#Mean this in a strictly non-sexual way

[solemnrose]

Feeling so fucking lonely and in desperate need of cuddles with active pets and rubs 😫

[sailorrlino]

Rodeo | lmh (m)

𓆩⟡𓆪 Pairing: hitman!Minho x arms dealer! F. reader

𓆩⟡𓆪 Summary: Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. He likes it that way. When you appear on his target list, his relationship with you becomes quite the opposite - complicated, rough, and unreliable. 

𓆩⟡𓆪 Word Count: 18,249

𓆩⟡𓆪 Genre: Cyberpunk | Smut | Angst | Peers to Something

𓆩⟡𓆪 Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. 

𓆩⟡𓆪 Warnings: Violence, world building, murder, discussion of murder, depictions of blood and fight sequences, brief mentions of drugs, depictions of wounds and treating them with syringes if you don’t like needles, explicit language, depiction of an anxiety attack, angst and self-doubt, Minho being an idiot, gun fights and scenes with weapons, some vague terms and references specific to the world building, sexually explicit content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected sex, cum eating, bodily fluids, and mentions of spit in several places. I think that covers everything, for the most part. 

𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N: This is what happens when writers just write what they're inspired for. After almost two months of being unable to write, I got this random idea and I just went with it and took advantage of the moment and... genuinely had so much fun writing this. It got so much longer and more complex than I meant to, but I hope you enjoy.

𓆩⟡𓆪 A/N 2: This work is heavily inspired by Fallout 4, Blade Runner, Altered Carbon and the lovely song Rodeo by WayV. I imagine Rodeo playing during the shootout scene at the bar. Additionally, a fun fact: I use the nato alphabet to communicate Minho's targets and reader's target in this spells out 'reader' in the nato alphabet :)

𓆩⟡𓆪 Posted: Sunday, March 3 2024

𓆩⟡𓆪 Disclaimer: All members of Stray Kids are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

| Masterlist | Ask | Tag List Request Form | Song Inspiration

Any work is good work. 

Minho isn’t so sure that his father would say that as he crouches down next to the body on the living room floor. His thigh muscles protest, aching and tight from hours of sitting crouched across the street in the chill of a high-rise building waiting for his prey to enter this very building. 

Neon light bleeds through the foggy window behind him. The room is awash in watery pink as he pulls out his scanner with one hand and leans forward with the other, pressing his gloved fingers to the man's chin to push his head to the side. It rolls easily, giving a fleshy sound that might make someone squeamish as the man’s cheek hits the floor. 

Any work is good work, Minho thinks as he scans the man's non-existent pulse with his watch. He sees the blue ring of the biochip flash beneath cooling flesh, his watch flashing green with a soft buzz. The man’s entire life flashes on the screen - full name, date of birth, ID number, blood type, and place of work. Everything about him casts a sickly green glow on Minho’s sharp face.

Tapping a few buttons on the watch face, he waits, holding his wrist near his mouth as the sound of a dial tone chimes once. It’s silent in the apartment, though he can hear the hum of airborne traffic a few blocks off as the roar of adrenaline winds down. 

“Receiving,” a male voice answers. Minho doesn’t know who it is - he just knows he’s one of any of the Delegators who work for Collect Co. 

“Collection request number alpha-echo-tango-delta complete, served by Collector 102598.” 

“Collected alpha-echo-tango-delta confirmed. Please place a beacon before you leave. All credits for this Collection have been transferred to your account. Please wait five to seven business days before funds are available for use. Your next collection is in four hours, seven minutes, and eight United Seconds.” 

The line goes dead. The glow of the watch makes him squint before he can lower his brightness, scrolling to his bank account. He sees the credits added with a transaction pending. When he was a kid, the number glowing at the bottom of the screen to indicate his balance might have excited him. Now, it’s just a number on a screen that confirms the power won’t go out at his apartment and that he won’t go hungry.

Minho’s knees crack as he stands. He groans and leans backward, pressing his hands into the small of his back. A series of cracks slither up his spine, making his eyes roll back as he shuts them for a moment and shivers. 

He’s so goddamn sore.

Leaving the body on the carpet of the living area, he goes over to pick up the handgun resting on the counter. The energy weapon glows at his touch, syncing with his interface briefly before he holsters it inside his jacket. 

While he is technically within the law to eliminate targets for Collect Co., Minho finds that most people find it unsettling when Collectors walk around with weapons. He hasn’t given much thought to what people think about him, but it certainly causes a lot less trouble when he looks like an average businessman going to and from work instead of a licensed killer.

The gun isn’t technically legal, either. He would probably get away with it if a United Enforcer stopped him. The hitmen of the privately funded but government-sanctioned Collect Co., do not technically outrank the government’s militia, but no one with a badge is going to tell a Collector no. Not if they can help it, anyway.

Tossing a beacon on the counter for the cleanup crew to track to the apartment and get rid of the body and clean, Minho heads outside into the rain. He ducks his head down against it, water sliding off the slicker jacket he hugs a little tighter. He feels warmth kick in and his mouth twitches at the sign of the heating system in the body armor on his chest is doing its job. A nifty little upgrade from you, he knows. 

At the thought of you, Minho turns north toward the speed train, remembering that he needs an adjustment on his armor that is out of sync with his watch, and JumpPacks. He already used the last one about five hours ago and he feels the numbness of exhaustion buzzing at his edges, a warning sign that if he doesn’t get a jump or sleep he’s going to pass out.

Whichever comes first. 

Smears of color splash across the wet sidewalk as he jogs down the steps to the train. It smells wet and foul, making him tuck his chin to his chest as he rushes to the fast-closing door of the train. He steps over the threshold just as the doors clang shut, the hissing of an airlock barely finishing before it launches forward. 

He tenses to avoid being pitched forward into one of the standing railings. As the train rocks, the fluorescents above nearly blinding him, he finds a seat toward the back of an empty car. This late at night, there are only two other people in sight, both of them curled heaps of clothes on a seat, fast asleep. 

Sleep tugs at him the moment Minho sits down. He has a twenty-minute ride to North Ward Three, dropping his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes. 

The light still hums behind his closed lids, making a splash of colors. There’s no sound save for the whine of the magnetic rail beneath his feet and the occasional mechanical creek as the vehicle sways. 

He melts into the seat a little, limbs loose. Fuck he needs a JumpPack. The last forty-eight hours awake are wearing him thin at the edges, stretching him like fabric over a surface far too wide. The forty-eight-hour mark is when he starts to decline, and as soon as he starts to creep toward seventy, he knows it’ll get messy. 

Minho is a lot of things, but he is ultimately human. The JumpPack can help him push beyond shaky hands, imagining things that aren’t there and the foggy thinking, but they won’t keep him sharp forever. 

As if proving his point, Minho hangs somewhere between awake and asleep, suspended in a dreamy space where he can still feel the rocking of the train but doesn’t feel the ache in his limbs or the pressure growing behind his eyes. 

He flinches when the chime echoes above him at the next stop, eyes flying wide for a moment as his gaze sweeps the train car, his hand on the inside of his jacket where he grips the handle of a very nice knife. 

No one enters the car. It’s just him and the other two sleeping people - he isn’t sure they’re even alive, really - and he relaxes, cursing at himself. This time when he drifts, he does so with a little more awareness, hand tucked warm against his chest and wrapped firmly around the blade.

It’s a unique little knife, snug in the sheath that’s buckled to the leather harness under his jacket. The handle is firm and made from non-conductive material that fits his exact grip from the meticulous measurements you took of his hand. You crafted the blade from a metal alloy you’d been playing around with and lined it with a highly conductive silver alloy you’d perfected.

When the button on the end of the handle is pressed, 5,000 volts of lethal electricity pulses through the sliver, finishing off a victim if he manages to fuck up a killing blow. It’s saved his life a few times in situations like now when he’s exhausted and his guard is blurry, or when someone has decided to make him the target for robbery. 

A lot of your little gadgets have saved his life. You like to remind him every time he visits you. He doesn’t mind, though. You’re an easy enough arms dealer - easier than anyone else in the city, really. You don’t ask the kind of questions that he doesn’t want to answer, and you’re always two steps ahead of him. Even your prices are fair, which he used to find suspicious. 

But Changbin and Jisung both swear by your tech and your business, and Minho is just happy that he doesn’t have to worry about you trying to give him a shitty deal or fuck him over. 

The Collection industry is made for fucking over. He knows the system can be fucked with, especially the closer to the top you get. 

Almost everyone tries to fuck Minho over. More than once he’s shown up as a Collection Request. He doesn’t know if it’s the system trying to clean up after itself or someone pulling strings to get him out of their way. It’s probably both, but every time it happens, he’s managed to evade it. 

A Reverse Collection, those in his industry call it. In a way, it’s sort of like a pop quiz. He gets attacked or shot at, and if he wins, he passes the test and reverses the Collection, earning him more time without any coworkers trying to murder him. The Delegators don’t seem to care which Collector murders the other, and he’s never suffered for coming out on top. 

Any work is good work. 

Minho snorts at the thought, feeling the deep twinge in his extremities as he rouses himself, the train coming to his stop. 

Rain sluices the streets in North Ward Three. Here, the streets are busier with an assault of people, smells, and sounds. LED umbrellas float along like jellyfish as people walk from pleasure house to food stand to fight arena. The hologram advertisements and neon signs are louder here, inescapable. 

“The United Republic stands for justice, equality, prosperity and freedom, bought by the noble sacrifice of the United Church. Join us today-” Minho presses the ad blocker on his watch. 

Immediately the holograms vanish and there’s just the neon watercolor reflecting off the umbrellas as he walks down the stairs of Neon Rodeo, the orange lights making his eyes throb as he reaches the door manned by two guards. 

They know him immediately but they scan the biochip in his neck anyway. When they’re pleased, they step aside and the door slides automatically, the base vibrating his ribcage as he steps into the dingy light, hesitating to let his eyes adjust.

True to the name, there is neon fucking everywhere. The servers are dressed in chaps with LED lights and glittering tassels, their cowboy hats flashing smiling faces on top of their head. The neon here is low-grade and covered in layers of dust, giving the air a dusky, burning sort of glow as he walks around tables.

Eyes follow him as he goes. The regulars are familiar with him, tipping their head in greeting though he doesn’t do more than watch them from the corner of his eyes. The servers all slow-smile at him, teeth too white and too glittering. He finds them more unsettling than attractive, and he quickens his step to the unmarked door at the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool.

Hyunjin is perhaps the most unsettling thing in the Neon Rodeo. His eyes are a strange grey, looking at Minho as he approaches. There is a predatory gaze in Hyunjin’s eyes that never fades, a sort of knowing in them that Minho can’t shake. Minho knows Hyunjin is entirely human, but every time he approaches the man, Minho is suddenly unsure. 

Nightcrawler.

Minho has heard the whispers about Hyunjin. He believes them, too. Everything about Hyunjin is like a carefully balanced blade, ready to tip in either direction. His senses are honed to perfection and he has a habit of both blending in and standing out depending on his mood. 

And he can kill. Minho has seen the lethal man in action a single time when someone tried to push past him into the Builder’s sanctuary. Hyunjin had been so fast that even Minho had a hard time keeping up, struck by how efficiently and quickly the former assassin moved.

Unnatural. Everything about him is uncanny, which is in line with everything Minho has heard about the underground sect of killers. What Minho does is legally sanctioned murder. The Nightcrawlers do something far more sinister, their skills going beyond the natural desire for order in the United Republic. 

Agents of disorder and chaos. That’s what some say. Minho isn’t sure where his opinion lands on the spectrum, but he gives them a healthy distance and respect either way.

Even the way Hyunjin sits on the barstool is unnatural, one foot kicked up on the bar between his legs, the other stretched out in front of him as he leans forward, his hand on the front lip of the seat. 

“Hello, Cowboy,” Hyunjin greets, voice deep and smooth. 

His hair is blonde today, slicked back out of his face, the ends touching his shoulders. He’s dressed in a black button-up with a cow print pattern across the shoulders and white, beaded tassels outlining the pattern. His dark pants are tight and he makes no effort to hide the gun on his waist or the knife handle peeking out the top of his cowboy boot.

“I don’t like when you call me that.”

Hyunjin’s smile makes the hair on Minho’s arms stand on end. “I know, but I like it.”

The guard makes no move to let Minho in and he tries not to show he’s irritated. By the way the grin spreads on Hyunjin’s face, Minho can safely assume he isn’t doing a great job. “Is the Builder in or not?” 

“Who is to say?” 

“Just tell her I’m here.” 

“If she’s in, she already knows.” Hyunjin nods toward an empty stool at the bar. “You can wait, Cowboy.” 

Gritting his teeth, Minho turns on his heel to sit on the stool a few feet away. Hyunjin’s uncanny eyes follow him, never leaving him once. Minho ignores him in favor of asking for water at the bar, the headache pressing behind his eyes growing more intense with the loud music and the choking smell of cigars. 

When the water comes back, it’s warm without ice. He glares at the bartender who has already moved on to paying customers. The water is tepid and a little sour, making him cringe. He’s pretty sure it came from the faucet, but he sips on it anyway, eying the grimy fingerprints on the glass. 

A cowgirl slides up next to him, her pink vest pulled tight across her chest, showing sweat-slick skin. She smells like vanilla, the scent overpowering as she leans in, lacquered lips grinning.

“Don’t,” Minho grunts, sipping the water. “Not interested.”

“But you’re so pretty.”

A severe reprimand dies on his tongue as Hyunjin appears like a wraith, leaning in close to murmur, “Builder is ready for you, Cowboy.” 

The cowgirl cowers away from the Nightcrawler, pressing up against the counter and fleeing as soon as he slinks away. If Hyunjin is offended, he doesn’t show it. He slips back onto the stool with that same eager lean, watching Minho through narrowed eyes as the Collector gets up and walks briskly to the now-open door. 

Minho doesn’t turn around when the door shuts behind him, immediately cutting off all sound. The door leads to a step of steps, mirrored walls on either side with glowing orange light strips above them. He climbs the stairs as quickly as he can, his head swimming a little as he gets to the top. 

The entire second floor is a massive, open-concept workshop. Tables covered with papers and instruments are placed in a chaotic maze, glowing screens with slow-spinning schematics and drawings giving the space a clinical, blue light. Workbenches with user interfaces hum along the corners of the room. Closed metal doors and offices stretch down a hall toward the pack, all under high-tech padlocks and surely protected with some sort of weapon system, if Minho had to guess.

Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder. 

Minho hates calling you that. He thinks it’s a little ridiculous of a title, but it suits you. There is nothing in this room you haven’t built and no weapon on his person that was not carefully crafted by you. He hesitates to watch you, standing at the edge of your luminescent domain as you lean over something, a small welding tool in your hand. 

“Do you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?” 

He doesn’t mind the name from you. He tells himself that it’s because, despite his predisposition to not liking people, he doesn’t dislike you. You’re easy to deal with, sort of like the weapons you make. You make his life functional and you’re to the point. He admires that, and he’s willing to take a little bit of prodding and joking from you as a trade-off.

Wordlessly, he floats toward you. You don’t look up to greet him, but you kick your foot out and hook the toe of your boot underneath the leg of a stool to pull it out for him to sit on. He can smell a hint of jasmine and amber wafting from where you sit, making him clench his jaw as he fights a shiver. 

“I don’t have long,” he says, forgoing the seat. “Just need JumpPacks and wanted to drop off my armor. It’s having trouble connecting with the interface of the watch. I hit it pretty hard last night and I think I damaged the receiver.” 

That gets your attention, drawing your sharp gaze up to him. But instead of dropping your eyes to his chest where the flexible armor stretches across his chest, you zero in on Minho’s face. 

Your silence is uncomfortable, but he remains unmoving, willing himself to stay in place under your calculating gaze. You lean forward, eyes drinking him in, examining him the way you would a schematic for a weapon or a complicated piece of data. 

Minho busies himself with looking at you in return. There’s a crease growing deeper in your brow and your pretty mouth - he doesn’t remember when he started thinking it was pretty - begins to dip, displeased at something you find in his face. 

“When is the last time you slept?”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me?” You level a stare at him and he feels his mouth twitch. Minho thinks besides the occasional joke from Jisung - which he defines as Jisung accidentally hurting himself - you might be the only person who makes him want to smile. “Fifty-two hours, eighteen minutes and forty United Seconds.”

“No to the JumpPack,” you say finally. “Sleep.”

“I have another target in three hours, twenty-eight minutes and fifteen United Seconds.” 

“Down the hall and second door on the right. Sleep for two hours. It won’t kill you.” He opens his mouth to protest you cut him off, “I’ll be done by the time you’re up. Take off your armor.” 

His hands open and close. You’ve never declined a JumpPack before. You’ve definitely never offered sleep before. He stands buoyed by his confusion before he reluctantly sheds the jacket. It crinkles in the silence as he shucks it from his shoulder and neatly folds it, placing it on the stool you had intended for him to sit on. 

Next, he sheds the holster, his gun, and a few knives clanking as he does. You seem amused by the amount of weapons he’s managed to shove in the leather straps and he shrugs a little at your arched brow. 

Minho’s shirt is more armor than a shirt. It’s made from highly coveted synthetic material with hard but flexible geometric pieces stitched in that sync with his watch to turn on a light energy shield, pulse when there’s an energy weapon aimed at him, and generally keep anyone from being able to stab him. You’ve also added little things like warming sensors and anti-theft. 

Delicately, Minho peels off the shirt. He marvels as it moves, surprised at the give and flex of the material every time. He hands it over and you snatch it, tossing it on your work counter as if it’s not the most expensive piece of technology he owns. 

Immediately he’s covered in goosebumps. Your studio is bitter cold and you always wear sweaters and jackets with sleeves pulled over your hands. You’re dressed as such now, the too-long sleeves on your arms pooling over your hands as he stands there, trying not to shiver. 

You pay no mind to his armor, instead standing up and twisting your mouth in a frown as your gaze skirts his chest and stomach. For a second he feels self-conscious, which he thinks is a little ridiculous as he glances down his chest. He realizes there is bruising blooming across him, spider webbing across to show when the armor unsynced and he took a few hard punches. 

Minho holds his breath when you lift your hands, as though you’re going to brush the tips of your fingers over each wound. Your hands are smaller than his and far more delicate, nimble fingers reminding him of artists. His mother was an artist. Her slim hands and careful brushstrokes are one of the few things he remembers about her. 

That, and that she chose to leave him.

Minho finds himself so hypnotized by your hands that your voice startles him when you say, “Three hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds, Cowboy.” 

You drop your hands and step away. He nods and sheds his watch as well, handing it over. “Alright.” 

With heavy footsteps, he follows the directions to the appointed room. He’s a little off balance, his hip catching the corner of a table as he goes. He curses loudly, hands shooting to his hip where pain blooms from the jab. Your laughter trills behind him and he scowls over his shoulder at you, but you’re unfolding his armored shirt. 

Muttering under his breath, he goes to the hall to the second door on the right. He’s never been in the hall before, but there are several doors lining each side. He carefully tries the handle, glancing up at the ceiling where a camera stares at him. 

The handle gives under his hand easily and he swings the door open to what looks like a very small and well-kept medical room. He raises his brows as he steps in and closes the door behind him. There’s no lock on the door, his finger brushing across the handle to find one. He thinks about grabbing the chair tucked into the desk and sticking it under the handle, but the thought evaporates as quickly as it forms.

He’s not in danger here. 

Slowly, he trods to the cot. It’s a standard size with a thin mattress and scratchy blankets. Carefully, he sits down and immediately his body sighs. Minho’s eyelids flutter as he sags for a second, shoulders rolling inward as he curves in on himself, exhaustion pressing in. 

He needs to take off his boots, but his arms feel heavy. He promises himself that he’ll do it in five more minutes before he gives up and lays down on his side, kicking his feet up boots and all onto the cot. The room is cool so he reaches for the blankets, uncaring that they scrape against his bumps and bruises. 

The last fifty-some-odd hours begin to press in on Minho, a physical force that squeezes everything out of him until he’s fading fast into a heavy, dreamless sleep. 

-

A gentle knock pulls Minho from a heavy sleep. He feels the dregs of it like a weighted shadow he can’t shake off, groaning and blinking at the ceiling a few times. His limbs feel heavier than ever and his neck cracks as he rolls it to the side to look at the room he’s in.

He suddenly remembers where he is, flinching a little as he sits up, movements jerky with nervousness. The room is still dark and cool, the itchy blanket falling to the floor as he sits and stares toward the door where there’s another knock. 

“Come in,” he rasps, voice deep and rough with sleep.

A crack of light appears in the doorway as you slip in. You’ve got your arms full of stuff, using your elbow to smack the touchpad near the door. Dark orange light fills the room, gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt his vision but bright enough to see that the stuff you’ve brought in is food and several bottles of water and some sort of blue liquid.

Minho eyes all of it warily, straightening as you stand in front of him, holding it out. He doesn’t move to take it and your mouth presses in a flat, firm line. “I know Collectors don’t have to be smart, but I do assume you know how to utilize the main food groups of the pyramid.”

He can smell the jasmine and amber again, soothing. “Why did you bring me food?”

“Because you look like shit, Cowboy. Don’t go losing your mind over a small gesture of goodwill.” 

Chagrined, he snatches the items from your hand. He immediately realizes that there are energy bars, protein bars, and packs of gel that will replenish immediate levels of hormones and vitamins. He eyes you curiously as he sets the pile on the bed next to him, ripping a foil back open with his teeth.

You cross the room to lean against the medical table in the corner, crossing your arms over your chest. When he doesn’t eat right away, you raise your brows, waiting. He pops the end of a gel back in his mouth and squeezes, immediately tasting blueberry and lemonade. It’s not half bad, making him hum in fascination.

That gets a grin from you, his mouth twitching at the corner again as he works the gel in his mouth to break it apart.

“Fixed your armor. How hard did you knock the watch?” His guilty expression tells all and you scowl. “It’s made with durast carbonate. It’s pretty shockproof.” 

“Didn’t mean to. Some guy’s goons jumped me when I was calling in the Collection. It um… took a bullet.” 

“How did they get the jump on you, hmm?” He stares. “Were you tired?” 

Instead of answering, he tosses the empty gel back on the bed and picks up a protein bar. He looks at it, squinting his eyes in the dim light. It’s peanut butter flavored, which he enjoys. He rips it open with his teeth and tears into it, realizing just how hungry he is.

Minho has no idea when his last meal was. He thinks you know his line of thinking, but you don’t say anything more. You’ve already gotten your barbs in and you don’t intend to poke until he’s truly annoyed or embarrassed, which he appreciates.

Without another word, you push off the desk and head to the door, slipping back through to leave him alone while he chews absently. 

Alone, Minho realizes the importance of accepting food from you without second-guessing it. He slows his chewing, contemplating about that. 

Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. Your tech has never failed him, you’ve always been reliable for a fast turnaround time or understanding of what he’s asking for, and you’ve never sold information about him.

Ever. He had tried to buy information from you on himself through multiple channels and pseudonyms just to see if you would, but he’d been met with steely silence each time. 

He eats with a little more enthusiasm as he realizes he does trust you. You’re as steadfast as the guns you build, and there is a confidence in that that he can at least resonate with.

Examining the contents of the blue liquid, he realizes it’s electrolytes and mineral compounds. As he takes long gulps, he realizes he feels infinitely better already, senses sharp, aches a little less terrible, and his headache is gone entirely. He’s not at a hundred percent, but he’s a hell of a lot better than if he had waited around for his next Collection. 

When he finishes, he crumbles the trash together and tosses it into the incinerator. He hears the fire hiss as it destroys the waste and sends the fumes somewhere to be turned into energy. 

In the main part of your lab, Minho spots you. He hesitates in the hall for a moment, watching you play with his watch. Movement in the corner of the room makes him tense up, hand going to the knife in his boot. He realizes it’s just Jeongin sliding across the room on a rolling chair, pushing away from his computer to examine what you’re doing.

Minho only relaxes marginally. He’s still getting used to seeing your apprentice in your workspace, and though the youth is excitable and intelligent, Minho refuses to let Jeongin near any of his builds. The trust he’s established with you over the last three years does not extend to apprentices he’s only known for a few months, no matter how much you trust them.

You trust the Nightcrawler too, and Minho cannot fathom why. 

As though sensing you on the edge of the room, you turn and look at him over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifts up and you beckon him eagerly before hunching over whatever you’re working on again. He strolls over, crossing his arms over his chest to lean against your worktable on the other side of you, eyeing Jeongin on your other side.

“Hello, Collector. How are you today?” Jeongin asks politely, giving Minho a smile that touches his eyes.

Minho says nothing. You elbow him sharply in the ribs and he coughs, clutching his stomach as he mumbles, “Fine, you?”

“Doing great, thanks! This piece of tech is a marvel.”

“My watch?”

It is his watch. A green light flashes on the underside of the face, the bio scanner that connects with the one with his neck to monitor his nervous system. You push the watch toward him and he carefully picks it up, brushing his thumb across the cool, glass screen.

An interface lights up again. He can’t figure out what’s so special until you gesture for him to put it on. It fits nicely, the perfect size. As he slides it into place and looks at the watch face, a diagram of thin body armor comes up, spinning. Except it looks different than the diagram that he’s used to, giving you a questioning look. You point to the corner of the room at a mannequin.

He walks over to it, cocking his head to the side as he stops in front of it. It’s far different from the armored shirt he wears. The contraption is equal parts ribcage and the thorax of a spider. The material looks like leather but feels hard to the touch like metal. 

Skirting his fingers to the hem, he bends the bottom of the shirt, watching as it flexes easily. It makes no sense to him how something could be so hard and flex immediately. If he were to guess, whatever the cloth is made from is a newer technology than he has access to. Perhaps more bio-engineered spider web. 

Minho’s fingers skirt inside of it, brushing across a strange, prickling fabric. It doesn’t hurt, but he brushes his fingers back and forth, rubbing the material between his fingers. It’s abrasive, but he can’t imagine what it is.

Blue flashes on the diagram on the watch. He pauses and presses his fingers to the needle-thin fabric. The watch flashes again and lines of color light up on the diagram, showing his nervous system in different, complex colors. He raises his brows. It’s far more sophisticated than what he came in with.

“The needles,” he calls, not taking his eyes off the contraption. “Do they connect with me?”

“Yes. When you put it on, it syncs with your biochemistry.” You get up and walk toward him. “You won’t even feel them. They’re the smallest on the market right now, and incredibly accurate. They use them in military armor to report back live health reports and status during enfighting. They’re more accurate than the sensors lined in your last one.”

“What’s the point, though?” 

You reach out and tap the watch. He watches curiously as a series of icons pop up, each a different color. “Inside of this,” you instruct, tapping the hard shell, “Is a series of chemical compounds. When you have on the armor underneath your shirt, you can tap to inject what you need. The needles don’t push deep, but they’re high-grade enough to break the barrier needed to disperse the compounds.” 

Minho looks up at you, silent. You don’t notice his trepidation, carrying on as you go into salesperson mode, explaining everything. “Blue is elektrolytes,” you instruct, pointing to it. “Green is a chemical compound of cortisol and adrenaline. Yellow is endorphins and an incredibly high-dose painkiller.”

“And purple?”

“Jump,” you deadpan. “But a compounded version Jeongin and I have worked on that lasts longer with less damaging effect. You should be able to sleep easier after using it. And you won’t need several JumpPacks a day to keep going. I can give you refills too, since it’s non-addictive.”

Minho stares. “What?”

“What part didn’t you get?”

“This is for me?” You scowl but he immediately notices the way you divert your eyes. You glance up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to food. “This is worth a million United Credits at least. I can’t afford it.”

“Do you see a price tag?”

“You can’t give me this for free.” 

“Of course I can. It’s just a prototype, so if it accidentally malfunctions and sends all injection options to your body at once and kills you, well…” You shrug. “At least you didn’t pay me. Consider yourself a test subject. I’ve never integrated the needle network into armor before. I don’t have the builds the military uses, just intel. I had to do it from scratch, so it might not work. Your current armor doesn’t protect you from plasma. This does.”

Minho doesn’t buy your bullshit for two seconds. He knows you wouldn’t give him this if it would risk killing him. For all your jesting and affectation, Minho has learned how to read you pretty well, and the way you blow him off and scoff tells him everything he needs to know. 

It is a favor and a gift, and a new sort of olive branch that he is unsure how to accept or take from you. Taking this gift worth more than his entire salary complicates things.

Did you make this specifically for him? He’s not sure. But the fact that he wants the answer to be yes is worse than anything else he can think of. 

Minho has peers. You’re a peer. Always have been. Anything else would complicate the simplicity of the relationship, and Minho immediately steps back and removes the watch. You watch him with razor-sharp intelligence, drinking him in as he holds out the watch to you. 

“The one I have is sufficient enough, Builder.” 

You snatch the watch from him, pivoting on your heel and walking with a ramrod-straight spine back to the table. For a second he thinks you’re going to kick him out but then you take a breath and melt into a smile, though a little sharp at the edges and not reaching your eyes.

“Fixed the connection. I also reinforced it again. Give me a moment to sync to your old armor.” 

Old armor. As if the new one is still his. His stomach flips and he grimaces. 

The affectation in your voice makes Minho uncomfortable. He doesn’t move, watching you tap viciously against the screen on your work desk. Jeongin spins a pen in his hand, glancing between the two of you nervously. When he notices Minho glaring at him, he grins awkwardly and pushes his chair behind one of the clear screens, his face distorted by blue lettering and diagram.

Wordlessly, you hand him the watch and turn away when he takes it. You say nothing else, moving on to a different project as Minho delicately picks up the shirt. He slides it over, feeling the warmth seep into his cool skin. He meticulously pulls the hardness with weapons on, followed by his jacket.

Fully dressed, he waits for you to say something. He doesn’t know what he expects - or wants - you to say. But he pauses anyway, eyes on your bent shape. His gaze flits to your hands, delicate fingers typing wildly, tense as you wait for him to leave. 

It feels like a stone has sunk to the bottom of Minho’s stomach. He doesn’t move for a few minutes, torn between walking out and preparing for his next Collection and staying to… what? He doesn’t know. He has no idea what to say or do, but he feels the palpable shift in your mood. 

So Minho chooses the easiest option. He nods to himself and heads toward the exit. You don’t spare him a second glance but he certainly looks at you out of the corner of his eye. Your jaw is clenched and you tap with a ferocity that thinks might shatter your desktop interface. 

As soon as the door opens, Minho is drowning in thumping base and synth again. Hyunjin leans on the stool, this time with his back against the wall and his glittering eyes focused on Minho. Though the former Nightcrawler wasn’t in the room, Minho has a sneaking suspicion that Hyunjin knows everything that happens in the Builder’s workshop. 

Hyunjin’s smirk is all-knowing and Minho storms by him, hating him for it. 

Rain no longer falls from a dark sky. Opaque, charcoal skies stretch above him, lines of moving air traffic creating layers of latticework. Looking at the watch - which shows his normal armor once more - tells him it's in the early morning hours now. 

The streets are not as busy as the night before. There are still glaring advertisements and he spots a group of cloaked United Church members walking around to accept alms and recruit, but the energy is muted outside of the clubs and pleasure houses. 

Morning commuters fill the speed train tunnels. United Travel Agents lurk in the crowd, watchful eyes on anyone causing trouble or trying to double up on the scanners as travelers pass through, machines charging their United Credits as they go. 

Minho falls into the dull buzz of morning travel. Glancing at his watch, he knows he has enough time to go home and change. He likes to receive his calls while he’s at home anyway. He tries not to replay the last conversation between the two of you. The offer you’d made him. The meaning behind it, whatever it may be. 

It’s nearly impossible, but he manages. Especially once he gets into his apartment, sinking into the routine of showering, changing, and sliding back into his clothes like a second skin. As soon as he reties his boots, his watch begins to ring. 

“Receiving,” he answers, straightening up. 

“Collection echo-tango-foxtrot-bravo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”

“Collection accepted.” 

The line goes dead. Minho slides his weapons into their holsters, then pulls on his rain jacket. It always rains in the city, like God is weeping for what he has become.

Any work is good work. 

Minho leaves the apartment to take another life. 

-

The water runs red in Minho’s shower. He stares it for a while, hot water rushing down his neck, shoulders and back in rivulets. It turns pink the longer he stares, the wound on his leg bleeding less and less. 

The irony is not lost on him that if he had accepted your gift, he might not have taken a gnarly hunting knife to the thigh. He was lucky that it was an energy weapon, the blade cauterizing the wound immediately. He’d had to pick the wound back open to flush out the dead, burned skin and pour burning antiseptic on it.

Shifting, Minho examines the wound. Pain blooms in his thigh as he turns, making him suck in a sharp hiss. The wound is to the bone. He knows he’s lucky it was not a well-made weapon, the ion pulse too weak to sever his limb. Still, it’s a deep wound and it would surely fuck him up if he didn’t have the next twenty-four hours to himself. 

If the knife had been one of yours…

A pulse of frustration echoes through him. He presses his closed fist to the old tile of the shower wall, feeling the dissonance between the scalding water and cool tile steady him. His knuckles are sore from the last Collection - which had gone wrong in every way possible - and he’s brutally aware of just how much everything hurts. 

Yet the ache isn’t what bothers him. His Collection target getting the jump on him from inside intel isn’t what bothers him. Minho has had that happen enough times that he no longer feels surprised when a Collection knows he’s coming.

What fucking bothers him is the ripple effect of his rejection of your offer made. 

Minho shuts off the water and steps out the water carefully. He can barely put weight on the leg, gritting his teeth as he grabs a towel and hobbles out of the bathroom, the steam billowing out into the tiny apartment and dissipating. 

Blue neon lights from the shop across the way burn in his window. He hardly needs to turn the lights on in his own home to see in the dark, the ever-present glow of blue guiding the way. 

Carefully, he sits on his bed. Another pulse of pain from the wound makes him shiver and take several deep, steadying breaths. He peels back the towel at the waist, revealing a single, thick thigh with a horrible cut right in the meat of it. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. Walking around has made it bleed again, scarlet trickling toward the towel. 

Trying not to disturb the wound, he reaches for the medical kit under the bed. The metal is cool to the touch as he flips the latches, rummaging around the bandages, antiseptics, and gels until he finds what he’s looking for.

Minho takes the single, long syringe and uncaps it with his teeth, spitting the cap on the floor somewhere. He flicks his hand a few times, holding it up to make sure there are no bubbles in the vial. Holding his wound carefully with one hand and with the syringe in the other, he inserts the needle deep into the flesh, the sting minor compared to the throbbing ache the cut itself emanates. 

The compound burns as he injects himself. He clenches his teeth, pushing down on the plunger with steady pressure. He can already feel the numbness spreading in his leg as the local anesthesia takes root. He knows he’ll be itching when it wears off, the tiny nanobots working to stitch the muscle and tissue back together already making his skin crawl. 

DeepStitch is an expensive thing to have. He pulls the syringe out carefully, glancing at the medical kit. It only came with one, meaning he was going to have to replace the vile. Medical compounds made for healing abnormal wounds cost a fortune, especially the type with micro-technology to assist the process. 

Tossing out the empty syringe, Mingo lays on his bed, uncaring if he’s damp and in a towel. The numbness in his thigh spreads, making him shiver. He tries not to think about the fact that there are thousands of microscopic bots working on internally stitching his muscles an tendons as quickly as they can before the blood in his body deteriorates them.

The medical advancement of this world is beyond Minho, but he’s grateful for it as he drifts in a half-sleep. He finds it harder to sleep after using JumpPacks, his body unable to adjust from the constant state of false energy and adrenaline. 

It makes him think about your stupid fucking offer again. A piece of armor that could sync with him and balance his hormones and chemical compounds at the tap of a wrist. Something that high caliber for a low-level contract killer was beyond him. 

There was crazy, and then there was that. 

Minho wonders if you’ve been charging him fairly, suddenly. He’s always thought the weapons and tech you provide him with were good prices. They were well-made but always within his budget, albeit he stopped looking at what you were billing him a long time ago. Now that he knows you’re willing to offer something that he’d only find on a United Praetor in the military, he wonders if you’ve been cutting him deals.

He’s never asked the others. Changbin and Jisung seem friendly with you, enough to make Minho wary about asking them questions. Though they’re the closest things that Minho has to friends, he doesn’t trust them whenever it comes to you. 

Jisung already thinks it’s sweet that Minho is nice to you, and he hates that. Even if it’s true. 

Time fades away as Minho circles his conversation with you over and over again. He examines every moment of it. When he can surmise nothing else of the interaction but you offering an olive branch of friendship, something a step beyond peers, he goes back to all of his other interactions.

He remembers almost every one of them. 

Minho’s memory is fine-tuned. It has to be in his line of work. But the memories of you are particularly sharp. He’s able to recall the way you always poke fun at him to the exact line of his tolerance, the way you always know how to get in a good jibe without actually pissing him off. The way that you let Jisung and Changbin have it in front of him for his benefit, especially after they’ve irritated him, like you’re giving him a gift or saying I’m on your team. 

Thoughts of you ultimately lead to other things like the way your eyes reflect the blue light of your many screens. Or the way you always smell like jasmine and amber. The way you pull your sleeves over your hands in sweater paws because it’s bitter cold in your studio to avoid explosions and corrosion of items. The way the nickname Cowboy runs so smooth off your tongue, making his toes curl. 

Minho’s fingers twitch when he thinks about brushing the backs of his knuckles against your soft skin. He’s thought about it before and immediately cringed at the fantasy. Now, between exhaustion clinging to him and the numb limb, he doesn’t jerk away at the idea.

He finally falls asleep thinking of you and what it would be like to accept that olive branch. 

-

The ringing of Minho’s watch wrenches him from sleep. He sits up straight in bed, gasping and hand shooting toward the nightstand where there’s a draw with one of his guns. He realizes that his wrist is vibrating and when he looks at the screen, he sighs with equal parts tension and regret as he realizes it’s work calling. 

Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight. 

Clearing his throat, he answers. “Receiving.” 

“Collection romeo-echo-alpha-delta-echo-romeo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”

Information flashes on Minho’s watch and he feels the world disappear from underneath his feet. Your name, age, permanent place of residency address, and anything the government has both legally and illegally obtained flashes before him. He’s never even seen your full name before and there it is, glowing on his watch as he stares at the information.

It feels obscene to know any of this. He flicks his wrist, turning off the display. He doesn’t want to see any of it, doesn’t want to see when you were born, doesn’t want to see what ward you pay taxes in, doesn’t want to know your criminal history. 

Minho’s ears are ringing. The Delegator does not confirm that Minho has heard or received the assigned target for Collection. Minho stares at the wall, his vision blurring at the edges as the name - your name - echoes in his mind over and over again. He hears it at the same rhythm as his pounding heart, pumping blood through his system as his watch flashes a high heart rate warning. 

Your name. Your full government name and ID number. He’s only ever known your first name, but you’ve always been Builder to him anyway. Minho can’t remember if he’s ever said your name, and suddenly he wants to. He wants to know what it sounds like shaped by his mouth, what it tastes like on his tongue. Wants to say it so many different ways, laughing, smirking, sighing– 

Three years and he can’t believe he’s never so much as said your name, and now that very name is on his list to kill. 

Indecision roots his feet to the spot. This isn’t like a Reverse Collection where other hitmen try to kill him and he can get away with killing them instead, clearing his name for a little longer. This is a direct and finite order to eliminate you. There is no alternative to this Collection. 

Irreversible. 

Running his hands through his hair, he looks around his apartment. It looks unlived-in and completely impersonal. Just like the impersonal way he calls you Builder, as though not using your fucking name makes it more sterile. As if it keeps you further away from earning his trust.

Which you have earned. Implicitly. Minho can think of no one else he would let take care of him. That he would sleep or eat in the presence of. That he trusts not to kill him in his sleep while he’s unarmed. 

Now he’s supposed to murder you?

Bile turns in his stomach. He hears the ticking of the clock on the wall. Every second inches closer to the decision he has to make.

Will he or won’t he? 

Minho grabs his gun from the nightstand and walks toward the door.

He’s only a few steps toward it when he realizes he’s not dressed or prepared for whatever he is about to do - what is he about to do? He has no idea. All he knows is that he is dazed and his hands are starting to shake and his heart rate is climbing, his watch flashing a warning. 

The room begins to tilt as his breathing comes out in haggard breaths. He stumbles a little bit, the blood pumping through him roaring in his ears. He belatedly realizes he’s having a panic attack, blindly trying to get back to his bed where he can sit. 

What does one do during a panic attack? He has no idea, he’s never had one. He thinks of the last time he saw someone panic and immediately bends over to put his head between his knees, gulping air through his nose and out through his mouth. 

What was it that Jisung said about panic?

It’s hard to remember. He thinks maybe there was counting involved, so he breathes in for seven seconds and then out for seven seconds. Does it again. And again. 

Slowly, the world swims back into focus. He can feel the twinge in his thigh as he comes down from the momentary lapse of panic and judgment. When he trusts that he’s not going to vomit on his bare feet, he slowly sits upright, looking around the neon-blue room. 

Quiet blankets the apartment. The world outside is faint. He can hear the clock on the wall as the minute hand moves, each marking the passing of a United Second. With a deep breath, he moves. 

There are no thoughts as he goes. His mind is a single list of action items, marketing them off as he goes. Get dressed. Check his weapons. Arm himself to the teeth with things you’ve made him. Message Jisung a cryptic, one-word text that only the other Collector will understand. Arm a bomb. Leave. 

It’s clinical. 

Minho had always understood with absolute clarity the reality of his line of work. He’s always had a failsafe - or a killswitch, so to speak. From the first day of work, Minho’s only purpose was to kill until he died. He was always meant to die. And he tells himself that the single, little safe space he has in the world he started saving for… well. If you ever needed it.

Any work is good work. 

Clouds hold in their rain. The night feels ominous. Minho glances up at the choked clouds, wondering what they’re up to. The Ministry of Weather controls the atmosphere in some parts of the city. Minho does not travel in those parts of the city - those assassinations are beyond the abilities of a Collector and reserved for Nightcrawlers. 

Paranoia is imminent, but Minho tries not to look over his shoulder every five seconds. The mysterious nature of Collect Co. is still something he doesn’t understand, so it’s difficult to unravel the nature of his assignment. Without a doubt, whoever placed Minho as the Collector knows you supply his weapons.

That simple fact branches out into multiple possibilities. Perhaps the person who wants you gone simply thinks Minho is the best person for the job because he’s in your tentative circle of trust and a familiar enough face to slip through you’re defenses. Or perhaps the problem is him and they know he won’t complete the Collection, earning a job termination and his name showing up on the Collection list. 

Either way, it’s on purpose. Of that, he knows for sure. 

From his years working for Collect Co., there are only a few things that Minho is sure about. Delegators do exactly what their title suggests - they delegate kills. Callers are a tier above Delegators, calling the shots working the network of requests that come in for contracted kills. Legals do all of the paperwork and research before agreeing to a contract, and at the very top of the chain is the Floorman. 

Beyond that, Minho has no concept of the hierarchy or who is hiring Collect Co. for jobs. There are obvious manipulations to the system and it’s impossible to work objectively within a private company that works with but not for the government, and Minho has little doubt that the financial benefactors are who really control assignments. 

Which leads him back to the root of the question: why you? Is Minho the problem, or do you have enemies so large that they hold sway in Collect Co. He doesn’t consider that your deeds are nefarious enough to warrant a hit. What you do is illegal but you sell to the military, too. 

So it begs the question: is it you or him who they really want gone? 

Maybe it’s even a combination.

Still, he attempts not to seem paranoid. It’s easier than it should be, Minho’s mind so singularly focused on getting to you as he takes the train and traves to North Ward Three that he doesn’t have time to look around every corner or see if he’s being followed. There are other ways of keeping tabs on him, anyway. 

The rain still holds as Minho gets off the speed train and ducks into the street. He keeps to the sides, activating his ad blocker as he’s immediately slammed by a screaming neon world. His gaze and gait must be sharper than he realizes, because people veer away from him, his energy repelling them.

From the corner of his eye, he notes Watchers - people responsible for keeping an eye on what’s going on in the street for their employer - take note of him. Some melt into the doorway of their workplace, and others call for runners.

Trouble. Minho looks like trouble and he can sense the shift as they catch wind of him. 

The Watchers are no threat to him. Their entire purpose is to close the doors and pull back when they catch a sense of danger in the air. They’ll stay out of his way and won’t engage with him unless he threatens their clubs and shops. 

Minho has little intention of doing that. He wants to make this as painless as possible. 

Neon Rodeo burns like a dying sun. The orange falls over him as he jogs down the steps and lets the guards scan him. If they notice anything is off, they say and do nothing. Neon Rodeo is perhaps the only business without a Watcher, and it’s only because no one would dare interrupt the business with the Nightcrawler inside. 

Synth rattles Minho from the ground up as he steps inside. The cowboy hats and their little smiling faces float like phantoms in the night. He only has a singular goal and he looks at no one else as he heads towards the back, sidestepping sweaty bodies and perfumed hair. 

It’s full tonight, the weekend crowd packing the bar from corner to corner. It’s no matter. He cuts his way to the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool. Today, Hyunjin’s hair is blood red and his eyes are sharp, unnatural green. For a moment, Minho thinks of a chameleon before Hyunjin kicks a leg out and blocks the hall leading to the door. 

“Your patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.” 

Minho’s heart flips. Are you that angry with him? He drinks in Hyunjin’s dress and slowly his anxiety turns to understanding. Hyunjin is dressed in all black today. His shirt is armored and in place of pants with tassels are tactical trousers with pockets and weapons strapped to his thighs.

An assessment of the Nightcrawler tells Minho that there are weapons he doesn’t see. There’s a plasma pistol on his hip, a bandolier of small knives strapped across his chest, knives in his boot, and another plasma pistol on this calf. 

Hyunjin’s fingers drum against his thigh as he watches Minho with those unsettling eyes. “Want to try, Cowboy?”

“I need to speak with her.”

“No.”

“I’m not-” Minho grits his teeth. “I’m not Collecting.”

“Didn’t say you were.” 

Hyunjin knows. He doesn’t know how the Nightcrawler knows you’re a Collection on Minho’s list, but it’s clear in the way Hyunjin leers. 

“Look, you can go in with me. Let me get her to safety.”

“And what do you think safety is, Cowboy? Even if you’re not lying, they’ll come after you too.” 

“Listne, Nightcrawler-”

Hyunjin grins. It’s unnerving, and there isn’t much that unnerves Minho. “No, you listen. I tolerate you because I am ordered to. Now, I don’t have to. My only orders were to say no and to not harm you.” He leans back and spreads his hands and shrugs. The neon lights catch his blood red hair. “I’m always within my right to make a judgment call.”

“I’d never hurt her.”

“You’re not friends, last I checked.” Hyunjin cocks his head to the side. “You don’t have friends, right? That’s why you reject acts of faith?”

“What do you know of acts of faith, Nightcrawler?” 

“You’d be surprised, Collector.” 

Hyunjin is unmoving. Minho’s fingers twitch and Hyunjin’s eyes follow the movement. For a second, Minho wonders if he could beat his adversary to the draw. They could do it like an old fashioned movie, the bar the perfect setting for it. Hyunjin is totally unmoving and relaxed, not moving his hand toward his weapons.

He’s that confident in beating me. 

United Seconds are ticking by. Every minute Minho doesn’t make his collection is time lost. He licks his lips ready to mount another argument when Hyunjin’s eyes flicker and look over Minho’s shoulders. His eyes narrow a fraction as they dart back to Minho.

“Here’s an act of faith. Let’s see what you do this time.” 

The energy in the bar shifts. He feels the tremor go through the air and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Minho turns his head to the side, not enough to fully look back over his shoulder but enough to see the group of Collectors disperse in the crowd. 

Both, Minho realizes. The Collection had been for them both, and it was a good excuse to get them in the same place. He grits his teeth as he realizes how predictable he is. They might have come even if he didn’t arrive, but they might have sent a smaller force. 

Glancing at Hyunjin, Minho watches as the Nightcrawler does nothing. He waits for Minho, raising his brows and smirking. 

Act of faith. 

Normally, Minho doesn't believe in public acts of violence. Collectors are mostly prohibited from killing in public or endangering the lives of United Republic Citizens unless entirely unavoidable. 

Now, though, he causes a scene and pulls his gun, swiveling around and leveling it at the nearest Collector he has a clean line of sight on. He feels the hum of the weapon and the click of the safety as he squeezes the trigger, the pulse of the weapon barely perceptible as it fires. 

Plasma weapons are bright when they fire. It’s nearly blinding in the dark as he shoots, screams shattering the bar as the world turns into pops of energy and sizzling air. He ducks down as someone shoots at him, instincts kicking in as he grabs the leg of a table and yanks it toward him. 

Behind him, Hyunjin lets out a manic laugh and stands from the stool. He drops a small device next to Minho, drawing his attention for a second. Minho watches as it expands with a shimmer of translucent energy - a shield. He looks at the Nightcrawler who crouches with him, grinning as he peers over the table and shields with his green eyes. 

“There are eight. They’re just going to pin us here and shoot at us like fish in a barrel.”

“Is there a way through that door?”

“Sure there is. If they want to melt it down, I’m sure they have plasma blades, judging from the look of their very nice weapons. They can’t blow it without leveling the street.” 

“Does she have a way out the back?”

“No, then I would have two doors to watch.” 

A spray of metal and plasma ricochets off the shield that has molded to the shape of the table. Hyunjin gestures as if to showcase his point and Minho grits his teeth. Peeking around the table, he can see patrons hiding under tables and covering their heads. Collectors stand spread out, fanning the entrance and blocking the way, but they don’t come any closer.

They want to make the Collection, but they don’t want to face a Collector and a Nightcrawler together. 

“Aren’t you some sort of unmatched assassin, Nightcrawler?” Minho asks, checking the mag on his plasma gun. “Can you just take them all out? That should be light work for you.”

“I’m good at not being seen, Cowboy. I’m not inhuman.” 

“Oh good, so you’re actually useless when visible?”

Hyunjin’s face darkens. “You’d be surprised how often you don’t see me.” 

The threat isn’t lost on Minho but it doesn’t have time to sink into its full effect as bullets rain down on them. They cringe together to ensure they’re behind the shield, which whines under the plasma assault and flickers. Minho thinks it will hold, but it’s only as wide as the table it molds to and the table isn’t very large.

Hyunjin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a grenade. Minho grabs it, looking at him with wild eyes. Hyunjin pulls his hand away. “It’s a flash grenade,” he snaps. “I’m not going to kill everyone.” He pauses and smirks. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“That’s hardly less settling.”

“You know,” Hyunjin muses, pulling the ring from the grenad. Green light pulses on it slowly, counting down until it starts to release blinding white flashes. “One day you and I are going to have a talk about why you think your profession is so much different than mine.”

“One is legal, for starters.” 

Hyunjin lobs the grenade. “Right, so what you’re doing right now? This is legal?”

Minho is spared from having to answer as the world explodes in white. He and Hyunjin move at the same time, letting the memory of where the Collectors stand as they close their eyes and shoot. Minho’s shot blind thousands of times and it usually pays off.

It does for the most part now, the pair of them dropping Collectors as they shoot. The white light fades and there’s only a single Collector left standing by the door, his gun aimed at Minho. He swivels to shoot, but a bullet hits the Collector in the shoulder, twisting him backward from impact as he squeezes the trigger of his gun. 

The shot catches Minho in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. He curses but keeps his weapon trained on the fallen Collector until he hears high-pitched screaming. It stops his heart, the sound of the Collector’s voice reaching a level of madness that echoes even after he gargles and goes silent.

Minho looks at Hyunjin with an accusatory glare but Hyunjin juts his thumb behind him in answer, pointing to where you stand at the door with a heavy pistol in your and. Minho blinks a few times in surprise. 

“I think the nano-tips work, Jeongin.” You glance over your shoulder where the younger boy stands on the stairs behind you, armed to the teeth. “Remind me to write that down.” 

Silence stretches in Neon Rodeo, save the soft quivering crying and sparking sign that’s been shot over the bar. From the corner of his eye, Minho sees it flash between Rodeo and Odeo over and over again, bouncing between the two words as the ‘R’ tries to fight for its life.

Then there’s you. 

You stare at him with a guarded expression, drinking him in. Your gaze lingers on his arm, reminding him that it does in fact burn where the plasma bullet graze his shoulder. Next to him, Hyunjin shifts. The Nightcrawler barely moves forward, sliding part of his body between Minho and where you stand in the doorway to your studio, Hyunjin’s hand resting on top of his gun. 

“You gonna kill me, Cowboy?” Your voice wavers when you ask. By the twitch in your lip, Minho can tell you’re upset that it does. 

“No. I want to help.” Hyunjin snorts and Minho is reminded of his earlier question. What do you think safety is? “Consider it an act of faith,” Minho offers and Hyunjin’s snickering turns to curiosity. “I’ve rejected yours in the past. Let me off you the only one I have.” 

No one moves. Minho slowly lifts his wrist toward Hyunjin, displaying the information. The Nightcrawler looks it over and raises his brows, looking back at Minho. “What strange turn of events, Minho.” 

It’s the first time Hyunjin has ever used his name. He says nothing as the Nightcrawler heads over to you, murmuring quietly. Your face is inscrutable as you nod and look over your shoulder, saying something to Jeongin. He nods fiercely, face set in determination that makes Minho’s mouth twitch a little. 

The three of them join Minho wordlessly as he turns on his heels and heads up the stares. Hyunjin’s watch flashes and lets them know that the United Enforcers are three minutes out and they need to get where they’re going.

You take the lead then, hurrying out the door but not out into the street, ducking into a noodle shop three doors down from Neon Rodeo. You shout in United New Mandarin at the woman behind the counter, shocking him - not that Minho knows anything about you at all - and the woman waves you off.

Through the shop and into the stock room you lead everyone, hoping over bags of flower and starch until you reach a table that you climb up on and pull a vent from a ceiling. It’s far too large to be a normal vent, and his questions are answered when he realizes it leads to a small garage that faces the next street over. 

Once into the garage, Hyunjin takes the lead out into the street, weapon up. Minho brings up the rear, falling into a defensive unit as you go. Jeongin walks closely behind Hyunjin, his steps a little clumsy but his head on a swivel. 

Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert. 

“Decided not to kill me?” you whisper as you skirt out into the street and hug the building face. 

Minho can barely hear you over the fabric you’ve pulled up over your face. He blinks and thinks to do the same, pulling the hood up on his jacket and sliding up a black gaitor over the lower half of his face. 

“I was never going to kill you.”

“Hard to tell with you.” 

“I… don’t have an argument.” 

And he doesn’t. He realizes that he’s kept you at arm's length despite your best attempts to spark some sort of friendship. What reason could he do that other than sparing himself if he had to kill you one day? It makes the most logical sense.

“I thought we were friends.” That makes him pause. You notice a few steps ahead of him that he’s stopped, looking at you. “We stopped being just business acquaintances over a year ago, Collector. My normal clients don’t get to test my new hardware or request as many JumpPacks as you do on the house.”

“They’re on the house?”

“Of course they are!” you snap at him. “Do you not look at your billing, Collector? How do you know I’m not overcharging you?” 

“I stopped looking once I trusted you weren’t robbing me.”

“See, that’s a funny word coming from you. Trust.”

A whistle catches Minho’s attention. You both turn to see that Hyunjin and Jeongin are nearly three-blocks away at the entrance of a nondescript shop. Color floods Minho’s face when he realizes the pair of you had stopped walking to have your argument and he curses himself as you start moving again. 

“I do trust you.” You say nothing to his comment. “I’m sorry I didn’t accept the armor.”

“It wasn’t about rejecting the armor, Collector.” The world Collector sounds dirty in your mouth. He suddenly wants to hear you call him Cowboy again. “It was about rejecting me when I thought we were already friends. I was wrong.”

Hyunjin leads them down into an alleyway that is void of anything besides dumpsters and murky puddles. The smell turns Minho’s stomach but he resists the urge to gag as Hyunjin bends down to pull up a sewer grate. He flashes his flashlight inside and nods before jumping down and vanishing. There’s a light splash as he lands and calls up for Jeongin. 

Minho crouches close to you as Jeongjin adjusts to follow Hyunjin down. 

“You weren’t,” he says as Jeongin jumps. You turn to look at him, confused. “Wrong. You weren’t wrong.” 

You look him up and down, hesitating. Hyunjin calls your name and you turn away from Minho, checking your legs and arms to make sure your pockets are zipped. Minho watches as you jump. He realizes his holding his breath until he hears your feet splash.

Quickly, he scrambles to the grate, pulling the top with him. Looking through the hole, he sees the orange light of glowsticks as you and Jeongin crack and shake them, lighting up the tunnel in a very small ring of light. Hyunjin has turned off his flashlight and looks up at Minho, gesturing for him to hurry.

Minho holsters his weapon and jumps down, bending at the knee as he lands to absorb the fall. His boots splash loudly in the tunnel, echoing for a few seconds. His shoulder wound aches as he straightens up. Hyunjin is already lifting Jeongin up to pull the great back over the hole. The scrape of metal on the concrete sounds much louder in the watery tunnel, making Minho cringe.

Looking both ways, he sees the sewer is less of a sewer and more of a tunnel. The cloth pulled over his face does little to keep out the rancid smell, and he winces when he sees fat, black rats scattering on the edges of the orange light. 

Something touches his arm and he jerks, hand going to his gun. You lean back and apologize, holding out a glowstick. He relaxes and takes it, fingers brushing yours as he does. He instantly gets a chill down his spine, though his fingers are warm where they brushed yours. 

Minho clears his throat and holds the glowstick up, looking around the tunnel. He can hear the faint echoes of dripping water and every movement of the group feels loud in the pressing silence of the dark. 

“What is this?” he asks, looking at you. 

It’s Hyunjin who answers, “Nightcrawler shit. You’re welcome.”

“Should we expect any of your former coworkers, then?” 

“They’re not so bad.” Hyunjin unholsters his weapon as he begins walking south down the tunnel, throwing Minho a sharp grin. “It’s the Darklings I worry about.” 

You fall into step behind Hyunjin immediately, ducking your head to murmur something to him as you go. The glow of your light gets farther away as Minho stands staring at Hyunjin, unsure if he’s serious or not. 

Jeongin steps up next to Minho. “He was joking about Darklings, right? The People Underneath are a myth?” 

“Have you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?” 

Minho leaves Jeongin thinking about it before the younger rushes to keep up with him, feet splashing wildly. 

-

Whether Hyunjin was joking about the Darklings or not, they don’t run into anything except rats and roaches in the underground tunnels. Minho finds himself itching to ask the Nightcrawler questions and demand where they’re going, but he doesn’t, 

An act of faith. 

It was an act of faith when Minho showed Hyunjin the safehouse on his watch. It was one of the few things that Minho protected more fiercely than his life, and he was hoping that when Hyunjin saw the coordinates, title of ownership, and Minho’s information, he’d gain a little trust. 

Minho had been right. Hyunjin, though still sharp at the edges, has become unnervingly benign with Minho, addressing him by his name. It’s not much to most, but he knows among killers it’s a huge step. One that means a little more trust, if not at least peers. 

You remain quiet for the most part. Your eyes stray toward Minho often and when he catches you looking, you don’t look away. Your gaze is hesitant and questioning, as though you’re trying to figure him out like one of the schematics on your screens. 

Biting into a protein bar, he quickens his pace to fall into step with you. “What will you do with your lab?” 

Your lips twitch. “Chemical fire. There’s a stop-line in the frame of the building so it should be controlled. I promised not to burn down Neon Rodeo when I established my office there.” 

“Who owns that place, anyway?” 

“Bangchan.” The name sounds familiar. “Reformed Nightcrawler.” 

“You keep unusual company.”

“Better than none.” 

That gets a little bit of a laugh from him. You smile when he does and he swears it’s brighter than the glowsticks you carry. “I deserved that one. I’m working on it, alright.”

“How do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?”

“The same way I deal with them.” You hum, nodding in understanding. For a few minutes, it’s just wet steps echoing in the tunnels. “What made you decide to come with me? I assume you have your own fallback plans.” 

“I do, but I don’t know. I wanted to accept your olive branch.” You look at him. “I wanted to trust you.”

He nods. His gut twists a little at that, both anxious and pleased. He’d been right about offering an act of faith in return for the one he scorned. Now, he just has to keep you alive, which he grows more confident in doing. 

“Where are we going?” 

He looks up at you. “Hyunjin didn’t tell you?”

“No, just said to trust you.” Minho’s brows shoot up and you snort. “I know. Whatever you showed him convinced him.”

“It’s a safe house on Isla de Suenos.” You look up at him sharply and he gives a soft grin. “My mother belonged to a very well-off family. I’m not supposed to exist, and she had to decide at a young age whether or not I was worth throwing away her family and their power. A single safehouse purchased with offshore accounts and through a network of money-changing and bought secrecy is the only thing she could give me.”

“She didn’t choose you?” He shakes his head. You think about that for a second and he lets the words sink in, waiting for the pity, which he hates. Instead, you hum. “No wonder you don’t choose people either.”

Your candor is a relief. You don’t tell him sorry or try to comfort him. You accept this as a fact of life, a normalcy that a mother would choose wealth and power over a child. “There are no records tying us together, but the title of the house is under what my name would have been if she’d taken me. Lee. My family name would be Lee.”

“What is it now?”

“I don’t have one. My father was servant-class. We don’t have family names.” 

“He worked for your mother’s family?” Minho nods. “Lee. I like it. Will you keep it?”

“Maybe. It’s who I have to be, now.” 

“No longer the Collector?” He shakes his head. “Good. Perhaps I like you more as just Lee Minho.” 

Minho bites back a grin. 

By the time they get to the surface again, they’re just outside of the city-proper on the northeast shore. Here, the night is bitter cold as the salty air blasts off the ocean, dark waves rushing and receding against the shoreline. 

They take a brief break once their topside, Minho gasping deep breaths of fresh air in as he gulps down water. Now that they can see without the glowsticks, they toss them into the trash and breathe in silence. 

Carefully, Minho peers at the wound on his shoulder. It’s caterized from the heat of the plasma, but the burn hurts something vicious. He has no medical supplies on him, and he examines the chawed flesh with mild concern. 

Seeing the injury, you get up wordleslly from the rock where you sit and come over. Your hand digs in one of your pockets and you produce a packet of burn gel and antiseptic, wordlessly gesturing to the wound. He nods and you offer a tentative grin before ripping the antiseptic open with your teeth, spitting the crinkling material on the ground.

With steady hands, you squeeze out the translucent gel on the tips of your fingers and peel the damaged parts of Minho’s shirt away from the flesh. He sucks in a breath when you apply the cool gel to the wound, the stinging of the antibiotic catching him off guard. You shoot him an apologetic wince before continuing to press it lightly into the burned flesh. 

You smell like jasmine and amber. Minho breathes it in deep, a soothing scent mixed with the salty air of the seat just a few yards away. His eyes flutter shut as your fingers work his shoulder, deft and skilled like an artist. 

“My mom liked to paint,” Minho says automatically, unsure where the comment comes from. “That’s one of the few things I know about her. She had artists hands. You have hands like hers. Graceful.” 

“Hmm, I wouldn’t say I’m an artist but I do draw designs for weapons a lot.”

“It’s a kind of art.”

“I suppose it is.”

Your closeness makes Minho dizzy. Instead of chasing you away in the past, he lets you linger and spread the burn gel on his shoulder. He doesn’t open his eyes, letting the sound of the ocean and the press of your steady fingers lull him into a moment of relaxation. 

He can almost pretend you both haven’t thrown your life away to head to some house he’s never been to with little to no plan but to arrive there alive. 

“Does it hurt?” he shakes his head at your question. You voice is soft and raspy, rising the hairs on the back of his neck. You’re so close he can feel the heat radiating from you, making him lean in on instinct, seeking the warmth. “If you let me give you better armor, plasma won’t hurt you.”

Minho’s eyes flutter open. “You brought it with you?”

“Of course I did.” Your face is inches from his, eyelashes fanning your bright, glittering eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Hyunjin’s voice shatters the moment before Minho can respond. “Hello, yes, the child and I are still here.” 

“I’m not a child!”

“The child and I need to leave, however. Seungmin and Felix are waiting to escort us. I believe your friend left transportation for you, Minho.”

You whirl around. “You’re leaving? What do you mean you’re leaving?”

“I have some Nightcrawling to do with Bangchan and Seungmin. I’m taking the child to stay with Swan.” 

Minho has no idea who Swan is. He sees the uncertainty color your face as you regard your guard - your friend. “You would do that? Take him to stay with her?” 

“Of course. Swan likes strays.” 

“I am right here,” Jeongin reminds everyone, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I’m not a child.”

Hyunjin grins at him. It’s real and not a leer, something that Minho doesn’t think he’s ever seen. Hyunjin grabs Jeongin by the shoulder, pulling him along before flicking his poison-green eyes toward Minho and you. “Enjoy your evening. I’ll be around, Minho.” 

“Wait!” you bolt over to them, catching everyone by surprise as you throw your arms around the two of them and squeeze. The smile on Hyunjin’s face is so soft that Minho has to look away, equal parts something like jealousy and feeling like he’s intruding. “Here.” 

You divest several items from your pockets, shoving them into their hands. Medical gels, a few gadgets, and a little Scorpion figurine that you shove into Hyunjin’s hands. He raises a single brow in amusement but you say nothing to the Nightcrawler, rushing back to stand at Minho’s side. 

Hyunjin and Jeongin lift their hand in waves to Minho before turning and heading down the beach at a slow pace, their feet sinking into the sand. Cold wind whips at Minho as he stands watching with you silent by his side, waiting.

Without a word, he turns and beckons you, heading up the rocky coast before heading back down precariously to a tiny cove with a boat buoyed between the rocks. It’s hardly a safe-looking boat and he realizes it probably wouldn’t have carried them all, but it’s something. 

Minho climbs into the boat carefully before helping you step down into it. The rocking water throws you off balance and he steadies you, hands tight on your waist. You mutter an apology but he doesn’t let go until he’s sure you’re okay, eyes searching. 

A moment of tension passes, his fingers pressed into the fabric of your hips, your closeness overpowering the sea air again. You clear your throat and it passes. Minho lets you go as he finds the key and plugs it in to turn on the engine.

You busy yourself with untying ropes, your steps unsteady as the vessel moves unpredictably beneath your feet. Once you manage to get rid of all the lines, he begins to navigate out the cove backward, turning the wheel violently from side to side as he fights the tide. 

Thankfully with every swell that pushes the boat into the cove, it drags it back out. It takes about three swells before the craft is pulled into the ocean proper and he throws the throttle in reverse, water rooster tailing for a moment as he does. 

You join him at the helm and stand close as he turns it around and drives. Wind rips at his jacket, blowing back the hood. He’s thankful for the face cover fighting the icy wind, squinting as he drives in the late hours of the night across a rippling black ocean. 

The water gets rough as he turns to the east, glancing at the coordinates on his watch every once in a while. Your hand shoots out to grab his forearm on a particularly violent dip. He curses, pain radiating from his shoulder as you do. You immediately shout an apology and let go, but Minho snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you tight.

For a second, you stiffen, looking up at him uncertain. He remains steadfast in his hold, willing his heart to slowdown as he drives, determined to keep you from falling off the boat and into the water before you can even make it to the safehouse. 

You relax into him after a second, pressing closer and letting him hold on as you go. He relaxes when you accept his help, breathing out a slow breath that he didn’t know he was holding. 

It takes almost forty five minutes, but the dark shadow of Isla de Suenos materializes in the night. The city is a spec of light on the misty horizon as the waves begin to slow down until he can let down on the throttle, bringing the boat to a troll instead of a plane. 

The collection of islands that surround the massive, man-made mountain in the middle of the seat are all only about seven acres in size and are privately owned. The level of exclusivity is something Minho is incredibly unfamiliar with, and he gets nervous as they approach the barely visible shield surrounding the collection of islands.

“Minho, there’s a-”

“It’ll let us through.” He squeezes your waist on instinct, hoping it’s true. As the boat passes, he holds his breath. He feels the biochip in his neck flicker and then they’re through the shield. The water is falt calm on the other side of the energy wall, tapping gently against the hull. “It’s biometric.”

“And you were sure that was going to work?”

“Mostly.” 

“Mostly is not a great attitude in the invention field, Minho.” 

It takes a second, but he realizes you’re calling him by his name and not Cowboy. He likes the sound of it on your tongue, though he doesn’t mind the diminutive. 

Even in still waters, he doesn’t remove his arm around your waist, the protective instinct still high as he steers the boat according to his watch. Islands with lights hidden behind thick jungle and rockface slide past them. 

The beacon on his watch flashes and he turns the boat, trolling to a long, empty dock ahead of them. The island is no different from the rest, covered in sprawling jungle and foliage that look monstrous in the ominous night. 

Quickly, you tie off the boat and disembark. Your steps on the dock feel loud in the quiet night, the two of you hurrying along and up the shore until you hit the stone stairway that leads through the trees. Though he isn’t holding you close to him anymore, you still keep yourself pressed close, the back of your hands brushing as you begin the climb up the island. 

Minho has no idea what the house looks like. He only knows that it’s coded to his biochip and that it’s always been there if he needs it. He doesn’t know if it’s stocked or if the electricity is on, or if it’s been raided and taken over. He doesn’t even know if there are codes to get access.

It is the most unprepared he has ever been. 

A large estate springs up among the trees. The entire building is constructed on a platform with foliage and trees brushing along the foundations. It’s made up of windows and metal framing, the windows dark and hiding whatever exists within. 

It is exquisit. Minho has never seen an estate or a luxury home before in person, but he knows that’s what this is. The thought seems a little silly as he leads you toward the modular home, steps quiet as he glances around. He cannot imagine that anyone but he and his could enter the grounds, but he’s still on edge. 

At the door, there’s a single bioscanner. He leans his neck toward it, letting it flash over his biochip. The scanner turns green and he hears the hiss of an airlock. Glancing at you and shrugging, he tries the handle and pulls the door open toward him. 

Inside, the air is cool. He steps in first, hand on his gun as he looks around the interior. It’s sparkling clean and decorated with dark wood furniture and greenery. He takes a few steps inside, flinching when automatic lights come on and cast a warm, gold glow in the house. 

“You’ve been living as a fucking Collector when this existed the entire time?” you deadpan from the door.

No kidding, he thinks, turning to look at the multi-story wonder that is the home. It’s three levels of tropical opulence, making his head spin at all of the possibilities. 

“I didn’t know what was here, honestly.” He turns to look at you and nods. You step inside and pull the door shut, tapping the screen beside it. The locks click in place again and with another tap, he sees the windows darken to privacy mode. “I assumed she didn’t leave me something grand.” 

“It’s a good start on an apology. She’s still a bitch for leaving you and I think you should let me fight her.”

A ripple of fondness goes through him and he smiles at you, uncontrolled and large. You shoot a shy one back before looking away at the wonder of the home. 

Unlike him, you seem to relax immediately, kicking your shoes off to wander around the house. He follows suit after a moment of hesitation, peeling the cover off of his face and kicking of his shoes. He leaves his holster open on his weapons, hands hovering near them as he follows you.

The house is extravagent. Smaller than he originally thought, with only three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but the spaces for each are massive and sprawling with greenery. It feels like the jungle is a part of the house - and he realizes it is, at least in the atrium. There’s a large pool and something that looks like a hot spring behind the house, hidden from the world by think palms and palmetto. 

Each room is richly designed and cleaned, as though it has been kept for him all this time. He’ll have to worry about that at some point, unsure who has kept the house in such a presentable state while it’s existed. 

After you’ve fed your curiosity, you drift to one of the rooms with a private bathroom. He takes the room across from you, feet dragging as the exhaustion hits him. His limbs feel heavy and peeling off his shirt with the injure arm makes him curse and hiss. He doesn’t bother looking in the mirror, knowing the old bruises from a few days ago are still there.

Steam fills the bathroom. He’s a little put out when he realizes that the stone shower has a wall of glass to reveal the jungle on the other side, but he realizes there’s no one to watch him. He shakes the uneasiness and steps under the scalding water, moaning as he closes his eyes and lets it run down him.

A screen with a dozen or more settings sits in the rockface of the shower, but he doesn’t know how to use them. He hits another button hoping for what is more water pressure and instead gets a heavenly waft of eucalyptus. He leaves the settings alone, settling for tranquility over scrubbing himself.

Minho doesn’t know how long he stays in the shower. His fingers prune and the crust and blood eventually peel away. He spends a short amount of time scrubbing his own skin, eager to get out of the shower and check on you. 

Now that he has you, a new sort of stream of conscious has made itself permanent, always wondering where you are and if you’re okay. 

Steam clouds the bathroom as he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Water clings to him as he ruffles his wet hair, strolling out into the bedroom. He walks toward the table by the door, rifling through his things looking for medical gel. 

A knock draws his attention and you open the door a crack, making a sound of surprise when you don’t expect to see him standing right in front of you. Your eyes dip down to where the towel is on his waist and back up, immediately opting to look at the ceiling. 

Minho’s lips pressed into a firm line, trying to eat the smirk threatening to take over.

“Sorry, I assumed you were still in the shower. I - um - brought more gel for your shoulder.” 

He steps away from the door, leaving drips of water as he does. “Come on in.”

“Are you sure?”

He shrugs and then winces, the burn pulling taught as he does. You enter immediately, shutting the door behind you and ripping the top off the packet as you do, eyes focused on the wound. You’ve got your fingers slathered in gel and pressing to his shoulder before you realize the forwardness, pausing to glance up at him.

Now, Minho does smirk. “I’m at your mercy.” 

“Sorry. I know it’s hurting you and…”

“You don’t want me to hurt,” he fills in, remembering your words from earlier.

You nod and chew your bottom lip as you work. He studies you closely. He doesn’t know if it’s his acceptance that you’re more than just someone he buys weapons from, the exhaustion or the little sliver of feeling he’s always pretended wasn’t there, but Minho suddenly feels a little bolder. 

A little braver. 

“I never had a chance to thank you.”

“For what?” You throw the antiseptic on the table and rip open the burn gel. “Anything. Everything. I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you.”

“There’s a lot of things you haven’t said.”

“So let me.” You dart a look at him, nervous. When you don’t interrupt he continues, “You were right. We stopped being industry peers a long time ago, and I’ve purposefully ignored multiple favors from you to keep the illusion that simple relationships meant I couldn’t be hurt. Or hurt others.”

“And now?”

“I realize it was silly.”

“Hmm. At least you admit your faults, Cowboy.” 

He smiles. You finish applying the gel, but you don’t move away from him. You linger, looking up through silky lashes at him. Your face takes on a dreamy look, mouth parted a little and he feels heat coil in his stomach at that look. 

“Why’d you offer me that armor?”

“I was afraid of how often you were working. I knew you were getting hurt and I wanted to help. Why’d you reject it?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

There’s a long pause. Your gaze drops to his mouth. You’re only a few inches away, the ghost of your breath against his neck. “What if I want you to?” 

Minho needs no other permission. It’s like a dam giving way, the past few days able to wedge their way in and open him up to let the rawness spill out of him. He surges forward, catching your mouth against his as he does so, hands shooting to your waist. 

You don’t push him away. Worse, you melt into him like it’s natural, hands skating up his arms and around the back of his neck to pull him in closer to you. Your mouth is warm and minty and addicting, scattering his thoughts to the stars as your lips move against his. 

Heat is trapped between your bodies. He feels like he’s burning up from the inside, squeezing your hips as his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. You open up for him easily, like you were always made to and he groans. 

Every time he has ever held back from you fuels him forward. He presses into you, turning you to push you on the mattress. You go willingly, opening your legs to let him slot between them. He leaves over you, mouth hungry. Devouring. Ravenous. 

You gasp between kisses, nails grazing down his flexing arms. He wants to fucking drown in you as he bites the edge of your jaw, tasting the soap on your skin. You smell like jasmine and amber, though now he can smell the eucalyptus too, driving him insane. 

You. 

The one thing he’s let himself trust. The one person he’s let in, even when he didn’t want to admit it. The one person he wants to have more than anything else. 

Greedy hands scrape up his chest. Your fingers are warm and searching as he nips the tender flesh of your neck, tongue laving over the bite to soothe it. The sounds dripping from your mouth are so pretty, driving him inside as he traces his desire with tongue and teeth. 

The fabric of your shirt scrapes against his skin, itchy and in the way. His hands pull at the hem and he hesitates, looking down at you through a heavy-lidded gaze and panting. You not frantically, hands pulling at his to guide the shirt upwards and off, revealing warm skin.

Minho wants to taste every part of you. You create art with your schematics and your weapons, but you are art. He worships you with tongue and teeth, hands brushing up your stomach to cup your chest. His tongue pulls a languid moan from you as he flicks it over the peak of your nipple. 

Fuck.

He’s greedy, sucking gentle on your pert bud, ensuring to scrap his teeth along the sensitive flesh. You writhe underneath him, unable to remain still. His other hand works you too, tweaking your stiff peak as he trails spit-slick kisses across your chest to wrap his lips around that nipple too. 

Minho looks up at you through his lashes. You’re a rendering of pleasure, head pressing into the bed, chest pushed up, a sheen of sweat on your collarbones and neck. It drives him wild, cock throbbing heavily as he trails his mouth toward, fingers pulling your pants as he goes. 

Your fingers twist in the sheets. Everything he does affects you and he’s drunk on it, heart thudding in his chest as he drops down to his knees. His towel falls and the cool air makes him shiver. He feels the sticky tip of his cock brush against his leg but he ignores the ache between his thighs, fixing his eyes on what’s between yours instead. 

Pretty and wet, all for him. For him. He gets to have you. But he doesn’t yet, making you wait and feel the personal hell it’s been for him to pretend he wasn’t yours as he kisses up your thighs, licking warm skin and digging his teeth in. 

“Minho,” you half gasp, half wine. He smiles against your knee, giving it a gentle peck. “Please.” 

“Yeah?” he switches legs, biting your calf. “Want it that bad?” 

“Need it.” 

He brings a hand up to your dripping cunt, dragging a curled knuckle through your wetness. You let out a keen and he grins against your leg even more, hypnotized by the way your petty little hole clenches at the contact.

Minho drags it out. Plays with you, dragging that knuckle slow-soft through your folds, avoiding your clit. You let out a sound that’s almost a sob and he chuckles, bringing his hand up to suck at the stickiness on his finger. 

“Hmm. Sweet.” 

“Bet it’s better from the source,” you shoot back, trying to make a jab and failing with how weak your voice is. 

“True,” he agrees, leaning forward. 

Your taste blooms on his tongue as he licks up your center, slow and patient. He savors the taste, humming as he does. You buck under his mouth and he grips your thighs, pulling you open. You’re warm and wet and perfect, and he listens to your breath hitch as he licks you slowly, making sure to circle around your clit each time.

One of your hands shoots to his hair. He doesn’t mind as you pull. The sting feels good and spurs him on, eating you out properly. He loves the sounds you make for him, loves the way your thighs twitch as he sucks your click into his mouth, tongue flicking over it. 

It’s wet and messy and just the way he likes it, slick dripping down his chin as he presses himself in further, desperate to fuck you into sanity with just his mouth. 

He doesn’t have a problem doing it. You buck against his face and he lets you, holding his tongue flat for you to grind against. Your fingers in his hair have him in a vice grip and he moans, a steady stream of mhmmm dripping sweet from his mouth into your heat. 

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

“Come on,” he mouths against you. “Take what you want, baby.” 

The endearment slips from him more natural than anything he’s ever done. His fingers squeeze your thighs as you undulate against him, his entire attention fixated on you as the begin to shake. Your hand twists in his hair and he groans, equal parts pain and pleasure as you come apart. 

He hums in satisfaction, keeping his mouth working on you, drinking you in as you continue to tremble. The power trip that comes with seeing you come is unmatched, lighting a fire in him as he licks you to oversensitivity.

“Minho,” you beg, voice squeaking. He grins, kissing your cunt before he mouths his way back up to you, capturing your mouth with his. You’re eager to taste yourself, tongue licking at him more than anything, smearing your slick on his lips. He feels his eyes roll back. You’re going to kill him. “More.”

Minho would conquer the world and call it yours if you wanted him to. There’s nothing he wouldn’t give you. Pretending otherwise was the great folly of man, he realizes, as he shuffles you up the bed and climbs between your legs, standing up on his knees.

You watch him, pupils blown and fucked out as he heaves. He can hardly catch his breath as he reaches down to take his cock in his hand, pumping leisurely as he watches you. The way you look at him like you’ll consume him whole makes him shiver. He wants you to. Want you to burn him up until there’s nothing left. 

Leaning down, he drops his cock out of his hand in favor of sliding a hand between you’re legs. You’re a mess of spit and cum, making the glide easy as he slips a finger into your heat to work you open. Your head falls to the side, giving him access to suck at your jawline as he fucks you open with his finger, adding a second when he knows you can take it. 

Your hips roll up to meet his thrusts as he scissors his fingers open, pressing against your warm walls to push the stretch further. You’re putty in his hands but he’s a mess in yours, too. He’s shaking by the time he slips his hand from between your legs to press the crown of his cock at your entrance, hesitating. 

Minho looks up at you. He already knows there’s no going back for him, three years of his own stubborn delusions robbing him of what could have been. But he asks, anyway. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve been sure for a long time. It was you who needed convincing.” 

“What a stuipd man I am.”

“Yes,” you agree. “But mine.” 

That drives him wild. Simple words and yet the very action of you claiming him erodes the last bit of resistance. He pushes into you and goes slow with a considerable amount of effort, shaking and panting as he tries to keep it together. 

You’re warm and tight and twitches of pleasure ripple through him from cock to stomach. Minho swears he comes alive for the first time as he seats himself in your cunt to the hilt, barely able to catch his breath as he ducks down to press his mouth against yours.

It’s not delicate, but it isn’t the same ferocity as earlier. It’s something else that lingers between madness and relief. He only begins to move when he feels your hips wiggle. He smiles into the kiss, retracting his hips before surging forward again. 

Delirious. That is the only word that comes to mind as he starts to fuck you slow and deep. Your mouths bump together but you’re both breathing raggedly, shaking together. Your hands card through his hair, soothing and soft. His lashes flutter as he drops his head further. You press your lips against his forehead as he picks up the pace, letting your hands worship him as he fucks you.

How could he ever think he was sparing you from him? How could he ever make the mistake that if he kept on the fringes, you wouldn’t leave him ruined like this? It seems unimaginative now. Like something that was always meant to happen. 

No wonder Collect Co. knew he would go running to you like a dog when they assigned you to him. Everyone else could admit it except him, an egregious error on his part.

But Minho has you now. Gasping his name and moving in his arms. Rolling your hips to meet his, your cunt clenching on his cock as he fucks you harder. He wants to dig into you and never let go. Wants to sink in to the very core and live there. 

“Mine,” you growl as though you can read his thoughts. “Even though you tried not to be. You are mine, Lee Minho.”

When you say his full name like that, voicing the boy who could have been and now who is, he starts to come apart. His pace quickens as he chases your second release, holding you tight to him as he feels you clench longer and longer around him until you’re sobbing his name and spilling down his shaft.

Minho all but growls your name as he comes. Never again will you be Builder. You’re his. First and last name his to say. The acknowledgment almost makes him cry as he slows his thrusts, gasping for air as he tosses his head back, heat escaping between the two of you. 

Finally, he stops fucking you, hands linked with yours as he leans up to catch his breath. He’s still seated in you, feeling the cum drip between where your ass is pressed against his thighs. He doesn’t care, feeling the sweat and the water from his shoulder drip down his back.

His arm burns where he’s used it. He’d been unaware of the pain while lost in you, but he feels it now, throbbing. He doesn’t care. He’d do it again a thousand times.

Slowly, he unravels from you. Your hands don’t let him go far, pulling him down next to you to roll toward. He smiles, tired and dreamy at the edges as he lets you. The bed is soft against his balmy skin, the cool air helping calm him down. 

Finally, both of you can breathe. He knows that he needs to shower again, but he doesn’t want to get up. He wants to keep you near. Now that he’s all in, he wants to stay all in. 

“We should call this place the Jungle Rodeo.” He cracks an eye open at you to realize you’re hiding a grin as you look up at him. “You know, since we can’t go back to Neon Rodeo.”

“What is it with you and rodeos?” 

“You find Cowboys at the rodeo.” 

“Oh?”

“And you’re here… so… it’s a rodeo.” 

He blinks at you. “Your intellect is astounding.” 

You laugh and it’s like taking a JumpPack straight to his bloodstream, a rush of energy and euphoria driving him upward and toward you. He smothers you with kisses, driving by the need to taste you again. You let him, giggling. 

“What do you say then, hmm?” he growls, nipping your bottom lip. “Want to go for another ride?”

“That joke was terrible.” 

“You know what they say. When at the rodeo.” 

You laugh again and Minho is a goner once more, just like he was the first day he met you at Neon Rodeo. 

-

TAG LIST:

@stayceebs97 @skzswife @bettybeako

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Transferrable Skills

Part 2

You don’t often use your MyFet beyond finding a group or conference to attend. You periodically clear out your messages, just in case an acquaintance wants to reach out. So you almost delete the message from the anonymous profile on autopilot, but the subject line intrigues you.

Interested in Distance Play, No Punishments - 14 Hrs Ago

Intrigued, you open it because… at least they read a little bit of your profile.

I noticed your profile because of your self-rope pictures. The rest of your profile is very interesting to me - specifically your engagement in solo play and dislike of punishment. I liked the post you made about obedience as an ongoing active choice.

I’m a man in my 30s with a classified job. I travel a lot, and I’m looking for someone to have a strictly long-distance arrangement with. I’m interested in: non-restrictive rope, obedience, behavior modification, praise. I’m sure there’s more, but I’ve written this message six times. Please let me know if you’re interested in discussing.

Well, that’s refreshingly straightforward and devoid of unsolicited smut. You read the message again, then click into his profile. G_987654321_ It’s… pretty bare. But if he’s got a classified job, that makes sense, right? Location: Antarctica. His age is listed as 33, and he’s listed himself as dominant and seeking acquaintances and play partners. Not interested in hookups, interested in casual nudity, obedience, praise. Hard limits of degradation and humiliation.

It’s not much more information than the message itself, but it’s more than some of the men who have asked if you want to meet up in private. You review his original message and bite your knuckle. Worst case scenario, he’s some troll who will call you a range of slurs and waste your time, and then you’ll block him. Best case scenario… he means what he says.

What are you looking for? Who, What, When, Where, and Why?

You send the message and log out of the app before you can chicken out. Your inner voice is grumbling (stupid stupid stupid), but that’s normal. You let yourself watch two and a half episodes of your latest show, and then make a hearty dinner.

You’re surprised when you pick your phone back up. One new message.

The whole time you’re cursing the app for glitching and logging you out and forgetting your password, you’re sure it’s not him. Most likely, it’s an event announcement from a friend or a bot. But you like going to events, so it’s worth it.

It’s a message. It’s from him.

Who: You and Me What: Praise-based, goal-oriented obedience play When: Twice weekly when we’re both available, but I won’t always be available. Sometimes weekly, sometimes a greater time between meet ups. Where: Virtual meetings. Video preferred, audio-only acceptable. First couple of discussions will be text based until I can get secure video set up. Why: Mutual relaxation and well being. Sexual connection preferred, but obviously not required.

Having a guide was helpful. Thank you.

Well… That’s something.

—

You follow Simon towards the fighting, which is not where you wanted to go. When you point this out, he barely acknowledges except to say “You don’t want to go the other way.” So you keep low and stay quiet and breathe like he told you to.

He leads you down a few halls and you don’t bother trying to remember the route. He seems to know where he’s going. One or twice he has you stop while he checks around a corner, but eventually, he herds you into a small conference room. You freeze when you see three men, but Simon drops the muzzle of his gun to the floor, so you must not be in too much danger.

“Who’s this then?” A man in tactical vest and boonie hat steps forward, and you sidle behind Simon before you know your feet are moving. He gives you a considering look before looking to Simon.

The man in question fishes you out from behind his and plants you in front of him with a heavy hand on your shoulder. “Found Bambi wandering the halls.”

Boonie Hat’s eyebrows pop up. “Bambi?”

“’Bout scared the piss out o’me,” Simon confirms.

“Well, that throws a wrench in things,” the other man says. “But there’s nothing for it. Stow her for now, we’ll keep her safe.”

Simon’s hand guides you to the other side of the large table and pushes you gently into a plush rolling chair. He puts his huge body between you and the others, who look at you curiously,

“Eyes up, li’l fawn,” he intones.

You aren’t sure how well you hide the flinch when you see the skull covering his face, again. He’s quiet as you look between his eyes, clasps his gloved hands in his lap so you can see them when you look over him.

There’s a lot of him to look over.

Now that you’re not moving, you can see the brown spots on the edge of his mask, flecked on his tactical vest. His thighs spread a bit beneath his black pants where they meet the table. His biceps bulge, which is a whole different experience in person than it is online. Theres a gun on his hip, and a knife. Two knives. Three. How many knives does a man need?

Enough for everyone’s throats. You have to bite back terrified giggles.

“You’re gonna stay ‘ere,” Simon tells you, interrupting your musing. Your horror must be plain on your face because he shushes you, again. “Shhh. Easy. This wing’s secure. Can’t keep you safe if I’m wonderin’ where you’ve wandered to. Acknowledge.”

“What if something goes wrong?” you blurt.

“You follow Price if you can't see or ‘ear me. ‘e's the Captain, outranks me,” Simon answers. He points to Boonie Hat, then to the black man, who smiles at you, and a white man with a mohawk, who looks at you like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s seen all day. “This is Gaz, that's Soap. You can't find the Captain, you sit tight and wait for one of them to retrieve you."

“But-!”

“Acknowledge, Bambi.”

You swallow back tears. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

“’M goin’ where the guns are,” he answers. “’S my job to take care of you, right? Acknowledge.”

It’s hard to get the words out, but you do. “Acknowledged. You have to take care of me.”

“’M not always going to be able to do that the way you want. Acknowledge.”

“Acknowledged. Not always the way I want.”

“’M gonna keep you safe as I can,” he says. “’Nd it’s okay that you’re scared. But this is my job. ‘S not a scene. So I can’t negotiate. Acknowledge.”

“It’s your job,” you say, taking a deep breath and letting it out. Unfortunately, you can feel the day catching up with you, and your eyes start to prickle. “It’s not a scene, we can’t negotiate right now. Acknowledged.”

The one called Gaz approaches from the other side of the table. “Ghost, we’ve got to get moving.”

Before you can integrate the realization that Simon is apparently called Ghost, the other one, Soap, peeks around Simon’s shoulder with a raised eyebrow. “This your bird, LT? Le’s get her tucked away, aye?”

Something about the way he asks if you are Simon’s bird, his girl, flips a switch in your brain. Because you’re not Simon’s girl. You’re not even supposed to have ever met in person. You’re an online sub, a weird, awkward, anxious person who couldn’t find an in person connection. And yeah, Simon-Also-Called-Ghost is an online Dom but apparently that’s because he’s running around Europe rescuing people from hostage situations!

It’s a little much.

You suck in a breath through your mouth as everything gets blurry with tears. Your whole body shakes with the sob that you try not to let out. You simultaneously want to lock every muscle in place and curl up on the ground to die.

A hiccup shakes you hard enough that you almost fall out of your chair.

Simon’s gloved hand grips the back of your head, and you’re guided to press your forehead against his thigh.

"Shhhhh," he whispers, and you can almost pretend that you’re listening to him in your ear from thousands of miles away. His pants are tough and scratchy, nothing like your pillow, but the steady pressure of his hand is so steadying. "It's okay. I know this isn't a scene, but the same rules apply. You feel overwhelmed, don’t know what to say, you hold up 4 fingers. No punishments for feeling something. Show me."

Holding up 4 fingers feels familiar. The way his hand cups the back of your skull doesn't. But it's still nice.

Sooner than you’d like, Simon guides you down off the chair and under the table. You can’t pay attention to the others, though you can see their boots on the other side of the room. Instead, you keep your eyes on his his right hand, stuck on the inane detail of skeleton themed gloves. Your dom wears skeleton gear to work. His work is killing some people and saving others.

That hand cups your chin and makes you look up into his face. His eyes are dark, piercing. His voice, when he speaks, sends shiver down your spine. “Stay. Acknowledge.”

You’re already about as low down as you can get, but you still duck your head as much as you can while keeping eye contact. “Acknowledged. Stay.”

His thumb caresses your cheek for a long moment. And then he’s standing. Chairs are pushed in to surround you, and four pairs of heavy boots dash from the room.

You curl up, hug yourself, and let the tears fall.

You wake up with a start. Your whole body hurts, shoulder and neck and hips tight like they haven’t been in a long time. And of course they are. You’re on the ground, lying under a conference table. Why the hell are you under a conference table? You’re not in college anymore, you’re too old for this shit.

And then you see a pair of huge boots round the edge of the table and remember.

Your heart is in your throat as two chairs are shifted away and a huge form drops into a crouch. A part of you flinches back from the mask, the tactical clothing, the blood you almost can’t see shining on his boot. But then you see those eyes and think, Oh. You came back for me.

[jokeringcutio]

(f) Reader sends accidental Pic to Stepdad William Afton [ Explicit/SMUT]

Fandom: FNAF  Rating: Explicit Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Non-con/Dub-con, First Time, Reader loses Virginity to stepdad, Stepdad teaching Stepdaughter Reader a lesson, age difference, forbidden relationship, height difference, infidelity, name-calling, Dark!William. All characters are mature in this. NOTE: These drabbles are in no particular order and not necessarily related. But they are all Stepdad!WilliamAfton x !StepdaughterReader Universe. As a reaction to this prompt:

Reader sends accidental Pic to Stepdad William Afton

The phone buzzed in your hand, a chilling reply displayed on the screen.

I'm coming home.

Panic surged through you like a tidal wave and you had to double-check the sender. But no, it was right there. Dad.

But why was your stepdad coming home, right now, when he was supposed to be working?

As you slowly scrolled the page up, thumb trembling, you came eye to eye with the picture you had intended to send to your crush.

Nothing wrong with it, was there? Most of your friends have done this. They’d encouraged you. Just take a picture with nothing on, send it to the guy you want to be dating, and voila.

But here, something had gone horribly wrong.

Because that intimate picture had been sent to William Afton, your mother’s husband, and since a few years your new dad.

Good lord, how had you made such a slip-up? Running your hands through your hair, you paced the room. Your stepdad was a strict man, not at all pleased when you announced you wanted to start dating. Very discouraging actually.

Boys were strictly forbidden, according to him anyway. But you were a girl with hormones raging and you’d met a nice bloke at your college. Plus, your friends had pushed you to do something like this. Just sent him a sexy pic. Not that you had shown all. But still.

It wasn’t something you wanted your stepdad to see.

Looking at your own picture one more time, you felt embarrassed. You looked good in it, your absolute best. Very seductive. A very revealing pic.

You were so going to get it now.

No way your stepdad was going to let you live this down. You instantly flicked your finger over the picture, deleting it. You weren’t in the mood to send it to the right guy any longer, only felt trepidation now that your stepdad could be home any moment.

He worked at the pizza plex nearby and was one of the managers. He could go wherever and whenever he wanted, and he had a really fancy car as well.

The sound of tires screeching signaled he had arrived sooner than you had anticipated. You had run out of time. Your heart raced and you clenched your fists, unsure of how to explain yourself. Casting a glance at your mirror – you were dressed in your unflattering comfy clothes – you mentally prepared to face your stepdad.

His car roared into the driveway, and then you heard the front door slam shut.

"Where are you?" William's voice boomed throughout the house.

"Upstairs!" you called out, trembling in fear. The sound of his heavy footsteps grew louder as he ascended the stairs. He was tall and very intimidating on a good day. You didn’t want to know how he would be on a bad one. But it seemed like you were about to find out.

He burst into your room, face flushed with anger and confusion. "What the hell were you thinking, sending those pictures?"

"William, I... I didn't mean—" you stammered, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“When did I give you permission to use my full name?” William sneered, anger radiated off him in full waves. He pushed the aviator glasses back on his nose with an agitated growl. “I am still your dad, step or not. Address me respectfully.”

You hardly dared to look at him as you complied. “Yes, Daddy,” voice now soft as you glanced at the floor in shame. Yet, there was that little voice in the back of your mind, wondering what he had thought when he had seen your pictures. You looked like your mom – everybody had always said so. Had he thought you attractive?

Slowly, your eyes slid higher, from the floor to his feet and upward, past his shins and to the obvious outline of his cock in his pants. You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, when you realized that your pictures at least must have had some effect on him.

You got your stepdad hard.

You quickly looked up at his face. The thin lines around his eyes betrayed his sternness, the corners of his mouth had dipped into a displeased frown.

"Did you even think about the consequences?" he snapped, his blue eyes blazing with rage.

"Let me explain," you pleaded, your voice barely audible. The weight of his accusations hung heavy in the air.

"Explain what? That you've been sleeping around and sending pictures to your boyfriends?!" William's tone was laced with venom, his words cutting deep.

"Dad, I'm not dating anyone," you stammered, feeling a hot flush creep up your cheeks. "I just... I wanted to send them to someone I have a crush on. He asked for them."

"Christ," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do you even realize what could happen if you do something so reckless?"

His question hung in the air, unanswered. You didn't know what to say, feeling small and humiliated.

"Think about it," he continued, his voice cold as ice. "Your pictures could end up all over the internet, with no way to get them back. And worse, that boy might want to fuck you."

As he spoke, he began unbuckling his belt, using his foot to kick your door shut. Your eyes grew wide, surprised by the suddenness of his actions. What was going on? Your body froze as you watched him, kicking off his shoes, unable to process what was happening.

Was this really the man who had been a part of your family for so long?

“It’s a good thing your mom doesn’t know what whorish behavior her daughter has been up to, because I swear, she would have gotten a heart attack.”

You stumbled backward, calves hitting the edge of your bed which made you glance shortly over your shoulder. There was nowhere to go any longer.

“Now, if you just do as I say, then we can keep this quiet,” William said, eyes gleaming behind his glasses. His pants fell to the floor and he kicked them off, leaving him in just his disheveled blouse and his socks.

His cock, long and thick, peeked out from between the edges of his blouse, the head an angry red and slit already weeping pre-cum. A mouthwatering sight, a man well-endowed. You could have enjoyed it, had he been anyone but your stepdad.

"Dad, please," you whispered, but your voice was drowned out by your own racing thoughts. It suddenly became very clear what his intentions were. You couldn’t just stand and watch. Your body kicked into action, and suddenly you found yourself bolting toward the door.

But before you could escape, William's strong hand gripped your arm, stopping you dead in your tracks.

"Where do you think you're going?" he snarled, his eyes dark with anger and something else. A deep raw hunger. Lust. You instantly knew there was no escaping the consequences of your actions.

But you were going to try.

You struggled in his grip. “Dad, William, no!” You cried out, as you tried to escape his grip. But his arm circled around you and you heard his breathing heavy and excited in your ear. You felt his chest, hot and hard, against your back. His cock pressed against the small of your back, the pre-cum staining the fabric of your shirt. Run, a voice inside your head screamed. But he was too strong.

Struggling, you felt him drag you back to your bed, so full of childhood memories. Always your personal safe little spot. And now? Now he threw you upon it without ceremony, crawling over you before you had the chance to get up.

You knew what he wanted to do to you. You could see it in those blue eyes, gleaming behind his glasses, pupils diluted with perverse intent. Could you ever look him in the eye again after this?

“Dad, please, think of Mom,” you tried to reason with him. But strong hands pried your legs open without hesitation, palms rough upon your knees, your thighs trembling as you tried to push him away.

"What are you doing?" you asked, your voice shaky and uncertain. You couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Surely he wouldn’t pop your cherry? Surely, he’d back down, laugh, and tell you he only had done it all to frighten you?

He leaned backward, trapping you to your bed with only his hips. Rising to his full height, he pushed his glasses back up his nose with a smirk, eyes roaming over your helpless figure underneath him.

“Oh, I think you know what I’m doing,” was all he said before two large fingers hooked around the waistband of your pants, tugging them down along with your panties, just enough to expose your cunt. Your breath halted as you looked at him in fear. He wouldn’t, would he?

“Dad,” you started, voice choked. “This is wrong. You can’t just-”

But you froze when you felt your stepdad’s long cock rub past your entrance, the tip dipping in and stretching your walls wide. He hunched over you, a grin plastered on his face while his eyes glinted. He brought his lips near your ear, hot breath flickering past your skin.

"I’m gonna teach you a lesson,” he murmured. You felt his fingers guide his cock, the fingertips pressing against your labia. Then, without a warning, he pushed himself inside in one firm thrust.

You threw your head back, back arched, and legs spasming. A loud cry was torn from your lips.

That fucking hurt.

Your stepdad was too large to be inserted in one go. Tears brimmed in your eyes while you brought your hands up to grab his shoulders, but he pushed them down and trapped them at either side of you.

“Take it,” you heard your stepdad growl through gritted teeth. “You wanted to tease some poor bloke, didn’t you? Then take what he has to offer you.”

His hips moved harshly, but it was just a few thrusts before he came to a halt. Your pussy throbbed painfully, desperately trying to adjust.

Through the tears, you managed to look up at him. William had raised a brow, looking at you as if he were studying your reactions while his hips gently started to move against yours again. You heard sickening slick sounds coming from where your bodies joined.

Experimentally, he moved his hips, and you arched your back again, fingers curling onto the mattress as you threw your head from side to side.

“Take it out,” you pleaded, “Please, Dad, take it out.” Soft mewls fell from your lips, it was pathetic. But you were in so much pain right now, split upon his cock. It was like he was tearing you apart. “It’s too much.”

You’d fantasized about cocks before, your mind wasn’t that innocent. But you’d never had a real one inside your cunt before and this – your stepdad’s cock –  was just too large. The way it stretched your vaginal walls was painful, your pussy throbbing desperately around his shaft to try and adjust. But he kept moving his hips, making it harder to get used to the feel of him.

The head of his cock hit you deep, nudging against a part of you that you didn’t know existed. You shuddered on his shaft, taking deep breaths as your stepfather kept pumping his hips.

“You surprise me,” you heard the roughness in his voice, as if he was thirsting for something. “You're so tight," he groaned, his voice thick with lust. "Like fucking a virgin.”

Something in his blue eyes flickered and you bit back another pained gasp. “Fuck, you feel so good."

Another deep thrust moved you up the bed. You tried to get a grip on the sheets, the blankets – just anything, but your dad kept pushing your hands down, pinning them at your sides. Once you relented and left them there, fingers digging into the soft material of your bedding, he finally placed his arms around your head.

“That’s better, sweet girl of mine,” William’s low voice hummed. “You’re starting to adjust to my cock. I can feel it.”

Wet noises confirmed that he was still stretching your cunt, but also, that you were wet enough for him to easily slide in and out of.

“Please,” you begged, voice sounding weak, but you had to try.

Your body trembled, muscles being stretched into positions they had never been stretched before. You felt how your chest was trapped to his own, how it became hard to breathe while his cock still pushed deep inside your sensitive core.

The pain slowly began to ebb away, your legs slowly started to relax now that they got used to being pushed this far aside. Your stepdad was a large man, both in height and width as in girth, and you had to spread your legs really wide for him to fit in between. But you managed.

“I don’t want this, Daddy,” you weakly said. And you felt weak. Perhaps that was the worst of it. Not his large cock splitting you open and tearing you in half. But the fact that you wanted to appear strong, and yet your voice sounded so small and tears were threatening to fall from your eyes.

Your stepdad glanced down at you and gave another thrust. “You don’t want this, sweetheart? You’d think those boys would care if it hurt or not?”

You flinched at the harshness in his voice. As if to punctuate his words, your stepdad moved his hips in a rather sharp thrust, hitting that spot deep inside with such ferocity that it made you flinch in pain. You groaned, gritting your teeth in order not to cry out.

Something in William’s eyes flickered, recognition at what he’d done to you, and then, he did it once more, chuckling as you clearly put in effort to keep from gasping in pain.

“This is how real men fuck. If you can’t handle it, you shouldn’t send out invitations,” his words were rough and mean, and his cock dipped in even deeper inside of you, stirring your innards, making you see starts. You sincerely regretted ever having even taken such photos, let alone sending them to your stepfather.

His thrusts grew bolder, harsher. His cock was buried to the hilt as he folded you over, drawing your knees up to your chest while his hands slipped under your shirt. You felt rough fingers grasp the soft flesh of your breasts, squeezing them painfully in a tight grip that made it impossible to keep from crying out.

“That’s it, baby girl,” William spat, “When I squeeze you I feel you clench down on my cock.” Another firm squeeze of your breasts and you became aware that he was right. Your pussy clamped down on his cock firmly, as if it wanted him inside. You let out another gasp. A denial might have escaped your lips, but if there had been a quiet ‘no’ then it was denied by your stepdad anyway. He thought he was right, and apparently, he didn’t care a dime about your feelings in any of this. He was just using you for his pleasure now, nothing more.

His hips moved a little slower now while he grunted, his hands stilled on your breasts. “Let’s get rid of that,” you heard him say as he tutted his lips. His fingers grazed at the fabric of your shirt. “I’ve already seen it all on the picture anyway.”

With two strong hands, he tore at the shirt, lifting it over your chest until he left your breasts exposed.

A whistle escaped his teeth.

“Well, would you look at that,” then he leaned over you again, his breath hot on your skin. “They look even better than on the screen.”

And then his mouth was upon them. His lips circled a nipple, sucking and suckling while the other one was assaulted by his thumb. You gasped and arched under his touch, glad that his hips had stilled, but still trapped under his weight – his cock snuggly all the way inside your tiny cunt.

He was working his lips on you, suckling and nibbling on your sensitive nipples until it made you gasp. You felt how your body betrayed you. How pain from the initial intrusion and the hard fuck started to morph into something else.

Your pussy started to pulse around his cock, not in pain or in an attempt to adjust. No, your body was drawing him in, starting to milk him for pleasure. Liquid started gushing down his shaft, easing the way for him as your body started to thrum. Your nerves started to tingle, a hot coil formed in your core. Each pinch, each nibble, each suck and each bite set your body on fire. Your core throbbed.

Your stepdad was really skilled with his mouth. The hairs of his bread tickled your skin and heightened the sensations.

And then he started to move his hips again.

William’s lips left your breasts but his hands lingered. Dark eyes – the blue now a deep black – stared at you through his aviator glasses. His hips moved forcefully against your own, but the pain had now fully morphed into pleasure.

“That slides a lot better now,” your stepdad drily commented, moving his hips expertly against your own while you felt his cockhead bump against something soft deep inside of you. The sensation had you mewling.

“Always knew you were a tease,” his cock thrust deep, tearing another moan from your lips, “from the very start,” thrust, “Just another whore begging to be fucked.” Thrust. “Want to be Daddy’s good girl?” Thrust. “More like Daddy’s good whore.” Thrust. “But you have impressed me, sweetheart.”

A thumb gently brushed past your clavicle and, at feeling the sensation, your eyes looked up to search for his. The sight you met was that of a demon possessed by lust. Darkness shielded his emotions, making him look all the more fearful to you.

“Never thought I’d get to fuck my virgin daughter.”

And with that said, William gritted his teeth and started to pick up the pace. His fingers dug into your hips as he held you in place, his cock repeatedly battering so deep inside of you that you were starting to feel sore. Globs of pre-cum softened your cervix as he pressed forth, the head of his cock hitting the entrance to your womb at a punishing pace, again and again, until you gasped in both pleasure and pain. A perfect combination, for your eyes fell shut as your body worked towards an orgasm.

Your pussy tightened around your stepdad’s cock, your toes curled and your fingers dug into your bed. William’s hands were tight upon your hips, leaving bruises where his fingers dug into your skin as he rutted you like an animal in heat.

And then you came. A blissful feeling. Like a volcano that erupted inside and made you see all the stars in the galaxy. The feeling overwhelmed you. Your entire body shook and trembled, your pussy milked your stepdad’s cock for all you were worth, nearly sending him over the edge. But he had control. With gritted teeth, he worked you through your orgasm until the stars you saw started to disappear and you slowly came down from your high,

You came back to earth again feeling your stepdad’s fingers tightly on your skin, hearing his rough grunts, and feeling the force of his harsh thrusts. He was getting near. Even as inexperienced as you were, you could tell.

Your eyes opened wide. Not only was your pussy overly sensitive right now – your body begging him to stop – but this was also your first time having sex. Ever. And you weren’t on any birth control.

And your stepdad should not come inside of you.

“N-Not inside,” you managed to beg, although it took a lot of you to be able to speak after having reached such bliss only moments before.

For a moment you feared that William hadn’t heard you or wouldn’t listen. But then, after two more firm thrusts, your stepdad withdrew and you let out a loud sigh.

Relieved, you smiled up at him and watched as he sat back on his knees. His glistening erection was an angry red, the head throbbing against his own belly. Slick stuck to his shaft, coating it, creating strings of yellowish white tinted with red that caught to the hairs on his stomach.

William seemed to catch his breath as he ran a hand through his wispy hair.

You wanted to thank him for not coming inside of you, for being considerate, but the moment you parted your lips to speak, he hovered above you again. His lips turned into a devilish grin, spelling doom and confusing you because – what was he up to?

“Daddy hasn’t come yet,” he ominously rasped. You loved the way his voice sounded, so deep and hoarse. It sent another spark of arousal through you. You wondered how he was going to finish, whether he’d come on your stomach or ask you to put your lips around him and swallow his load.

But then you felt his hands on your knees, pushing them apart once more. You reached up a hand, “Dad, no!” but it was too late.

He plunged his cock back in while he hooked a hand underneath your leg, pulling it upward, meeting your hips at a different angle this time as he started thrusting without hesitation.

He curled over you, his cockhead once again beating your cervix, sending a fresh bout of tears to your eyes because it felt so good but you were oh-so-sensitive down there. You gritted your teeth, completely helpless, and left at his mercy as he fucked the living daylights out of your already sore and tired body.

“Didn’t I say I was going to teach you a lesson, pretty girl?” You heard his low voice rasp as your stepdad pressed his forehead against your own. You felt his sweaty skin against yours, felt how your sore pussy clamped down on his cock as if your body wasn’t eager to ever let him go.

“Perhaps Daddy doesn’t want to come outside,” he grunted, his large hand upon your right breast, squeezing it. And despite having already cum, your pussy reacted accordingly and clamped down like a vice. It was becoming hard to breathe now, your body was overstimulated, your core sore. But William wouldn’t stop as he worked himself toward his own bliss.

“If I want to fucking come inside of you, then I will. Part of the lesson, kiddo. I don’t fucking care if you were a virgin ten minutes ago, or if you were saving yourself for some fucking dim-witted boy. You fucking got yours now, and you’d better keep everything that Daddy has to give you. Because… here it comes.”

The last few words were all punctuated by firm thrusts, and then your stepdad groaned and rolled his eyes back as his body stilled. His hands were still firmly upon you, keeping you pinned down, whilst hotness flooded your womb and covered your insides like hot burning liquid.

You let out a silent sob, feeling certain that William held you pressed down to the mattress on purpose, keeping you pinned underneath him until he was done pumping his semen inside of your womb. When he finally retreated, his cock slipping out of you, still half-hard but already softening, you let out a sigh of relief.

Yet, your pussy fluttered around nothing, suddenly feeling empty. You started to feel drowsy, body content after the heavy fucking, heart overruling your mind. You groaned and waited to see your stepdad put himself back inside his pants before you slowly sat up.

It felt awkward and painful between your legs, making it hard to move. A thick trace of cum and blood filled the bed, pooling from your sensitive cunt to the sheets. You looked at it in disdain, wrinkling your nose as you realized that this was all done by your stepfather.

Your stepdad had ruined your cunt, taking your virginity and coming inside unasked.

You glowered angrily at him only to meet his gaze, eyes cold. He took the challenge head-on and set himself down next to you, on the edge of your bed.

“Any boy would have done that,” he said, voice low but calm. His hand hovered in the air between you, almost as if waiting for permission, and when you didn’t recoil he placed it gently on top of your bare thigh.

“I did you a favor. And I suppose, a thank you would be in place.”

Was he serious? You looked at him, core throbbing painfully after the sex. After having fucked you so carelessly, he now expected that you would thank him for it?

But then you saw that darkness in his eyes and knew you wouldn’t be able to get out of this one. This was your stepdad, you were living under his roof, eating his food, dancing to his tunes – and you would be for quite a while to come, economic crises made sure of that. It just seemed the music had changed and you were no longer in the children’s disco.

And so you hung your head. A soft whisper fell from your lips, but you could tell he had heard you by the grin that slipped onto his. “Thank you for teaching me a lesson, Daddy.”

His big hand gently squeezed your thigh, skin warm and soft.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” his hand then left your leg until his fingers gently tucked your chin up, carefully making you meet his eyes.

“I just want you to know that although I am not your biological dad, I am your family now. And as your stepdad, I will always be here for you to help you. You need anything from Daddy, just ask. Don’t tease it out of me.”

You almost felt ashamed at this point, and had to remind yourself that you did not send him that picture to tease him. It had truly been an accident. Had he interpreted it the wrong way? Did he think you had wanted him to do this? Was it your fault?

“The world out there’s a nasty place, with nasty, vile men. And what job is it but a Dad’s job to prepare his gorgeous daughter for that world? So that’s what I’m here to do. Help you, guide you, teach you all you need to know.”

It could have been sweet, had his voice not lowered and his intentions not so thin-veiled with lust.

“Just ask. I have many more lessons to teach you.”

Your mouth turned dry at the silent promise that he would fuck you some more – and all the trouble that could come out of it if your mom ever found out.

What else could you say?

“Thank you, Daddy.”

He smiled.

“Any time, darling. Any time.”

~

AN: For more, follow me (:

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[sussyscurryscorpio]

Random Astrological Observations Part-9 (18+)

(This picture does not belong to me at all) (Please take only what resonates. I'm really unsure about several observations this time)

~Mars is weak in Libra, since it's in its enemy sign. However, this may/not affect their sex drive. I mean, most Libra Mars are pretty kinky in their own way. They have a huge praise kink and might cringe over degradation kink. Personally, for me too, it's a huge turn off.

Someone: "You are such a dirty whore..." *degradation kink* Libra Mars: "Oh really? Well", pauses, "Go fuck a whore then coz I ain't one".

~Praise kink 🤝🏻 Leo Mars. Istg, they want to be ADORED in bed. They want to hear things like, "Fuck, you're so pretty" in the middle of doing the deed. Princess treatment is a hugeeee turn on.

~I've read this so many times that Aries Mars people have an animalistic sex drive. They'll actually "Preying on you tonight. Hunt you down and eat you alive". Haha.

Like tearing clothes and throwing on the bed, biting, nails on the back... And, well, due to all this rush, they finish quite early🤡

~Weak Mars (Taurus, Cancer, Libra) are Rope bunnies. They like being tied or restricted probably. Submission is their strong suit.

Doesn't mean that they are strictly submissive. They could have heavy scorpio placements and be Switchers too.

~Gemini Ascendants are some of the horniest peeps (to themselves or to others may vary) after they expose themselves to sex world. After all, they have Scorpio in the 6th house. They might like adding sex to their routine too since 6th house means your routine stuff and scorpio is...

Also, Gemini is depicted by a man and a woman and the connection between them. Hence, Gemini is a more sexual placement than Scorpio itself.

I know. You thought Gemini was symbolised by the twins, didn't you? Well, in Vedic astrology, it is symbolised by a man and a woman.

~Neptune in 8th people might daydream about sex a lot, or may like visualising sex. In fact, they might be Voyeurs (people who get turned on from seeing other people have sex)

~People with Rahu (North node) conjunct or opposite Venus might find themselves being called sex addicts or people who are always called out for always talking about sex.

~Scorpio placements feel no shame in talking about sex at all. Like, if you feel no shame in doing it, why feel shame in talking about it. The hypocrisy pisses them off.

~Moon conjunct Pluto women may find themselves getting called "mommy" a lot and they do not like that usually?

~I'm jealous of people who get Capricorn Venus lovers. They will fuck you like those fictional book men and I'm here for it? Where are my Capricorn Venus men?

The fact that my ex was a Capricorn Venus and the guy I cheated on him was also a Capricorn Venus🙂 (Please no, I don't take pride over this at all)

~Mars Conjunct Venus people and their sex appeal🫣 You leave me shy with your sexual fantasies please. They might be non-monogamous too.

~Chiron in 7th people might hate their partners to be in open relationships, but they themselves are very comfortable with being in one. I mean, open relationships are good for these people since commitments sometimes may feel overbearing for them.

~I don't know about others but I have a huge thing for Somnophilia, consensually of course. (No, I'm not ashamed of it) I guess it's because of my Venus (And Mars) Conjunct Ketu (South Node) but *shrugs*

~Capricorn Mars people may be into age-difference kinks? Very probable. A friend of mine has this and she fantasises things with older actors a lot. She hates men of her age😭

~On the flipside, Libra mars (may apply to Taurus and Cancer Mars too) may prefer younger men to older guys.

~What is with Women with Lilith in 1st being called "mommy" by guys? This is one of the most sexualised placements. (even if you feel it isn't, give it some time) Once you start getting sexualised, it fills you with disgust and an even poorer self esteem.

~I've seen guys with Scorpio in 4th not really liking to be called "daddy." They find it weird somehow. Although, they may have NO problem calling someone "mommy." Hmph?

[pocket-deer-boy]

anyways i think there's just two common every so slightly conflicting ideas of what kink is

kink is any type of stigmatized, non-normalized sex or sex act. Typically anything that falls outside of heterosexual sex that functions as anything other than a means of procreation will be considered kink by some. kink is specifically about sexual pleasure, though derived from ways that may not involve any genitalia at all.

kink is a subculture that strongly relates to the sexualities of people involved. though kink may explicitly involve sex and be about sex, kink can also be denoting your relation to this subculture of sexuality. In this sense, kink isn't about sex per se, kink can be wearing a bear pride flag or wearing a leather harness accessory to a gay bar. While it is related of course to a person's sexuality and expressions of said sexuality, it's not strictly about sex but the relationships formed around common interests.

and anyways i think that's where people are stuck at with that fucking "is kink sexual" poll

[makingspiritualityreal]

Why Nakshatra Castes Don't Correspond to Levels of Success

Nakshatra Castes, unlike what you might think, are not strictly about money or status or levels of success. They’re about visibility. Nakshatra gaze (upwards, downwards, sideways) is more about interest in status itself, and wealth is something very individual to one’s chart and karma. Life is complex and some people who you might think are really wealthy have hidden debts, while many invisible people are very well off.

To imagine how this works, you need to picture an ancient society, an ancient town structure. They were mostly built on hills for defensive purposes, with castles being on the very top of the hill. Since there was no TV or internet, often what was happening at the top was a source of entertainment for the masses. That is especially visible, as non of the Brahmin Nakshatras are upwards (often born or growing into a certain status). But they are all ones that perform activities in front of the masses. And some of those tendencies have survived in our societies.

The prime example is Purva Phalguni and Purva Ashadha being such huge Nakshatras for creativity. They are still “on display” being watched by the masses, even in our times. Purva Bhadrapada, especially in males, loves to put itself on top for the sake of displaying his wisdom and skill. Think of Robert De Niro, who picks roles where even if his character commits crimes secretly, he has quite a social presence. Purva Bhadrapada loves to be active in the community. And finally, Krittika, the ceremonial master, the ultimate priestly expression. Wild and untamed, but again very much on display.

In ancient towns, these would be the people that are talked about. The people whose identity and role would be common knowledge.

To contrast that scenario, think of Mleccha. You can’t say that they most definitely don’t have money or a certain power. But they perform activities that happen outside the town gates. They are the creatures of the underworld, as their talents are of a controversial nature. Does that mean they can’t have wealth or be popular in their own way? Of course not, especially since Shravana is an upwards Nakshatra. Everyone comes to the local Oracle in times of need, even if they don’t admit to it. But there is a certain quirkiness about them, where even though many people use their services, they don’t openly admit to it.

Think also of the butcher caste, that technically is so low in hierarchy, but has 2 upwards Nakshatras within. That is because these people often have an ancestral profession of doing dirty work that is very needed within society, and thus it brings them renown and success. Dirty work may not be done on display, but it is nevertheless a necessary part of daily life.

The difference between Shudra and Mleccha is that while Shudra is the lowest acceptable class, it still deals with needs that people are not ashamed to talk about openly even if it’s not a pleasurable subject. Mleccha is the things everyone does, needs and wants, but is ashamed to admit, so they repress it or do it in hiding. Attraction to the forbidden aspects of sexuality, the taboo, the occult. People do whatever they need to anyway, simply outside the town borders, outside of the social gaze. As a result, Mleccha natives achieve success as providers of these services.

[nekropsii]

i would like to ask you what your basis for calling kankri "canonically aroace" is? (other than celibacy which is not a conformation of said orientation as it as has religious ties and can also be an act of purity, not strictly a part of aroace culture)

like I'm genuinely curious where you find it canon?

My basis is that Kankri identifies himself as AroAspec. I have said this many times. I’m not pulling this out of thin air or saying that Celibacy is the same as being AroAce - though in this case I’d argue those things are clearly being attached to one another by means of false conflation, in the same way Hussie was attaching Horuss’s traits of “Otherkin” and “Being a System” - I am repeating the fact that Kankri explicitly identifies himself as AroAspec. He is using specifically AroAspec language to do so.

… And making the argument that since Hussie was being quite mean about it by making his identity not make sense and also stereotyping it quite badly, and also conflating it with Total Sexual and Romantic Celibacy (which are choices), it is best to just take Kankri as fully AroAce, since that was clearly what Hussie was going for. It’s like taking Horuss as a normal System. Horuss and Kankri’s minority identities have literally the exact same problem in writing.

Very interesting how people react to this train of thought, by the way. It’s not a controversial statement to me, I’ve always operated under this mode of thinking, and I do not particularly get why people freak out about it… Especially when people will generally agree with this line of thinking when it’s literally any other identity. If a character is a meanspirited representation of Trans People, then people will generally accept them as a regular, straight up Trans Character. Same goes for if they’re Gay, Lesbian, Bi, Non-White, Disabled…

What’s the difference? Inability to romantically ship them? Easy solution - Just acknowledge that friendship is not only a valid form of relationship but also can be more meaningful than romance for five fucking minutes. Jeez, lol.

Fun Fact: Kankri is the only character whose orientation is specifically identified in words in Homestuck.

[phoenix-is-the-hottest-thing]

Some people need to understand queer coding opens character identities and relationships up to a solid queer interpretation, but that doesn’t equal “this character 100% fits my headcanon and if you disagree you’re a [REDACTED]”

From a literary analysis perspective, as long as your interpretation is reasonably evidence-based it’s valid. As this is fandom, I’d add “sincere” to that since unlike an academic setting we get bad faith actors but that’s it.

So, to have a valid “interpretation” you have to do the work in good faith, and you have to be able point at the text to support your interpretation. If you can’t, or don’t want to, that’s a headcanon, and it’s totally fine.

“But this character is a lesbian she likes a girl!” There’s more to queerness than straight and gay. You could reasonably interpret a girl who likes another girl as plenty of different things:

Lesbian

Bi

Ace/aro and something else

Straight and closeted trans

Straight and lover is closeted trans

And so on.

So when you have an interpretation, someone might tell you, “I think this other thing.” The polite way to handle this if you don’t like it is to say “that’s so cool we can see different things in the ambiguity of art”. Maybe blocking each other if you dislike their interpretation that much.

That’s of course unless you both want a debate to further refine your understanding of the text or just like to argue or whatever. Which is fine! As long as it’s not overly bitter or whatever, it’s fun to discuss.

“So how do I know which interpretation is more canon than another?”

See, that’s the thing, you can’t. Canon is kind of shaky in the first place. The canon is just what’s written that’s recognized as true/correct text, not the way to understand it (and not what the author says is true, some people take Word of God as canon because it allows the following of one concrete interpretation instead of acknowledging multiple, but strictly speaking it is not). You can only interpret the canon.

For example, 4-komas bonuses of serialized manga are usually non-canon because they are jokes and not meant to be taken seriously as a part of the story’s text. That’s what canon actually is for, originally it’s to talk about which books are genuinely part of the Bible and which are to be deemed offshoots that shouldn’t be taken as a Catholic Church-endorsed religious text.

I guess that’s what gets people confused? That there’s no actual truth to imagined worlds, only what happens in the eyes of the beholder when they interact with art?

Because that’s what it means, canon often has nothing to do with who’s “actually a lesbian” short of them saying it directly. An onscreen wedding is said to “make a couple canon” precisely because there’s only so many ways you can interpret a wedding, but all that means is that the text says they’re together at a point in time. One way I can think of having a canon sexuality would be a canonical character sheet, or an omniscient narrator saying so, but everything less is basically an interpretation.

Note that interpretation obviousness can go from “that’s a stretch but I like it”, to “you only need eyes to see it”, they’re both still interpreting. Even a character talking sexuality technically only makes canon that they’re willing to say so, but that’s when critical thinking comes in.

If you hear a character say “I’m a married lesbian” and think “they’re just confused” with no evidence, you look like an idiot. You absolutely can argue which interpretation is more valid or likely by pointing out inconsistencies, stretched evidence, or that one interpretation has a higher volume of evidence/etc. This is how you avoid relativism and “nothing the text says matters” trolls.

Occam’s Razor is another way you might be tempted to try and determine whose thesis is stronger. This technique works through figuring out which interpretation requires the least amount of assumptions (saying something arbitrary is true as a basis) but it doesn’t make anything canon, or more interesting, it’s not a concrete sign of superiority. Just means it has stronger fondations.

However… your interpretation being stronger, more popular, better worded etc. or you thinking someone else’s is immoral, stupid, etc. doesn’t give you license to be a bully, to call people names, to dox them, dig up dirt to make them look worse, and so on and so forth. Thinking you’re right and they’re wrong does not make you above basic respect, politeness, or consequences. You’re not better than everyone else.

As a child, I used to think I was always right because I was logical, and I clearly made logical sense so there was no way for there to be a logical reasoning that arrived at a different conclusion. (Newsflash: Child me was very wrong! Sometimes multiple things can be equally valid! And even if they were not equal, that didn’t give me license to deride people publicly!)

Queer coding is by its nature interpretative. Coding is the author leaving hints about their characters by using a “code”. Some hints, almost everyone in your section of fandom might have the exact same interpretation about. Some hints might be dead obvious. Some hints might leave you overjoyed. Some hints you might ignore because they make you uncomfortable.

Some people will disagree with you about how they interpret the coding, or might even just state that they believe people have a right to interpret the canon however they want, even in ways you don’t like. That is normal. That is not a threat to your interpretation.

Don’t be a petty cunt about it.

Essentially,

[pezberrywhoreee]

Mean girls kink and fetish headcanons!!!

my credentials are: im a kinkster, i practice safe and informed bdsm and i have a sub....hope that's good enough for y'all :D

will i be projecting my kinks onto them? you know itttttt

- i think she's a dom leaning switch. she's not too fussed about positions though, she'll do whatever she wants when she feels like it. i just imagine that she likes to dom more

- that's a hard/mean dom if ive ever seen one. heavy sadist

- i don't think she has a strictly preferred honourific or title but she's open to "mommy", "mistress", "goddess" and "sir". i imagine she gets off on little girls saying her name because she loves herself.

- heavy on impact play as a top. she has a secret stash of a few expensive toys like floggers and crops but it's mainly pervertables. she loves convenience but if she's feeling nice then she'll spoil you and let you choose which expensive one she buys.

- humiliation too as a top. she is almost too good at degradation and mocking. she is at all times perfecting the skill of how to overstimulate you verbally. she's great at picking up on little reactions that she can mock, which brings on more reactions and then all of a sudden you're kneeling in public.

- heavy into worship when she's takes a (brief) break from being mean. she'd make you worship her for hours, head to toe. maybe recite prayers for her about why you don't deserve her.

- breath play but specifically the hand over the mouth choke rather than directly on the throat.

- somno and it's giving "sorry baby, i was just so frustrated and you looked so pretty and open, go back to sleep".

- heavy oral fixation either way. fingers in mouths, strap sucking, eating pussy (obviously!! this bitch loves sitting on faces and hearing mouths fill up beneath her), spit, making out. i'll also group boot licking into here.

- dacryphilia...enough said (that's the paraphilia for crying, dumbasses <3)

- forced submission but not super intense. she wants to train you into not having any walls up so she can get into your head and push you deep into submission.

- that said, she is definitely trying to be more of a mental dom because she loves playing with minds but she clings to the perceived physicality of bdsm...but she's trying!

- omg i honestly think she's a secret masochist. she would never outwardly admit it though, but she wants nails digging into her and bleeding scratches.

- first things first, i want to say that i think janis is a really good dom. probably the best and most responsible kinkster out of all of them. she finds the non-sexual element of kink and bdsm just as important.

- i feel that she's more dom leaning but is more than willing to submit in order to experience what she is going to be inflicting or giving to a sub.

- it's giving service dom sun, mommy dom moon and hard dom rising. she's very caring and wants to do anything to please you but she'll do it till you're crying.

- shibari master. this is very obvious. but im talking almost only japanese bondage. she'll make an exception for a western tie if she's doing quick bondage but it's very much an art for her. shibari combines her appreciation of art with her sexually in touch nature and that's why she's so good at it. she's also working up to do suspension which is what drew her to rope bondage in the first place. i think she specialises in floor bondage but she dreams of doing full body suspension. favourite ties - futomomo, overhead harness.

- i know that power dynamic is a given, but she makes sure to reinforce that shit constantly. very much normalising honourifics and them being an everyday thing (she enjoys "mommy" and "sir"), she'd collar you eventually too.

- needles. anything that can be artistic, she does with a lot of effort and care. i think she would love to do wings and other intricate designs. probably not too often, but it would be very special when she did.

- big into temperature play, specifically wax and more burning sensations. again, she considers this as an art, with the plus that it also has the benefits of creating really visceral sensations.

- sensory deprivation. she often likes to do scenes where four of your five senses are taken away, and she can have her way with you <3

- forced submission. she is actively training you to drop at one command, or one look or a certain type of touch. a big goal of hers it to have you brain dead eventually.

- armpits, specifically smothering girls with her pit while she gets them off. janis imi'ike is at all times searching for girls who will deeply sniff her pits and groan while doing so. i know what you are, imi'ike.

- i feel that she's more natural at praise then degradation, but she loves both. she definitely wants to eventually get you off purely verbally.

- hypno. she loves mind fucking, it's her favourite. she has a strong urge to corrupt people from the inside out which is why i think she takes a lot of pride in being more of a "mental" dom.

- not necessarily a kink, but she loves to do scenes where she doms multiple subs at once.

- petplay, but i think she's more down to be a handler or an owner. she loves pups, and kitties and bunnies the most (corruptable)

- the subbiest sub to ever sub in this sub world.

- she would never call herself a brat but she definitely has little brat-isms that her dom's enjoy. but i think she'd do anything for anyone if they had an ounce of dominance. she tries really hard to be obedient and she succeeds most of the time. everyone clap for cady! *claps all around*

- i think she really loves being called "pup", "puppy" or "pet" as an always title. she also gives "girl" and "little girl" vibes since she seeks out mommy's. loves being taken care of omg

- puppy!! this person is a in a consistent (not a 24/7 dynamic but it's definitely an inherent mommy-puppy dynamic) pet dynamic. she goes fully out: collar, toys, bowl, knee pads and mitts, hood, mannerisms!! she's probably a dachshund or a golden lab!

- breath play, not just because of the obvious power exchange but also the compression at the sides of her neck.

- huge praise kink. she'll do anything to get praised. she also needs constant reassurance that's she's a good pup in order for her to get off, so it's almost fetish level. little phrases like "that's it" "that's right" "keep doing that" make her unbelievably whiney.

- size difference. I feel that she really enjoys the power dynamic being reinforced in little ways. so having a taller dom to throw her around is very important to her submission.

- light impact. she's definitely a thuddy type of girl but she'll take anything that you have to give to her. definitely loves face slapping too. loves a paddle. she actually has one that says 'puppy' on it and it leaves a cute little mark.

- marking. she finds the reminder of her submission really vital too, so she enjoys to have bite marks, scratches, bruises, welts on her body. she gets off on power exchange, people!!

- orgasm detail and overstimulation. there is an element of suffering that she really enjoys. maybe not super masochistcly but she likes the suspense of being edged and how overwhelming it is to be overstimulated.

- hand fetish, she loves big, strong, veiny, lesbian hands

- rope bunny (well...puppy). once again, that wider scale compression makes her feel very secure and safe and helpless which puts her into that warm, fuzzy headspace where she can have someone else think for her, for once. favourite ties - armbinder and hip weave harness

- it's pretty obvious that she is the biggest service sub. she is there to do anything you say and more.

- puppy, definitely a dumb pup. names like "puppy", "pup" and "mutt" really do it for her. i feel that she likes to be reminded that she's only there to make her doms feel good and nothing else.

- huge mommy kink!! she actually asks all her doms if she can call them 'mommy' before they even tell her their honourifics (canon). she wants to be mommy-ed and taken care of. she loves the duality of how someone can care for her one minute and then be ruining her the next.

- the puppy in her really loves sniffing pits. she's a little ashamed of this one but she loves doing it nonetheless. i feel that she begs to be buried in mommy's pits very often.

- rope bunny, again similar to cadys love it. she longs for that physical compression of her muscles and puts her in a good headspace. i can really see her being into mummification and suspension too.

- corruption and dumbification. clearly regina's consistent asshole-ness has rubbed off on her and now she wants to be made dumb and please people until she can't speak. she wants each of her thoughts to be controlled and manipulated.

- degradee...see above. she likes to be slutted out.

- overall loves making her mommy(s) proud and happy and loved.

- i deadass think she doesn't care about positions in the slightest but she tends to sub more just cause of dynamics.

- she loves being called "bun", "bunny" and "girl". she's pretty soft most of the time but she can get edgy depending on the dom and their kinks.

- she's very much into everything anytime. she's flagging orange (if you don't know what im refering to, please look up hanky code and educate yourself. this is basic queer history!!)

- pet regression and age regression. this is very rarely sexual for her. she likes to be in a safe, young headspace when she's around her doms! she's definitely a bunny, has a little tail and and everything. i imagine that her ages are anywhere between four and ten.

- group sex. I feel like she likes showing off to a lot of doms at once. showing them skills that she's been taught. i also get the vibe that she really likes being ordered to put on a show with other subs for their dom.

[mommyownsmee]

mommy are you good at aftercare? is there anything specific that you do when it comes to that?

i’m a virgin but i feel like after sex i will sub drop or something. like, sometimes when i think of someone having sex with me, i feel really subby and dependant on them.

Sub Drop is something that sadly happens really often because there are so many egoistic/selfish Dom/me‘s or Dom/me‘s that think they know everything. They mostly have no clue what they‘re doing and that‘s the worst mistake a Dom/me can make!

It‘s easy to prevent if your Dom/me keeps an eye on you as a Sub and human and respect your feelings the same as you respect their‘s.

Sub Drop isn‘t something that goes away again easily and sadly it‘s something that can happen from one second to another.

I personally keep an close eye on my Sub before, while and after each sexual and non-sexual interaction.

Sub Drop can even happen from non-sexual interaction, for excample after a fight or an punishment. It can even happen during cuddles, if my Sub suddenly experiences self-doubt or remembers bad memories she made with other Dom/me‘s.

The best way to prevent Sub Drop is communication:

Talking about mistakes that other Dom/me‘s made, so that I simpely can make it better.

Finding things that triggers my Sub (words or sentences, memories, touching specific body parts, the way I maybe speak sometimes, places or even kinks that my Sub normally likes can be a trigger).

Making rules for both parts and strictly keeping them in (no breaking of rules or only on special days or in special moments).

I‘m constantly checking in on my Sub, which means I try to do my best to make sure she‘s happy. This can be just by talking and keeping an eye on her way to write or speak, or by asking if she‘s alright.

If my Sub gets a Sub Drop even though we did our best to prevent it:

I do immediately switch from Domme to girlfriend and keep all the Bdsm stuff out of sight. Out of sight = after a while out of mind.

I try to change the topic if she wants it, or we talk about what happened and find out why it happened.

I reassure her constantly, that what happens is totally okay and she doesn‘t have to be ashamed.

I ask her if she needs something (tea, stuffie, blanket, cuddles, or just silence or even if I should leave her alone for a while).

Aftercare is a really important thing after sexual interaction (as long as my Sub doesn‘t say she doesn‘t want it).

I like to just spend time with my Sub.

Aftercare isn‘t too much. Please don‘t be afraid to tell your Dom/me you want or need it.

Aftercare involves for me:

Cuddles and kisses and a lot of praises.

Cleaning my Sub up and taking her to have a nice bath (IT‘S ME WHO FILLS THE BATHTUB!) or a shower, if she isn‘t too tired.

Taking her makeup off if she‘s too tired to do it herself, so she doesn‘t have to do it herself.

I even pick her up and bring her to the bathroom if needed (THAT‘S. NOT. TOO. MUCH!).

Watching a movie or series together if wanted or just play a (video) game or listen to music. Maybe scroll Tiktok or Tumblr together -or read a book or comic together.

Cooking her food! Hungry Sub = Sad Sub! Even if she doesn‘t want. As soon as she sees the food she wants it.

Talking about what happened and reassuring her that all we did was only some kind of roleplay and that all I said was only said because it brought her joy!!

Letting her sleep on me if she wants. It‘s so cute and makes me so happy and proud.

Aftercare is really important! And it even helps us Dom/mes to prevent a Dom Drop. 𝒙𝒙

Don‘t be afraid of talking with your Dom/me about Aftercare or a Sub Drop. Don‘t keep it in! It will get worse and affect every single interaction with your Dom/me and can even lead to heavy depressions!

[queerplatonicshipshowdown]

Round 3, Match 3

Crowley and Aziraphale (Ineffable Husbands) from Good Omens vs. Camilla Hect and Palamades Sextus (Campal) from The Locked Tomb!

Propaganda for Ineffable Husbands:

They are each others everything; they discarded their former affiliations to form their own sides; they are the best of friends and so close that they can't imagine life without each other. But they also *canonically* (at least in the books) do not experience sexual attraction, or romantic attraction, at least not in the same way humans do; their relationship *cannot* be defined by something as simple as romance, and this is a view the author (Neil Gaiman) has endorsed. Hence, queer platonic.

EEEEEEEE they're so CUTE and they LOVE each other and the fact that this love doesn't have to be specifically romantic doesn't make it less REAL and that warms my aspec heart.

those bitches are qpps for sure

In the book they’ve been friends for thousands of years and are v involved in each other’s lives (routinely have dinner ‘dates’, Crowley frequently hangs out at Aziraphale’s bookshop, generally hanging out and stuff.) Since their not human, they don’t really understand human relationships, love, and gender which makes their relationship v queer. They’re mistaken as a couple by other characters despite not being in a romantic relationship. In the show the same things happen and new scenes are added showing how their friendship grew, them becoming much more devoted to each other, and various struggles they’ve had in their relationship. (ei. Sorta breaking up, them each wanting different things out of life)

they've known each other for over 6,000 years. they saved the world together. they have saved each other over and over again. they love each other so deeply and you can see their love for each other in everything they do. as an aromantic queerplatonic person they embody what queerplatonic love means to me so perfectly

Propaganda for Campal:

They're two people who have spent their whole lives together and are hopelessly devoted and loyal to each other. While some people do read their relationship as strictly romantic or platonic, it has way more going for it through a QP lense! They've been lifelong friends, and in their culture are essentially non-romantic life partners as a necromantic wizard and his bodyguard/champion. It's actually strictly taboo for them to engage in a romantic relationship because of this. But nonetheless they remain close to and devoted to each other, going so far as to use necromancy to keep each other close after one of them dies, and then going on to share a body until it becomes physically impossible to do so any longer. So they burn both of their souls to merge together into one new entity, creating a walking metaphor for queerplatonic partnership. They endlessly support and encourage each other, they're a perfect team when it comes to both peaceful study and combat. They know each other inside and out, long before they had to share a body, they were inseperable.

They're two halves of one whole, literally, and nothing about that intense closeness and partnership is written to be romantic! Especially because other, similar characters in the series ARE written to read as romantic, and there's a distinct tonal difference to those relationships! Basically, they're two peas in a pod, two halves of a whole, clearly not quite platonic with it, but certainly not romantic either.

The author of The Locked Tomb has a long term queerplatonic partner! She even dedicates the books to him and signs those dedications with a <> (which is a Homestuck reference, denoting a non-romantic partnership that a number of fans associate with QPPs!). You can feel the influence of her own experience with queerplatonic attraction in a lot of the series, but it really comes through especially in Cam and Pal!!

[the-oscar-isaac-collective]

Contributor Applications ARE OPEN!

IT'S FINALLY TIME EVERYONE!

Artist Application

Writer Application

Moderator Application

!!PLEASE READ THE INFO BELOW BEFORE APPLYING!!

Information

General OI Collective Rules apply across the board for all of our events and projects!

This is a free, digital fanzine. In the future we may take financial contributions for charity or artist profit but for now it's a passion project among dedicated fans.

If you have limitations or want to participate but aren't sure about your ability to commit to what we've outlined in the application, please reach out to us, we don't bite and are happy to answer any/all questions you may have.

YOU CAN APPLY TO DO BOTH ARTIST AND WRITING CONTRIBUTIONS. We encourage it if you want to do it!

SFW:

You'll be assigned the characters you will work on after the applications have been concluded. WE DON'T SUGGEST STARTING TO WORK ON ANYTHING UNTIL THEN.

Must have something to do with coffee/tea but doesn't have to be exclusively coffee shop au. For instance, if you wrote about Poe and wanted it to take place in the Star Wars universe, it doesn't necessarily have to be at a coffee shop, but should at least involve coffee in some way shape or form.

Must be blank to lovers (enemies, friends, exes, e.t.c.)

Fics will be kept between 1.5k min - 3k max word count.

SFW does NOT have to mean fluff, you can have angst, action, drama, e.t.c.

No works may contain anything sexually suggestive, though light flirting or domestic fluff like kissing is allowed. Just nothing too heavy.

All pieces are x reader/x y/n. The gender of the blank reader/ y/n is at the sole discretion of the creator.

There is no skill or experience requirement to participate. EVERYONE WILL BE ACCEPTED!

NSFW:

Must have something to do with creampies.

This is NOT a dark fanzine, therefore non-con, extreme dubious consent, and other dark themes are strictly prohibited. We may do a darkzine in the future but this ain't it.

Fics will be kept between 1.5k min - 3k max word count.

The work MUST contain sexual content, and a creampie of course <3

All pieces are x reader/ x y/n. The gender of the blank reader/ y/n is at the sole discretion of the creator.

No threesomes. I know I'm sorry, we're not against them, but in order to keep this zine organized the way we have it planned it just won't work out with more than one person.

No skill or experience requirement to participate. EVERYONE WILL BE ACCEPTED!

Excited to see who joins!!! Thank you all for your support!

[sophiaforevs]

Between the early cancellation of Discovery, Seven/Raffi and Mariner/Jenn being erased in their respective shows, and SNW having queer coded characters but not confirming anything on screen, I'm really afraid that we're entering another "No Gays in Trek" era.

For those who don't know, 90s era star trek featured so few queer characters b/c Rick Berman largely held a policy of not wanting any homosexuality in his shows. And yes, we all remember the handful of episodes that slipped through that addressed it but the fact remains that there were no canonically queer main cast members before Into Darkness in 2016 gave us a five second shot that could be cut when whoever was showing the movie found the idea of two men in a loving relationship disgusting.

Then we got Discovery with multiple queer characters that allowed people to feel seen. And people never stopped bitching about them. The amount of times that I've had to listen to people complain that Adira's only character trait is that they're non-binary despite that literally being a single thirty second scene and never brought up again makes me understand that they very likely don't want to like the queer characters in that show. And it's not that there aren't criticisms to be made about the queer representation in Disco: Discovery Buries it's Gays before the end of the first season. Making your trans characters aliens who already have a history of gender fuckery is problematic b/c it somewhat plays into the idea that queerness is unnatural for human beings. But I never hear those complaints. Only the pronouns. Only the "We get it you're gay but don't shove it down our throats." But I don't want to get too off topic.

Now Discovery is being canceled early. And by early I mean, the writers weren't given proper notice that their show was ending. They were halfway through production and allowed to adjust the end episodes of the season to try to give a satisfying ending.

In Picard and Lower Decks, we got two sapphic relationships ("sapphic" meaning a romantic or sexual relationship between two women who aren't necessarily strictly lesbians) and they were pretty good. People had been asking for Seven to be queer and Jeri Ryan had been playing her as such since her introduction (see again: Rick Berman) and to see her finally get to express that was really healing. Mariner got off to rocky feet when the creators tried to pull a "Dumbledore is gay" where they said she was bi but didn't commit to it, but they she actually got a fairly satisfying relationship in season 3.

But in their most recent seasons, both were completely written out. Seven/Raffi gave us no explanation beyond that they "broke up." They went out of their way to keep them from being on screen together for most of the season. Mattis said in a Reddit AMA that he wanted Seven to be captain and Raffi to be first officer at the end of the season and that Starfleet would have regulations against relationships between the two despite the biggest reason Seven was promoted to captain was that she was a rule breaker. We didn't even get that much for Mariner/Jennifer. Jenn just wasn't in this season except for two background appearances.

And in Strange New Worlds there's just… nothing. SNW is the most recent new show and there's no queer representation. They code Ortegas as gay but don't actually confirm it on screen. There's just… nothing.

And this is how you loose the culture war. The bigots make enough noise that the show that is supposed to be a beacon of diversity doesn't necessarily side with them but they just kinda bow out of the conversation. They decide that it's easier to not bother than to take a stand. And so I and many many queer star trek fans are left wondering:

Does the franchise even want us any more?

[flameswallower]

THE BEST FICTION I ENCOUNTERED IN THE FIRST HALF OF 2024!!

Due to what I feel is the most in my wheelhouse re: ability to give a critical defense or determine artistic quality, and also so I won't be here ALL DAY, this list will include books, comics, interactive fiction, and one short video webseries I really liked. It will not include movies, TV shows, non-IF games, or nonfiction, although I do also enjoy/partake in those things.

Everything on this list was new to me this year with the exception of the comic strip Junk World; however, Junk World released as a zine fairly recently, and I forgot to mention it on my end of 2023 list, so I feel fine putting it here. "New to me" does not mean something necessarily released this year, so I have put the year of release in parentheses next to the work where I know the year of release. A couple of these books haven't actually come out yet (I read ARCs); I've noted that when describing them and they will also be on the end-of-year list so people don't forget about them. : )

--------------------

Novels and Novellas!

Cuckoo, by Gretchen Felker-Martin (2024): This is a blisteringly angry book: a constantly burning blow torch pointed at homophobia, transphobia, and, especially, the pervasive scourge of hidden, ignored, and socially approved child abuse. Yet Cuckoo has great tenderness for its immensely damaged protagonists, and also takes the time to flesh out and empathize with some of its odious antagonists. This nuanced characterization provides a necessary counterpoint to the rage that fuels the novel, and makes it more moving and memorable than most other politically charged, hyper-violent works of fiction. There are quiet moments of connection and sorrow that are going to stay with me far longer than the scenes of dynamite explosions and shoot outs with shrieking, starfish-faced cops.

Failure To Comply, by Cavar (comes out in August 2024): Reading Cavar’s Failure to Comply, I couldn’t help but think of the recent David Cronenberg movie Crimes of the Future. Both deal with dystopias in which bodies and their modification are strictly regulated, and people with unauthorized bodies form a vibrant, perpetually imperiled subculture on the margins. Both use this conceit to speak metaphorically about the plights of trans and disabled people, although Failure to Comply’s characters are also presented as literally, textually disabled and trans. But, although Crimes of the Future is often accused of being a “weird movie,” Failure to Comply is undeniably much, much weirder. Cronenberg is super normal compared to this.

Maej, by Dale Stromberg (comes out in September 2024): a doorstopper I found difficult to put down and finished inside a week; a work of very unapologetic genre fiction that’s equally unapologetic in its intelligence and dedication to doing strange, creative things with language; a high fantasy story I actually liked. The setting is the city of Sforre-Yomn, in the country of Hwoama, whose culture combines elements from across the continents of Asia and Europe. But Hwoama is matriarchal: men are subordinate to women, who dominate politics, business, the military, and nearly all other professions. As a result of this fact, almost all the major characters in the novel are female. By turns this presents a fun, simple, mischievous inversion of maleness as the unmarked default state for fictional characters, and meaty commentary on the social construction of sex, sexuality, and gender. Stromberg has cited Le Guin as an influence on Maej and, in the most complimentary way possible, this influence is evident.

Wrath Goddess Sing, by Maya Deane (2022): I listened to the audiobook version, read by the lovely voice of Katherine Pucciarello, so I can't vouch for whether I would have enjoyed the novel (as much) in text form. However, the audiobook was an engrossing tale of bronze age sandal, sword, and sorcery. Although it is based on the story of Achilles, readers who want a very po-faced historically or mythologically faithful retelling would be wise to look elsewhere; that said, I for one have little interest in retellings that do not bring a lot of new stuff to the table, so I was happy with all of the strange, interesting, surprising directions this one went. I loved the bizarre, often horrific depictions of the gods; this book really captured the feverish, molten, giddy, and terrifying feeling that accompanies magic and spiritual encounters in real life. Like I said, this is essentially a lavish work of epic sword and sorcery, and I think it is best to set one's expectations through that lens.

More Bugs, by Em Reed (2024): A slow-paced existentialist character study/slice of life about a cynical, depressed butch woman going through a quarter-life crisis after circumstances force her to move back to her sleepy central Pennsylvania hometown and back in with her disapproving mother. Also a f/f age gap romance. Also a magical realist/sci-fi story about shapeshifting alien beings. It's unique, and I connected with it a lot.

Read and Then Burn This, by Rysz Merey (2024): Ah, young love! Have you ever been nineteen, shallow, insecure in your art, inexperienced in the world, and making poor sexual decisions? Haven't we all. This is a book about that. I find the relatively small scale of the proceedings, and the emotional numbness/constipation of the characters, makes this feel all the more sordid.

The Woods All Black, by Lee Mandelo (2024): This one has a couple flaws that bugged me while I was reading, but it's a revenge-horror romance story about two trans guys (or arguably: a trans guy and a butch) in 1920s Appalachia and it has blisteringly hot, graphic sex scenes of both the "regular" and the "monsterfucking" variety, so-- pretty much impossible for me not to enjoy overall! I thought the depiction of how 1.) people in the past conceived of transness differently than most people do today, and 2.) different trans people often conceive of their own transness differently, even if their embodiment is very similar, was nuanced and quite well done.

Short Story Collections!

Grime Time, by Ivy Grimes (2023): Some of the oddest short fiction I've read in ages! Grimes' surreal stories tend to be very brief, and they're almost always impossible to categorize. They deal heavily with ambivalence and ambiguity, two of my favorite things, and often end up unsettling the reader not because of anything particularly ominous or awful that happens in the narrative, but because it's very unclear what actually has happened, how the protagonist feels about it, and how the reader ought to feel about it. The definition of "really makes you think!" Grimes' prose is simple and clear, with minimal description, yet very distinctive. Often reminds me of Leonora Carrington.

White Cat, Black Dog, by Kelly Link (2023): Predictably enough, another all-bangers instant classic from Link. These stories are all based on fairy tales, with some following the original fairy tale quite closely and others taking very loose inspiration from the fairy tale or mixing and matching with elements from different tales. My personal favorite, the standout in an excellent collection, was "Prince Hat Underground," which is a really beautiful story about being in a long term relationship with someone you love but don't always get along with or understand, about accepting the inevitability of death and loss, and about what a fairy tale romance looks like when the people in the fairy tale romance are middle aged men on the cusp of old age, rather than wide-eyed young people.

Individual Short Stories!

"The Earth and Everything Under," by K.M. Ferebee (2014) is a slightly grotesque, surreal, fairy tale-like novelette about grief and witchcraft. I strongly suggest you read it at the link.

"The Clown Watches the Clown," by Sara S. Messenger (2024) is also slightly grotesque, surreal, and melancholic; it's about a young person in a space opera cyberpunk future who's caught in a rut. Again, you can and should read it at the link.

"The Evening and the Morning and the Night," by Octavia Butler (1987) has been anthologized in a few places and shouldn't be too difficult to track down, but I'd never read it before. It's an incredible work of sci-fi that deals with mad liberation/disability justice and also with (as in much of Butler's work) the idea of biology as destiny: to what extent are we at the mercy of our bodies and instinctual drives, and to what extent do we have the power to decide what we'll do with them? How do the stories we tell about certain kinds of bodies and medical conditions affect our ability to see that potential for choice, for agency, or just for things to turn out in a different and better way?

Comics!

Kiara's Junk World rules. I love the skillful inking, the cute animal characters, the playful and sardonic wit, the erudite references.

Interactive Fiction!

In a.c.d's The Beach That Makes You Old, you have to help a patient trapped in an evil hospice/psychiatric facility. (2024)

In K.A. Tan's Labyrinth, you play as the Minotaur, on the last day of his life. (2024)

Both games are free to play, with a play time of about forty-five minutes to an hour if you want to get all the endings/explore every aspect of the narrative. If you've never experienced interactive fiction before, it takes no special gaming skill: you just click through different links!

Video!

Mr. Samuel's Teatime Stories, dir. Yara Asmar (2024) is a distorted, Lynchian faux-children's show. Unlike, say, Don't Hug Me, I'm Scared, the tone is much more eerie, elegiac, and somber-- or, occasionally, surprisingly sweet-- than darkly comedic and satirical (which isn't to say there are no jokes or funny moments). I found it really moving by the end.

[arthrobug]

Here I go, over-analyzing a singular scene from Captain Laserhawk, and of course it's Rayman!

Minor nudity/minor sexual talk warning!

So this absolutely famous scene, am I right?

Few hours ago, I started thinking about every single thing Rayman had done in Captain Laserhawk, and how I could analyze it.

And so I realized a few things about this moment, or I just overthought a few things in this moment, but ANYWAYS!-

This particular practice is called Nyotaimori -Nantaimori for male models- and it's translation can be dumbed down to 'body sushi'. It's the Japanese practice of eating food, primarily sushi, off of a female model.

At first, I had this idea: "Hey, what if Rayman deciding to hire a Nyotaimori model is one of the ways he tries to futilely connect to others?" Here's a few notes as to why I thought this:

It's been clearly stated that Rayman is incredibly lonely, and there are a few scenes and things he does that shows he's a bit desperate for any sort of interaction. I mean, even if he was drunk and coked up off his rocker, he still listened to an ominous message on his TV and willingly went to go talk to a 'terrorist', and even was minorly friendly with Bullfrog even though they had just met. Rayman was also still under the impression that the hybrid was a terrible person that just happened to be a bit nice, but he still continued to talk to him even though he really had no primary reason to other than 'talk to the frog'.

Someone -even though it's a paid interaction- willingly undressing themselves to be completely nude and allowing you to eat food off of them while they lay on their stomach is a very intimate (non-sexual) thing. It could be a non-verbal feeling of trust that Rayman gains from engaging in this practice. He might not even know her name, but he might believe that she trusts he won't hurt her.

Rayman doesn't seem necessarily sexual with this model, he's just eating and watching television. Of course, he could've done something more sensual and/or sexual with this model before he saw his copy on the big screen, but we will likely never know if he did, so the assumption that he hadn't is more prominent. His goal with this practice wasn't for sexual gratification, it's just to have someone be there, whether they want to or not.

And so, I decided to do some more research on Nyotaimori, and even more things were brought to my attention. The main point I gather from this is:

This is a very unprofessional and likely unregulated meeting.

There are actually a lot of rules usually strictly set in businesses that sell Nyotaimori!

Sushi should not be placed directly on the body. There should be some form of divider, like a banana leaf or plastic wrapping. The model Rayman is eating off of clearly has no divider whatsoever. Additionally, you're usually not allowed to touch the model whatsoever. Rayman didn't touch her in this scene, but it just adds to the 'I don't think he was sexual or sensual with her'. (He's was 100% a rule-follower to the end at this point... Other than hard drugs.)

Not too surprising, but there are indeed body regulations (what a person's body should look like). Although the idea isn't surprising, the main regulation itself is. A model shouldn't be big-breasted, they aim for smaller cupped women, 'so the sushi doesn't roll off'. The model seemingly has very large breasts, although that could be the reason why she's on her stomach, but that's another issue.

As mentioned, the model is on her stomach. Nyotaimori models are placed on their backs, and actually have some form of covering most of the time! Shells, thongs, petals, and as seen with this model, some flowers! Another thing however, is that she's very nonchalant. She's swinging her legs, eating an olive, and subtly reacts to Rayman when he sees his look-alike. Models aren't allowed to react to what their patrons do, unless they are being incredibly inappropriate towards them.

The areas where models and their patron(s) are going to be eating/sitting still for very long periods at are set up meticulously, even in at-home sessions. In the background, you can subtly see a bra on the couch and possibly a pair of underwear hanging from a lamp, these are highly likely to be the model's. It's seemingly a very messy meeting, which is unusual.

SO! I can make the assumption from all this is that: This hybrid cow is a beginner model and doesn't care too much about professionalism; the business she works for just doesn't care, OR she's just some joe schmoe (which is a very unsettling idea to be honest) and was casually up for Rayman eating sushi off her ass and back, OR Eden's regulations for Nyotaimori are incredibly lax.

What does that all lead up to? Still the first idea: Rayman is desperate for any form of connection, even if they don't talk to him. He just wants someone to be there, whether they actually care about him or not.

This idea also contributes to how he stayed under the Council's clutches for so long. They gave him attention. Although they were definitely the reason he's needy for any type of attention, they gave him their eyes consistently sparingly and convinced him that was all he was ever going to get.

And tying this to his first interaction with Bullfrog and how he turned against Eden so quick and didn't just adamantly deny Bullfrog's vision, Bullfrog gave him the most neutral attention he has ever received in decades.

Not overly positive attention like he gets on his show (which definitely is fake to him), and not suffocatingly negative attention that the Council and some speciest people like Red have shown him- Bullfrog gave Rayman his real, raw attention, and it's probably going to be become like a drug to him.