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#jim jimenez – @napneeders on Tumblr
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rest requirer

@napneeders / napneeders.tumblr.com

they/he // in my 30s // 18+ my gifs // writings // ao3
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have I talked about how when I started watching ofmd I knew there was going to be a nonbinary character but didn't know who it was, or who Vico Ortiz was, so my reaction to Jim was like "oh so he's the rugged stoic man's man". apparently they didn't fool Jackie but they fully fooled me.

(and then I was kind of heart-punched from the reveal up to episode four, because it felt like that same old one-two of yearning and rejection, all through the years, in every story about a girl dressing up as a boy - and inevitably going back to being a girl in the end. and then it wasn't.)

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worth looking (Frenchie & Jim, Kraken era)

“How long have we been—” Jim makes a harsh, frustrated sound in the back of their throat and waves their hand around.

“Dunno,” Frenchie says. “Days have been bleeding into each other.”

Jim makes that sound again. It’s like somebody breaking a broomstick over their knee. Everything else it might remind Frenchie of is all locked up tight in the box, but he’d still say it’s a sound that can only come out of a person so many times before they’re used up.

“‘Bleeding’ is the word for it, yeah,” Jim says.

Red dawns, dark stains of night. Frenchie’s good at all the laundry that comes with it. What you do is you fix your eyes on whatever passes for a clean spot. You don’t focus on anything else. And then you scrub all the blurry bits hard as you can. It’s easy once you get used to it.

“It’s just,” Jim says, and stop again. They tug at a piece of their hair. “It’s getting long. Olu cut it, the night we made the fake nose, and it’s—it’s getting too long.”

So that’s how long it’s been, then: long enough that what they had with the others isn’t enough anymore.

“I should just do it,” Jim says, but they don’t move.

Frenchie still looks at Jim, these days, even though he knows it would be smarter not to. Fang and Ivan, too. He just never quite stopped. He was doing all right for a while with Izzy, but he’s slipped up a bit there too.

The trouble is there’s no clean spot on any of them, so he just has to see, and the seeing keeps him up at night. But they raid all hours now, so—bright side, maybe? No one ever has to wake him up.

“I could give you a trim?” Frenchie offers. “Just to keep it out of your eyes.”

He knows there are shears aboard because, well, Iz, but biting through bone’s probably left them too dull for a good haircut. He does what he can with Jim’s knife, instead. Before all the bloody days, Jim would never have let him do this—probably wouldn’t have let anyone, except maybe Olu, handle their gear at all. But now that everything’s red and black and sticky—now that they’ll die sooner rather than later, if he’s being honest—Jim sags back on the barrel, their spine curving against Frenchie’s front. The loose hairs on their collar mat onto his shirt.

“Change it up,” they say. Their voice shakes for a second, like a plucked string. “I want it to look different.”

Because then it’s not Olu’s cut, Frenchie reckons. They’re out of leftovers. They need something new. A token of what few of them are still around. It won’t hurt so much to remember this—Jim tilting their head back so their eyes meet his. Not, at any rate, until Frenchie’s gone too.

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