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jeonqkooks · 2 years ago

Note

jungkook #33 from the fluff list 💗 (even better if its like fboy badboy jungkook getting flustered and shy around oc hehe)

daft pretty boys | jjk

pairing: jungkook x reader

prompt: "i can't think around you."

rating: G

word count: 0.8k

genre/warnings: classmates to .. lovers?, college au, basketball captain!jk, he's neither a fuck boy nor a bad boy he's just a cute boy <3, fluff, swearing as per uzh, i plagiarized MYSELF bc the shit mentioned here was actually taken from my final paper for a film class two years ago lmaooooooo

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

If there's one thing that Jungkook absolutely despises, it's when people think jocks are dumb. It's a common misconception and it's downright hurtful sometimes; just because Jungkook is the basketball captain, doesn't mean that anybody has the right to assume he's got hay for brains.

However, if someone were to come up to him right now and say it to his face, he probably wouldn't disagree.

"So yeah, if they lose the memories of these relationships, I think they'd also be losing parts of themselves that make them whole, because an individual's identity is an accumulation of multiple smaller identities they have with every single intimate relationship that ultimately forms one collective identity, y'know?" you finish, and it's not until then that Jungkook comes back down to earth, realizing that he's just been staring at you this whole time. "Anyway, what do you think?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah! Same, uhm," Jungkook stammers. "I also thought about their collective relationsh- I mean, collective identity and multiple identities and-"

You purse your lips as you take in his whole demeanor, like a nervous child fumbling with his words. "Did you not watch the movie?"

He did watch the movie. In fact, Jungkook watched it three times over the weekend because that's how much he liked it. When he registered for this class - History of Popular Cinema - at the end of last semester, he was hoping that it'd be an easy elective so he could focus more on basketball and his core courses. And for the most part, this film class is easy. All he has to do is watch movies and hand in a few short essays every now and then. Piece of cake.

Then the final paper rolls around and the professor assigns everybody a partner to work with. In theory, it should still be a piece of cake, because there still isn't that much to do anyway.

So why is it so fucking hard all of a sudden?

Jungkook had never really noticed you before you became his designated collaborator for the month. Never saw you on campus, never saw you attending the games. Hell, he didn't even know your name until this final assignment.

"I watched it," he defends himself lamely.

"Okay. And?"

"It was good."

You frown, and all Jungkook can think about is how adorable that crease between your eyebrows is. How he just wants to reach across the table and smooth it over, or better yet, kiss it away.

He's fully aware of how stupid he must look, with his sweaty palms and his words falling over each other like goddamn Jenga pieces, in front of a girl that he's been obsessed with for weeks now. Jungkook doesn't normally do crushes, but the more time he spends with you to work on this lame ass paper, the more he finds his mind drifting to you even when you're not in his vicinity.

He thinks you're so pretty when you absentmindedly bite your lip whenever you're concentrating. He thinks you always smell like jasmine, and he's delighted by how your scent lingers on his own clothes after every time you meet, like he's carrying home a reminder of you. He thinks you're ten leagues smarter than him when you text him whole paragraphs detailing how postmodern filmmakers flirt with the concept of identity fragmentation through different types of cinematic manifestation as a reflection of the realistic postmodern person, because what the fuck does that even mean?

"You're not doing a very good job at convincing me you watched the movie," you say.

Jungkook groans internally - and a little externally too - as he runs a hand down his face. "I watched it, I promise," he tells you. "I watched it, and I really liked it. It made me think about a lot of deep shit that I don't normally think about."

"Uh huh," you say slowly. Your frown is still there, but now it's embedded in confusion as you try to understand his dilemma. "Then tell me about that. What was the deep shit?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

How is he supposed to explain that every single thought he had suddenly grew legs and yeeted itself out the window the second he saw you arrive today, wearing a stunning smile and a t-shirt that says Caution: Full of Shenanigans? Not once in his entire life had Jungkook felt so no thoughts, head empty.

"Because I can't think around you," he settles on being honest. "Because I keep thinking about you when you're not here, yet when you are, I can't even think at all."

It takes a minute for his words to sink into your brain, and Jungkook watches nervously as a blush spreads across your cheeks, so rosy that he just wants to grab your face and pepper kisses all over. For the first time since he has known you, you don't know how what to say.

The sight of you, rendered speechless by him being rendered an idiot, has Jungkook blushing too. Despite the patch of bashful silence that ensues, somewhere outside the metaphorical windows of his and your minds, both your thoughts are riding off into the sunset together, holding hands.

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starstruckodysseys · 5 months ago

Text

she’s getting into something (he’s going all or nothing) —

(or: lanie doesn’t do bets. or lessons, for that matter. there’s also not a lot she wouldn’t do for her friends. unfortunately.)

(or or: the ep8 business date/craps game but a little to the left. extremely to the left, some might say. possibly not even on the map anymore)

“Okay,” Lanie says, because she’s pretty sure they’re getting confused here, “hang on, sidebar real quick.”

She drags Wendell-as-Vic off to the side, just enough that no one should be able to hear them. It’s both easier and harder than usual, but somehow not in a way that cancels out.

“Wen,” she says quietly, staring him dead in the eyes, not taking her hand off his shoulder. “Wendell. You are aware that I, actual person Lanie Woodward, am not a lesbian, right?”

He stares at her like he was not, in fact, aware of this. “…What?”

Lanie sighs, rubs at her temple. “I’m— what do you mean what? I flirt with half the customers that come into the store!”

“I’ve never seen you flirt with a guy!” he whisper-shouts frantically.

Holy shit. Holy actual shit. There’s a voice in the back of her mind that isn’t hers yelling at her not to cry, but she feels pretty damn close to it.

It’s not— Lanie is not subtle. That has never been a word in her vocabulary. If she grins and laughs and leans a little closer during conversation than strictly necessary, people assume things, and that’s easier than dealing with her actual emotions. But this is not that, has never been that. She’s aware that she’s an awkward third wheel in whatever the hell Wendell and Liv have going on, but she’d assumed everyone was aware of that. It’s, like, her entire deal. Usha winks pointedly at her and Dang laughs while Russell attempts to be comforting when she groans too loudly and Paula— well, Paula might not actually be aware of it, but that’s perfectly fine with her.

But anyway. She was under the impression everyone knew, for the most part. Hell, Dave’s gotten onto her about it numerous times! Which, to be fair, he kind of does anyway, but fuck him because she’s nineteen and already in debt and—

Lanie sighs. Swallows. Glances around for anyone remotely resembling a bartender. Finds no one. “Is there a bartender here?” she asks desperately.

The weird clown man in the back steps forward, bowing slightly. Lanie squints at him, recognizes him as the guy who set up the kiss bet, and nods.

“Can I get, just… the strongest thing you have. In general.” She makes a vague hand motion that means nothing.

“Lan—” Wendell starts, stops, tries again. “Cara. I don’t—”

She waves him off. “I’m fine. Or, I will be fine in the next thirty seconds, if someone gets to it.” She raises a pointed eyebrow, something she’s never been able to figure out how to do as herself.

The clown man bows deeper. “Yes, ma’am.”

Lanie cringes, but nods, and he sets off to… somewhere. The where isn’t important. She’s currently unpacking the difference between what she’s meant the past few months and what everyone else has apparently assumed she’s meant. Or at least what Wendell has assumed she’s meant. Which is nothing.

She thinks she might have an aneurysm.

But that’s— they don’t have time for this right now. They have to learn how to play craps — and then pretend that they knew how to play craps the whole time, because Kingskin’s entire thing is crime and gambling and whatnot, and they can’t risk being found out now — so that Wendell doesn’t fucking die in the movie or whatever. Either that or he… kisses Liv on the mouth. As Kingskin and Vic Ethanol. She’s getting flashbacks to every high school party she ever went to.

Is it wrong that she doesn’t really care who wins? Probably. She’s also murdered several people at this point, so maybe her morals are a little off. Sue her.

Liv glances sideways at her when she sits back down. “Everything okay?”

“I think I’m going insane, Livvy,” Lanie mutters, just loud enough for only Liv to hear.

“Oh.” Liv frowns. “Do you want to head out?”

“I mean, I’d love to, y’know, survive,” Wendell cuts in, swinging around to sit on Lanie’s other side, which does not feel convenient if they do lose the game.

She’s not complaining or anything. It’s just impractical. From a logical standpoint. Obviously.

“They legally can’t kill you,” she says, bumping their shoulders together — a feat that’s a little more difficult now that their height difference… exists at all, really, but is more exaggerated than usual. “Pretty sure you made sure of that.”

“I didn’t do anything!” he protests weakly.

Lanie rolls her eyes fondly, and Liv laughs, and Wendell huffs but doesn’t say anything else. If she squints, it looks like he’s blushing, but that would be— well. Actually. It would be ridiculous on Vic Ethanol, sure, but she knows Wendell well enough that it’s hardly even surprising. It’s just… strange, seeing it on someone else’s face. Which is kind of a summary of their entire experience here so far.

The clown guy returns with her drink. He pauses in the doorway when he sees them, but recovers quickly, only looking at them a little suspiciously as he hands over the glass, the liquid somehow both muddy brown and bright pink at the same time. Right. She has a reputation to uphold, and the fact that her best friends slash main flirting targets are not women is not helping Cara’s whole lesbian thing. The lesbian thing being that she is a lesbian.

Maybe that’s Lanie’s lesson here. Stop being an obnoxious freak.

She’s never been good at taking lessons to heart.

“You all know how to play, yes?” French fry man asks — Pommefriete, whatever, it’s a stupid name. His accent is slowly getting less French and more incomprehensible.

“Um. Yeah. Definitely,” Liv says awkwardly. “But if we could get, like, a refresher? For the table…?”

This is going either nowhere or very badly and neither of those are great options.

“Just so we’re on a level playing field,” Lanie adds. If she leans a little more forward than necessary, well. “You wouldn’t want someone to have an unfair advantage, would you?”

Pommefriete shakes his head. “Certainly not. A refresher for the table it is!”

She lets out a very small sigh of relief. Wendell bumps their legs together under the table, and Liv flashes her a grateful smile when they make eye contact. She sends one back — it was Liv’s idea, after all. She’s just… using her resources. Yeah, that’s it. Pretty privilege works, kids.

Unfortunately, it isn’t enough to save their dice rolls, which end up being very bad. Lanie still doesn��t entirely understand how the game works, but the numbers are low and that’s not usually great in dice games. She leans back in her chair, lets out a low whistle. There’s not much else to do.

“Practice round,” Wendell mutters. Liv nods, determined.

Lanie takes a sip of her drink in preparation. It’s far stronger than she’d expected, even with her request, and it tastes strangely like nail polish remover. She coughs, attempting to muffle it with one hand and failing miserably. She’s still decidedly too sober to deal with literally any of this, so she takes another drink and pretends it doesn’t burn her throat on the way down.

There’s a tension in the air, electric and terrifying. Lanie isn’t even involved in the game, or the bet — they’d offered, but her luck has always been terrible — but she’s still on the edge of her seat. Metaphorically speaking, that is.

The dice clink against the table. Liv swears under her breath. Wendell goes deathly still. Lanie kicks back the rest of her drink before even bothering to look at the numbers. It’s entirely worth it once she does.

“Well then,” Pommefriete says, sounding just smug enough that Lanie actively resists the urge to not punch him in the face. “That’s the way the dice fall, I suppose. Or, roll, rather.”

He laughs as if he’s made some sort of clever pun, and not just a statement of fact. Next to Lanie, Wendell’s still completely frozen, and she covertly elbows him to drag him back to the present. He jolts, stares properly at the dice on the table, and seems to physically hold back a groan. She can’t say she doesn’t relate, and she’s not even part of the deal here.

“I, uh.” Liv moves like she’s going to mess with her hair, then seems to remember she doesn't exactly have hair to mess with. “Do we just…?”

Her hesitance is strange to see on Kingskin, but it makes it easier for Lanie to pretend that this is a normal situation for the three of them and not borderline life or death. Like they’re playing Truth or Dare at a sleepover, and not gambling Wendell’s life away.

The dynamite sticks out from behind the table. She thinks she sees red for a second.

Lanie has, over the course of their time in the movie and even before it, watched Wendell and Liv dance around each other. She’s seen Wendell forget how to form sentences like a functioning human, noted carefully as Liv’s feelings seemed to slowly blossom into something new. It’s cute, really, and she’s used to being the third wheel in their whole deal, used to being the advice girl, the therapist friend.

She scoots her chair back to give them space. Liv places one monstrous hand on her thigh to stop her and leans in.

It’s a painstakingly slow affair. Which is fair, because she doesn’t think either of them have kissed anyone before — not that she’s one to talk — and they’re two of the most awkward people she knows. When it comes to each other, at least. Thank god Liv is at least a little assertive when the situation calls for it.

They’re still incredibly far apart. The fact that everything feels like it’s going way too fast doesn’t change the actuality of the situation. Lanie sighs, leans back, catches Wendell’s eye for half a second and raises an eyebrow, pointed and teasing and a little jealous, all at once.

It’s just a Liv thing, he’d said. She doesn’t know if she still believes it.

“You chicken?” she says, like a challenge.

She doesn’t mean to say it, really. But there’s a buzz in her chest and a warmth in her bones, and her brain doesn’t feel completely tethered to the ground, much less her own head. It’s not entirely her fault she’s saying the first thing to come to mind.

Lanie isn’t particularly quiet, most of the time. The alcohol is doing nothing to help.

Wendell sputters, avoiding her gaze even as his face reddens. Liv pauses for a fraction of a second, glances at Lanie and immediately looks away. She doesn’t know what to do with any of this information. Her brain’s so fuzzy she might not even be retaining it.

(She is. It’s going straight to the back of her brain, highlighted in several different colors and cataloged under what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. She’s used that box a lot more recently.)

They’re leaning in again. Not that they ever really stopped, but it’s actually happening now, and Lanie really feels like she shouldn’t be here, or should at least be looking away, but Liv’s hand is burning a hole through her thigh and she doesn’t even know if she could move if she wanted to. She should want to. This is weird.

The voice in the back of her head — the one that isn’t hers, technically, just trapped in its own body — has dulled down. Logically, Lanie knows Cara’s in there somewhere, probably shouting at her to leave the situation, but she can’t hear the woman unless she actively tries. And, for reasons she thinks are pretty solid, she doesn’t really feel like trying. She’s got… other things on her mind right now.

She hasn’t been able to take her eyes off of either of her friends in front of her, which isn’t much different from usual, actually, but there’s a flash of movement in the corner of her eye, and even in her clouded state she manages to clock it. Pommefriete is dashing away, more subtle than anyone else in this goddamn film.

“Fucking—” Lanie mutters, then continues, at a normal volume: “I hate to break this up, trust me, but french fry motherfucker is currently getting away, and I feel like we should maybe do something about that.”

Maybe it’s her words, or her voice, or the fact that half of those words weren’t even words because she’s slurring them just barely, but Liv and Wendell spring apart, nervous and hesitant. Lanie rolls her eyes — she loves them, really, but there’s a time and a place and yes she’s being a hypocrite, but that’s not relevant. Blame the fact that she’s getting drunker by the second.

They, eventually, dash out the door, hopefully hot on the tail of the clown guys who apparently want them dead. It doesn’t take long to find them, mostly because they’re brightly colored and in a large room. Lanie reaches for the gun in her pocket, then switches sides because that’s her taser, actually, which is also her MacGuffin and not something she wants to be throwing around for no reason.

And then it turns out they don’t even need their weapons, because the hotel staff spring out from literally nowhere and, quite literally, commit murder in their own hotel. It feels far too convenient, but then again, they’d said they’d protect their group when they walked in, no murder rules aside. Which is kind of just an everywhere rule, actually.

“Holy shit,” Wendell says, awed.

Lanie laughs. “Again. You did that.”

She doesn’t know how she knows that, or even if it’s true, but he smiles in response, a little proud, a little shocked, and something warm fizzles in her chest.

Liv, on the other hand, looks more downtrodden, slumping out of Kingskin’s ramrod straight posture. Her halberd sits loosely in her hand, resting against the floor. Lanie attempts to process this, connect the dots that feel way too far apart. She doesn’t get a chance to before one of the clown guys pops up from the floor, apparently not completely dead, and Liv brings the halberd down right across his neck. There’s a grin on her face as she does. A subconscious shiver runs down Lanie’s spine.

“Holy shit,” she echoes, barely above a whisper. Wendell nods slowly, eyes wide.

Never Stop Blowing Up is not a slow paced film. It’s quite possibly been the most insane god-knows-how-many hours of her entire life. She’s committed several crimes by this point. And she doesn’t know if it’s because they’re just standing around, for the moment, or if it’s everything crashing down at once, or what, but this feels like far too much. Like they’ve crossed some sort of invisible line she hadn’t even known existed.

Don’t get her wrong, she’s not upset about the series of events that have led up to now. She’s just… having an adrenaline crash, it seems. Not the greatest time, all things considered.

Liv leans down, tosses Wendell his dynamite, which he fumbles with for just a moment. Something feels like it clicks in the back of Lanie’s mind, but she’s far too out of it to know what. Or care what, for that matter. She would love to get out of the room with several dead bodies. Maybe even find the rest of their friends.

“Are you feeling okay?” Liv asks, her brows furrowed.

It takes Lanie longer than it should to realize the question is directed at her. “Never better,” she says, and the slur of her speech immediately contradicts it.

Neither of them seem to believe her.

“Right,” Liv says, audibly holding back a laugh.

Wendell loops an arm over her shoulders, and she leans in on instinct, only then remembering that Cara’s 5’4 on a good day and not Lanie’s comfortable 5'10. She’s never had to lean against him like this — never been able to, really, they’re about the same height. It’s weird. She’s also not completely upset about the whole situation.

Liv’s hand — Kingskin’s, really, but Lanie cannot find it in herself to care enough to differentiate the two right now — darts out, then retracts, like she can’t quite figure out what to do with it. There’s a dazed sort of look in her eyes, which might be bold coming from Lanie, who is notably drunk off her ass right now, but the fact that it’s there at all is… a little concerning. Then again, a bunch of shit just happened in the span of maybe half an hour, more emotionally taxing than anything else they’ve done so far.

Mostly it’s just been explosions. These are like… mental explosions. Or something smarter than that. Again, her brain is not in her head right now.

They make it back to the lobby, eventually, and Lanie has to blink to reprocess the deep purples and bright pinks scattering across the room. For a moment, the only coherent thought that comes to mind is holy shit they’ve got bisexual lighting this place fucking rules. And then Liv snorts next to her, and she realizes it is not just a thought.

She likes making Liv laugh, though. She’s gorgeous when she does, when her eyes sparkle and her lips curl into a smile to create the most beautiful sound Lanie’s ever heard. It’s even better when she doesn’t pretend, when her eyes fall shut and her head tilts back and she grins like nobody’s watching, and it’s breathless and melodious and if Lanie could play it on repeat every day she would for the rest of her life. It doesn’t happen often, but Lanie’s pretty damn funny. She’s heard it enough to make it count for something.

At some point in the process of being too gay about her friend’s laugh, she’s been handed off to said friend, Liv’s hand warm where it rests tentatively on her back. Lanie blinks up at her, which is also new — god, someone should teach Cara about platforms, or, like, inserts, or something — but also not a terrible thing. She kind of understands why girls go for taller guys.

“Wendell went to go get water,” Liv explains quietly.

Lanie stares at her, eyes no doubt strangely wide and pathetic if the way she feels is any indication, processing the information. Her brain is currently the equivalent of Internet Explorer right now, so it takes a moment, but eventually she nods, and Liv lets out a sigh of what might be relief.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re really pretty?” Lanie says suddenly, because she needs Liv to know, and sure, it’s a little weird saying it to Kingskin, but it feels like if she squints enough, tilts her head, she can almost see Liv herself in there. “Cause you are.”

Liv coughs, flushes a shade of red that only proves Lanie’s point. “Um. Thanks!” She sounds strained, but not upset. “You’re, uh. You too. You’re also… really pretty. And cool. And, uh.”

She cuts herself off, glances away, scratches her cheek. The words send a thrill up Lanie’s spine anyway.

There’s the hint of a smile on Liv’s face, though. Lanie tries not to think about that too hard before she spirals. It’s pretty simple — there’s a paper airplane flying out the window, and she slips out of Liv’s grip to follow it, ignoring her protests. Her brain tracks movement and bright colors and pretty much nothing else. It’s not entirely her fault for getting distracted.

Someone bumps into her, as to be expected in such a crowded building, but they seem to do a double take, which is less expected.

“La— Cara?” Russell’s voice says, distant, and Lanie turns to see Jennifer Drips, in all her glory. He stares at her in confusion, which slowly morphs into more concern than she thinks is warranted. “Are you… good?”

Why do people keep asking her that? “Feeling great,” she says, attempting to lean on the nearest table. There is no nearest table.

Russell catches her before she can completely tip over, sets her upright. “Lanie,” he says, worryingly serious, “what happened to you?”

She pauses. That is… a very good question, actually. “Uh. Wendell ‘n Liv—”

“Didn’t do anything,” Wendell interrupts out of nowhere, his voice at an octave she didn’t know voices could hit. “Nothing happened. She’s drunk.”

He passes her the water. She stares at the cup, then back up to him. Raises an eyebrow teasingly. Grins when he becomes obviously flustered.

“You do care,” she says smugly. It doesn’t come out as smooth as she would like, but it gets the point across.

“Yeah, well.” He gestures vaguely at nothing. “I’m going to go, uh. Talk to Liv. At the— at the blood rave. If you… wanted to come.”

Lanie considers this, deeper than perhaps the situation requires. She shakes her head. “I think— I’m gonna chill with Russell. We’re buddies. Besties. Pals. Uh.”

Wendell gives her a look she doesn’t think she could decipher if she were sober. “Right. Well, uh. Don’t die?” he offers. Glances up to Russell. “Please make sure she doesn’t die.”

“Sure thing,” Russell says, amused. “Have fun.”

“Love you!” Lanie calls at Wendell’s retreating figure. She turns back around before she can see him stumble so hard he nearly faceplants.

Russell definitely sees it, but doesn’t comment on it, just looks at Lanie, expectant and amused. “So, what did you say is happening with them?”

She lights up at that, grins, because she loves to gossip and she loves to talk about her friends. “They’re, like, making out in the blood rave or whatever. I dunno. So—”

“I’m sorry,” Russell interrupts, and he does genuinely look apologetic. Ignoring the fact he’s obviously trying not to laugh. “The what?”

“You know.” Lanie shrugs. They all know about the blood rave, duh. “The blood rave. I dunno. Not my business. They almost kissed, Russell. ‘N I was just kinda… there. In the middle.”

Rest in peace to Russell’s brain for trying to figure out what the fuck she’s talking about right now. Godspeed, soldier. She can see him connecting the dots, and waits patiently for him to do so — it’s not that complicated, really. Why is everyone so confused about all this?

“So— hang on.” Russell actually sits down on the ground, which is kind of weird considering how many chairs there are here, but Lanie just follows suit because standing is getting tiring, actually, and her feet are starting to hurt. “What do you mean in the middle?”

Lanie huffs petulantly, like a toddler. “We played craps, ‘n the french fry fucker had Wendell’s MacGuffin, so we bet on it, and it was either that or he ‘n Liv kissed. We… didn’t win. It was so bad, Russell.”

“The kiss?”

“No— well. Maybe?” She considers that, then shrugs. “I dunno. I wasn’t part of that. I was just… in the middle. Literally.”

Russell stares at her, Jennifer’s piercing gaze boring into her soul. She doesn’t entirely blame him, this time. Her brain was just as foggy in the moment.

“So no one actually kissed.” It’s a statement more than anything, as if he’s processing everything. “And you’re… okay with that?”

She shrugs again. “I like being the guy in the middle. ‘M not that worried about it.”

She’s surprised to find she really means it when she says it. Anyone with eyes can tell she’s absolutely down bad for her best friends slash coworkers slash multiple question marks at this point, but she’s genuinely never really expected it to go anywhere. Especially now that Liv seems to return Wendell’s feelings, even if she’s not completely aware of it herself. Sometimes Lanie uses the only two psychology classes she ever took for good.

Russell frowns, which confuses her, because she’s not upset about any of this. “But you’re into both of them.”

Jesus fuck, why is this a conversation she’s having with a coworker nearly thirty years older than her?

Because she’s drunk and no one else will listen to her, most likely. And anyway, Russell’s initiating at least seventy percent of it, so it’s not entirely her fault. Just mostly.

“‘S like… imagine a tricycle,” she says, only half sure of where the metaphor is going. “Three wheels. Two of them are in the front, and then there’s the one in the back. The two are like… bonded or whatever. Besties. Lovers. Worse. I dunno.

“You can’t get, like, stability without the third one, though,” she explains. Her eyes feel less dry than they were a minute ago, and when she reaches up to rub at them her hand comes back tear streaked. Huh. “It’s there for emotional support, or something. And it doesn’t mind being at the back, ‘cause how else do you get to see the other two?”

“That’s…” Russell trails off. “I don’t think tricycles are set up like that.”

Okay, so it’s not a perfect metaphor. Sue her.

Lanie groans, probably a little overdramatic. “Shut up, I’m making points. You get it.”

He smiles like he just might. “That makes a lot of sense, though, Lanie. I just think maybe you haven’t been paying close enough attention.”

And then, like he hasn’t just casually dropped a bombshell like that on her, he pats her shoulder before standing up and wandering off. She thinks she sees him with Usha, but she’s too busy staring at the ground and trying to refocus her brain as she runs through every interaction she’s ever had.

It doesn’t go well, not at the moment. Later, though — later, they’ll end up on a speedboat to the Amazon, and Lanie will squeeze herself between Liv and Paula and shiver in nothing but a tank top. Later, they’ll end up in Alaska first, and she’ll throw up off the side of the boat when Usha takes over driving, and Wendell will quietly confess that he and Liv didn’t kiss the night before.

Later, Liv will run off, and they’ll find out about Dave, and they’ll storm the White House when it flies away, and a million other things will happen that Lanie won’t comprehend at the time, much less afterwards.

Later — much, much later — they’ll have time. Time to choose, time to talk, time to figure things out.

For now, Lanie passes out in the middle of the floor until Dang nudges her awake with his foot and dreams about almost kisses that aren’t an almost.

#here it is. the 4.4k nsbu oc insert fic of my dreams!!#this is so embarrassing #i am mentally unwell about my own d20 ocs and i luv to incorporate them in the actual universes #unfortunately this is very cringe but hey #reese’s fics #reese’s ocs #lanie woodward #i’m too afraid to maintag this LMAO #daft pretty boys lanie song of all time btw!! if you even care!!!#they look so pretty from afar… like the gates of heaven have opened now and my one true love has just waltzed right out…#THERES ONE TJING ABOUT ME THAT YOU SHOULD KNOW I CANT HELP FROM SPEAKING MY MIND #it’s so this fic coded. augh #sky full of stars

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