time?

Jungkook’s questioning stare pierces through Jimin, but he doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t want to share how you made his blood boil with adrenaline and lust. He doesn’t even know your name, but you ignited something within him, a cocktail of emotions in mere moments. He’s both intrigued and captivated by you.

Time blurs as Jimin waits, lost in his thoughts until Namjoon reenters the living room. The look on Namjoon’s face is enough: it’s not the cure.

“This data isn’t complete,” Namjoon groans, frustration etched across his features as he waves the USB drive. He paces anxiously, “It has some information on cancer treatment, but the data on the cure is fragmented. Jin, can you take a look at it? All I see are molecules. I don’t know what to make of it,” he adds, his voice tinged with nervous laughter and defeat.

Jimin’s stomach sinks, a heavy weight of disappointment and anger settling in. He had hoped to secure all the needed information, but now they’re still unable to help Bora, Yoongi, and countless others suffering from the cancer that The New World Order likely caused. The thought sickens him. It wouldn’t surprise him if they were behind everything—the war, the slaughter of mankind. Sometimes it feels like The New World Order is playing a sick game of battle royale with the world’s population. People fight desperately, both for information and survival, in a world where information and treatment are hoarded like treasures. 

Jimin’s mind races, thoughts swirling with the grim reality: when people are dying and sick, they become desperate, willing to do anything to stay alive. He feels a bitter mix of anger and sadness, questioning if he was delusional to think it would be easy to obtain the cure or even secure vital treatment information. The hope that things could change for the better feels like a distant dream.

Jin takes the USB drive, slipping it into his pocket, and gives Jimin a reassuring pat on the shoulder before heading to his patient and study room. Jimin feels a gnawing sense of inadequacy, berating himself for getting caught and distracted by you. He wonders if he should attempt to sneak back into the New World Order building, determined to obtain the missing data they desperately need.

“I’ll go back and see if I can get the remaining data in a few days,” he declares, his voice tinged with deflation but underpinned by a strong current of willpower. He can’t afford to fail again. The mission is too important, the stakes too high.

It’s been a few days since the pink-haired guy infiltrated the New World Order building undetected, slipping through your fingers like sand. The incident has left you feeling weird and anxious. You expected The New World Order to contact you, reprimand you, or worse, eliminate you. But there’s been nothing—no messages, no ominous visits. Maybe they don’t know about your slip-up yet? Or perhaps they’re biding their time.

Your phone, a sleek piece of tech courtesy of The New World Order, vibrates in your hand. You unlock it, and a text message glares back at you.

New World Order: Come to the headquarters in 15 minutes.

That’s all it says, nothing more, nothing less. You gulp, feeling your palms grow sweaty. This is it. This is how you die. Thrown off the tall building. You’ve heard stories, and they’re not nice. The tales of disappearances and silent executions run through your mind, making you shiver with nerves.

You lace up your boots with trembling hands, each loop a countdown to your potential demise. Trudging down the stairs of your dark apartment, you step into the rainy street. The city around you is a dismal sprawl of neon lights and shadows, a perfect reflection of your inner turmoil. You try to calm your racing heart, but it’s a futile effort. Every step feels heavier, every breath more labored as you make your way to the New World Order headquarters, fearing that this is the end.

You reach the New World Order headquarters, a monolith of cold steel and glass looming above the city. For a moment, you let the rain caress your face, cleansing you of your sins. Maybe they won’t mention anything? Clenching your fists, you walk into your workplace, passing through the security scanners, the impassive front desk, the sterile halls, and finally to the elevators. You step into one, the doors closing with a cold finality. The elevator ascends, a silent reminder of the 30 floors that separate you from potential death should you be pushed out. You close your eyes, banishing the thought.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open, revealing an amble-lit hallway adorned in red and gold. The color scheme feels both luxurious and ominous, a blend of future opulence and ancient dread. The red rug underfoot seems out of place, a relic amidst the high-tech surroundings. It suddenly hits you—it might be there to hide a certain color of liquid. No, you shouldn’t think about it. Nothing’s going to happen to you.

Each step down the hallway feels like walking through a graveyard at midnight, the silence thick and oppressive. Your breath quickens, your hand hovering over the handle of the door at the end. This is it. Just get it over with.

With sweaty hands, you push open the door and step inside. A tall man in a black suit stands with his back to you, staring out of the tall windows. The view overlooks the bleak, rainy city, a desolate wasteland stretching to the horizon. The room is deathly silent, save for the patter of rain against the glass. You feel a shiver run down your spine.

He doesn’t turn to acknowledge you, his presence as cold and unyielding as the cityscape beyond. You gulp, your heart pounding in your chest, waiting for him to speak, waiting for your fate to be decided.

You clear your throat, the sound echoing in the tension-filled room. The man’s attention snaps to you, and he turns on his heels with a sinister smile. “Y/N!”

The way he says your name sends shivers down your spine, raising the hairs on your body. An urge to flee or jump out of the window floods your senses, but you force yourself to steady your resolve.

You recognize him as the head of the organization, though his name remains a mystery, like everyone else’s in this godforsaken place. Faces are familiar, but names are a dangerous luxury.

“Glad you could make it. Take a seat,” he gestures to the chair in front of his imposing wooden desk, an artifact of richness you could never dream of affording.

You gulp, a slight ringing in your ears accompanying your erratic heartbeat. Your palms are slick with sweat as you move to sit down.

“Nervous?” he asks, his voice calm and commanding as he paces the room.

“Yes,” you manage to say, gulping again as you track his movements.

“Good,” he replies, looking down at you with a predatory glint in his eye.

“I saw the surveillance footage from the break-in a few days ago,” he begins, his eyes boring into you with an unsettling intensity. Fear knots in your stomach, paralyzing your muscles as you brace yourself for whatever comes next. You remain silent, too scared to speak, knowing that he already knows everything that happened.

“You’ve gone soft. If this happens again, shoot the intruder, or you’ll be the one staring down the barrel of a gun,” he says, his voice sharp and precise, each word like a blade against your throat. A chill runs through you, and you wish the ground would open up and swallow you whole. You’ve messed up, but somehow he’s letting you off with a warning—something you didn’t expect. A small part of you dares to breathe a little easier.

“Now leave before I change my mind,” he hisses. You flinch, your body reacting instinctively as you rush to the door. Bowing quickly, you slip out without a word. Outside, you realize you’ve been holding your breath and you gasp for air, your hands trembling.

You know you have to do your job better if you want to survive. The threat lingers in your mind, and you can’t help but wonder about the secrets you’re guarding. What could be so important? Maybe it’s time to investigate—time to find out if this job is truly worth risking your life for.

Your boss won’t find out, right? You gulp, pushing the thought away. You need to know. You’ve done your job blindly for so long, but the time has come to uncover the truth. You know the higher-ups won’t give you any information, even if you asked, which is why you find yourself downstairs in the control room.

You locate the computer you usually use, turn it on, and log into the company drive. Your fingers tremble as you navigate through multiple folders, delving deeper into the rabbit hole. You uncover information you never imagined existed. Details about how and why the war started shock you—who knew a failed peace treaty could lead to such global devastation? The realization hits you hard: the war was actually orchestrated by a few countries aiming to seize power when the peace treaty collapsed. Those people now form The New World Order. A chill runs down your spine.

You stumble upon a folder detailing the side effects of radiation, studies on various cancer treatments, and ultimately, a cure for cancer. Disbelief floods your mind as you stare at the words on the screen. You blink, hoping the text will change, but it remains. The next document reveals their sinister plan: to keep this life-saving information hidden, ensuring only the rich survive while letting the rest of humanity rot and die.

This is what the pink-haired man wanted you to know. Regret and anger churn in your gut—you should have listened, should have questioned everything from the start. You feel sick, overwhelmed by the weight of the truth. You close the computer, resolve hardening within you. 

As you leave the control room and head home, your mind swirls with thoughts. You need to figure out what to do with this explosive information before your shift tonight. The rain continues to fall, each drop a reminder of the world’s decay. You realize now that your role in The New World Order’s scheme is far more sinister than you ever imagined.

Jimin has to obtain the missing piece of data his group needs for the cure for cancer, or at least information to develop new treatments. Ever since the war started, all research and treatment for cancer have been inaccessible. Late at night, at their hideout far from the Capital, Jimin prepares for his mission. He looks at Bora and Yoongi—Yoongi, in particular, has deteriorated, and Jimin fears he doesn’t have much time left. The urgency gnaws at him; failure is not an option.

He doesn’t know whether he hopes to meet you at the New World Order headquarters or not. The thought of you makes his heart race, but he knows that if you get in his way, his mission might fail. He sighs, waving goodbye to the group, then steps outside. The night is oppressive, the air thick with the scent of decay and rain. He puts on his helmet, the world narrowing to the visor’s view, and straddles his bike. The engine roars to life, vibrating through him, merging with the adrenaline surging in his veins.

It’s now or never.

He twists the accelerator, the bike surging forward into the darkness, toward the lifeless, desolate Capital. The neon lights flicker ominously as he speeds into enemy territory, a lone figure against the backdrop of a crumbling dystopia.

The room is dark—just the way you prefer it. Your eyes, adept at seeing through the gloom, catch every detail, including the pink-haired intruder hunched over a computer terminal, stealing vital information from your employer. Silently, you watch him, observing his methodical movements as he navigates the screen. The monitor casts a ghostly blue light, making his hair shimmer with a surreal purple hue. You can’t deny he looks striking.

Tonight, you decide not to intervene. After your own clandestine investigation into your employer, you understand why he’s after the data—why so many risk everything to steal it. The New World Order’s secrets are dark and twisted, and the pink-haired man’s quest suddenly seems justified.

Minutes tick by in silence, the intruder’s focus unbroken. His sparkly bomber jacket gleams faintly in the dim light. Finally, he seems satisfied, pulling a USB drive from the terminal. The moment he turns around, you flick on the lights.

Yellow fluorescent tubes flicker to life, bathing the room in a harsh, sickly glow. He freezes, one hand instinctively hovering over the katana strapped to his back, the other gripping the USB drive.

“Fancy meeting you here,” you smirk, leaning casually against the wall by the exit, blocking his escape.

He hisses, scanning you up and down before his features relax into a smirk. “Where’s your gun? Aren’t you gonna try to stop me again, pretty?”

Your eyes sparkle at the compliment, much like his jacket, and you chuckle softly. “Nah,” you shrug, but straighten your posture, exuding confidence.

He quirks an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Why?”

You take in his appearance—black leather pants hugging his thick thighs, lace-up military boots, and that unmistakable sparkly bomber jacket. With a soft, yet sultry smile, you reply, “I finally opened my eyes to what’s really going on. What’s truly been happening, and I don’t like it one bit.”

His shoulders relax further, and his hands withdraw from the katana and the gun stashed behind his back. He eyes you with a mixture of caution and intrigue, seemingly pleased by your revelation.

“So, you’re just gonna let me go?” he asks, ensuring he hasn’t misheard.

“Yeah. But actually…” you begin, drawing out your words to capture his attention as you step closer, batting your eyes at him. “I have more information back at my apartment that you might want to see. I can take you there. Show you.”

You can’t help the way your body responds to him—you want him, and you want him bad. It’s true, you do have valuable information at your place, but your ulterior motives are undeniable. The risk is immense. The moment you make this move, you’ll become a wanted criminal, hunted by the New World Order. But the thought of remaining complicit in their schemes sickens you. You crave freedom, and he might just be the key to it.

For a flicker of a second, you catch him stuttering, but he quickly collects himself, smirking back at you. His pink tongue darts out to wet his lips in a teasing move, and you feel a tingle between your legs.

“Let’s go then,” he says, brushing past you and out the door. You follow closely, aware of the cameras tracking your every move, but you don't care. Time is short; the New World Order will come after you soon, so you need to be quick.

The pink-haired man leads the way through the dim, familiar halls to the back door. The green emergency light flickers ominously overhead. He pushes the door open, and the bleak night greets you with flickering neon lights. His sleek silver bike stands nearby. As you approach, he hands you his helmet and lets you straddle his bike, taking the place behind you. His body presses close against your back, and a surge of arousal courses through you.

You turn the bike on, and it roars to life. With a swift movement, you speed through the empty, rain-soaked streets back to your apartment. His arms wrap securely around your torso, and it feels nice. His head rests against your shoulder, and you catch a whiff of his scent—like fresh cotton on a summer's breeze, something you haven’t smelled in a long time. You long for it.

It doesn’t take long to reach your apartment. You turn off the bike, parking it out of sight from prying eyes. He gets off first, then you remove the helmet and jump down. Neither of you speaks as you walk up the stairs to your first-floor apartment. You quickly unlock the door and push into your dark space. The lights are off, and the place is messy with clothes strewn about, but you don't care. The apartment is a tiny one-bedroom, an open space where the kitchen, living room, and bedroom blend together. It’s small, but it’s home.

“Welcome,” you whisper, closing the door behind you, sealing both of you in a cocoon of secrecy and danger.

The tension between you feels thick as you make your way inside, heading straight to your desk and rummaging for the flash drive you’ve hidden. The man’s eyes follow your every move as you open a drawer and pull out the drive, smirking as you wave it in the air. “This has more information on it that I think you’ll need.”

He stalks closer, his smirk widening. In the minimal light, he seems even more predatory than before. The look in his eyes suggests he wants to devour you right then and there.

“What’s in it for you?” he asks, standing mere millimeters from you, your noses almost touching. His warm breath fans your ear and neck, sending shivers down your spine.

“Take me with you,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. His eyes roam your body, lingering on your eyes, cheeks, nose, lips, and collarbone.

“Hmm,” he hums, his hands landing on your hips. You feel the warmth of his fingers through your leather pants.

Your breath quickens, and you feel like you’re crumbling beneath his stare, utterly aroused for this man whose name you still don’t know. The mixture of arousal and adrenaline makes you feel almost high.

You close the gap between you and kiss him. It’s quick and needy, and he responds immediately, pressing his body hungrily into yours, his fingers digging into the bare skin of your waist above your pants. His lips are soft, but his moves are hard and hungry.

He moves his lips to your ear, kissing and licking it, then trailing down to your neck. He marks it with his teeth, eliciting a needy moan from you. The world outside your darkened apartment fades away, leaving only the desperate, electric connection between you.

“You’re really something,” he pants into your ear, his breath sending tingles down your spine and all the way to your core. “I want to taste you, and I don’t even know your name.”

You chuckle, the sound strained and laden with lust. “It’s Y/N,” you manage between pants. “What’s yours?”

“I’m Jimin,” he murmurs, his tongue tracing your neck before biting gently.

Fuck.

“I want you, Jimin,” you groan as he pulls back slightly, his pupils blown wide with desire.

“But we don’t have much time,” you say breathlessly, the urgency of your situation seeping into your voice. “The New World Order will be looking for me soon.” You fumble with your pants, dragging them and your panties down to expose yourself to the cool air of the apartment.

In one fluid motion, Jimin drops to his knees, looking up at you with a teasing lick of his lips. “No worries, I can be quick.” Without another word, he dives in, his mouth sealing around your wet heat.

You gasp his name, your legs turning to jelly as your hands find purchase in his pink locks. His tongue is relentless, strong and skilled as it laps over your clit and teases your entrance. The obscene noises he makes against you only heighten your arousal, your breathing growing shallow as you lose yourself in the sensation.

Your back meets the wall, and you do your best to hold yourself up as he devours you from the floor. His mouth works you expertly, sucking and licking, driving you closer to the edge. The coil in your stomach tightens, your body trembling with the impending climax.

Jimin grunts into your cunt, his teeth grazing your clit, and the world shatters around you. He sucks hard, creating a perfect seal around your sensitive nub, and the coil in your stomach snaps. You come undone on his tongue, panting furiously as waves of pleasure wash over you.

Even as you orgasm, he doesn’t stop, his tongue continuing its assault, his nose pressing against your clit. You grab his hair, trying to pull him away as your sensitivity peaks, but he holds you there, pushing you to the brink of overstimulation and back into the abyss of pleasure.

His face glistens with your slick, and you think he looks beautiful, so you grab his sharp jaw and pull him up for a kiss. You don’t care that you taste yourself on his plush lips.

You break away and say, “I really want to return the favor,” your hands toying with his pants as you brush against his already erect dick.

He pushes your hand away gently. “It’s okay. You said to be quick, so you can do that another time.” He kisses you again, trailing down to the other side of your neck, then up to the shell of your ear. “I really just want to fuck you now.”

You’re drenched, dripping with arousal. His words render you speechless; you bite your bottom lip and nod, anticipation coursing through you.

The sound of his zipper sends a thrill down your spine as he opens his pants. He drags his boxers down, and his cock springs free. It’s thick and of an average length, and the sight makes you salivate. You wish you had time to take him into your mouth, but that’s a pleasure for another time, like he promised.

The head of his cock is red, with a bead of precum at the tip. It looks beautiful, and your pussy clenches around the emptiness, eager to be filled. You can’t wait to have him stretch you, it’s been so long since you’ve had sex. It’s honestly been years, and as you realize this, you think he should have prepared you more. But you don’t get to mull over it for long; you feel the tip of his cock against your folds, and in one fluid motion, he pushes inside you.

You moan his name as he grabs both of your legs and wraps them around his waist, driving himself deeper into you. You feel so fucking full, it’s delicious.

“Fuck. I forgot about a condom,” he pants, slamming you hard against the wall. He stays inside for a moment before beginning a relentless rhythm of thrusts.

“It’s okay,” you reassure him, “I’m clean, and I can’t get pregnant.”

He just grunts in your ear, then starts nibbling on it. The pace he sets is quick, hard, and dirty—unforgiving. But you don’t mind; you're pressed for time anyway. The pleasure is intense, and the way he growls into your ear makes the knot form in your stomach again.

“You’re a dirty little thing, aren’t you?” he growls, thrusting hard and deep. “You wanted this right from the start, didn’t you?” His voice is low, dangerously so, making you even wetter because he’s so right.

“Such a fucking slut for cock,” he pants, his tongue trailing along your neck. “No one in this godforsaken city to satisfy your needy pussy.”

You clench around him, your hands gripping his shoulders, fingers digging into the back of his sparkly jacket.

“Fuck. You’re so tight,” he groans, his hips working overtime to pleasure you, and your eyes roll back in ecstasy.

“Are you gonna come?” he asks, a wicked glint in his eyes.

You moan in response, releasing a wave of liquid around his cock, making the glide even smoother.

“Fuck. You’re gorgeous,” he says, licking your neck again. “I’m gonna come too.”

With a rapid burst of thrusts, he spills his warm seed inside your still-pulsating pussy. For a moment, you rest your foreheads together, panting for air. Your legs remain wrapped around his waist as he hungrily kisses your lips.

You feel a mixture of your essences trailing out of you, pooling on the floor or your panties—you don’t really care.

As you struggle to steady your breathing and rapid heartbeat, a pounding on your door shatters the moment. It's not gentle—it’s hard and oppressive, sending a terrible shiver down your spine. The New World Order. Your mind turns razor-sharp, senses heightened. Jimin quickly softens inside you, then pulls out, your legs falling to the floor, dripping semen as he pulls up his pants and grabs his gun and the hard drive.

You do the same, hastily pulling up your pants as the banging continues. The door handle rattles, but it doesn't open. Thank fuck you locked it.

“We have to leave,” you pant, your heart in your throat. You fumble for your phone, then throw it into your room—you don’t need it; they can track you with that.

“No shit,” he grunts, running a hand through his disheveled pink hair.

“We gotta jump out the window,” you say, fear in your eyes. You know it’s only a matter of time before they break down the door.

You grab Jimin’s hand and pull him to the window beside your bed. Thankful that you live on the first floor, you make the jump first, landing on the dirty ground. Jimin follows, landing more gracefully. You hear the brute force of the door breaking, and you startle, fear coursing through you. But Jimin is quick, pulling you to his bike, shoving his helmet onto your head. He straddles the bike, and without much thought, you climb on behind him.

You lean against him, feeling the rapid beating of your heart. He turns on the bike, and you hear shouting and gunshots from your apartment as Jimin speeds down the rain-soaked streets. You lay your head against his back, closing your eyes against the chaos behind you.

Jimin parks his bike in front of the Whalien 52 headquarters, and you dismount first, removing the helmet and handing it to him. He follows suit, and you both stride into the building. It’s well past midnight now, and as you walk into the headquarters with Jimin, all eyes turn toward you. The tension in the room is palpable; they’ve likely been anxiously awaiting his safe return.

“Hi,” he says casually, plopping onto the couch with a soft thud.

“Who’s this?” Taehyung strides up, pointing at you with a raised brow.

“Oh, that’s Y/N. The woman who got in my way last time,” Jimin shrugs as if this is information everyone should already know.

“So you decided to take her home?” Taehyung asks in disbelief.

“I helped him gain extra information. And I want out of the New World Order,” you say, crossing your arms, not flinching under their scrutinizing stares.

“You’re the enemy though,” Yoongi joins the conversation, his voice strained with a cough.

“She really isn’t. Do you even know how much she’s risked just by coming here?” Jimin retorts, defending you without fully understanding why. He knows you can defend yourself just fine.

“I have a target on my back now. So I want to help you guys. Make things right in the world. That’s what you want to do, right?” you ask, scanning the open living room space.

The room falls silent, the weight of your words sinking in. The dim, flickering lights cast long shadows, amplifying the room’s tension. Each member of the group seems to wrestle with their thoughts, eyes flicking between you and Jimin. Finally, Seokjin steps forward, his gaze steady and thoughtful.

Seokjin approaches Jimin with an intense gaze. “Did you get all the data?”

Jimin nods silently and hands over both the USB drive and the flash drive you gave him in your apartment. Seokjin’s eyes light up with a rare glimmer of hope as he takes the hardware and retreats to his makeshift lab.

You slump down beside Jimin, exhaustion finally catching up with you. Jungkook steps forward, extending a hand. “Welcome to Whalien52, Y/N.”

You shake his hand, offering a tired smile, then lean back against Jimin. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you both allow yourselves a moment of rest. But Jimin’s mind races with concern. How quickly will the New World Order track you down? Did they follow you here?

Time becomes a blur in the dimly lit room. You drift off to sleep on Jimin’s shoulder, and his eyelids grow heavy as well. Just as he’s about to succumb to slumber, Seokjin bursts into the room, a triumphant smile lighting up his face.

“I’ve sequenced a cure from the data,” he announces, his voice brimming with joy. “And treatments for various cancers too.”

The room erupts in cheers and laughter, a collective sigh of relief and celebration filling the air.

“I’m preparing the cure for Yoongi and Bora now,” Seokjin adds, his pride evident.

Jimin feels a surge of relief and accomplishment. They’ve finally done it. You’ve secured the cure for cancer. Now Yoongi and Bora can be saved. And perhaps, just perhaps, they can save the rest of civilization. But first, they have to deal with the looming threat of the New World Order. 

The battle is far from over.

It’s been a few days, and the absence of the New World Order’s presence is unnerving. You expected them to chase you and Jimin out of the city, but they haven’t. This silence feels ominous, a dark cloud hanging over your newfound sanctuary.

You’ve settled into the daily routines of Whalien52, where hope and caution dance a tense waltz. Seokjin tirelessly crafts cures and treatments. Yoongi and Bora, the first recipients, show promising signs of recovery, their improvements a beacon of hope amidst the uncertainty. The group celebrates these small victories, buzzing with a cautious optimism that almost feels too good to be true.

In these days of uneasy peace, you’ve found roles within the group. Namjoon introduced you to his intricate tech—ingenious weapons and machines designed for survival. Taehyung showed you around the small town that Whalien52 calls home. On the horizon, the Capital looms like a dark sentinel, a constant reminder of the lurking threat.

Despite the calm surface, the air is thick with anxiety. The lack of action from the New World Order feels wrong. Yoongi polishes weapons with a grim focus, and you’ve all had tense conversations about the impending attack you’re sure is coming. Jungkook echoes your concerns, insisting on readiness.

Hoseok monitors the New World Order’s communications, but all he gets is an unsettling silence. This lack of intel twists your stomach into knots. Each passing day, the tension ratchets up. The quiet eats at you, turning every creak and rustle into a potential threat.

Weeks pass, and the tension in the headquarters is palpable. You’re all on edge, constantly looking over your shoulders. Every sound is magnified, each one making you jump, hearts racing with the fear that the New World Order has finally come for you.

Everyone is exhausted, sleep deprived and on edge, each day a relentless battle against the looming threat of the New World Order. You long for an end to this tense limbo, for the chance to truly rest.

Yoongi’s condition has worsened, and Seokjin’s latest research scatters your fragile hopes. “This isn’t a cure,” he admits, deflated. “It’s just a temporary fix, a treatment.”

Yoongi coughs weakly but manages a smile, hugging his girlfriend Bora tightly. “But it helps,” he says softly. “A cure was always a dream. There’s never been a real cure for cancer, and maybe there never will be.”

Bora kisses his forehead, her eyes glistening with determination. “The treatment is helping,” she insists, caressing his cheeks. “Maybe Seokjin can alter it, make it better, stronger?” She turns to Seokjin, who nods, already lost in thought, considering how to enhance the treatment. You all want to help, driven by a fierce collective will to save Yoongi.

You walk over to Jimin, giving him a soft kiss, seeking a moment of solace. Suddenly, the sharp crack of a gunshot shatters the room. Bora screams in pain, and chaos erupts. You all drop to the floor, hearts pounding in sheer panic. For a moment, there’s an eerie silence, broken only by Bora’s agonized cries. You can’t see her or Yoongi, shielded by the couch.

Frantically, you search for Jimin, and his hand finds yours, squeezing tightly. The connection is a lifeline, a brief reassurance amidst the terror.

More gunshots pierce the air, and you hold your breath, praying Bora is alright. Your heart races, the reality sinking in: the New World Order is here, ready to kill you all.

With steely resolve, you clench your free hand, feeling the cold metal of your holstered gun against your thigh. 

It’s time. 

Time to make a stand. 

Time to fight back.

You look at Jimin, your eyes wide with panic as your heart pounds in your ears. He army crawls to your weapon stash, grabbing an arsenal: a rifle he slides over to Yoongi, a gun for himself, and his sword, which he straps on while still lying on the floor. Jungkook, with his tattooed hand, clutches a rifle down his length of his body. You scan the room for Seokjin, Taehyung, and Hoseok, but they’re nowhere to be seen.

Bora’s screams have diminished to grunts of pain. Yoongi drags her towards Seokjin’s room, leaving a trail of blood. An eerie silence falls as you watch them. You hear Yoongi's voice from Seokjin’s room, explaining that Bora’s wound is a flesh wound, pleading for Seokjin to take care of her. Yoongi crawls back into the living room.

“Is Bora okay?” you ask, sweat beading on your hairline, your breathing quick and shallow.

“Yeah. Seokjin’s got her. Namjoon, Tae, and Hobi are in there too,” Yoongi grits his teeth, his face pale with anger.

Jungkook crawls over to join you, “I guess it’s the New World Order knocking down our doors.”

“We have to fight back. Or die trying,” Yoongi spits, his anger palpable. “I’m sick and tired of them. We need to overthrow them,” he says, his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. You’re all on high alert, fighting for your lives.

The door bursts open, a harsh light from outside flooding in as heavy boots stomp on the floor. You count six people by the rhythm of their steps and then a seventh, moving slowly and deliberately. Ominous, and just by the sound of the boots, you know who it is—the leader.

A cold shiver runs down your spine as your fingers curl around the trigger of your gun. The footsteps grow louder, the moment drawing closer. You roll onto your back, raising your gun for the inevitable confrontation.

Suddenly, you’re yanked by your legs, sliding across the floor with a yell, losing your grip on Jimin’s hand. The leader looms over you, a shadow of dread, as you prepare to fight for your life.

“Well, well. What have we here? Y/N. Nice to see you,” the man sneers, his voice dripping with mockery. You don’t know his name, but you remember him all too well—the leader of the New World Order, the man who had last spoken to you in his office after Jimin’s initial attempt to steal information from your former employer.

You gulp, pointing your gun at him.

He tuts dismissively, “You know that’s useless,” and with a swift kick, he sends your gun skidding across the floor.

“You’ve been a bad, bad girl,” he hisses, his hands casually resting in his pockets while his men, guns trained on you, stand menacingly behind him.

“What you’re doing is sick,” you fume, anger bubbling within you.

Suddenly, Jimin rises, his gun aimed directly at the man before you.

Recognition flickers in the leader’s eyes, “Ah,” he chuckles darkly, “so this is the man you left me for.”

Jimin grunts, “Hands off her.”

“Protective, huh?” he laughs, a cold, mechanical sound that sends chills down your spine.

Your eyes dart between Jimin and the leader, anxiety tightening your chest. You don’t know who will be quicker on the trigger. You hold your breath, terrified for Jimin’s safety. Your heart pounds so loudly it nearly deafens you.

A gunshot echoes through the room, followed by a heavy thud. Your heart sinks as you see the leader still standing. Fear grips you, paralyzing you from turning around to check on Jimin. You feel a scream or a sob rising in your throat, maybe both.

Then, you hear the sound of someone standing up and Yoongi’s voice cuts through the tension, “You are one sick bastard. Keeping vital information to yourself, letting people die of cancer and radiation.” His voice is thick with anger and disdain.

The leader turns his attention to Yoongi and chuckles again, a sound you’ve come to loathe. “Only the elite deserve to live. I don’t mind letting people die to create the perfect world.”

You scoff, the revelation of his twisted ideology making you nauseous. The horror of being part of such a sick scheme churns in your stomach.

As you try to glance over your shoulder to see Jimin, one of the leader’s men grabs you, yanking you into a sitting position. Panic surges through you, but determination hardens your resolve. It’s time to fight back, no matter the cost.

Finally, you spot Jimin lying on the floor. There’s no blood, thankfully, and his hand is giving you a thumbs up. Relief floods your body, momentarily pushing back the fear.

“You are so sick,” Yoongi spits, his voice a raw edge. “You killed so many people, for what? Utopia?”

Your old boss nods, chuckling darkly. “Too much freedom breeds murder and chaos. I needed a clean slate,” he shrugs, strolling past you towards Yoongi, who keeps his rifle trained on him. “People need order. Someone to follow. When the weak and poor have died off, I’ll guide the rest into a New World Order.”

Yoongi spits on the floor, “Over my fucking dead body.” His index finger twitches towards the trigger, his stance solid and ready. 

You stop breathing.

Yoongi fires, but your old boss is faster, landing a shot in Yoongi’s shoulder. Yoongi hisses, dropping the rifle to the floor.

“I told you it’s useless,” your old boss sneers, chuckling. “Next time I’ll aim for the head.”

Time stretches and warps as he paces the room, taking stock of you all. You’re at a standstill, trapped in the crosshairs of his malevolent gaze. Jimin remains prone, waiting for an opportunity. Yoongi grunts in pain, clutching his wounded shoulder. Jungkook lies still, eyes flicking between you and the leader. 

It feels like game over. 

You’re all going to die.

Your old boss paces slowly, chuckling, reveling in your predicament. “I wonder who I should kill first…” he muses, dragging out the words as he turns towards you. “Your boyfriend, maybe? How do you feel about watching him die?”

Your heart pounds wildly. 

You struggle against the grip of the man holding you by your hair, pain searing through your scalp, but the thought of Jimin’s death is unbearable.

The leader strides towards Jimin, raising his gun. Your breath catches in your throat, terror gripping you as you watch. You scream with all the force in your lungs, a primal sound tearing through the air as you close your eyes, bracing for the worst.

Bang. Bang. Bang. 

The sound of three gunshots fills your ears, and you scream even louder, tears streaming down your cheeks as you call out your lover’s name. More gunshots follow, and the man holding your hair lets go, dropping you to the wooden floor with a heavy thud. Tears blur your vision as you struggle to blink them away, desperate to find Jimin.

But you don’t see him.

Panic surges through you. Where is he?

Your gaze shifts, and you see your old boss, his head snapped back from a point-blank shot, blood pooling beneath him. You gasp, turning your head just in time to see familiar lace-up boots moving purposefully across the room. Chaos reigns. Bora stands in the hallway, a rifle trained on the lifeless body of your boss. She was the one who shot him?

Jimin moves through the room like a lethal dancer, his katana slicing through enemies with precision. Jungkook is on his feet too, methodically picking off the men from the New World Order. Amid the chaos, you see Bora approach Yoongi, who is clutching his shoulder.

“Are you okay, babe?” she asks, her voice strained but determined as she examines his injury.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he pants, noting the bandage on her thigh, stained with blood. “You should lie down.”

“I could say the same to you,” she chuckles, raising her rifle to take aim at another man.

How many are down now? You scan the room, counting seven bodies sprawled on the floor.

“Is it over?” Seokjin calls out, peeking from his room down the hall.

“I think so,” Jungkook replies, clapping his hands together, trying to shake off the tension.

The room falls into a tense silence, the aftermath of the battle settling over you like a shroud. You push yourself up, your body aching and adrenaline still coursing through your veins. Jimin meets your gaze, and you feel a flicker of hope amidst the wreckage. 

For now, you’ve survived.

You rush over to Jimin, pulling him into a tight embrace, relief flooding through you. “I’m okay, babe,” he murmurs, kissing you softly. Thank God.

“We need to take the fight to their headquarters. They’ll be coming for us anyway. Better to surprise them,” Yoongi declares, his voice grim.

“Don’t you think they’d anticipate that?” Jungkook counters, eyeing Yoongi critically. “And you’re in no condition to fight, hyung.”

“The fuck I’m not. It’s just my shoulder. I’m fine,” Yoongi pants, picking up his rifle.

“Let’s go,” Bora interjects from behind Yoongi, her voice determined.

Yoongi spins around, his mouth agape. “You’re staying, babe. Your leg—”

“This is as much my fight as it is yours, and Seokjin patched me up,” she retorts, her stern look brooking no argument. Yoongi deflates, conceding to her resolve.

You all huddle together, gathering weapons for the imminent battle. Taehyung, Namjoon, and Seokjin stay back, while the rest of you head outside to your vehicles.

You and Jimin mount his bike, while Jungkook, Yoongi, and Bora take the car. Jimin hands you a helmet, then puts on his own before revving the engine. The bike purrs to life, and with a roar, he accelerates toward the Capital, Jungkook and the others following in the car.

The journey is a blur, the rain pouring down in relentless sheets as you navigate the desolate streets. The Capital looms ahead, a monolithic reminder of the oppressive regime you’re up against. You skid to a stop in front of the New World Order headquarters, jumping off the bike with Jimin close behind. Jungkook, Yoongi, and Bora emerge from the car, weapons in hand, steely determination etched on their faces.

The rain-soaked mud reflects the harsh glow of neon lights, casting eerie shadows as you steel yourselves for the fight. The headquarters stands ominously before you, a fortress of tyranny that has caused so much suffering. You take a deep breath, fingers tightening around your gun.

It’s time to end this.

“Follow me. The building is massive,” you say, leading the way into your old workplace. Navigating the familiar lower floors is swift; they’re almost deserted. Jimin dances with his katana, each swing mesmerizing, cutting down any opposition with ease. 

Clearing the lower levels quickly, you ascend the stairs, banging open doors and moving through the less familiar upper halls. The men from the New World Order fall easily; many surrender, unwilling to defend a crumbling regime. 

Finally, you reach the top floor, the office of your now-dead boss. Stepping inside, you look out through the tall windows overlooking the city. 

“What do we do now?” you ask, your voice echoing in the silence. 

The horizon flickers with a strange yellow glow. 

Jimin, his katana sheathed on his back, joins you. “Is that the sun?” he asks, his eyes following yours.

“I think it is,” Bora says, intertwining her fingers with Yoongi’s.

“Now that the New World Order is gone,” Yoongi muses, “won’t another group try to take its place?”

“Maybe,” you respond, lost in thought.

Jungkook chuckles beside you. “We’ll make sure no one does. All information will be free and accessible.”

“Aren’t we just like the New World Order then?” Yoongi raises an eyebrow.

“No,” Jungkook replies firmly. “We’ll let people live freely, with no ‘order’ imposed.”

You all hum in agreement, turning your gaze to the horizon. For the first time in a long while, the oppressive clouds of the Capital part, slowly revealing the sun. The relentless rain stops, and you feel the air shift—this is a new beginning.

→ Taglist: @jeonsbabygirlsworld @11thenightwemet11 @haru-jiminn → Disclaimer: the photo of kitty gang Jimin is a concert photo by a fansite, and I’ve been trying to reverse google search the image to find the fansite/photographer, but without luck. I can see on the original that the fansite name is something along the lines of ‘CelestialYM9999’ but that show on results on google either. If you know the fansite, please let me know so I can credit properly (my photography brain really wants to give proper credit). → Author’s note(2): what do you think? Please let me know! A big shoutout and thank you to @manipulatedstars for having the idea to make Jungkook run a survivalist camp 🥳💜 Now, I can’t wait to write something that isn’t action— back to my sappy romance writing! I think one of the mermaid fics is next on my list ✨

[a-simple-imagine]

Too Cute to be Angry

Synopsis: A night spent talking to politicians and alt right superheroes is enough to drive anyone crazy but it's sister sage that puts you over the edge

Pairing: Victoria Neuman x fem!supe!reader (feline shifter)

Words: 3k+

A/N - self ingulgent little cat girl fic with my favourite supe written entirely for myself :)

WARNINGS - swearing, brief mention of murder and homophobia

Victoria Neuman was the busiest woman you know. if she wasn't spending her days in meetings or on Zoom calls, she was attending interviews or making speeches. she was a very driven woman. had big goals. ones you could hardly even fathom but not from lack of trying. you wanted to be part of her world but at the same time, it was so difficult to comprehend. it's not as simple as black and white. the people she surrounded herself with weren't always the best and for the most part, it's clear she tries to keep you out of it. possibly some misguided attempt to protect you.

it was a rare afternoon that was cleared just for you. nobody else around. no work calls or meetings. just the two of you sharing a quiet moment. laying on the couch with your head in her lap.A delicate hand scratches behind the feline ears that live upon your head. it feels good; and calming.a sluggish but continuous rhythm that was drawing you to drowsiness. She wouldn't mind. it wouldn't be the first time nor the last that you fell asleep on her.

"babe,"

"yeah?"

"how would you feel about going out tonight?" the answer was no. it was always going to be no. you were too content with a quiet evening to suddenly have plans thrust upon you.

"Where?" you question anyway and her hand slows.

"Tek knights." a mumbled answer that your ears pick up loud and clear. she couldn't be serious right now. there is absolutely zero reason why she would be going to see Tek Knight for anything but business and she already promised you no business tonight. it was just gonna be the two of you.

"Are you... serious?"

"some fancy party."

"no," replied snappily. "dude is creepy."

"When have you ever met tek knight?"

"once actually," you state, moving yourself up to look at her. "and he was fucking weird- asked inappropriate questions about my tail." you swish your tail, gently grazing it against her cheek.

"Well, you can just avoid him all night," Victoria insists, shoving your tail away. "I'd really like you to come."

"no thank you, can you go back to scratching behind my ears now." you lay back down.

"no,"

a heavy sigh. "Victoria," whined softly, as you nuzzled into her lap. you're tempted to gently bite her thigh but you don't. that would not help your case right now. "please?"

"if you agree to come I'll give you all the ear scratches you want."

"that's not fair."

"I need a buffer for when I can't take it anymore and that's you," she gives your side a firm pat. "I got you something pretty to wear."

"how pretty," mumbled against her legs.

"very," that meant expensive. you groan, stretching your arms and legs before sitting up. she raises a curious brow that makes you roll your eyes. She wasn't going to let this go.

"fine but you owe me," she places her hand on your head, ruffling your hair, making sure to get behind the ears. you naturally lean into her touch. this was gonna be a very long night.

Tek Knight lives in a mansion. like an actual massive mansion that's old and creepy but also kind of cool. gothic in nature and not an ounce of homeliness to its name. Victoria annoyingly leaves you alone pretty quickly and you're forced to find your own source of amusement. music plays as background noise and there really isn't anything to do here other than touch ornaments or talk with Republicans. She didn't tell you this was gonna be a party filled with right-wing nuts but here you are anyway. conversing with old white men about reproductive rights and how gay people are fine but need to stop shoving their lifestyle down Americans' throats. you observe the party from the corner of the room. helping yourself to the hors d'oeuvres as trays rush by. It's always a wonder why they don't just have actual food at these events or at least something a little less fancy. something actually tasty.

"you're Neuman's girl, right?" it's not inherently wrong so you allow the nickname especially when you realise who it comes from. she has never tried to hide your relationship but she hardly advertised it either. can't scare off the voters or whatever. you don't mind. you're not exactly in a rush to be hounded by the general public. Homelander stands beside you; strong and tall in his red, white and blue super suit. You've never been next to such a powerful supe before excluding Neuman. he was intimidating in real life.

"homelander," you declare obviously. you're not sure what else to say here. Victoria speaks about him a lot. he's also in the news all the time. you very recently watched him on TV. "I saw your trial," blurted out before you thought of the consequences. he probably didn't like to talk about him murdering a man.

"so you saw that I was found innocent,"

you nod a little. he'd been found not guilty despite the overwhelming evidence which was kind of insane but also expected. "Vicky says you should have been locked up," you agreed.

"and what do you think?" he turns his whole body towards you and you do the same. such intense eyes it's almost like he's looking right through you. you may be a supe but you were hardly on his level. Victoria says he's kinda unstable these days and anything can set him off so you try to think of something safe to say.

"I think... your eyes are really fucking blue- no wonder fascists love you," he smiles. you don't know if it's amusement or menacing but surely he understands you're joking. and if not, he likely won't attack at this fancy little party.

"calm down, I'm not going to hurt you."

"What makes you think I'm worried." he wasn't a mind reader that you knew for sure.

"your heartbeat," he replies. "but mostly the ears," the blonde points to the cat ears on the top of your head. "anyone else would call it cute," and with that, he walks away. he was a... confusing man. even from that short interaction, you can tell he can be elusive. alone once more you decide to go in search of a drink but it isn't long before Victoria is at your side.

"hi baby," you're happy to see her. you hope it means you can go home soon.

"hey,"

"What did he want?"

"Who? homelander?" why did she care? "just chatting about his trial and how cute I am."

"how cute you are?" she repeats back slowly.

"Hmm it's no surprise- everyone is obsessed with me so."

"you are adorable,"

a very bright exaggerated smile, showing your canines before your face immediately falls. "can we go yet?"

"you promised you'd hold out a couple of hours," and it was starting to feel like a lifetime.

"and I have," you groan dramatically.

"It's barely been an hour,"

"y'know, I literally got told women have too many rights," you reply. "too. many. rights- what does that even mean?"

Victoria sighs softly. "I know they can be... opinionated but just suck it up for me okay? it'll be over before you know it,"

"I wanna go now,"

"I know," she runs a gentle hand along your back. "but this is important."

"why is it so important?"

"I- I can't tell you that right now," Victoria replies. She never told you anything. it was always just important calls or important meetings or important parties. it made you want to roll your eyes. "just please behave for me," you put on a pout. "and I'll take you to the nice restaurant with the fancy cakes you love,"

"Really?" said cautiously. when in doubt she'll bribe you. not because she doubts you'll do it for free but rather as an insurance policy. better safe than sorry.

"Always so easy," she chuckles. "you gotta work on keeping your ears in check. perked right up when I said that,"

you frown a little, reaching up to cover your ears with your hands. "stupid ears."

"It's cute," she hums softly, a kiss placed against your temple.

"I hate you," said sharply.

"Just... mingle or something." Victoria pats your shoulder before leaving you alone again. you follow her with your eyes as she walks up to some old man. you decide to go for a walk and find that drink you were after.

"you arrived with Neuman," stated matter of factly. sister sage walks up from behind you. you cover your mouth as you finish the little pastry you stole off a tray.

"Sister Sage," mumbled through a mouthful before you swallowed. "newest member of the seven- I heard you're like the smartest woman ever."

"smartest person," she corrected.

"smartest person," you repeat. "what's someone so smart doing in a place like this?"

"we're surrounded by some of the most powerful people in the United States of America right now," Sage explains. you know on some level that should mean something to you but you hardly feel excited or proud. quite the opposite. you were in a room with some of the worst people in the United States of America. Almost all of them are against the very things you are.

"but not the nicest," you grab a champagne flute as it passes by, taking a long-needed sip of bubbly liquid.

"nice only gets you so far," she continues. "you're probably the nicest person here but also the least important."

wow. okay. rude. "I wouldn't call myself the least important."

"I would," she replies. "even the waiters are of more value right now. you're just Neuman's basically pet, cute but useless."

you're not sure what to say to that. is that why Victoria never shared anything with you? didn't think you were important? just a pet to be paraded about like some cute little mascot in her parade for power? "I'm not her pet."

"how do your ears and tail work? they're biological right?" the question catches you a little off guard. such a change.

"uhhhh shouldn't the smartest person alive be able to figure that out?"

"you're a shifter but only into a feline," her eyes trail over you like this was some sort of interview or examination. "do you keep the ears for aesthetic purposes? surely, you can get rid of the cat ears and tail."

"you'd think," you shrug. "but no, I'm cursed to be every nerdy incels wet fantasy." the cat ears and tail were considered cute by many, disgusting by others and a fetish by too many. for a long time, vought used you in a lot of advertisements and commercials until you quit. you still occasionally do some ads and stuff for extra cash. Not often do people see a real-life cat girl. a hand snakes across your back and you instinctively jerk away before realising it's Victoria. "hey,"

"Can we talk?" she wears the fakest smile ever.

"hmm," sage hums. you quirk your brow.

"What?"

"Nothing," she insists. "you have the exact dynamic I would expect. don't mind me." you'd ask what she meant but she is already walking away and Victoria is leading you in the opposite direction.

"what's up?" you wonder.

"I don't want you talking to sister sage."

"why?".

"Can you listen to me for once?"

"for once?" all you do is listen to her. this whole night was for her. "I'm here listening to old men tell me I deserve to go to hell for you. this is worse than that political banquet where that man followed me around the whole night and kept trying to pet me." you huff.

"you don't think I haven't thought about popping my own head every time one of these rich idiots tries to talk to me about reproductive health?" her voice is quiet but stern. she's trying not to cause a scene. "but I put up with it so just suck up. it's important."

"oh really? never would have guessed." you roll your eyes. "I'll just go sit in the corner and stare at the wall since I'm not important enough."

"That's not what I said,"

"no I get it, don't worry," you force a smile and brush past her. "I'll be a good kitty."

it's a quiet ride home. silent even. staring out the window as bright lights zoom past. you can hear Victoria chatting on the phone. much too busy to take note of your angry brow or vacant stare. you're angry at her. Sage's words weren't helping either. playing over and over in your mind. cute but useless. you couldn't necessarily disagree. Even Vought just wanted you because of how you looked. sure you had enhanced strength and senses but that was only compared to humans. there were plenty of much stronger supes. there were even more useful shifters. you just became a cat. agile. sneaky. but ultimately just a common house pet.

"Are you gonna pout all night?" Victoria eventually asks as you pull up outside her home. it pissed you off more.

"I'm sorry, I thought I wasn't allowed to speak." replies sharply as you exit the vehicle; a quick slam of the door. you hear her get out the other side and follow behind.

"I didn't say you couldn't speak,"

"semantics," you huff back. maybe she didn't say you couldn't talk but she did try to control every conversation. who you could and couldn't speak to. always checking in to make sure you weren't saying the wrong thing. "I don't feel like talking."

"We need to."

you just ignore her. That was much better than an argument right now. all you wanted was a hot shower and to go to bed. As soon as you get inside, you march upstairs. She doesn't follow, instead heading towards the kitchen.

the hot water was a welcomed distraction from your otherwise terrible evening. it was supposed to just be about you too and she just couldn't help but make it all about herself. propping herself up to important people. sneaking off for private meetings that you weren't allowed to attend. you go to bed alone. she was probably downstairs working like always. you don't know how long it is before she joins you.

"you have to talk to me eventually," Victoria hums. "can't sulk in your other form forever."

whenever you fought you liked to shift. being a cat was simpler. nobody had any expectations for cats. it was like the perfect excuse to not have difficult conversations. She couldn't understand you after all but you could understand her. loud and clear. "just tell me what's wrong."

you stretch out. fluffy kitty paws morph into human hands and legs sprawled out in the darkness. you sigh softly following on to your back. Victoria is sitting on the edge, looking down at you. "I'm not your pet," growled quietly.

"I never said you were,"

"that's all anyone sees me as," you reply. "Neuman's girl. neuman's pet. cute but useless/ that's what sage said."

"that is why I didn't want you talking to her," she replies.

"but she's right," you express. "you don't treat me like we're equals. you hide stuff from me. tell me it's too important and I won't understand. I'm not a fucking child or your silly little house cat, Victoria."

"Baby," a gentle hand moves to your arm but you shake her off. Moving onto your side and away from her.

"don't."

"Okay," she retracts her hands slowly. there's a moment of silence before she continues. "I don't see you as a child or some silly cat."

"Sure you do,"

"I don't," she insists. "I'm a politician there are some things I just can't share with you-"

"but you don't tell me anything," you interrupt

"but I admit I could share with you more," she proceeds with. "I just... I try to keep you out of all that bullshit. not because I think you're stupid or useless but because it's just easier. I don't want them tearing you down to get to me,"

"But I'm willing to take it,"

"you shouldn't have to. I don't want that for you- for us." she urges. "Sage can say whatever she wants but I don't believe those things about you. You're smart, beautiful and adorable sure but you're not useless. I'm so lucky to have someone as caring and wonderful as you."

"gross," said playfully after a moment. a small smile tugs at your lips though. "Victoria?"

"mhmm?"

"I'm sorry for acting like a spoilt brat tonight,"

"I'm sorry I made you spend an evening with all those awful people," you chuckle lightly as you roll over to look at her. they really were awful people. and maybe you weren't one of the most important people in America but you were a good person. a nice person. and that was much more interesting.

"World's worst and most boring party," you voice. "how did your private meeting go?"

she hesitates. probably a debate on whether to tell you or not. "...pretty well I think."

"Vice President Neuman has a nice ring to it," you tease. smiling up at her in the darkness. a strip of moonlight crosses her face. twinkling in her pretty eyes. it was a wild thought. one day soon you could be dating the vice president of America.

"how do you feel knowing you'll be the second lady?"

"oooh so official. so important."

"you're already so important,"

"to you maybe." you huff.

"does anyone else matter?"

"you of all people saying that is crazy," you semi-tease. it was kinda true. she cared a lot about her image. about how the world saw her. "let's just go to sleep."

Victoria doesn't answer but she does lie down, shuffling up behind you. there's a slight hesitation like she's not sure if you've truly forgiven her. you move closer to her, resting your head against her chest. listening to the way her heart thumped in her chest "night."

"good night," you hum softly as you let your eyes flutter closed. "I'm gonna get so many fancy cakes tomorrow."

[honeyywoods]

“Y’ever heard of pirate glass?” Jack asked out of the blue, his drawing hand stilling as he set his charcoal down. Davey raised a curious brow, and thoughtlessly tilted the angle of his head as he did so. This drew a ‘tsk’ from Jack - ever the artist - and Davey rolled his eyes fondly before returning to his original position. “No,” Davey responded, watching with surprise as Jack retrieved his pastels. This was an exceedingly rare thing, Davey knew; Jack’s sketches were almost always exclusively charcoal. Nothing more than smudges of black on white, and yet so much more. Jack breathed such life into his drawings that they hardly needed color.

And yet.

Davey watched from the corner of his eye as Jack rifles through the box, pulling out several colors that he can’t quite see. “Why do you ask?” Davey inquired, his voice sounding strangely in the New York night. Even with the bustle of the city, the two of them seemed to be in another world where the only sound was the clattering of chalk.

Jack hummed as he shifted back, pastels in hand. “‘S neat stuff.” He said simply, starting in with one of the pastels - a pitch-dark shade, Davey could now tell. “When you look at it in the dark, or in most light, it looks just plain black or brown.” Jack continued, his hand making delicate, meticulous swipes across the paper. “Guess them pirates thought it helped keep the sun out o’ their booze or somethin’.” A chuckle, and when Davey looked over there was a sort of half-smile on Jack’s face, though his eyes were still trained on his drawing.

“But, if you get it in the right light, it’s anythin’ but plain. The color shines through.” Jack held up a bright spring green, something soft in his eyes that Davey couldn’t quite place. “Like a gemstone, y’know? Real pretty.” With that, Jack returned to the drawing, and the pair lapsed into quiet.

Chalk scratching paper, Jack’s soft, even breathing. Davey could stand to stay like this forever.

Davey isn’t sure how much time passed just like that, but eventually Jack stood up, tipped the chalk dust off of the drawing, and lingered awkwardly in his spot for a moment. A hand brushing over his braids, Jack turned his sketchbook around and extended it to Davey.

Oh. Oh.

Staring back at Davey was his own face - his own eyes. Davey was no art critic, but it was obvious that Jack had made the eyes the focal point. His eyes. They were bright golden-green, like new spring growth, with dark around the edges.

Davey knew that it shouldn’t have been so special. He saw his eyes regularly in the small mirror kept next to the bathtub, after all. But Jack had made them look…different. As though the lights of the city had turned them into something else entirely.

Pirate glass.

What a funny thing indeed. Such a fitting concept for Jack, who seemed to know everything about the seemingly most unusual matters. Davey was forced to wonder where Jack had learned of it - perhaps it was just another case of ‘improving the truth.’

Regardless, there was something to be said about Jack using such a comparison to communicate his thoughts about Davey’s eyes.

Real pretty played back in his head, and suddenly everything clicked neatly into place.

And even if pirate glass was just a Jack Kelly-certified method of skirting around the truth, Davey could think of worse ways to find out.

[ectoentity]

Ectoplasm Gives You Wings 0.?

Hey here's a scene that happened long before Danny showed up have fun

Here is the subscription post

Need to know concept:

When you're in a world where wings are associated with ghosts, you're gonna assume that coming back from the dead with wings means you have some unfinished business. Harley Quinn POV.

Ever since Joker died, Harley expected his killer would come after her. She hadn't been with him for a couple years, but that hardly made up for the shit she'd done while they were together. Really the only surprise was that they hadn’t killed her first as a warning to him.

So when she walked into her apartment kitchen to see a guy with huge wings wearing a red helmet, Harley wasn’t terribly surprised. Not about the break-in or the gun pointed at her, at least.

"How'd'ya manage to fit those things in here?" she asked. The guy didn't answer. The wings flexed like he wanted to open them, but there wasn't any room.

"Harley," the Red Hood said, sounding very intimidating with some kind of voice modulation. "You know why I’m here."

"I can make a guess, big guy," Harley said sadly. "Nothing I can do to change your mind?"

"You let it happen. You helped him. Why should you escape justice?"

"I did my time for most of it. And I spent the last couple a years trying to put him in the ground. That doesn't fit into your equation somehow?" She tried edging slowly to a shelf where she had a gun of her own. Red Hood noticed. He stepped forward and grabbed her by the collar of her shirt.

"Did any of that bring back the innocent people you killed? The children you tortured?"

"Woah, woah, woah, time out. I never did anything like that to kids." Harley held her hands up in a T shape above Red Hood's fist. "I did some awful stuff I ain't proud of, but I never tortured kids."

"You didn't seem to care that he did."

Harley sighed and lowered her hands onto Red Hood's arm and tried to look into the eyes of his weird helmet. "What do you expect to happen here? You want me to beg until you feel satisfied? Sorry, buddy. Not really my style! I don't like a lotta what I did back then, but I can't fix it. I'm trying better now. If that's not good enough for ya, that's too bad."

The Red Hood didn't move for a moment. It was kind of creepy, if Harley was honest. He didn't say anything, he didn't twitch. Was the guy even breathing? It was always hard to talk to someone in a full face mask. There was no way to tell whether they were even listening. Contrary to popular belief, Harley didn't talk just to hear her own voice! Not often, at least.

The hand let go of her shirt. Harley pulled back to regain her balance, but she didn't relax just yet. There was still a big murderous birdman with a gun in her apartment. Even if he wasn't about to shoot her just now, he was still dangerous.

"Fucking hell," the guy said. He seemed to stagger backwards until one of his wings clipped the half-wall separating the kitchen from the living room. Then he leaned against the pillar heavily.

"Shit. You're right. This is pointless. Why am I here?"

Harley took her chance to grab her gun just in case, but Red Hood didn't seem to notice. She stared at him with suspicious, narrowed eyes. "Do you mean here in my apartment, or are you really having an existential crisis right now?"

"I'm not having a- Fuck. I guess I am." He held his head in his hands. "I'm sorry, Harls."

Well, that was an unusual nickname. It wasn't something she heard much outside of kids from the Bowery or Narrows. Most other kids in Gotham got swept up by their parents before they could talk to her.

"You lose somebody?" she asked softly, gun tucked in her pocket. "Sibling? A kid?"

Red Hood choked out a bitter laugh. "Myself." When Harley's eyebrows did a wild semaphore of emotion, the asshole deigned to explain. "He killed me. I... I came back. Figured, y'know, I must've been brought back for a reason, right?" He sunk down further against the pillar, the white tips of his mostly-black wings spreading across the floor like the fabric of a cape.

Damn, Harley thought. That made a fucked up amount of sense. "I can't really blame you for thinking that," she admitted. "The feathers a new fashion choice then?"

"You could say that. Shit." Red Hood reached up to the bottom of his helmet and depressed some trigger there. Harley heard a hiss of pressurization before it popped off the guy's head. The first thing she saw was black hair. That wasn't surprising. The surprising thing was when he leaned his head back against the pillar, revealing a young face and a shock of white hair in his bangs. Then he opened his eyes, and they were as blue as the sky.

"Hey kid? What did you say your name was?"

He took a devastatingly long time to respond.

"They called me Robin, once."

[eternalera]

we need to talk about mel because out of pretty much everyone in arcane ive been seeing the most drama with her and just... god is it all so fucking stupid. so for the next few paragraphs im gonna be talking about haters of mel, 'defenders' of mel, jayvik, meljayce, and just... everything going on with that because god is it a lot and god is so much of it bullshit and just plain old toxicity. so yeah...

dang still here? alright lets begin.

so first off we're starting with with the haters and defenders of mel and honestly this is some of that dumbest fandom shit ive seen in a while? why? alright let's bring up some argument stuff that ive (and youve most likely) seen before. one of which being that her haters define her as 'problematic' and a villain which is not true well at least not more true than jinx being a villain. jinx is a worse character than mel but people hate on her because 'oh shes supposed to be portrayed as good!' when this was never the case.

in s1 mel was portrayed to be a politician and from what ive gathered she was meant to represent the upper class of piltover and the council members in general (with the exception being heimindinger). she was supposed to be a corrupt and morally ambiguous character just like what? politics, politics are not black or white all of the time. mel strived for her own goals and used people to get there. do you have to like her for this? no. you dont. in fact when i first watched s1 i hated this about her and her relationship with jayce gave me the ick (i did not ship jayvik at all during this time). but we'll get more into that later

now the 'defenders' of mel. where to begin? well first off if you dont like her you get called misogynistic, if you ship jayvik well then youre writing her out and therefore are misogynistic, if you criticize mel for any of her actions guess what you are? yeah misogynistic. they really like throwing that term around for no other reason than mel being a woman. what if she was a guy? would there be a problem with it? and what if people are still doing what they are with mel being a guy? is it still problematic? the answer is most likely no. also the problem with calling people misogynistic is that youre not attacking their argument but them as a person.

thats like if you said '1+1=2' and i went 'no youre stupid' or if i said 'the earth is round' and you told me that i was a conspiracy theorist. youre not attacking the argument but the person themselves. youve done nothing to disprove their argument, sure you called them a mean name but whats that going to do? people hardly ever even argue why thats the case and why its wrong, but they throw around the world mindlessly. i would be fine if people were saying that their argument was misogynistic and therefore they would be misogynistic for supporting it but even then just leave it.

not to mention that mel was written to be morally ambiguous in a sense (in s1 and in s2 she gets better but still is... eh on morals imo) and if you bring this up these 'defenders' will go rabid over you. calling you names and saying how youre 'part of the problem' and that you cant handle a strong female character and this is just by you criticizing them keep in mind. maybe you dont agree with their actions but that doesnt matter to them and its horrendous.

now moving onto jayvik and... yeah it has its issues, i will NOT lie and say that there isnt an unreasonable dislike for mel in certain parts of the community because believe me there is and its almost always uncalled for and their reason is lacking to say the least, once again mel is a complicated character and to put her in a box and say that she's the big bad is entirely and fully unreasonable. ive seen large parts of the fandom also hating on mel just because she 'gets in the way' of jayvik and i guess that this is true but also people do forget something really important

THIS IS ALL FANDOM

SHIP WHOEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT CANON OR NOT ITS NOT MEANT FOR THE CREATORS BUT THE CONSUMERS AKA FANS

whether or not she 'gets in the way' of jayvik in canon (which she really does not as she encourages jayce to spend more time with viktor and viktor and jayce still have a bunch of meaningful scenes together DESPITE her) doesn't matter one bit. your fanon does not need to be canon in order for you to enjoy it. and tons of people tend to gloss past that because they just have to have things their way and then they throw a pissy fit over it. HOWEVER this is not the only drama with jayvik, once again if you ship this rabid mel enjoyers will say how youre misogynistic which... yeah it fucking sucks.

tbh everything with mel has got to be some of the most toxic shit ive ever seen in my life (not worse than mha and ochako but hopefully as a fandom we never get there). because mel enjoyers if they dont ship jayvik tend to ship meljay or jaymel or- whatever its called and since its canon to some extent (they did kinda break up) they will use that as a way to discourage jayvik shippers and once again call them names that do not make any sense to the argument that they are giving as they are just spewing out random ass insults to people who disagree with them

good job internet. proud of ya

NOW MELJAY AND OH BOY DO I HAVE SOME WORDS-

... yeah it was meant to be a morally grey thing. sorry to everyone who looked at it and was like 'omg they care for each other so cute!!!' mel manipulating jayce into a relationship to take advantage of him and get what she wanted is meant to be a bad thing and you wanna know why? CAUSE SHES A COMPLICATED CHARACTER. if i had to place her on the alignment chart id say that shes most likely lawful neutral and on a good day lawful good.

now if you still cant see the problem with mel and jayces relationship lemme do smth called the good 'ol gender swap

theres a smart girl inventing stuff and trying to change the world, a man comes along and supports her endeavor fully, throughout the way makes heavy advances towards her in order to trap her and get her to do what he wants. this happens and in order to trap her even further puts her in a position of power which she knows nothing about and therefore relying more and more on him and his knowledge. advances are made and they fuck but to him she is just an investment. of course as the relationship carries on he might start caring more and more about her but the manipulation never truly leaves

see what makes it so bad? me and my friends talked about this for hours thinking about it and finding out what made us not like the ship in s1 (keep in mind we did NOT ship jayvik only started after their divorce). we loved mel's characters, she's a strong woman a strong character with flaws and she's compelling. but she was never written to do morally good decisions 100% of the time and thats what makes arcane so good ignoring all of this is not understanding mels character or her actions

anyways thats all i have to say. if you disagree or have any other news feel free to share lol and thanks for listening to my rambles <3

[manawari]

AJSGSKDHSKHSKSHDJSHJSHSJS

SL CHARACTERS AS MAFIA BOSSES

BAEK YOON-HO

→ leader of the "White Tigers".

→ fierce, fearsome, merciless, and brutal.

→ his attire consists of white, dark brown, and dark grey suits — occasionally adding stripped designs to resemble tigers. He also has a white tiger fur coat draped over his shoulders.

→ he only accepts alliances from powerful clans.

→ he has some rescued tigers that he kept around his mansion where they were cared and protected, shielding them from the harm humans had brought upon them, but he eventually tracked those humans down and took care of them with his bare hands.

→ hardly uses a gun, reasoning that his knuckles will just go to waste if they won't bruise someone.

→ holds this intimidating aura that just by the look of his face, the message is there. Even if he doesn't move an inch, one will feel like a hundred tigers are preying behind him. Some even referred to him as "Tiger" not only due to his affinity when it comes to such animals, but also his entire being. He's like a predator in a forest of prey.

→ in a fight, he isn't one to sit back and watch. He studies the battle first and crushes his opponents through their skulls. He doesn't mind if his hands are coated in blood. He makes his clan the deadliest around and messing with him is a death sentence.

CHOI JONG-IN

→ leader of the "Red Flames".

→ clever, persuasive, cunning, and intelligent.

→ wears various of fashionable suits. Red is his common color. He also has eight rings to signify his status as a rich mafia boss.

→ always has a custom lighter somewhere in his pockets in case he wants to smoke.

→ he has high standards when it comes to alliances.

→ knows his way around words. Literally. He also has the best spies to gain information on the clans he visits and use these discoveries to his advantage. Everyone considers him as the "know-it-all" because of how he remembers even the tiniest detail and these "tiny" details become the keys to gaining what he wants.

→ runs a business in finance and not once used any money from it because his business in the city is different from his actual business. He also owns a winery after winning against his relatives.

→ compliments don't affect him. Whatever those compliments are, he already knows it.

→ hands? Nah. Guns? Sometimes. Fire? Yes.

→ doesn't involve himself in fights because he hates getting his suits filthy or even his hands from the germs of his enemies. However, he does like the torture. The fire from his lighter is all he needs to inflict pain to his enemies and if he wants them out of the world, he just gladly burns them alive in some quiet place and uses the fire to light up his cigarette.

→ his clan is one of the richest clans ever, hence why he constantly receives visitors in his manor. There is almost 1% chance that he will accept and nobody can tell what really are his standards and how is it so difficult to pass them.

WOO JIN-CHUL

→ leader of the "Absolute Vessels".

→ is the successor of the clan's former boss, Go Gun-hee.

→ shrewd, ruthless, intelligent, and fierce.

→ always seen wearing a casual suit, yet it has chest harnesses and a silver insignia of his clan on his left pectoral, has black leather gloves, and keeps a pair of sunglasses.

→ is actually a lawyer, which comes in handy when dealing with other clans. He doesn't allow it when a clan comes to his manor without an invitation, deeming it as disrespect, and won't accept them until he receives a proper letter.

→ the purpose of the invitations or letters is to buy himself time to summon his spies to investigate the clan and study the accumulated information to see if he finds anything suspicious.

→ has a revolver and a knife.

→ he excels in interrogation and when he does, he has three levels — a simple interrogation, an interrogation that involves threat if the target isn't complying, and the intense level where he takes matters to his hands. One time he presses his foot on the back of the target's neck until every word is out.

→ he lets his men do the dirty work.

→ has alliances outside the country, which makes his clan one of the most formidable.

LIU ZHIGANG

→ leader of the "Zhǔquán Dragons". Zhǔquán means sovereign.

→ is the son of the clan's former boss.

→ vicious, cunning, merciless, and lethal.

→ has a dragon tattoo from his right pectoral that stretches across his broad shoulder and down to his back.

→ various colored blazers and white dress shirts that has a plunging neckline down to his chest.

→ carries twin swords on the back of his pants.

→ can speak languages ranging from Cantonese, English, Russian, Japanese, and a bit of Korean.

→ lets other clans meet with him and intentionally forgets that they came for an alliance, which he brushes it off if the clan boss doesn't pique his interest.

→ can strike fear in a single draw of his sword(s).

→ sometimes lets his subordinates fight for him, but there are times he deals with enemies on his own because he has swords and can also land a crushing strike with his fists.

→ is one of the most dangerous people around, whether as an individual or a clan, because his gaze feels like a dragon is about to release flames and burn someone to crisp.

SUNG JIN-WOO

→ leader of the "Shadow Knights".

→ son of the former boss' second-in-command, yet takes the position after being given the honor.

→ silent, deadly, menacing, and cold.

→ wears any kind of black clothing to showcase his clan's true aura — darkness. Though, he never fails to present himself presentable and intimidating no matter how "simple" he looks.

→ he doesn't go to clans for alliances. Instead, he awaits for them to go to his territory by themselves.

→ composed and reserved. But his eyes look as if he is staring into one's soul until shivers run down their spine and turn jittery even when he isn't uttering a word. He studies them closely and gives simple answers only.

→ he beats up those who mess with him and all his members have to do is watch. He doesn't mind getting his hands dirty, though he leaves the disposal to his subordinates.

→ he chooses to be under the radar, yet is very well-known among the clans — thanks to the image his predecessor had forged.

→ one of the deadliest. No one gets to be stubborn around him, otherwise he'll make them obey. He does whatever he wants and has a backup plan for his every move in case it goes awry.

→ keeps a gun and a hidden dagger.

→ all of his members actually wear steel masks to conceal their facial identities. They are usually known as "knights" as the masks' design resemble those knights from medieval ages. Meanwhile, the boss is the only one who keeps his face bare, yet also has a mask of his own.

→ despite of everything, he's one of the few— if not, the only — person who barely experiences being messed with because all clans are terrified of being on his bad side, which makes them easy to comply to whatever he desires.

→ doesn't show much expression, but when he smirks, it's game over.

CHA HAE-IN

→ leader of the "Dancing Swords".

→ patient, clever, merciful, and confident.

→ has a sword with her all the time.

→ doesn't have a specific attire, so her clothes vary depending on her choices. Either way, she always show an intimidating appearance.

→ she absorbs insults, but when it's her turn, those people will regret having a tongue. She's kind to those who are kind and respect her, but she never tolerates the opposite as the punishment will be tenfold.

→ she likes putting her sword at her enemies' throats and witness as a pint of fear appears to satiate her. But it's a rare occasion if she actually uses her sword to spill blood.

→ known as the "Dancer" because of how flexible and agile she is in fighting as if it's a plaything for her. She can take down a dozen of people without having her crew to step in.

→ is open to alliances, but it always has a catch — she cannot be bossed around. A single mistake is fine, but betrayal? She will show no mercy.

→ she may not always be taken seriously by some clans, but she uses that to her advantage since she actually likes showing how powerful she is.

→ has taken over her mentor's business as a sword instructor where she trains her members how to handle a sword properly and help them be as strong as her. However, she's often undefeatable in sparring sessions.

→ has a lot of connections to powerful people.

THOMAS ANDRE

→ leader of the "Scavengers".

→ vicious, brutal, arrogant, and righteous.

→ wears Hawaiian shirts and sometimes white or yellow suits.

→ has the most powerful clan in his country.

→ is close friends with his second-in-command, whom he trusts with major tasks he is not able to do.

→ deals with selling weapons.

→ usually makes fun of people and isn't afraid of the consequences when he always gain the upper hand in the end.

→ prefers using his hands, but keeps a rifle just in case.

→ one insult is all it takes for him to break speaker's bone.

→ prefers to accept alliances from those who come from outside the country, believing that it will improve his clan's image and scare people that he has strong allies in his arsenal.

→ has a large tattoo of a lion on his back and several markings on his biceps.

→ his clan contains a lot of members, thus making it the largest clan in his homeland.

→ even has connection to the government due to the quality of his weapons they can use.

LIM TAE-GYU

→ leader of the "Arrows".

→ cunning, agile, smart, and friendly.

→ casual suits, though in some occasions, he wears a dark coat with a large hat that makes a good camouflage in rooftops when stalking his targets.

→ has a sniper rifle and a bow and arrows.

→ the only boss who showcases a cordial persona and treats his guests like friends. Possibility of an alliance? Depends on how much advantage he can get from the clan. If he deems it useless, he just waves his hand in dismissal and goes back to his room.

→ likes to annoy his opponents when fighting to gain an open area for upper hand and cracks a joke at the end.

→ easily gets bored, so if he yawns, it's time for his guards to drag the visitors away.

GOTO RYUJI

→ leader of the "Draw Swords".

→ competitive, prideful, confident, and reserved.

→ black suits and occasionally grey attires with hoods on them. He wears leather gloves that has bracers beneath them for better damage in case he clashes with someone.

→ has a red katana.

→ usually orders his crew to dispose someone out of his sight.

→ known for challenging clan bosses for a fight. If they lose, he rejects their offers. But he will do anything to overpower them because he hates losing.

→ if the offer is beneficial, he will bring out a contract for the guest to sign the conditions and one of them is that he has the liability to break the deal without further elaboration.

→ prefers to watch his crew destroy their enemies since he doesn't want to waste his energy on weaklings and will only step in if there is a mastermind amongst them.

[dust-jacket-analysis]

We all know that Drew and Daisy are generally regarded as polar opposites. In almost everyway personality wise. They are so different in that regard, that it's hard to see past.

Daisy is outwardly sweet, and caring. She'd never bully anyone, and until you get to know her it seems like she couldn't hurt a fly. She's extroverted, and soft around the edges. She's well known for just generally being kind.

Drew is the complete opposite. He's cruel, constantly saying thing he knows will cut deep to others. He's quiet, always having a stoic expression on his face. Or his signature death glare when he's mad. He's known for being a bully, and putting others down constantly.

Their differences are even visually represented in their color palette. Daisy with bright, pastel colors. The white in her hair, and the blues of her outfit. White in the innocent looking ruffles in her clothes as as well, and her bright blue or gray eyes. Where as Drew has a much darker color scheme. Dark purple/magenta hair. A black hoodie, dark pants and dark shoes. Brown eyes.

Daisy looks the innocent, angelic child. Where Drew gives Angsty, post emo phase, teenager.

The ultimate good in the series versus the ultimate bad. Darkness versus light, good versus evil. Characters who are seemingly the anti-thesis of each other.

Still despite this, they actually do have quite a few parallels to each other.

For one, they're both fiercely protective and loyal to those they care about.

We see this in Drew during the Jomies flashback sequence. They're all standing in the hall and one of Jakes former bullies walks up and starts to try and lay into him. He outwardly declares Jake a loser. Makes it known he wasn't exactly well liked.

And instead of abandoning him, Drew sticks up for him. This kid who we can assume he's only known at most a couple of weeks. Yet Drew had already grown fond of Jake, attached. So despite learning that Jake was considered a loser in Middle school, he stands up for him. Despite probably knowing Jake is someone he would've picked on, he turns on Jakes bullies.

Daisy actually gets a similar-ish scene in her own flashback sequence.

In that sequence we see her walking up to a lonely and sad Jake, sitting on the steps of the school by himself. She returns his notebook she found trashed, declaring his bullies to be the truly lame ones, and calling him cool. Despite just meeting him, despite hardly knowing him.

We also see her fight to help him. Going to Sean, learning about what occurred with the Music Club. We see her fired up, almost angry. She tells Jake he has to fight for what he wants.

In these instances, both characters are proving their loyalty to Jake, and their protectiveness over him. As well as their willingness to help him in situations were he cannot seemingly help himself.

They also parallel each other in terms of homelife.

I've heard from people that Rosy has confirmed that Drew does not have the best homelife. But just in case this is un true, I always put this disclaimer in here, that it's only what I've heard. So take it with a grain of salt. Regardless it serves me well here, so in case it is true I'm adding it. Even if its not that boy reeks of daddy issues, so I don't feel bad making assumptions or inferences.

Daisy, in show, also has a turbulent homelife. Talking about how she feels overwhelmed and pressured by her moms to overachieve and be perfect in everything.

They're both also insecure. Really, really insecure. I think where it differs is how they're insecure, and how they cover that insecurity.

Daisy is insecure about being imperfect. She feels like she might never be enough, as we've just established. This, obviously as a result of her bad home life. And to mask this insecurity, she takes on more activates. Does more to prove to the world she is perfect, and enough. Even if it burns her out. Even if she can't ever truly prove it to herself. She also puts on a mask of confidence. We rarely see her break down, just when she's with Sean. but every other time we see her, she seems perfectly self assured. Even though we know that's not the case. Lastly, she tosses herself into fixing other peoples problems. We see her do this with Jake, despite her own struggles we know her to be going through.

Drew is different. Drew is insecure about his relationships with other people, also as a result of his home life. He is scared he'll be abandoned by people, and is worried that if he loses control of those he cares about they'll really leave. To mask this, he projects his issues onto other people, bullying them. We see this when he calls Hailey a control freak, even though we all know he's the true control freak. And we really see him start to lash out as the series progresses, as the possibility of Jake leaving him grows larger and larger in his mind. And we see it in the 'Drake up' fight. When he feels Jake slipping once and for all, he snaps. And it's not pretty. And his defense mechanism in the end of it all, is to call his closest friend a freak, and walk away.

Despite they're different coping, masking methods, they both have insecurities sprouting from their home life.

There's honestly probably more, but I can't really remember them right now. If I do, I'll probably make a separate post.

I do believe though, that by paralleling Daisy to someone like Drew, it benefits her character. And vice versa.

By paralleling a character to someone who is seemingly opposite to them, you can get really interesting interpersonal dynamics. As well as an exploration into, in Daisy's case, darker parts of your character. It also gives her depth as a result.

Really these two just plague my mind. I really would like to see some interactions between them. I think they'd make a great duo, with so much story telling potential. So many routes to take this dynamic.

[mindfuljujutsu]

No Strings Attached, Part 2

Yuki returns to Jujutsu Tech to assist with a complex cursed case. Her encounters with Gojo, her former friend and source of past heartbreak, stir up a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

| Part 1 | Part 2 |

words: 1 930

Warnings: None. It does get a bit angsty at the end, but not really.

a/n: Welcome to Part 2 of the 'No Strings Attached' series. We've jumped ten years ahead from the last part. While it might seem a bit confusing, rest assured, all will become clear as you delve deeper into the story. Trust the process 😉. Happy reading!"

2023

Yuki was hit with waves of nostalgia as she walked the grounds of Jujutsu Tech. It had been ten years since she last set foot in this place, and not much had changed. She hummed to herself as she strolled down the familiar corridors toward the dorms, where she would temporarily be staying.

A few days ago, Yuki had received an urgent phone call from Yaga, practically begging her to come to Tokyo for a cursed job. He had described the case as unlike anything he'd ever seen, and they needed all the help they could get, especially from special-grade sorcerers like herself. She had agreed to help but could only make it after wrapping up her current job in Kyoto.

She had just finished a meeting with Yaga, discussing the details of this extraordinary case. According to him, Geto was responsible for the massive mess they were dealing with. Her heart ached at the thought of someone she once knew turning to such evil ways, and she couldn't help but wonder what Gojo was going through.

Gojo. A name she hadn't given much thought to in the past ten years. After leaving Tokyo abruptly, she had never looked back, erasing Gojo and everyone else she left behind from her memory.

As she exited the building, her attention was briefly caught by a group of friends walking toward her. However, it was the tall and quiet boy among them who truly captured her focus. 

Megumi was walking in the midst of his friends, seemingly lost in his own world. He looked exactly as she remembered him, except he was now practically an adult.

"Megumi," she said in disbelief, stopping and staring at the boy who walked past her without notice.

Hearing his name, Megumi paused and looked at her. At first, there was no recognition in his eyes, but Yuki knew the moment when he finally recognized her.

"Yuki?" Megumi whispered, taking a hesitant step toward her.

Yuki examined the grown-up Megumi and laughed in disbelief at the man he had become. "Wow," she said, covering her mouth. "You've grown up to be quite handsome."

Without thinking, she closed the distance between them and pulled Megumi into a tight embrace, which he hardly returned. Megumi, who had only reached her waist ten years ago, now towered over her in height.

She pulled away and placed a loving hand on his cheek, examining his features. He was truly handsome. "Gumi, look at you. You're all grown up now."

A light pink blush tinged Megumi's cheeks at her attention. "What are you doing here?"

"Yaga called me in to help with a job. I won't be here for long," Yuki admitted, noticing a slight deflation in his posture. "But while I'm here, I'd like to take you out for lunch one day."

"I'd really like that," Megumi nodded, giving her a rare smile.

"What's going on here?" A very familiar voice teased. It was a voice Yuki knew she'd have to face, but she had hoped it wouldn't be so soon after her arrival.

Yuki turned to see the white-haired man standing behind her and smiled hesitantly at him. "Gojo."

The smile vanished from Gojo's face, replaced by a look of utter shock and disbelief.

Gojo still looked exactly as she remembered him—tall, handsome, and cocky. The only change was that his sunglasses were replaced with a black blindfold over his eyes.

"Hello," Yuki offered, feeling unsure about how Gojo would react to her unexpected reappearance. "It's nice to see you again, Gojo."

Gojo visibly gulped before he cleared his throat. He offered Yuki a smile that seemed too tense to be real or genuine. "Yuki, what brings you back to Jujutsu Tech?"

"Yaga called me in for some help."

He nodded, avoiding eye contact. "I see."

"Excuse me, but are we missing something here?" An unknown boy with pink hair asked, raising his hands as if asking a question in class.

"Oh," Megumi mumbled. "This is Yuki. She used to be a student here. She's an… old friend of Gojo's."

"Yuki, let me introduce you to everyone. This is Yuji, Nobara, Maki, Panda, and Toge."

Yuki smiled sweetly at each student as they were introduced. "It's nice to meet all of you. It's an honor to meet friends of Megumi."

"Aren't you a little young to be friends with Gojo?" Nobara asked, tilting her head and eyeing Yuki up and down.

"I'm not as young as I appear," Yuki began, feeling somewhat flattered that they thought she was much younger than Gojo. "But Gojo is a few years older than me."

"And you two are friends?" Panda asked, pointing between Yuki and Gojo. 

Yuki could tell that the rest of the group was suspicious about their relationship because the two of them were definitely not acting like friends, but more like strangers.

"Yes, we're friends," Yuki confirmed, trying to sound confident. However, her statement lacked something, and Nobara snorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

"They're 100% exes," she smirked. "I know this kind of body language anywhere. Saw it all the time."

"What nonsense!" Gojo nervously laughed and swatted the air as if trying to dismiss Nobara's words. “We never dated.”

"Then if you didn't date, you were probably doing some other things," Nobara playfully raised her eyebrows with a cheeky smile.

Yuki was too dumbstruck to say anything. Was it normal for students to have such a casual conversation with their teacher, especially about their personal lives? She didn't remember having this kind of relationship with her own teacher, but perhaps these students acted this way because Gojo was their teacher. He was too nonchalant and chill to be a typical authority figure.

"Bingo," Panda laughed. "Look at their faces!"

"Don't all of you have someplace to be?" Gojo asked, attempting to change the subject and get them to leave him alone with Yuki.

"Let's go," Megumi mumbled, already walking away before anyone could protest. He paused and turned to look back at Yuki. "I'll see you around?"

Yuki nodded, "Yes. We'll have lunch like I promised."

Megumi nodded once more before continuing his walk. His group of friends followed closely behind, waving at Yuki and shouting that it was nice meeting her.

"They're a nice group," Yuki mused, still watching the friends walking into the distance. "I'm glad that Megumi has finally found a group he fits in with."

"They can be a bit of a pain in the ass sometimes," Gojo said, smiling at Yuki.

"Well, now you know what Yaga must've felt like when he was your teacher, but multiply it by 100," Yuki teased.

"I wasn't that bad," Gojo shook his head. "Besides, it was never just me. The rest were bad influences."

"Where are the rest of your friends? Are they teaching too?"

"Nanami works here, and Utahime is in Kyoto, but Shoko works in the school morgue and also serves as the school healer."

"Wow. Nanami as a teacher? I'd love to see that," Yuki mused, trying to picture the usually stiff and stoic Nanami teaching a group of young teenagers in a place he never wanted to be.

"It's a long story," Gojo shrugged. "Where are you staying?"

"Yaga said I could sleep in one of the dorms while I'm here. There are plenty of empty ones, so I'll have my pick."

"You can stay with me if you want."

Yuki raised an eyebrow at Gojo, but from his expression, she could tell that Gojo had blurted out the offer without much thought.

Yuki chuckled but politely declined. "I think the dorms will be fine. I need to be close to the Tech in case Yaga needs me for something."

Deciding that she had spent enough time chatting with Gojo, Yuki smiled at him one more time.

"It was nice seeing you again, Gojo. I'll probably be seeing you around."

She nodded in farewell before turning and heading on her way.

"We should catch up whenever you're free!" Gojo called out from behind her, but instead of responding, she just continued walking and raised her hand in acknowledgment.

If Gojo thought it would be that easy to be friends again, well, he had another thing coming. All couldn't be forgiven after what had happened between them ten years ago. She would never forget how much he had hurt her on that last day she saw him before leaving.

—————

Yuki had settled into one of the empty dorm rooms, unpacking her belongings while glancing at the old photos she had brought with her. Memories flooded back as she looked at pictures of her younger self with Gojo and Megumi. She couldn't deny that a part of her missed those times, even though they ended on a bitter note.

As she sorted through her things, there was a soft knock on the door. Yuki opened it to find Gojo standing there, a casual yet somewhat nervous expression on his face.

Yuki felt herself internally sighing. Seeing Gojo earlier was her daily limit of being in his presence. Too much of Gojo was just going to put her in a cranky mood, which she was really trying to avoid. She was also trying to avoid the confrontation she knew was going to happen.

"Hey," he greeted, rubbing the back of his head with a sheepish smile. "I thought I'd drop by and see if you're settling in okay."

Yuki nodded, surprised by his visit but not entirely unwelcoming. "Yeah, everything's fine. Thanks for asking."

They stood there for a moment, an awkward silence hanging in the air. It was clear that Gojo had a lot he wanted to say but was unsure how to begin.

Gojo cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "Look, Yuki, about earlier... I know it was a bit of a surprise. I didn't expect to see you again, and I'm sure you didn't expect to see me either."

Yuki folded her arms, her gaze steady but guarded. “When I got the call from Yaga I knew I would inevitably bump into you, Gojo.”

He nodded, understanding the unspoken tension between them. "I just want you to know that I'm not the same person I was back then. I've changed, Yuki."

Yuki met his gaze, her expression hardening. "Have you really?"

Gojo sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I know I messed up, and I'm not expecting you to forgive me just like that. But if you're willing to give it a chance, I'd like to try and make things right, even if it's just as friends."

Yuki's eyes narrowed, her voice laced with bitterness. "You think you can waltz back into my life after what you did? You destroyed everything.”

He winced, pain flashing across his face. "I know, Yuki. I can't change the past, but I want to try and make amends. I've spent years regretting what I said and how I acted that day.”

Yuki shook her head, her anger simmering just beneath the surface. "You don't get it, Gojo. You hurt me in ways you can't even imagine. I can't just forget that and be friends with you."

Gojo swallowed hard, the weight of his past mistakes heavy on his shoulders. "I understand, Yuki. If you ever change your mind, know that I'll be here."

With that, Gojo turned and walked away, leaving Yuki alone in her dorm room with a heart heavy with unresolved pain and anger. They had both changed, but some wounds ran too deep to be healed by a simple apology.

a/n: I hope you found this chapter enjoyable! Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments. Also, what do you think happened between Yuki and Gojo? Why did Yuki leave Tokyo? You'll find out soon!

[ohwhataniight]

I'm stuck on your heart - Chapter 6 - Part 1

Chapter 1 Chapter 5

On AO3

Only fools rush in

When Rosie is finally sleeping soundly in her bed, John makes his way downstairs. Sherlock is waiting for him, sitting down in his festive dressing robe, arms spread out over the back of the couch and long legs crossed. “Mycroft needs to stop doing that,” he states, matter-of-factly.

“That... you mean abducting me when I have a toddler with me? I agree with you on that front.”

“He told you about Victor.” It’s not a question.

John blinks slowly, taking in the image of the man who loves to frustrate him, the man who makes his heart protest. Part of him has been hoping that Sherlock would disprove Mycroft’s assertion, tell him that he was undercover, flirting with a handsome man for a case. Then John would apologize for behaving like a complete fool and they wouldn’t address his little jealous fit ever again. Everything would go back to normal. Well, at least their normal.

John highly doubts that’s possible now.

“Come on, I need to show you something.” Sherlock stands up, uncrossing his legs swiftly. John gulps, then sighs. It always has to be dramatic with Sherlock, isn’t it? All those years, the silence and the secrecy. Is Sherlock about to spill the tea about his hidden life? He’s going to show John... what? A dead body? Hardly imaginative, in their case. A hidden tattoo with the initials of a long lost lover?

Instead, Sherlock walks to the door, opens it, and starts heading downstairs. John follows him, quikly realizing where they’re going: Mrs. Hudson’s basement.

He expects to see photographs and documents smuggled from the Yard covering the walls, connected with threads of different colours. He half-expects to see a dissecting table, a sex dungeon, even. What he eventually sees when Sherlock turns the key in the lock is not what he’s been expecting. It’s not something he understands, either.

A fridge, a table, and bottles. Dozens of small bottles, containing what seems like clear liquids, some purple, some yellow, some colourless. A blue lava lamp making the dim room hazy. Next to the table, a chair.

“Sit down,” Sherlock instructs him, and hands him a bottle. John studies his long fingers, the pads at the tips turning white where there is pressure with the glass. He opens the bottle with a flicker of his thumb. “Smell.”

John takes the bottle from his hand, brings it to his nose, and inhales deeply. His breath hitches on his throat as he smells the powder, the sweetness, the hint of iris. “Rosie...” he mutters.

“Correct. On her first day.”

That is indeed how Rosie smelled when she was brought into this world, when John first held her, cleaned up and wrapped in a soft pink blanket, when he buried his face in the fuzz on her head, when he leaned down to kiss Mary.

“I don’t understand...” he begins, but Sherlock provides him with a bowl of coffee beans. “To reset to ol-factory settings,” he says, and John half-chuckles hoarsely and smells the coffee before he’s presented with another bottle. He inhales deeply, the almond, the cinnamon, the rich vanilla.

“Mrs. Hudson’s cookies.”

“You’re on fire, John,” Sherlock’s lips curve slightly. “Beans.”

John obeys, feeling as if he’s being hypnotized. He smells the coffee beans and takes the third bottle into his hand. He breathes in a whiff of black tea, wood, leather, old books. “Baker Street,” he says in a choked voice, raising his head to meet the other man’s piercing gaze. “Sherlock... I don’t understand...”

“Of course she’s too young, I bought her a View Master for this year, but one day, one day she’ll have all this, it will be preserved for her, she will get to keep it, forever,” Sherlock is rambling now, almost to himself.

“Are these for Rosie?” John presses. “Is that what you’ve been making? Perfumes for future Rosie?”

“It does sound more foolish when you say it,” Sherlock begins to say, but John holds up a hand.

“Sherlock, please shut up”.

“I got it all wrong, didn’t I?”

“No, you fool,” John finally exhales. “No, you didn’t get anything wrong. I... I don’t believe this.” Tears are prickling in the corners of his eyes, and he swallows hard, again and again, trying to drown the butterflies.

“It is shamelessly Proustean,” Sherlock starts speaking again, carefully. “I want her to remember everything. To be able to hold it in her pocket, dab it on her wrist and bring it back. But you’re crying. Why are you crying, John?”  

“How,” John shakes his head, trying to get his thoughts back in order. “How did you come up with this brilliant idea? How, Sherlock?”

“Olfactory reenactment is a powerful resource of memories that have been stored away,” Sherlock answers, his fingers fidgeting nervously with the belt from his robe. “These beans would be useful in my mind palace, sometimes”.

John presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, gulps, tries to compose himself. There are kaleidoscopic shapes in electric blue, swirling away behind his eyelids. “Tell me about Victor”, he finally manages to utter.

To be continued...

[warmerthanhotcoco]

to live for

Draco apparates to “Where Dobby is”, only to find said elf’s grave. At least Aunt Trixie’s knife didn’t hit Potter… Who turns up right when he’s about to leave. So he decides to stay a while longer with this… newfound friend/secret lover.

Tags: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Golden Trio, Post-Malfoy Manor, Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, RIP Dobby, mild angst with comfort, gay wizard fluff, ✨Their First Kiss✨, just a lakeside Drarry date

A/N: To all this beautiful gayness in the world. Lol- And to my gay bestie. Faun, you'll always be the most casually beautiful, Pinterest-worthy girl in the world ✨ Have a lily from Drarry xx 💐

It was late at night, he could tell that much from the cold breeze humming from the lakeside. The Golden Trio had just returned from their first and probably last visit to Malfoy Manor. Harry Potter had just climbed into bed after a most tragic burial, and lay there staring up at the canvas roof of the tent. 

Merlin’s pants, it had been one mad rollercoaster ride. From being nearly caught by Greyback’s searchers… to Hermione’s hex-disguise on him… to Malfoy lying to save him… to Pettigrew meeting his long overdue end… to Dobby's sacrifice... 

Harry hardly had tears left tonight. 

The grief and exhaustion was too much. It was so bad for his friends that both had fallen asleep fast. Somehow, he was the only one up.

Nothing new there, I suppose.

The after-effects of Bellatrix Black's torture had been enough to make Hermione pass out onto Ron's lap over dinner. He'd left them both to their own side of the tent, a tinge of satisfaction at the whole ordeal bringing the two closer. 

But he couldn't ignore how it only made him feel lonelier. 

He shook his head and sat up, giving himself a slow moment of silence to see if he might just feel drowsy. Sleep never came. 

He slipped out of the sheets, dragged his feet outside. They had run out of whatever sleeping potion Hermione had, and the muggle sleeping pills were left at their last hideout.

Hands in his pockets, feet buried in the gravel (he ditched his shoes, too much noise), he took in a deep breath of the moist lakeside air and looked up at the sky. The crescent moon hung low overhead, lighting up the blanket of dark grey clouds. The sky wasn’t half as gloomy here as it was back in England. It felt nice. The warmth and brilliance of the moon was sort of a reassurance that he was safe here. That his friends were safe here. 

All at once, he was aware of a presence that radiated a feeling of security: a strong feeling of “I’m safe now” washed through him. 

Which was new given all he ever thought about was his friends’ safety. Others’. Most of whom he lost. 

Ugh, quit brooding, Harry. Let’s just… take a breather, he chided himself, walking across the banks to the little elf's grave. He could feel the warm presence still though he convinced himself it was merely the moon. His fingers wrapped tight around the wand just in case the presence was... deceiving. Another lie. 

Nothing had happened by the time he subconsciously stopped beside Dobby's grave. "Hello, Dobby."

The clouds cleared up a bit to shed more moonlight along the lake banks, and that was when he saw. Strings of elegant, shimmering flowers were strung around the headstone, wrapping up the rock firmly and yet tenderly. They were creepers of the finest, sparkliest lilies. The green of their stems and leaves, however, were an oddly familiar shade of dark green... and the flowers themselves had a magical glow to their even more familiar pristine, platinum white.

Years of duelling and fighting took action and made Harry grip his wand ever so tight ––

But one day of seeing the hidden truth kept him from attacking. 

So this was the “comforting presence” lurking in the dark… he lowered his wand. 

Harry heard a soft exhale. “You're not going to Sectumsempra me?”

“...you saved my life.” 

“Hm. Pity.” 

“What are you doing here?" The burning question spilt out of his chapped lips. What abominable reason could possibly bring... HIM... of all people... to this place, at this hour?

Draco Malfoy scoffed. “He was my elf before yours.”

Well, he had a point. Harry waited for any other remarks, any of the usual snarky comments... but none came. So he nodded, sat cross-legged on the sand, subtly shifting to the side. Draco walked into the light at last and Harry caught a glimpse of green turtleneck sweater and black coat. Draco pondered for a minute before sitting right beside the Gryffindor. 

Silence.

Both wizards sat there on the sand, staring at the white lilies glowing in the moonlight. Both are nothing but young boys being shoved into a war, left without a choice because of their parents. Both are young adults that were once merely children playing with Dobby secretly, in Malfoy Manor or Privet Drive: because neither family would have allowed it. 

Perhaps they both saw this at last. Perhaps they finally grew up. Perhaps that was why Harry waved his hand for a quiet wandless Accio charm. 

"Show-off," Draco mumbled when a Firewhiskey bottle flew somewhere out of Ron's secret stash and into Harry's grip. Harry held it out to his once arch-nemesis. The latter hesitated, staring silently at the dark, calloused hand before him.

Harry placed the bottle down, rolling up his sleeves.

“Those flowers—“

“They’re called lilies, scarhead.” 

“Right. They’re… nice.” 

“If that’s your best attempt at complimenting my magic then no thank you.” 

Harry sighed, shaking his head and taking another sip. He HAD to be drunk to be doing any of this. “They’re beautiful. Very.” 

“…Thanks.”

“But honestly, what’s with the green sweater?” Harry grinned. “Your mania over your house is far from just pride at this point—“

“It’s my favourite colour. For other reasons. Got a problem?” 

“What reasons to make the lilies look that greenish?”

“That was for you, you blasted idiot.” 

Green to signify Harry being Dobby’s closest friend? Or green lilies to comfort him? The way this is going, I’ll never know, the green-eyed son of Lily thought to himself, gulping down another two sips of Firewhiskey to calm his spinning head. 

Back to the silence. 

A slow breeze washed over them, splashing the string of lilies with a bit of moisture, sweeping over the grave. Both Gryffindor and Slytherin watched the draught glitter gold with sand; waltzing across the lake, away from them, over to the hillside. The lakewater splashed against the rocks, tide rising a little with the wind current. The gust of wind took away a lot more than just a pile of sand. Hatred… Coldness... 

He downed some more alcohol to hide the sudden smile. Silence was exactly what worked with the both of them, he concluded. They’d probably never be able to talk like normal humans.

“What are you, daydreaming?” 

Yep. This is exactly what I meant. “No, I realised we can’t ever talk without sounding like we’re duelling.” 

“‘Duelling’. A decent way to phrase it. I’d vote for ‘murdering each other’.” 

“Well what do you want me to do, apologise? You started it!” 

“You’re the idiot who decided to go against all Slytherins just because of whatever we did as eleven-year-olds on the first day of school!” 

“Well I’m sorry but you were being ridiculously rude—“

“I just wanted to befriend you, but all you did was scowl at me, what—“

“Draco.” 

“… stop that,” the blond looked away, tossing a handful of grass at him. 

Harry blinked in confusion, seeing the tips of the other’s ears gleaming red. “I’m sick of calling you your father’s name, it’s stupid,” he shook his head, delighted he really was drunk. “You’re nothing like him.” 

“He reminds me of that everyday, thank you very much.”

“Ugh, I meant you’re more…” Better? Understanding? Handso— What— Harry, get yourself together. “Humane. Than him. You’re better.” 

The red crept a little down his neck. “Whatever. Don’t expect me to call you Harry.” 

“That would need a miracle,” Harry laughed. “But Draco, I did want to be a friend, you know. I was new to the world, and you were the first I saw at Diagon Alley. When I saw you again at Hogwarts, I was happy, actually.” He scoffed sourly. “Until you decided to ridicule my first friend, that is…” 

Draco remained silent, drawing doodles on the sand, having plucked off all the grass nearby.

“You know, your sticky glossy hair never helped your impression, I hated the sleek look.” 

That won a laugh. “Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah. Looks much better now though.” 

Draco laughed again, nervously ruffling the back of his head. “You’re drunk bad, aren’t you?” 

Harry shrugged and offered the bottle to him. 

“I don’t want Firewhiskey.” 

“Then what do you want?” 

The sparkling platinum head snapped up in surprise, eyeing him to see if he was joking around or if the tone really did mean anything this time. Draco found the eyes a bit too intoxicating, more so than the whiskey bottle below, so he diverted his gaze away from their sharp green and down to the pink, injured lips.

…Bad idea.

“Eyes up here, Draco,” Harry smirked. 

“You’re seriously more drunk than I am,” Draco shook his mane. “If you’re such a bloody Gryffindor and you know what I want then I dare you to—“ 

His slurring words cut off as a pair of hands cupped his face, pulling him closer. Soft, chapstick-covered lips crashed against chapped, dry ones. On reflex, Draco punched his shoulder and grabbed him by the collar, but when Harry didn’t relent — or rather kissed him a little harder — he let go. Let go of the eight years of tension and sat there, eyes shut, drinking it in. He couldn’t help but smirk: Harry seemed to be enjoying himself. 

“What are you grinning for? Am I that bad at it?” Harry whispered, pulling away panting. 

“Hm, fairly tolerable.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“Means you need more practice,” the Slytherin laughed. Wrapping one protective hand around the back of his head and the other cupping his chin, he pushed him onto the sand. Lips felt each other at first, before their tongues danced in a frenzy, like the draught of wind with its pile of sand. Harry found himself straddled and locked in place by a pair of perfect pearl-white arms. 

Not that he wanted to move away from this anyway.

Draco didn’t stop either, not until Harry tapped his back to come up for air. The blond rolled off the body underneath him and sat on the sand. Harry sat up to find him deep in thought, head hanging, skin aglow from the rising sun. “Draco?” 

“I have to go.” 

Harry felt his throat constrict, but nodded his agreement nonetheless. “You can’t stay? You’re not really with them… right?” 

Draco shook his head, openly denying it for the first time in his life. “I have no choice, just like you. Mum…” he bit his tongue. 

As it finally dawned on Harry why Draco was doing all this, he sighed. “I see. She’d be looking for you then,” he pointed to the specks of sunlight dotting the horizon. 

Draco nodded. “I…” He didn’t know what to say, or rather how to. So he rose to his feet, dusted off the sand. 

Harry stood too. “Erm,” he held Draco’s shoulders still to leave a light peck on his cheek. The Slytherin blushed hard, punching him lightly in the stomach while the other laughed. “I’ll see you around, Potter.” 

“Someday,” Harry nodded back.

And just like the wind, he disappeared.

“Thank you, Dobby,” he whispered, patting the grave. Because had it not been for Dobby, the Gryffindor hero who lost almost everyone, had just found another person to love, to live for.

[not-a-robot-i-swear-really]

In all the time that I've been reading fanfiction, I've noticed that femme or femme-coded readers often end up in the role of the Damsel in Distress™️. A common plot point in a lot of x reader fics involves the reader being bullied only to be rescued by the designated male love interest. In these fics, the readers often do little to nothing to defend themselves, and just stand around crying before somebody swoops in to save them.

However in fics where the reader or writer are explicitly stated as being black, this situation rarely ever comes up. The reader is hardly bullied or harassed in any shape or form, and in the cases where they are, they are often the figure defending themselves rather than waiting for someone else to do it.

This likely ties into the greater idea of Black women being strong and independent - nobody else will come to help us so we have to do it ourselves. This is opposed to white readers and authors, which could be a form of internalized misogyny - white women are still culturally getting used to the idea of being independent and still trying to separate themselves from the idea of a prop in the white man's world.

What do y'all think about this?

[collymore]

Gary Lineker a genuine Brit and quite discernibly also, a man of high stature!

By Stanley Collymore   So there are some of you, effectively   actually intellectually challenged,   brainwashed and invariably   braindead; also, as well, similarly and rather   thoroughly gullible and toxically verminous   scum; readily and simply easily led by your   noses, and with others wholly in charge of   that course of action, as you quite eagerly   at their behest quite actively, jump on this   evidently quite orchestrated, anti-BBC but   specifically rather in this case, really Gary   Lineker's bandwagon, very vilely churning   out the distinctly identically, meaningless   crap with quite pathetically and distinctly   discernibly no noticeable variation, since   you're rather incapable of any such thing   that you're not obviously programmed to   say, from within the really inner sanctum   of your echo chamber as though anyone   with a modicum of commonsense, clear   integrity or a basically full knowledge of   the real world rather divorced from your   make belief and pernicious one, literally   really cares or wastes precious time on   what you're discernibly, self-pitying and   undoubtedly, fatuously raving on about.     Garry Lineker is a great guy who earned   his place to fame, unlike you largely   incompetent dole recipients   garnering your plethora of bastards, which is   hardly surprising, as is clearly, self-evidently   the case, very specifically huge numbers of   you truly, don't even know, who biologically   brought you Into this world, as your mums   rather freely and hurriedly gave you up, as   soon as they'd really distinctively spewed   you out of their wombs leaving others, or   the state to literally rescue and take care   of you. The more fortunate amongst you   adopted or fostered the literal remainder   brought up in care homes! Idiots galore;   and like the easily led prats that you are   having convinced yourselves, literally at   the behest of others, that it's effectively   the 18th Century, that you're essentially   in and Britain still rules the waves. Very   wrong morons; it's discernibly, the 21st   one! And the world - owes you nothing!     (C) Stanley V. Collymore   6 October 2024.       Author's Remarks: I'll be succinct! Comparing yourselves to Gary Lineker is like an English village cricketer very well, effectively doing the same with the great Gary Sobers. And morally, something you very clearly have no cognisance of, is undoubtedly multiple degrees evidently below that of Gary Lineker. In essence truly like comparing a slug with Usain Bolt! Get where I'm coming from?     As a Black, Afro-Caribbean Briton myself, I wholehearted support Garry Lineker in the very moralistic, sensible and intelligent actions and pursuits that he individually undertakes. In every respect a very intelligent and commendable human being; and if all white and purportedly British citizens, or subjects as most of you like to regard yourselves, were half the moralistic and truly altruistic individuals as Garry Lineker undoubtedly is; the country that you collectively infest with your discernibly pathetic, racist and embedded antiquated colonialist attitudes wouldn’t now be fraught with so many problems. Garry Lineker, myself and others who can and do think for ourselves because we have functioning brains that we use and allow us to do so, perceptibly and undoubtedly live in the 21st Century! Why don’t you try that approach yourselves, instead of asininely regarding yourselves as stalwart supporters of colonialist Britain? That state of affairs is long over, and no sensible person: Black, white, Asian or any other intelligent ethnic group is going to ever allow it to return, so why don’t you start growing up, assuming that you can, and get real lives!

[maya-matlin]

What are your top 10 Degrassi episodes from each season (from all 14 seasons) & your top 5 episodes from each Next Class season?

Sorry this took so long to answer!

Season 1:

1.) Jagged Little Pill

2.) Under Pressure

3.) Mother and Child Reunion

4.) Friday Night

5.) Rumours and Reputations

6.) Coming of Age

7.) Secrets and Lies

8.) Eye of the Beholder

9.) The Mating Game

10.) Wannabe

Season 2:

1.) When Doves Cry

2.) Tears Are Not Enough

3.) Shout

4.) How Soon Is Now

5.) White Wedding

6.) Don't Believe the Hype

7.) Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

8.) Dressed in Black

9.) Careless Whisper

10.) Take My Breath Away

Season 3:

1.) Pride

2.) Accidents Will Happen

3.) Whisper to a Scream

4.) Our House

5.) Take on Me

6.) Should I Stay or Should I Go

7.) Father Figure

8.) Holiday

9.) Gangsta Gangsta

10.) U Got the Look

Season 4:

1.) Time Stands Still

2.) Ghost in the Machine

3.) Secret

4.) Voices Carry

5.) Back in Black

6.) Mercy Street

7.) Moonlight Desires

8.) Eye of the Tiger

9.) King of Pain

10.) Anywhere I Lay My Head

Season 5:

1.) Redemption Song

2.) Turned Out

3.) The Lexicon of Love

4.) Our Lips Are Sealed

5.) High Fidelity

6.) Venus

7.) I Against I

8.) Foolin'

9.) Death of a Disco Dancer

10.) Tell It to My Heart

Season 6:

1.) Rock This Town

2.) The Bitterest Pill

3.) Free Fallin'

4.) Don't You Want Me

5.) Eyes Without a Face

6.) What's It Feel Like to Be a Ghost

7.) Can't Hardly Wait

8.) Working for the Weekend

9.) Love My Way

10.) If You Leave

Season 7:

1.) Standing in the Dark

2.) Death or Glory

3.) Live to Tell

4.) Bust a Move

5.) Another Brick in the Wall

6.) Everything She Wants

7.) Ladies' Night

8.) We Got the Beat

9.) It's Tricky

10.) Sweet Child O'Mine

Season 8:

1.) Jane Says

2.) Heart of Glass

3.) Paradise City

4.) Fight the Power

5.) Danger Zone

6.) With or Without You

7.) Money for Nothing

8.) Man with Two Hearts

9.) Uptown Girl

10.) Up Where We Belong

Season 9:

1.) Heart Like Mine

2.) In Your Eyes

3.) Why Can't This Be Love

4.) Beat It

5.) Shoot to Thrill

6.) You Be Illin'

7.) The Rest of My Life

8.) Innocent When You Dream

9.) Just Can't Get Enough

10.) Holiday Road

Season 10:

1.) My Body Is a Cage

2.) What a Girl Wants

3.) Chasing Pavements

4.) Purple Pills

5.) Better Off Alone

6.) Drop the World

7.) Still Fighting It

8.) I Just Don't Know What to Do with Myself

9.) Hide and Seek

10.) Don't Let Me Get Me

Season 11:

1.) Take a Bow

2.) Dead and Gone

3.) Extraordinary Machine

4.) Lose Yourself

5.) Smash Into You

6.) Hollaback Girl

7.) Dirt Off Your Shoulder

8.) Cry Me a River

9.) Boom Boom Pow

10.) Should've Said No

Season 12:

1.) Bitter Sweet Symphony

2.) Zombie

3.) Rusty Cage

4.) Waterfalls

5.) Doll Parts

6.) Got Your Money

7.) Never Ever

8.) Scream

9.) Ray of Light

10.) Say It Ain't So

Season 13:

1.) Believe

2.) Unbelievable

3.) Young Forever

4.) Everything Is Everything

5.) Basket Case

6.) Hypnotize

7.) Army of Me

8.) No Surprises

9.) Better Man

10.) Close to Me

Season 14:

1.) Firestarter

2.) The Kids Aren't Alright

3.) Teen Age Riot

4.) Give Me One Reason

5.) Wise Up

6.) Ready or Not

7.) Smells Like Teen Spirit

8.) Wishlist

9.) Get It Together

10.) If You Could Only See

Next Class season 1:

1.) #YesMeansYes

2.) #ButThatsNoneOfMyBusiness

3.) #SinceWeBeinHonest

4.) #NoFilter

5.) #NotOkay

Next Class season 2:

1.) #TurntUp

2.) #ThatAwkwardMomentWhen

3.) #RiseAndGrind

4.) #OMFG

5.) #BuyMePizza

Next Class season 3:

1.) #ImSleep

2.) #IRegretNothing

3.) #Woke

4.) #WorstGiftEver

5.) #BreakTheInternet

Next Class season 4:

1.) #Fire

2.) #KThxBye

3.) #Obsessed

4.) #FactsOnly

5.) #Preach

[ithisatanytime]

before this fight was scheduled every thread about jake paul was from the perspective that he was a white guy, even though me and every other organic /pol/ user knew that wasnt EXACTLY the case the pauls have some distant jewish relations. the threads on /pol/ are rarely if ever started by the users they are clearly started the majority of the time by shills based purely on the subject matter of most of the original posts you can literally just look for yourself and that fact will be glaringly apparent unless /pol/ the only website on the internet where you are still allowed to say far right things, is organically mainly frequented by leftists from europe and other places abroad.

the jews and the shills who work for them realize jake paul is gonna embarrass mike, mike was always a great boxer but he was never one of the greats, still holds the record for knocking out the most bums and tomato cans in the sports history though gotta give him that. they are already running damage control for the inevitable outcome, mikes not just gonna lose, hes gonna be knocked unconscious and embarrassed.

Jews run sports. isnt it crazy how during the civil rights era the best boxer in the world just so happened to be a handsome well spoken charismatic black guy who changed his name to a muslim brotherhood name? WOW! what a coincidence! or how about in the early nineties right at the same time jews were pushing gangster rap on the entire world, the best fighter in the world happened to be someone who embodied the gangsta rap attitude to an absolutely absurd degree? a personality that hasnt been matched to this day even disregarding his champion level skills? whats an even bigger coincidence is that while tyson was knocking out dudes in five seconds or less, he just so happened to get into a street beef with a drug dealer who unknowingly must have also been one of the greats of all time, because even though this dude was hardly an amateur mike couldnt put this literal street drug dealer away for TWELVE FUCKING ROUNDS, i would have signed that dude, but im not jewish and therefore not in the fight game so what do i know.

my point is, suddenly the shills who start threads on /pol/ are aware of and making others aware of the fact that the paul brothers are one eighth jewish, and they are transparently doing this as damage control for when a white boy knocks out mike tyson.