#god the horror of the first option. a man making assumptions about you and him being confused. almost angry when you correct him.

[my-thoughts-and-junk]

love the idea of an isekai historical fantasy reverse harem where the guy returns to the present and finds out there are modern counterparts to all the women in his harem BUT it's from the point of view of his girlfriend from before he got zapped to the past

[chaos-and-sparkles]

I yearn to talk about my Dracula!Holmes au, and the universe has seen fit to give me free will and internet access, so talk i shall.

Listen. Hear me out just hear me out.

We literally have Johnathan motherfucking Harker whose written POV we read Dracula from for like a solid half of the book, right. Well, no more, he's John Watson now babeyyy, a retired army man now gainfully employed as a lawyer who's off overseas to act as estate agent to the strange and eccentric client who has expressed interest in moving to foggy London... Count Holmes! [insert jazz hands]

Instead of being Evil(tm) and plotting to take over London or whatever, my guy is just Autistic. Also riddled with ADHD and in desperate need of some enrichment in he goddamn enclosure. He will also in fact be trans, because. Of course. Vampirism as a metaphor for queerness and the social ostracization that follows as a punishment and having inherently queer narratives intertwined in them etc etc... anyhow! Count Sherlock Holmes, vampire detective!!!

(I do also want him to be aroace, or aroacespec at least, but I'm willing to negotiate for the Johnlock and the Johnlock alone.)

Mina Harker here is of course the one and only Mary Morstan, although it is clearly a lavender marriage, because we aren't cowards in this household and so Mary gets to be gay with her Lucy equivalent here, just as god intended. I haven't decided who her Lucy equivalent will be yet but this au is still young (technically I've been going insane about it in my mind for like a month or two but whatever) and there's no reason we can't make up an OC for her Lucy.

John Watson, resident gay doctor lawyer, of course, is smart enough to realize the enigmatic Count Holmes' vampiric secret within like one adventure, but he sure is going to have a slow burn of realizing just how gay he is for said enigmatic Count Holmes. We, of course, get to witness this tooth rotting bullshit firsthand as we read his diary entries and some later letters to Mary.

And instead of being one long gothic horror narrative, it's just adventure of the week with your friendly neighborhood crime solving vampire, the various other mythical creatures who do said crimes, and Just Some Guy.

Just, every Sherlock Holmes adventure adapted into this au with other supernatural elements. The guy from the Red Headed League is a local villager being bamboozled by a leprechaun, the Silver Blaze thing is about a kelpie. Everyone including Sherlock was operating on the assumption that Irene Adler was a siren, but actually she was just a regular human, and instead of unlearning misogyny (bc I don't see trans vampire Sherlock living so long through changing times and society and being sexist), Sherlock has to learn not to underestimate the intelligence of humans.

Also, he's just really excited to have this new human, John, living in his castle. So curious, too, about humans, he has sequestered himself from them for such a long time and John seems like a very interesting one. He's probably the first friend Sherlock has had in a long time, too.

Also. Instead of being warded off or harmed by garlic, to Sherlock, garlic is just the vampire version of cocaine. He just gets high as fuck off garlic. Could live on the stuff. And the reason people think he's warded off by garlic is just because he was seen getting high off his ass, turning into a bat, and flying away in loop de loops upon consuming garlic one (1) time. And everyone thought it's his weakness. And he never bothered correcting them bc Why Would He. He's basically getting free cocaine left and right from villagers who are scared/wary of the supernatural Count Holmes and only go to him when there's no other option, and it's no bother to leave people he's not investigating alone.

I genuinely do think cocaine!garlic addicted Sherlock has so much comedic potential, it really is so beloved to me. Just imagine, if you will, an extremely put-upon John Watson caring for Batlock who has gotten high off his ass and refuses to stop flying into his own antique chandelier.

I was also thinking that it would be funny to have Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner in place of Dracula's sexy vampire roommates or whatever those three were lmao (I couldn't think of a third character, sorry)

Also. Obviously. Van Helsing has got to be Moriarty, by virtue of opposition. I do think their whole deal has a lot of potential to be very funny and entertaining also. I am also considering it might be fun to have Lucy's other suitors be the Scotland Yarders, like Lestrade, Gregson and what have you, but that risks missing out on the very fun possible dynamic of "Sherlock being exasperated with the dumbass out of their depth Yarders he keeps helping" raised to like the hundredth degree so. I honestly would like people's thoughts on that.

Anyway so YES, Dracula au please and thank you. Maybe with endgame QPR Johnlock? Yes? Please? Queerplatonic husbands Johnlock is my shit.

In conclusion: THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK <3

[randomshipperhere]

Can I SAVE Markiplier? Notes

You can find the vid in GTLive

I’ll be writing down stuff I found interesting. Also he should read up some theories on tumblr, 

Right off the gates he uses the darkiplier tag and I- you made me look Theory Crew. You got me smiling good from behind the screen with that.

It’s already been speculated but he confirms he’ll have more scenes in part 2. Also even if fans joked about there being a possible 3rd part, looks like we really will only have 2.

He likens his experience to the marvel actors where he’s a part of it but doesn’t really know much outside his role (don’t worry, we don’t blame ya)

The theorist brain is hard at work! He immediately took notice of the Invincible II

Being amazed at how smart Mark was in making sure they could cut on the cgi bits by closing the blast doors and laughs at the next line.

No Mat, the M2702 is just a reference to the tesla video. We also see that as his inmate number in heist. I’d be surprised if there was heavy lore implications.

Pam being a recurring character. Is going to take note of her. As he should honestly. Kinda surprised he didn’t make a wkm connection already from Mark and Celci’s first interaction.

Chica appreciation

He had to be in one of the cryopods for a while. Cozy and lots of smoke.

He thought Mick’s outfit was one of the coolest.

Cameraman appreciation! FUCK YEAH! More preesh! There was apparently a point where they had to use their teeth to carry it. God damn. Hmmm, are the head tilts or shakes done with the teeth cam?

He liked the lore door~ y’know with the whole don’t wake the captain notes. lmao he went the long route when he could’ve gotten there much faster. First routes truly are special. Timeline merging seems to be the most logical conclusion, he and I can agree on this.

Dang you lore enthusiast you missed it. Well, when theory crew makes his video I am so sure he’ll go through it again because you can’t just not talk about Dorene when talking about lore in part 1

Man I really didn’t watch everything because all these send Mark in options are so new to me and it makes me feel bad :) I am not going to send him in. Head engineer Mark is my cute puppy 🥺

Pam apparently had to have ice packs in her suit.

I can’t believe he paused and missed the Warfstache was here

Hey, he’s right in his assumption! It is like the box from Heist. More like it’s the same crystal

Do most people really do the jump in again option first time through? I’ve seen a lot of reactions to iswm where they do that.

Mat thinking that there's more to the loop reminded me of the tweet Mark did. Oh no he's fallen prey to it and he doesn't even know it!

He thinks Gunther is right in how someone may have tampered with the Invincible. You are correct sir. Old Man Mark has a few things to say about that

He thought Dorene looked like Future Pam :D That’s a score for you Pam=Dorene theorists because you got him on your side

Yeah Dark is reserved for part 2

He picked up on the “you always were stubborn” line. Good on you~

Actually if he's working on his theory right after there are a few things he has things he has to keep in mind. WKM AHWM Dorene route, the website, and Mark's latest videos. A few posts like the character dossiers too. Maybe even WMLW and Stan the water man if you want to stretch it out further. ADWM doesn’t have that much connection to part 1 for now outside of the date line and what we assume, Stan holding the romance and horror book (but that’s a part 2 spoiler).

[danidrabbles]

Cowboy Like Me - Part One

Story Summary: HERE.

Chapter Summary: Three months after your arrival at Statesman’s Kentucky department, Jack and yourself are sent out on your first assignment together. You find out you didn’t know your partner as well as you thought you did, while Jack is forced to confront the decisions he made one year prior.

Rating: M ......for now.

Word Count: 11.2k (I know...) (also, the irony of this blog being named danidrabbles vs. this word count is not lost on me, trust me)

Warnings: Language, canon-typical violence (mentions and use of weapons, mentions of death and murder), alcohol, innuendo but no smut, feeeelings, way too many creative liberties with / assumptions about the art world - I think that’s it, but please let me know if I missed anything!

Notes: Absolutely terrifying to share my child in fanfic form with the world, but here we are... This story (even this first chapter) has known many versions, but this final one would not have been here if it hadn’t been for Astrid @javier-pena​, who quite literally dragged me through this with her constant encouragement and unlimited enthusiasm. Please read her wonderful Mandalorian fic ‘The Hunt’. Astrid, I’m tipping my imaginary cowboy hat down to say that I can’t thank you enough, darlin’. I also want to mention @frannyzooey​ and @jura-moon​ who, with their stories, have inspired me endlessly and relit the writing flame within me that had gone out. Thank you!

PART ONE: LONDON.

“No, wait,” you whisper, and you hold two fingers up to emphasise your words.

“Wasn’t gonna do anything,” Jack hisses back.

The two of you are taking cover behind a broad column, face to face to fit the space together. The footsteps to your side stop, and then there’s the sound of hushed voices, too soft to make out what they’re saying. There are five of them, that much you know, all equipped with a gun.

You nod down at the hand resting on the holster under his arm, raising an eyebrow. “Sure.”

“Not yet,” he clarifies with a sigh. “But hiding here ain’t it… Eventually, it’s only gonna expose us more.”

“We’ve got to wait,” you say. “Listen, they’re eager, right? They’ll come to us, and if we wait for them to come to us, we can take them out in close quarters instead of at long range.” Your head perks up at the soft sounds coming from the other side of the room.

“That’d be a perfect idea if you had your little knives and I had my whip, but we gotta take ‘em out with these,” he reminds you, holding his gun up for you to see. “Remember?”

You sigh, palming the gun still sheathed in the holster on your hip. He’s right, you acknowledge with a nod, it is different without your weapons of choice. “What about visibility?”

Above you, there’s a light flickering on and off, colouring your surroundings in bright red at steady intervals, forcing your eyes to refocus every time colour bleeds back into the room.

“Think it’s a disadvantage for all of us,” he provides.

The sound of footsteps is back, this time almost rhythmical, on your left and right. “They’re probably splitting up,” you whisper, listening again before you add, “Three on the left, two on the right? Maybe?”

He listens, too. “Sounds about right.” Then, he grins. “How ‘bout a little competition, hmm? First one to take out three wins.”

Your face falls and you manage a sharp, “Jack, no,” but shit—  He’s already rounding the corner. You have no choice but to come out of hiding to cover him, following only a second after he emerges from behind the column. The sight of the both of you, guns raised, fills the room with silence, until Jack fires a warning shot, which makes the footsteps turn frantic. There’s a sound to your left, and you turn, quickly firing at one of your assailants who has their gun pointed at Jack’s back, hitting them right in the chest.

Jack’s head whips around in surprise. “Thank you, darlin’,” he says, an appreciative smile apparent in-between the flickers of light. “But that one was on my side, so that makes the score one to zero in my favor.”

“All I heard was, ‘First one to take out three wins’, nothing about sides,” you counter. “Which would make it one to zero in my favor.”

“Hmm,” is all he says, and it sounds far too amused.

“What’s that?”

“S’nothing, I just… knew you’d play along if I made you.”

You roll your eyes at his remark, then refocus, scanning your surroundings. There’s crates, columns, some furniture; plenty of places to obscure you from view. You can’t see a thing during the little intervals where the lights aren’t on and it makes you feel dazed, like you’re moving in slow-motion. There’s also no footsteps, so you decide that forcing everyone to the back of the room by checking the hiding places is probably the best course of action, as it will eventually leave them cornered, easier targets. Turning to convey your plans to your partner, you find him gone from your side.

Then there’s a grunt, and a thud, and then Jack’s voice echoes through the room, “One-one.”

Before you can even think of replying, a shot flies over your shoulder, and you dive behind a large crate. You look over the top with narrow eyes, spotting someone hanging from the ceiling. It’s a smart move in theory, but only if you don’t miss; it draws attention, reveals your position. You wait, and when no shot follows, you look over the crate again, seeing the person who just shot at you struggle with their weapon.

You raise your gun, take your aim and hit them in the chest at the exact same moment as the room lights up. Another shot rings out behind you, followed by a groan, and you immediately turn towards the sound. You find Jack standing there, looking far too proud and with a body slung over one of the chairs behind you.

“Thought I’d return the favor and make things exciting,” he says. “That’s two-to-two.”

You offer him a short, fake smile, then move through the room with him. It’s nearly impossible, with Jack wedging himself into your path to be the first to check your corners on account of the current score, and after some frantic shuffling from your target, and some missed shots from you and Jack, there’s only one spot left. You will yourself to focus on the far corner of the room, cross stepping closer and closer with Jack hot on your heels.

“You’re paying attention, right?” Jack says, picking up his step again until he’s slightly ahead of you. You can see the grin on his face form between the flickers of the lights overhead. “’‘Cause I would just hate for you to lose, doll.”

God, you hadn’t even agreed to participate in this pointless bet, but you can’t help but think about how satisfying it would be to wipe that grin right off his face when you win…

Suddenly there’s a shuffle from behind the couch in front of you, followed by a click, and it makes you both duck just before two shots come your way in quick succession. Jack’s hand closes over your upper arm, dragging you behind the fallen table he’s found cover behind, and you’re both silent for a second to listen to more shuffling from your target’s hiding place, followed by two more shots.

“Looks like we’ve successfully trapped our rat in the corner,” Jack says, voice low.

You nod. “Okay, I’ll go, you c—”

“Oh, hell no.” Jack chuckles softly. “Nice try, but I ain’t handin’ you the victory on a silver platter like that.”

Your shoulders drop with a sigh, “You know I don’t actually care about this bet, right? Just need you to cover me.”

He makes a face, then pulls another 10-bullet magazine from the clip around his waist as he thinks. After sliding it into place and pulling his hand back overtop the weapon, a tick confirms the reloading of his gun, and he gives you a quick nod.

“I’m going to need verbal confir—”

“Just fuckin’ go. I’ll cover you.”

Before he can change his mind, or do something decidedly Jack-ish, you step over his body, staying low, as you sneak out of hiding on the opposite side of the table during a moment where the room is covered in darkness. Behind you, you hear Jack mutter a soft curse before he begins shooting in the general direction of where the shots had originated earlier.

You approach carefully, operating out of sight. When you’re close enough, you press your back up against the nearest column. Quickly checking your gun between the flickering lights, you nod to yourself, then hold it close to you as you start to count when your distracted opponent fires back at Jack.

One, two, three…

four, five…

six.

Bingo.

You approach the couch, pointing your gun over it. The man behind it immediately raises his own weapon at you, aims for your chest and fires, but all that follows is a soft click, accompanied by a look of horror on his face at the realization he’s emptied his magazine.

In the split-second you contemplate your options, the bet entering your thoughts again, Jack comes up to stand beside you. You take him in from the corner of your eye. He’s not looking at you but has his gun still firmly held in both hands. When you turn slightly to look up at him, your eyes meet, and you’re sure that in that moment, the exact same thought crosses your minds at the exact same time. You both point your gun down and pull the trigger.

It’s impossible to tell who lands the kill shot in the end.

Jack scoffs, hands dropping to his sides with a shake of his head. “Christ, you liar.”

You’re about to retort when you hear it: a click behind you.

The realization makes your eyes widen, but it’s too late. You hear the shot before you feel it, and it lands right in the middle of your back, making you wobble. Next to you, Jack huffs, hand landing on the back of the couch at the pressure that he’s no doubt also feeling at his back.

It’s silent for what feels like the longest time, save for the heavy breathing behind the two of you. Until…

“You’re out, agents.” Ginger’s voice crackles over the intercom.

The lights flicker on in the room, bright and almost yellow, and the loud buzzer that rings through the practice space indicates the end of training. Around you, everyone rises up from their fake-deaths. They gather around, shrugging out of their protective clothes and celebrating their win, congratulating the last woman standing as they make their way to the exit.

“What the hell, Ginger!” You shout. “You said there were five!”

There’s a soft noise coming through the intercom, before Ginger’s voice is back, “Here’s a refresher: Always verify the information you get, don’t just blindly follow it.”

“Oh, come on…”

Next to you, Jack pulls the magazine of practice bullets from his gun before he holsters it. “It’s not like it really matters,” he says.

“We were just taken out by the recruits,” you scoff. “It matters.”

Meanwhile, your mind is already racing, going over the details of the training, thinking on where you went wrong, but it’s a short contemplation because Ginger is right: You should have confirmed your targets before running out in the open and exposing yourself, have a better plan... Which reminds you—

“Hey,” you say, drawing Jack’s attention again. “Next time I would appreciate a little heads up if you’re going to disappear on me like that,” you say, jabbing your thumb over your shoulder. “I mean, if I can’t even trust you during training, how am I supposed to trust you when we get back out there?”

His eyes narrow and it’s like he’s about to say something, then thinks better of it and turns away from you. “We ain’t going anywhere anytime soon anyway.” His voice is stained with spite and immediately after he says it, he starts making his way towards the exit.

You huff as you pull at the velcro straps to get the vest off your body and drop it into the container with the rest of the protective clothes next to the door, before following after him.

He isn’t wrong, per se. You don’t know about the details because it seems to be a sensitive topic judging from the one time you brought it up, but Jack had been put on non-active months ago after a mission in Cambodia and hasn’t been sent out by Statesman since. After a bit of an unconventional first meeting between the two of you, Champ, the head of Statesman, had decided that partnering you two up would be a good idea. Truthfully, it made sense; Jack’s a senior agent who needs to be eased back into things, you’re a junior agent who could learn from him while you could keep him reined in.

But it’s been three months since and you still haven’t been sent out on a mission, and it isn’t how you envisioned your transfer to this division of Statesman to be.

You imagined high-stakes missions, traveling the world, learning from the best—

Okay, maybe that last part had worked out.

Truth be told, Jack had proven himself a very capable agent from the very moment you met, but it didn’t really sink in until one of your first training sessions, when you discovered Jack insisted on carrying around a lasso and whip on top of this Statesman issued gun. You laughed it off at first, thinking it was just part of his cowboy-like fashion sense. Then he opted to practice his lasso skills on you, betting he could catch you with it in under a minute. Figuring it would take him more than a minute to even find you in the large training space, you agreed. In hindsight, the smirk on his face when he asked should have been enough for you to realize your mistake right away. He found you, got the rope looped around your body, and, rather indignantly, forced you to the ground; all in under 36 seconds.

It wasn’t until after, when the rope was looped around a rubber target dummy, that he showed you the lasso could turn electric…

You continued your sessions together, learning to anticipate each other’s moves, play off of them to use it against your opponent; getting a routine down and using the training time to prepare for your missions. But there’s only so much preparing you can do, especially with someone who is as much of a wildcard as Jack, someone who often makes his own plan. But the missions never came, causing Jack to become somewhat of a ticking time bomb, closer to exploding with each passing day that you weren’t sent out. You’re sure Champ has noticed by now, but still, he insists on having you train together more. And, on occasion, that means playing target practice for the new Statesman recruits.

“Being taken out by the recruits isn’t going to improve our chances, you know.” You jog after him until you’re walking next to him.

“That mean we should just take it?” Jack asks, manoeuvring through the corridors back to the main building, bumping your shoulder occasionally.

“Whatever happened to, ‘You know me darlin’, I’m always jumpin’ at the chance to pencil in a little extra training time with you’?” you manage in your best impression of his voice to echo the words he said before the two of you entered the training space earlier.

“I changed my mind and thought of something better, that’s what happened,” he says, looking at you before gesturing between the two of you. “Us two, puttin’ all our hard work to good use out there in the field. And I don’t mean any funny business.”

“Hmm, yeah, no, exactly, ‘cause we don’t practice that kind of stuff.”

You set it up for him, and you have a feeling he knows but can’t help himself. One corner of his mouth turns up, and you consider the slight change in his demeanour a small victory.

“But we could.”

You chuckle, open your mouth to reply—

“I know, I know.” He grins, before you can say anything. “Just puttin’ it out there, lest you forget.”

He stops walking, so you do as well, standing next to him and leaning against the wall as to not obstruct the hallway. He turns towards you and for a moment you just look at him as he sighs and combs his fingers through his hair while the furrow returns to his brow. “But… Christ, don’t you wanna get back out there?”

“Of course I do,” you say with a sigh. “At this rate that recruit dangling from the ceiling is going to get a mission before we do.”

“See! That’s what I’m talking about, partner.” He leans in, lowers his voice like he’s about to tell you a secret, “I say we—”

“Hey, Whiskey!” The exclamation echoes through the hall, followed by your own code name. Both your heads perk up at the sound, finding one of the recruits at the end of the hall. “Ginger’s asking for you two!”

--

Ginger Ale’s promotion to handler meant that she was able to enjoy a lot more of Statesman’s luxuries, including her own office. As you walk in, you can’t help but notice how nice it is: It is spacious, but modest with the way she has decorated it, has a gorgeous view and is full of the latest tech; it is exactly what she deserves.

You’ve gotten to know her well during the past few months. She is intelligent and resourceful, warm and encouraging. Her work is thorough and precise; she cares a great deal about the details of a mission, and you have no doubt that you could always trust her if she were to ever guide you through one.

But training is another story, apparently…

“I’m not accepting any repercussions for that training,” you say the moment you spot her by the window.

Ginger chuckles at that, and it sounds unlike her, like she’s nervous. It’s almost as intriguing as the next words she speaks, “Then I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t call you in here for that. Why don’t you have a seat?”

You shoot a quick glance at Jack, who looks equally responsive despite his silence; lips pursed, an eyebrow cocked. He strides towards her desk to take her up on her invitation, and sits down in one of the two chairs opposite her workspace. You follow quickly, taking a seat in the empty chair beside him, looking up at Ginger as she makes her way to the see-through screen on her desk.

Ginger taps the screen twice, and it lights up. It’s full of pictures of the same man, all taken on different occasions. He’s slender, mid-40s, you’d guess, with a pair of round glasses perched on his nose and has blond, wild hair, some of it missing on the top of his head.

“Nathaniel Jones,” Jack says, leaning in to take a closer look at the pictures. “Nathan resurfaced?”

“Yes,” Ginger says.

“I’m sorry, um, who is Nathan?” you ask, looking from Jack to Ginger and back.

“He’s an art thief,” Ginger answers.

“Not just an art thief, he’s one of the best, even wanted by the good folks at Interpol,” Jack corrects, turning to you. “Steals pieces all over the world and replaces ‘em with fakes, good fakes, then sells ‘em. They even suspect him of stealin’ an ancient Chinese gu from an exhibition in Nanjing, which he kept for his own personal collection. Think he might be capable of puttin’ the Gardner Museum theft to shame someday…” He trails off.

You nod, not entirely sure what that means, but you’re sure it would be an impressive feat. And Jack would know. While he’s been on non-active, Jack has taken up a new hobby: art history. You didn’t think he’d be the man for it, but apparently when Jack sets his sights on something, he goes a little hard, and if the many times he’s threatened to ‘leave the agency and live off that sweet, sweet art appraiser salary’ are anything to go by, he is quite good.

“However, no one has been able to catch him. He leaves no physical evidence, but he always allows himself to be photographed, as you can see,” Ginger says, gesturing towards the screen.

“Show off,” Jack scoffs. “Where did they spot him?”

“London,” Ginger replies, tapping the screen again to reveal an aerial map of the city centre, two red dots corresponding with some of the pictures she’s shown you earlier. “There’s a big auction coming up and he’s expected to strike.”

Suddenly, her words are kicking in. Nathan is like.. he is kind of like a target, isn’t he? And he was spotted in London… Expected to attend an event where he could get caught...

“Ginger, are you—are you saying what I think you’re saying? You’re sending us on a mission?”

“Yes and no. It’s…” Ginger hesitates, eyes flickering to Jack quickly, then continues, “It’s a mission, but it’s not our mission. It’s… It’s at the request of Kingsman.”

But it’s a mission. A real mission, in London. And it's perfect. With Jack's art expertise and both your skills as agents, you’re sure you’d be an excellent addition to the Kingsman team for this mission. A mission. Finally—

“We ain’t goin’.”

—and then Jack says that. His voice is low and dead serious, lacking any hint of sarcasm. “You know I’m not fucking doing that.”

It takes you completely by surprise, and you whip your head around to him so quickly that the muscles in your neck protest. "What?"

He ignores the question, stares straight at Ginger. Something is seriously wrong. He’s tense, maybe even more than you’ve ever seen him. It’s in the way his jaw twitches, and how he’s gripping the arms of the chair, but most of all in his eyes; it’s something you can’t place.

“They just need someone who can look at the pieces they have at the auction house, to authenticate and appraise them before the auction,” Ginger says, “and an extra couple eyes to do surveillance during the auction.”

"You should send someone else, ‘cause I ain't doin’ it."

Ginger sighs. “You think I would ask this of you if there was someone else who could do it?”

“Come on, Ginger,” Jack laughs bitterly, a thumb coming up to swipe at his bottom lip. “No art appraisers available in London?”

“You know they can't just get a civilian in on this.” Ginger sounds frustrated now.

"Well, it’s what Kingsman is gonna have to do."

You raise a brow at the way he snarls at the word ‘Kingsman’. So that’s what this is about. “Okay,” you begin, speaking in the kindest, most understanding tone you can manage as you turn towards your incredibly stubborn partner. “Okay, clearly there’s something going on here, with - with the Kingsman, right? But maybe by going there you can…,” you gesture with your hands to find the right words, “work it out?”

He seems to consider this, lips pursing further, not looking at either you or Ginger, and after some moments of quiet contemplation, he begins to sit up. “Hypothetically — and by that I do mean hypothetically — if I were to agree… Do they even know I’m the one comin’ to consult?”

“Jack—”

“It’s a simple question,” Jack interrupts, voice slightly raised. “Yes or no?”

You give Ginger a hopeful look, but her silence says enough.

Jack lifts himself out of the chair, drawing the same conclusion. “Then there’s no chance in hell.”

"Well, do I get a say in this at all?" Your voice comes out angrier than you intended, but it’s fitting. You are angry. Angry that he’s making decisions without you again, angry that he would blow this chance for the both of you after he hasn’t shut up about how he wants to get sent out on a mission.

"Not in this one,” Jack all but barks at you.

You rise up from your chair. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry, doll, but I’m not going all the way to London to help Kingsman as some sort of… last hurray before we're back to bein’ fucking… practice bait for the recruits!" Rounding the chair, Jack makes his way to the doors to Ginger’s office.

You're about to go after him, demand he tell you what the fuck the big deal with Kingsman even is, when Ginger speaks,

"What if it isn't one last hurray?"

Jack keeps walking. “Don’t bother.”

“If you go, I can talk to Champ about sending you out on more assignments.”

Now that makes Jack stop in his tracks. He doesn’t quite turn around yet, his back is still to Ginger and yourself, but he does angle his head to the side to indicate he heard her. It’s something. You can feel your anger simmering down and your heartbeat picking up; hopeful at Jack’s hesitance, giddy at the prospect of more missions. “And all I have to do is look at the pieces?” His voice is barely any louder than a whisper.

“Look at the pieces, authenticate and appraise them, surveillance,” Ginger summarises. “That’s it.”

His hands find his hips with a sigh, and he tips his head down. He stays like that, oh so still… “Tell them I’ll do it,” he says, “but not because I want to.” Then he pushes the door open and walks away.

--

­­­“So…” You draw the word out before clicking your tongue.

You’re sitting across from Jack on the jet, still a long way from London. Ginger has arranged for one pretty much right away. Once you’ve gotten over your initial, dazzling impression of the jet – it is enormous, far too much for just two people, with a literal pool table in the middle and a fucking bar with two doors next to it that lead to the sleeping compartments – you begin quietly observing him.

He hasn’t spoken a word since you left Kentucky and, if anything, he seems to get more miserable the closer you get to your destination. The longer you see him like this, the more your enthusiasm for the mission cools, and the more you actually start to get worried this is a bad idea after all.

You have waited as long as your curiosity, and the tension, allow for it, but given the explosive start of this whole thing, you’re certain you have to know the apparent history between him and Kingsman. You’ve tried asking Ginger, as she certainly knows more about it, but she insisted it wasn’t her place to tell you. So, really, you have no choice but to bring it up now.

“When are you going to tell me what the deal is with you and Kingsman?”

“Nothin’ for you to worry about,” comes his instant reply, clearly having anticipated your question. He’s got one hand cupped along his jaw to support his head so he can stare out the small circular window, while his shoulders, judging from his posture and the expression on his face, are currently supporting the weight of the world. “It’s all gonna be just fine.”

You scoff. “Please. I’ve known you for some time now, I’ve seen you in a lot of moods, but I’ve never seen you sulk, and…,” you gesture towards him, slumped back in his seat as he is, “…you’re sulking, Jack. Clearly there’s a good reason for that.”

He sits up at your remark, adjusts his hat, then pinches the bridge of his nose, giving you a clear sign that he doesn’t want to have this conversation – at all, but especially right now. You give him a few more seconds, but when it’s clear he isn’t going to speak, you try another direction.

“Is it um, is it about Cambodia?” you gently pry.

“Woman, can’t you take a hint?” he grunts. “Or do you just like getting a rise outta me?”

“I’m not asking just because I’m curious what can get such a rise out of you,” you say. “This is an assignment, technically it’s our first official one - the bank doesn’t count,” you add quickly. “And I would just like to be a little more prepared than last time.”

“The bank counts.”

“We didn’t even know—”

“The bank counts,” he repeats, and he probably thinks he’s being oh so funny and clever right now, focussing in on your mention of your first meeting like he isn’t doing it just to try to change the subject.

“I want to know what I’m about to walk into, Jack,” you say sharply.

“We all want things, darlin’,” he says with a sigh, getting up from his seat. “I for one would like ya to stop bringin’ this up.” And then he walks off to quite possibly the only place he can escape to right now, announcing, “I’m gonna hit the hay.”

“Sooner or later I will find out about it, you know that, right?” you call after him, your final attempt to make him just tell you what happened.

He hesitates – it's brief, but he does, a slight change in his step, a twitch of his upper arm. But he doesn’t stop, leaving you to watch as he slips through one of the doors next to the bar and disappears out of sight.

You will yourself to keep working and wait for him to return, thumbing through the thick files Ginger sent along. But as more time passes, the letters begin to dance in front of your eyes and your eyelids get heavy with sleep. Had this seat been this comfortable before? Your body sags into the leather and you allow your thoughts to drift away from your partner’s mysterious history with Kingsman. After all, you think, naively, trying to justify letting the sleep overtake you, if Jack has decided to accept the assignment, how bad could it really be?

--

Okay. So. Turns out it could be really bad.

After touching down in London, you’d been escorted straight to the auction house, where Agents Galahad Sr. and Galahad Jr. would meet up with you. Jack had been fidgety the whole ride, leg bouncing as he resorted back to gazing out the window. You don’t know how long he had locked himself away for on the jet, but when you’d woken up, he was back in his seat across from you, case files in his lap but fast asleep, or doing a pretty good job pretending. After arriving, you entered through the sliding glass doors, and spotted two men, both sharply dressed. One was a bit older than the other, and the older one wore a pair of glasses that left one eye obscured from view. The older man had barely taken your hand in his to introduce himself, when his colleague spotted Jack, and all hell had broken loose.

Currently, you and the man you now know as Harry, if all the frantic yelling from the other agent is anything to go by, are forced to settle what has become a standoff between Jack and Harry’s colleague. They’re standing across from each other, weapons pointed at each other after Harry’s colleague aimed his at Jack, to which Jack pulled his own gun from its holster and pointed it at the other man.

“What the fuck is this, Harry? What is he doing here?”

There’s something about his tone that confirms beyond his actions that he’s more than furious. You feel a flush creep up your neck in response to the situation you find yourself in; you feel embarrassed that you have no idea what’s going on.

“Eggsy,” Harry says. “There’s no need for theatrics.”

“He’s right. Jack, put the gun away,” you say.

“Like hell – I’ll put my gun away when he puts his gun away,” Jack answers, his eyes never leaving Eggsy’s hands.

“I— Me? I should put my gun away?” Eggsy scoffs. “I’m not even puttin’ my gun down around you. Last time you pulled a gun on me, you tried to kill me—” He looks at Harry, “You tried to kill us.”

Jack sighs. “Listen, things are different now—”

He’s saying more after that, but all that you’re hearing is that he isn’t denying it, and it replaces the flush from earlier with goosebumps that break out all over your body. That’s why he didn’t want to come here. Jack, your partner Jack, had attempted to kill two Kingsman agents.

“Why are you so calm about this, Harry?” Eggsy’s voice comes out strained, and it almost sounds like a plea.

“Agent Galahad,” Harry says sharply. “You know we can’t let our personal feelings get in the way. I simply think we should give Agent Whiskey a chance to do the job he came here to do.”

“Yes,” you blurt out. “I swear, that’s all we came here to do; do the appraisal and help with the surveillance later. After that, we’ll be out of your hair.”

Eggsy looks from you to Harry and back, gripping the gun so hard it shakes, then lowers it with a sigh. “You better.” He turns his attention back to Jack. “Or I swear, I’m gonna put so many fuckin’ bullets in you that no amount of Alpha-Gel can fix it. You got that?”

“Loud and clear.”

You heave a sigh of relief when the men holster their weapons, and as if knowing exactly when to appear, the auction house assistant enters the room, blissfully oblivious to what she had just missed out on.

Her accent is posh, especially compared to Eggsy’s, when she says, “I see everyone has arrived. Shall we?”

As she leads you to the room where the paintings are being kept, the auction house assistant informs you about them. They’re all part of a week-long event, an auction to help out up and coming artists. It’s all information you already know from the preliminary work you did for this assignment. What you don’t know is that artists usually make little to nothing from their art being sold at auction houses, but that this auction has a scoop: The artists will receive royalties from works sold on the secondary market. The works up for auction tomorrow are among the most anticipated, and they’re expected to sell at a high price. And even though you’re no art expert, you can certainly see why when the assistant leads you into the room where the works are stored.

The white walls are adorned with paintings of the most beautiful artworks. They’re all landscapes -– cherry blossom by a lake, a cave lit in a way that could be described as enchanting, a waterfall between oddly shaped high rocks, a lavender field at sundown. But they’re painted in a way unlike anything you’ve ever seen on account of the dazzling colours and unusual brush strokes. It instantly makes you want to look closer; it makes you want to touch, flit your fingers over the bumps of dried paint – an instinct you obviously don’t act upon, but you want to. It’s bitter to imagine how such stunning works would not have benefitted the artist if it would be sold at another auction house…

Jack looks equally impressed, whistling as he looks around the room before he gets to work. As he does, you watch curiously, from a distance as not to disturb him – Eggsy’s leaning against the wall next to him, much less subtle about his observant role. While you watch, you take note of the care Jack is putting into his work right now, unusually patient in his methods, evident in the way the gloved tips of his fingers brush along the canvasses, how he uses his pocket magnifying glass to inspect the painting from top to bottom, and the soft tone he uses with the assistant. It’s the kind of stuff you’ve never really been able to see him do, you realize, so different from all the tactical training you went through the past few months.

By the time he’s nearly done, you’re deep in conversation with Harry. He’s polite and to the point, with a rich voice and a kind laugh. And clearly, he’s no fool. You had struck up the conversation in hopes of prying some information out of him about Jack’s history with Kingsman, but Harry changes the subject each time you try, focusing back on the “extraordinary artwork”. It’s like the universe is conspiring against you, waiting to drop the other shoe at the right moment – or maybe these agents are just too well trained…

“That fuckin’…” Lost in thought as you are, you’re startled when you suddenly hear Jack’s voice sail through the room. “We’ve got a problem,” he declares, rounding the corner, coming back into view with Eggsy hot on his heels. He’s striding over with large steps as he plucks the latex gloves off his hands, and the concern on his face is apparent; his lips are pressed together in a thin line and his brows are furrowed. He comes to a halt in front of Harry and yourself, his fingers brushing along his chin before he explains himself, “So, all of ‘em are exactly as I expected ‘em, right? Until I get to the last one, inspect the brushstrokes and… something don’t add up. I think he’s already made the switch.”

--

Jack’s unexpected discovery at the auction house had led to a small crisis. From Eggsy, who demanded to know how Jack was so sure and if he wasn’t aiding a wanted criminal again. And from the auction house personnel, who started a frantic investigation into how someone could have gotten in and out of the secured room. It was a mystery that was quickly solved when they pulled up the security footage from last night, which showed Nathan, dressed as someone from the cleaning crew, rounding the corner where the switched artwork was located with a cleaning cart, and reappeared with it moments later.

No one expected Nathan to strike before the auction; the thief usually operates in plain sight during the events he targets. It forced Harry, Eggsy, Jack and yourself to rethink your strategy, and you had agreed to meet up early next morning to come up with a new plan. The stiff goodbyes you’d shared with the Kingsman agents served as a cold reminder of how you’d arrived here.

And even now, as you’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, it’s an unpleasant feeling you can’t shake, a feeling that’s keeping you from sleeping more than the jetlag. Before you can think any better of it, you’re up, through the door, walking down the hallway, and knocking on Jack’s hotel room door. He opens almost immediately, and that, combined with the way he’s still dressed in yesterday’s clothes and is doing a poor job of hiding the half-empty whiskey bottle on the dresser behind him, leads you to believe he hasn’t slept a wink, either.

“Hi,” you say, brushing past him and into the room.

“You know,” he says as he closes the door, a slight slur in his voice apparent. “This isn’t how I imagined it.”

The comment throws you off. “This isn’t how you imagined what?” you ask with a frown.

He gestures towards you. “You, barging into my hotel room.”

“I—”

“Usually less clothes involved,” he interrupts with a chuckle as he walks toward the dresser and plucks the bottle off of there.

“Yeah, well…” you look down at yourself, at your sweatpants, the soft dark blue T-shirt you’re wearing, “I’m sorry this isn’t doing it for you, Jack.”

He looks up at you, cocks his head with a grin. “Oh, I didn’t say that, darlin’.”

You sigh. You’re used to this endless back and forth, the pet names, it’s what Jack does with everyone, but you’re no longer in the mood to play into his little game. “I’m not here to get you into bed, Jack.”

“Good,” he says, and he doesn’t miss a beat when he adds, “in my dreams we don’t make it to—”

“I’m here to give you one final chance to tell me what happened between you and Kingsman,” you say with a raised voice before he’s even finished.

He makes his way over to a glass table by the window where his tumbler is waiting for him, and he pours it half-full. “And what if I don’t?” he asks.

You take a deep breath. You don’t want to give him the chance to derail the conversation by hiding behind his wit. Or walking away. You’re serious, this is serious, and you want him to know it is. “If you don’t, then that means I can’t trust you.” This time, it’s you who doesn’t miss a beat when you add, “and Jack, if I can’t trust you, I can’t be your partner.” Maybe it’s a weak threat, but it’s the truth. This is your first mission together and he’s already keeping things from you. How could a partnership possibly work like this?

You’re surprised when he doesn’t immediately have a smart retort for you. Instead, your words make him freeze, and if you didn’t know better you swear it makes him sober up. You know that he can tell you’re not kidding around, can practically see the cogs turning in his head in what you assume is him making a quick list of pros and cons. After some time, he reaches for a second glass, pouring two fingers before simply asking, “Drink?”

“Depends.”

He thrusts the glass in your direction. “Take the drink and sit down.” He gestures towards one of the leather chairs next to the table, but you stand your ground, looking at his extended arm but not taking the drink from his hand. “Please,” he says, and with the way his voice slightly goes up at the end, it’s almost a question.

You can’t help but raise an eyebrow at that, and your legs are walking you towards him before you’ve even really accepted his invitation. You take the glass from him and plop down in the chair with a huff. You still can’t really tell if he’s serious, so you wait for him to speak.

Jack brings the glass to his mouth, throwing its contents back with one big gulp before refilling it and taking a seat himself. His hand moves up to his face, two fingers rubbing along his moustache as he looks at you and gnaws at his lip. “I erm— It’s not—” Then he averts his gaze, and after a beat of silence he settles on, “It’s a long story, though.”

You’re taken aback, not used to seeing him like this. You’ve gotten to know Jack as charming, confident, cool, but while he is stuttering out his reply, the flush in his neck creeps up to his face, and his shell seems to be cracking. He is flustered, maybe even anxious, and you have a feeling that he’s not exaggerating when he says that it’s a long story.

You nip at your drink, the oaky taste with hints of vanilla settling pleasantly in your mouth before burning down your throat. “I have plenty of time to listen.”

And so you do. You listen to him explain how Kingman and Statesman worked together to stop Poppy Adams and take down her toxic drug empire. But that, somewhere along the mission, his personal feelings got in the way. After purposefully breaking a vial of the antidote they’d stolen from one of Poppy’s facilities on Mont Blanc, he had been shot in the head by Harry, who suspected him of being a traitor. Luckily, Eggsy had reacted quickly by using Alpha-Gel, effectively saving his life. (“Even got the battle scars to prove it,” he says, pointing at the scar on the side of his face). The next thing he remembered was waking up in Kentucky, where Ginger brought his memory back. He followed the Kingsman agents to Poppy’s hideout in Cambodia, where he nearly kept them from releasing the antidote worldwide, before they overpowered him and brought him back to the States in cuffs. Naturally, he was suspended indefinitely.

Throughout his story, you’re dead silent, hanging onto his every word as you sip your drink.

“Guess I kept this from you for so long ‘cause… I didn’t want this partnership to end before it properly began. But with you comin’ in here at two in the mornin’, demandin’ to know the truth or else, I figured…” He pauses with a sigh, face twisting into a something you can’t quite place. “Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

Your brain is failing to process all this information at once, and Jack takes your silence as a prompt to continue,

“And I hate it. ‘Cause for the first time in a long time, I was havin’ some fun again.” He nods at his own statement, then looks up at you, his eyes searching your face. “When we were training together and you picked up on everything I was doin’… You anticipatin’ all my moves made me wanna anticipate all o’your moves, to become attuned to you and your…your stupid little knives.” His smile falters, and there’s that look again. “I mean, we’re a good team, aren't we?”

Jack’s always chatty, but the way he’s talking right now he’s being downright loquacious. It’s probably on account of the whiskey, but it still makes you choose your words carefully, unable to be as blunt or demanding as you were earlier. “All of that training stuff,” you begin, “I think it means nothing if we can’t be honest with each other.” You pause, so your words can really land with him, before asking, “Can I trust you to do that?”

“After all that, can you trust me to do that?” He’s making that face again, and the flush on his cheeks is back and—

Oh.

Oh.

You completely forget about his question because suddenly you can place the look on his face: He’s ashamed.

He’s ashamed and he thinks you’ll see him differently from this point on and that that’s why— Wait. Do you? The weight of his story is starting to catch up to you. Because holy shit, the Poppy Adams situation last year was intense. You remember the TV broadcastings, the utter chaos across the globe, but nothing about Cambodia that could have made you connect the dots previously. Had Jack succeeded when he went after Harry and Eggsy to stop them from releasing the antidote, millions of people would have died – literally millions. Which— Yeah, that’s a lot to process. Your partner almost played a key part in allowing that to happen…

Almost.

Because here he is, all the tell-tale signs of shame suddenly apparent; the way he’s turned away from you, how his eyes keep darting away from yours, the red splotches on his neck, his quivering Adam’s apple. However, you also know that feeling ashamed isn’t the same as feeling guilty. You can feel ashamed over something that you’ve done, freeze and feel your gut twist at the memory, but still feel like it was a necessary evil. Does he feel any remorse for what he’s done? Just like that, there’s only one thing that really matters, that you need to know.

“Do you regret it?” you ask. He’s silent, and as you watch his finger trace the rim of his glass with a frown, you can tell that wasn’t what he was expecting, so you elaborate, “Cambodia, I mean.”

It makes his frown ease up. “All the time.”

You can feel yourself sag into the leather in relief before taking another swig from your glass. The whiskey seems to make you lose-lipped as well, because before you can really debate if you should push this any further right now, you’re firing another question at him. “Then why did you do it?”

It doesn’t sound accusatory – or you don’t mean it that way, at least. It’s simply curious, but it still makes Jack twitch, the liquid in his glass sloshing around with it. And as flushed as he was before on account of his candour and the alcohol, your question seems to drain all the colour from his cheeks.

“No, don’t—” He cuts himself off and grimaces at his own sharp tone, quickly correcting himself to something softer, “I think that’s enough story time for tonight, alright?”

It’s not enough, not really, but still you find yourself nodding, setting your empty tumbler down on the glass table that separates you. “We should...get some sleep, be prepared for tomorrow,” you say, standing up from the chair, wincing when you take note of the clock.

Jack makes a noise that somehow sounds detached; it’s not agreement, but not disagreement either. He makes no haste to get up, so you simply look down at him from where you stand. “See you in the morning?”

“Sweet dreams, darlin’,” is what he offers with a lopsided smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

You return the sentiment with some words of your own, but have a feeling it’s in vain, that his bed will stay unkempt as it is, before you let yourself out of his room. And when the door closes behind you with a soft click, you’re left with your thoughts again, and you realize the conversation has done nothing to make you sleep easier either.

--

“Excellent, there you are.”

You’re fresh out of the car that has escorted you to a tailor shop in London. It was early. So fucking early. You hadn’t slept and can still taste hints of oak and vanilla in your throat every time you swallow. But now, inside, after passing through a secret door behind one of the changing rooms in the tailor shop, Harry’s voice is warm, dare you say pleased, when Jack and yourself report for duty, and something about his optimistic tone makes you forget about the early hour and the hotel whiskey. It makes your shoulders straighten and your head cock with interest.

And you’re clearly not the only one.

“Found anything?” Jack asks.

Harry leads you to a wall full of screens, where a Kingsman agent is frantically typing on the keyboard in front of him. “One of our agents found the stolen piece for sale on the black market.” One of the screens displays some sort of advertisement on what looked like the dark web; it had several marketplaces for illegal stolen goods.

“Son of a bitch is trying to get rid of it before the auction’s even started.” Jack scoffs.

You jerk your chin at the screen. “We need to ambush him, catch him red-handed.”

“Arrange a meeting,” Jack agrees.

“Precisely,” Harry nods.

“I’ll go,” Jack says instantly.

“Fuck no.” You hadn’t even noticed Eggsy until now. He’s leaning against one of the walls, then pushes himself off, making his way over with his arms crossed over his chest. “Absolutely not. I’ll go.”

 “‘course you are” Jack scoffs. “Probably couldn’t tell the difference between a watercolour and an acrylic painting to save your life.” The statement is more of a murmur, but it sets Eggsy off all the same.

“What’s that?”

“You couldn’t sell the bit, Galahad!” Jack exclaims. “We ain’t got the time to fight about this while someone else steals the piece from right under our sorry noses. I’m the most competent man for the job and this bastard has been doing this for years now, so we really should be fixin’ to get ourselves this meeting.”

It’s Eggsy’s turn to scoff. “Oh, so you can excuse mass murder, but draw the fuckin’ line at art theft, Whiskey?” He all but spits out Jack’s codename, walking up to him until their toes almost touch.

Jack’s chest rises as he takes a deep breath, no doubt firing up to counter, but before he can even open his mouth, you raise your voice.

“Alright, stop puffing your chests out at each other, Christ.” Neither of them so much as bat an eye. “Obviously we both want this target, correct? You asked for a Statesman agent with art knowledge, and well, this is him. So, let’s just work on this together, be professionals, and then be fucking done with this assignment. We send Jack to the meet—”

“No—” Eggsy immediately interrupts.

“Jack is going to the meet,” you repeat louder, giving Eggsy a look. “He’s the least likely to be made because he actually possesses the art knowledge to make it convincing and…,” you pause for a second to swallow, and the taste of whiskey still prevalent in your mouth immediately takes you back to the night before, “…and I know you don’t trust him, but I do. I can vouch for him, hell, I’ll even go with him if it makes you all feel better, but Jack goes.”

You don’t miss the way Jack’s head whips around to you, but before you can turn to meet his gaze, Eggsy is speaking again. “He’ll make you right away.”

“You have a tech guy here, right?” You ignore his statement to continue explaining your plan. Your hands land on the shoulders of the man behind the keyboard. “Pretty sure he can put together some fake credentials and create the fake online presence of a pristine, wealthy art collector – a website, social media, news articles, the works. We’ll suggest a public place to meet up, like a restaurant, all to give the target some false sense of security… and then we take him in.”

No one says anything for a while, until Harry, who had been watching the scene before him silently, finally gives his verdict, “I think it sounds like a fine plan. Get to work,” he orders the Kingsman agent behind the keyboard.

“And what about you?” Eggsy asks you, clearly displeased.

You shrug. “I don’t know, I can pose as like… a waitress?”

--

You adjust your tie in the mirror or the restaurant bathroom, then fold the collar of your dress shirt into place and smooth your hands down over the apron you’re wearing; to play the part you have to look the part. Although… You’re pretty sure the average waiter doesn’t have knives and a gun hidden away in a thigh holster under their apron. You hadn’t been entirely serious, but you were nothing if not true to your word, playing the role you’d suggested. You take one last look at yourself in the mirror before exiting the restaurant bathroom to take your position.

As you enter the restaurant, you find it’s mostly empty, just like Kingsman has arranged it to be. Your eyes find Jack, tucked away into a corner close to the door, having also done his best to look the part. His hair is in its usual side part, but somewhat slicked back, and he’s wearing a navy suit that’s much fancier than the ones he usually wears. You pass his table quickly, your eyes meeting briefly, and he nods at you once as you take your place in front of the window across from his table.

Daytime is the perfect time at a restaurant to clean the windows, right?

Your supplies to really sell your performance are already waiting for you, and you reach down to dip a cloth into the warm water, wringing it out above the bucket before bringing it up to the window. Via the glass, you can see the reflection of the table Jack’s sitting at, and the look on his face makes you want to turn to him, to reassure him one last time—

“I’ve got eyes,” Harry’s voice suddenly informs you through your earpiece. “Target approaching on foot, alone.”

Behind you, Jack sits up at the message, face transforming, relaxing, visibly slipping into the role of rich art collector. You focus yourself back on your work, rubbing the cloth along the window as your eyes search for the target through the glass. And then you see him approaching the restaurant with quick, short steps. He’s even more slender in person, but has the same pair of round glasses perched on his nose. His short, blond hair dances in the wind, and he brings one hand up to smooth it back down onto his head while the other hand carries a black briefcase.

You bring your hand up to the side of your face and press the little button on the earpiece. “Target confirmed,” you say. “Permission to continue mission?”

“Message received,” comes Harry’s reply. “Continue mission. Good luck, agents.”

Nathan enters the restaurant shortly after, and you will yourself to focus on your fake task at hand. Leaning down to wet the cloth again before getting back to work, you hear Nathan and Jack making introductions, and in the reflection you see him take his place across from Jack, setting his briefcase down next to his chair.

“I must say I’m surprised about getting an offer so soon.” Nathan checks his watch. “The auction hasn’t yet ended and the piece we discussed is… at the auction.”

“Technically,” Jack replies.

The man chuckles at that. “Technically, indeed.” He pauses, narrows his eyes. “Tell me, how did you know?”

Jack folds his hands and places them on the table as he begins his story. “Given my… reputation, I was allowed to view the pieces ahead of the auction and I found myself… distressed, when I realized my personal favourite piece was, in fact, a forgery. You see, it was damn near perfect, but then I noticed the brushstrokes; the way they were angled. I know about your…” Jack pauses, searching for the right word, “methods, and I knew I had to get in contact. Figured I could get the piece for a much better price from you than I could at any auction.”

“And how would you know about my…,” Nathan pauses, mirroring Jack’s earlier intonation, “methods?”

Shit. There’s a slight hitch in your stroke of the cloth along the window. What if he just made Jack? In the reflection you can see your partner’s look of contemplation, how he’s almost calculating what to say next and how to do it. You drop the fabric from your hand to land into the bucket by your feet, and take the dishcloth that’s slung over your shoulder to wipe your hands dry as you listen.

“I’m simply an admirer. Of this work, o’course,” Jack says, gesturing towards the briefcase next to the chair. “But also of your work.” Jack leans in, speaks softly when he asks, “Is it true, about the Chinese gu?”

Nathan doesn’t answer definitively, but his lips purse in a pleased smile before he pushes his glasses farther up his nose. “You’ve done your homework.” He sounds impressed, and you can’t help but be amused at the way Jack’s feeding this guy exactly what he needs to hear right now.

Leaning back in the chair, Jack matches the other man’s expression and gives him a casual shrug. “Told you, I’m an admirer.” He pauses, eyes drifting down to the case next to the chair, then asks, “Can I see the piece?”

There’s a long moment where Nathan doesn’t answer, but then, without a word, he reaches for the briefcase, clicks it open and gives Jack a view of the artwork inside.

Jack whistles. “Gorgeous,” he says, looking up at Nathan with an impressed smile. “Your replica looks just like it.”

Nathan smiles proudly, and you know you’ve got him when you hear what he says next, “You won’t believe how easy it is, especially with these smaller pieces.” He seems to catch himself, too; cheeks flushing the slightest bit before he’s checking his watch again. “Listen, I hate to cut this short, but I have another appointment; let's wrap this up, shall we?”

Jack shifts, looking down as if he’s contemplating the question. “I don’t think so.” He reaches inside of his suit jacket, produces his gun from its holster and points it at Nathan under the table, removing the safety with a soft click. “You’re gonna come outside with me – calmly, quietly, no need to make a fuss – and we’re gonna make sure every bit of stolen artwork is gonna go back to their rightful owners.”

Across from him, Nathan moves fast �� surprisingly fast. He pulls his own gun from his jacket, points it at Jack. “Do you think I’d come here unprepared? I’ll tell you how we’re gonna do this: You’re gonna let me walk—”

As he talks, you glance over your shoulder, take in their positions, guns out but hidden from view of the rest of the restaurant. You look at Jack, and he doesn’t look at you, but his head jerks in a short nod. You turn away again, hand slipping under your apron, fingers flitting over one of the smaller blades in the holster before slowly slipping it out of the leather.

“—I mean, what’s your plan, hmm?” Nathan asks. “To shoot me here? For everyone to see? Whether you’re law enforcement or not, I know you’re not gonna do that.”

Jack’s grip on his gun tightens. “And you are?”

You turn and bend down, and to the untrained eye it would look like you were about to tie your shoelaces. During your movement, you swing the knife and throw it towards the table in front of you. There’s a soft swoosh, and then the knife lands in Nathan’s thigh with a squelching sound. He yelps, reaches for his leg, and in the process, the gun drops from his hand. Jack catches it effortlessly before it can clatter to the ground, then kicks at the bottom of Nathan’s chair. It sends the man tumbling backwards, the wood hitting the floor with a thump. You’re back on your feet in no time, rushing over to shield the man from the view of the few people in the restaurant, shoulder to shoulder with your partner who had the same idea.

“Oh, sir! Are you okay?” you ask, kneeling down to pull the knife from his thigh. He keens in response as you hide the blade away in the pocket of your apron.

“Oof,” Jack says, making a face and holding the lapels of his jacket as he looks down at the squirming man at his feet. “Came clattering down harder than a screen door in a storm.”

“I know,” you say with faux-concern, taking a hold of Nathan’s hand and pressing it down over the wound with a wet sound. “That was quite a fall! Let’s get you up, we should get you some air. Come on.” He struggles against you, but with a firm grip on his arm, you still him, then haul him onto his feet. You look at Jack with a knowing grin. “Sir, can you help me get this man outside?”

--

You find yourself watching from below the overhang of the restaurant, sheltered from the London weather, as Jack escorts Nathan to Harry and Eggsy, who are waiting by a dark car. As Eggsy helps Nathan into the backseat, Harry sticks his hand out at Jack, who contemplates the gesture for a split-second before taking Harry’s hand and shaking it. They exchange some words, briefly look in your direction, but you’re too far away to really make out what they’re saying. Eggsy closes the car door and watches the two agents, seemingly contemplating if he’s going to follow his colleague’s example, and you can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when he does. Jack says his goodbyes in the form of a two-finger salute, then turns to make his way to you.

“Well?” you ask when he stands next to you, leaning back against the window as you both watch the car drive off. “Did we save the art world?”

“Close enough,” he says. “Harry said to thank you on Kingsman’s behalf, and that they’ll handle it from here on out. They just… want our mission reports within the week.”

You groan, eyes closing and shoulders dropping at the reminder. “That was the one thing I hadn’t missed about going on missions…”

Jack grunts softly, in agreement, you think, then says, “Think it was a successful first assignment together?”

“I’d say all the training’s paid off,” you say, shifting and knocking your shoulder against his. “Be sure to mention that in your mission report, yeah?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jack chuckles shortly, then shuffles his feet and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Been meanin’ to ask you… Did you mean what you said earlier? ‘Bout trustin’ me?”

You look at him, trying to determine whether he’s really asking or just being a dick, but he keeps looking straight ahead, his expression giving nothing away.

“I did.” You pause before adding, “I wouldn’t be much of a partner if I didn’t, right?”

He cracks, the corners of his mouth turning upwards, a slight hint of a smile appearing. He looks at you from the corner of his eye. “You are a good liar…”

You can’t help but match his expression, thinking back to how exasperated he looked in the red flickering lights of the training space days ago. “I’m not that good.”

He’s quiet after that, head tipping down to look at his shoes as his eyebrows knit together and his tongue comes out to wet his lips. It feels tense, suddenly, and you don’t know if it’s because you said something you shouldn’t have. Does he not believe you? Maybe it’s just your imagination. You think of something to say to break the tension, or to at least change the subject.

“It was my wife,” Jack suddenly says, head shooting up to look directly ahead again and straightening his back.

Your mouth opens, then closes, seriously doubting if you’ve heard him right. With a confused shake of your head, you ask him, “Sorry, what was that?”

He clears his throat. “My wife. She’s why I turned on the agency.”

You frown, even more confused than before. “You never told me you’re married.”

He’s pausing again and your heartbeat picks up, cheeks heating at the idea that he has mentioned his wife and that you simply forgot. It’s just that Jack… He didn’t seem to be the type to be in a serious relationship. You rack your brain, going over the interactions you’ve had with him and scanning for the word ‘wife’ or ‘spouse’ or—

“Was,” he corrects. “It was years ago and... she died.”

—oh.

There had been so much emotion in his voice, and it’s all so unexpected that he knocks the absolute wind out of you with it. He almost doesn’t look like himself when he finally looks at you. He takes a breath before he continues, “Two methamphetamine users killed her durin’ a robbery. She was pregnant with our son and… and I guess, in my fucked up mind, that justified—”

“Stop,” you say. “You were right earlier. It’s— You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me.”

“You were right,” he presses. “And I thought you oughta know it, ‘cause I—” He stops himself with a bitter chuckle before continuing, “Christ, this is gonna sound so fuckin’ cheesy, but… The whole thing in Cambodia, that’s not who I wanna be. I wanna be… better, y’know? Do the right thing, be a good agent, not be a shitty partner, the whole nine yards, and I… I’ve been thinking on it and I think it starts with trust.” He cocks his hip, hooks his fingers in his belt loops, and it might have been somewhat funny if he didn’t look so bashful when he peers up at you after. “And me workin’ on my communication skills and bein’ earnest, which I’m honest to God tryin’ my damnedest at right now,” he adds with a hint of a smile. “That sound acceptable to you?”

Blinking up at him, you let his words wash over you. You had truly meant it when you said you trusted him back in the hotel, and with the way he is standing across from you, all but wearing his heart on his sleeve, you trust him to be truthful and genuine with you now. There is only one answer you could give him.

“Yes.

[kenpxchi]

hellish. || origin

Hell in the world of Bleach is a crazy place.

In the movie and novels, it is given far more lore than in the manga, with its own locales. However, the interesting thing about Hell is that it predates the creation of the three main worlds of Bleach (Hueco Mundo, Soul Society, and the Living World). Moreover, as revealed in Can’t Fear Your Own World, the Soul King was born into a world overrun by Hollows, and was essentially the first Quincy, as they completely eliminated any Hollows they found, but their actions earned grave consequences.

Interestingly enough, the existence of Hell predates the existence of even the Soul King itself. It has somehow always been there, always accepting those worthy of its punishment. Moreover, Hell seems to have an affinity with Hollows and those with Hollow-like abilities, trying to draw out the Hollow within.

In light of this, here’s my theory: Hell is the ultimate origin of all Hollows, and Kenpachi has a connection to it.

I’m gonna be making some crazy cosmology theories below the cut.

Exhibit A: Chains and Fate

Hell is bound by a gate of chains, and any sinners who escape it are forcibly dragged back by chains that link them to Hell. Similarly, when a soul becomes a Hollow, its Chain of Fate is completely dissolved through the process of Encroachment. Moreover, when the soul of a sinner, a Togabito, manages to escape hell, they must constantly hide their face with a mask. Moreover, in the manga (Volume imaginary number 01. the unforgivens, which is helpful if you want icons of Szayel & Aaroniero), it is revealed that Hollows and even Arrancar, who are composites of hundreds of thousands of Souls, retain their original form in Hell.

So, here’s my theory: the first Hollows were Togabito who managed to escape Hell by severing themselves from the chains that bound them and wearing masks to remain hidden, but in the process, they lost their identity and became monsters. As for why Arrancar appear in Hell, it is likely so that the individual souls that make up their being can slowly be torn away and sifted through, so that the innocent souls can leave and the guilty remain trapped. In the beginning, since there was no life or death, there really only remains one dichotomy between the unified world and Hell.

The unified world was where good people lived in peace, and Hell was where bad people were punished. Or, at least, the bad people who got caught. And this has remained Hell’s purpose for the entirety of time immemorial: to punish Togabito and make them suffer. Which brings me to my next point.

Exhibit B: The Denial of Suffering

Now, as we all know, due to the Soul King completely erasing the Hollows, the balance of the world began to destabilize. The Soul King was willingly split into pieces by the original five Noble Houses of the Soul Society, and the world was divided up into three different pieces: Hueco Mundo, Soul Society, and the Living World. However, there are some pretty significant plot holes which I hope to address.

Why would the Soul King’s actions destabilize the world if there was no life or afterlife, and therefore, no balance of souls between them?

Simple. Hell was being denied its suffering. By completely annihilating a Hollow, you’re essentially destroying it quickly, cleanly, and without any punishment for its misdeeds. Hell, obviously, is going to be very angry about this, as it was robbed of its escaped prisoners, assuming my cosmology theory is correct. This would definitely lead to a destabilization event. The caretakers of Hell, the Kushanada, are indestructible juggernauts who eat sinners (this is what we in the business call foreshadowing, kids).

You would not want them getting mad and coming out of Hell to ruin your day, Soul King or not, because not only are they entirely indestructible, they can pool their power together into a single entity (or person, if you’re the protagonist) capable of damning someone to eternal torment. No matter what you can do, no matter how strong you are, if the Kushanada deem you a sinner, and all unite to come after you, prepare for literally eternal pain.

So, now the decision to take a nigh-omnipotent and omniscient god, cut him into pieces, stick him in a crystal, and split the world apart sounds a bit more reasonable considering the alternative would be to doom the entirety of all sentient beings to unending agony at the hands of the Kushanada.

Why would the Soul King agree to being sealed in the first place?

Simple. He realize that if his actions doomed the entire world to Hell, that whatever fate awaited him there would be worse than being dismembered and sealed away for eternity acting as the lynchpin between all three worlds. Faced with this choice, any sane person would take the option with less pain... as grisly as that option may be.

Why would the Soul King create a place for Hollows if he wanted to kill all of them?

My guess is that if the Soul King was kind enough to be hacked up for the sake of the world, the reason he was completely erasing Hollows in the first place was in order to protect them from eternal torment in Hell. Unlike the Kushanada, who thrive on making sinners suffer forever, the Soul King likely held the belief that people can change, and don’t deserve such cruelty. So, Hueco Mundo was created as a world that gives Hollows some respite from the horrors of Hell, which are apparently worse than a desert full of cannibalism and death. However, that’s me psychoanalyzing a character who has no dialogue in the manga proper, and is mostly used as a plot device until he dies. Nice job killing him, Ichigo.

Now, having patched up some of the plot holes with liberal application of assumptions and theory, let’s move on to Kenpachi’s connection to it.

Exhibit C: Suffering in the Separate Worlds

So, the Soul King and his five teenagers with attitude noble family heads all managed to appease Hell somehow. However, this likely wasn’t all they did to keep Hell from engulfing everything. Remember how earlier I said that the original, unified world was a place where only good people lived? Now, look at the three disparate worlds.

Hueco Mundo is a barren wasteland ruled by the strongest, who exploit and devour the weak. Soul Society is an authoritarian nightmare with a disparity in class living conditions so stark it’s worse than some caste systems. The World of the Living is... well. We all live in it, and we know how it’s going. So what happened to each of these three worlds to make them so bleak?

My guess is that Hell demanded to have its own little piece of itself in each of these new worlds, in order to make up for all the suffering that was lost due to the Soul King’s actions. It’s why Bleach is a horrifically depressing world. The Soul King defied the guys who believe in eternal punishment. Disproportionate retribution was bound to occur in that situation.

Now, to sprinkle in a little more theory. There are locations in these three worlds that have a strong connection to Hell. They aren’t set in stone; they’re simply the locations where the most suffering occurs. Kushanada are drawn to it, since it’s usually where their prey is causing trouble. One such location might be the Outer Rukon.

Specifically, Northern District 80: Zaraki.

The Nameless Boy

So, in light of all this headcanon lore and all these attempts to plug up the plot holes of Bleach, we come to the origins of Kenpachi Zaraki, the man who was born in the most hellish district in the Rukon. I’m still going with the idea of him being the son of a sex worker who fell pregnant and fled to Zaraki. However, we don’t know who the father is.

The mother goes into labor and dies in childbirth. Shortly after, her baby dies. However, because the baby is born in a literal actual hellhole, there’s an innate connection to the energies of Hell, which thrive on suffering. The baby wound up forging a connection to it, as its death in such close proximity to Hell at such a young age would likely grab the attention of the Kushanada, who would be somewhat miffed that they were denied such good suffering.

So what do they do? They decide to put a little piece of Hell into the baby, as retribution for their loss. And so, the baby boy comes back to life. He eats the corpse of his mother, grows old enough to escape the basement he’d been hiding in his entire life, and goes out to start killing.

This gives us a few interesting implications:

The reason Kenpachi doesn’t stay dead is because he cannot stay dead. He’s meant to be a piece of Soul Society forever corrupted by Hell, and to act as an agent of the Kushanada. It’s why he heals so quickly and just keeps getting back up no matter what he gets hit with.

Kenpachi’s impossible durability and horrifying strength come from his connection to Hell, as does his seemingly unending pool of reiatsu, mimicking the Kushanada.

Because Kenpachi gets stronger every time he dies, even after unlocking the unconscious seal he placed on himself, he’s tapping more and more into his connection to Hell whenever he dies.

When Kenpachi goes to the Living World, he is literally Hell on Earth.

tl;dr - Kenpachi is Bleach’s version of Ghost Rider.

Anyway, that’s my spiel. If there are any inconsistencies, feel free to DM me and let me know.

[smokeybrandreviews]

Tomorrow Should Have Died

So i was planning on reviewing The Tomorrow War because it’s a new film and i like new films i can watch without having to brave the plague. I saw a preview for this thing a while back and had real low expectations for it, figured it’d be dumb fun like Independence Day. Imagine my abject horror when it turned out to be so much worse. Okay, first things first, the good stuff. Chris Pratt is good and so is J.K. Simmons. Betty Gilpin and Yvonne Strahovski work miracles with what little they have. The sound design is exceptional, probably the best thing about this sh*t flick, and the actual effects are on point. The problem with the movie is the script. It’s f*cking terrible. Oh my god, so much dumb! Here’s a list of sh*t that made me irrationally angry, in order of plot progression.

Eleven minutes in and i hate it. How are you losing a war to anything if you have mastered the ability to traverse space-time? How the f*ck is your technology so advanced, that you have found a way to exceed the light speed limit and literally break physics, but lose to a bunch of rabid, interstellar, komodo dragons? This is the dumbest f*cking contradiction I have seen all year and i am offended that whoever decided to make this film, is asking this of their audience. Sh*t is patently absurd. These f*cking things don't even have written language, man, and you really expect me to believe they have pushed a human race that has harnessed the power of time, to the brink of extinction?

Eleven minutes, bro. Eleven f*cking minutes.

Seriously, you can create a time machine, you should conceivably have the ability to harness gravity or one of the other fundamental interactions. Why the f*ck haven't you designed a miniaturized rail gun that uses modern tech or materials to build? You have worked out the science in the future, go back to the past and build miniature or handheld doomsday devices for use in the field. Why isn’t everyone running around with f*cking Megatron fusion cannons on their arms? Why the f*ck am i fighting aliens with ARs and Glocks?? The fact that there is an active time machine built from tech on hand from thirty years into the future, means cats could have spent their time building actual weapons to kill these f*cking things instead of betting the literal human race on a time displaced draft. This movie is dumb as rocks.

The way they describe how their time travel works is dumb. I mean, it isn’t, but i can guarantee this sh*t is going to be a problem later. I can feel it in my bones. They are definitely going to contradict this sh*t because multiverse theory is the only way to make movie time travel work and they are trying their damnedest to not do that.

This f*cking thing is over two hours long and the first drags. I hate when cats attempt to develop characters and they just fail at it. I'm sitting here trying to figure out why I should care about any of these people and i still don't have an answer after half the goddamn movie is over. Like, why should i care about Chris Pratt? He’s the main character and the writing has done nothing to endear him to the audience in a whole ass hour.

Also, the reason he’s so mad at his dad is stupid. Dude did right by his kid by bailing because he would have been a terrible father. Pratt’s character would have known that as a father himself. He didn’t have to like it and, of course there’s animosity there, but you’re an adult. Your dad knew he was lousy. He did you a favor by walking out. It wasn’t like he didn’t help support you or make sure you went without. As far as i can tell, dude was there in every way by physically. Because he couldn’t. Because he was f*cking shell-shocked from fighting in Vietnam. Where they raped innocent women and set babies on fire. Holy sh*t, this cat is an unlikable protagonist after this one scene. Which brings me to my next thing...

Pratt f*cking abandons his family?? Word? After that entire scene with his dad and the very obvious trauma he has suffered, he turns around and abandons his own kid because he lost his job?? Word? Like, for real? You expect me to believe that the Chris Pratt who cussed out his pops, was willing to go on the run from his future conscription, abandoned his own family because he lost a teaching job?? What the f*ck, movie? Do you want me to like this asshole or not? More than that, how the f*ck you mess up your character so bad in what i imagine is just five pages of actual script? Nothing we know about this character would ever even hint at him doing this to his family, to his daughter, so why the f*ck would he? Why the f*ck would you, as a write, believe we, as the audience, would just accept that sh*t as a forgone conclusion?

You got ropes on a Queen and you don't kill it? How the f*ck you make it that deep into the hive to even do-si-do the b*tch to the surface? We just watched these things tear through Miami to the point that they needed a whole ass bombardment just to survive and you not only go into their hive, their home, with no heavy ammo, but you somehow lasso a queen and drag her to the surface. Alive. If you can do all of that why not just drop a nuke down there and blow them the f*ck up? Why do you need a live Queen for your science? Shoot the b*tch, take the juice of her corpse, and end this sh*t! Why is all of this stupid recklessness necessary??

Okay. Okay... F*ck everything i just said, right? Why the f*k did you bring this Queen b*tch back to your base? You don’t have a different offsite lab to do this sh*t? You gotta bring her to your stronghold? Isn’t this a military operation? Why aren't their security protocols and sh*t in place to stop this stupidity? You don’t bring the enemy home. You take them to black sites for sh*t like this, not to the goddamn Pentagon!

All of a sudden, the aliens understand science? We spent this entire movie establishing that they are mindless beasts with teeth, eating the human race into extinction but now, because the plot demands it, the Queen one understands what the people are doing? That the green sh*t they made is plague that can murder them all? How the f*ck she even know what science is? They don’t even have language, dude! How the hell she know they made a death plague for her people?! F*ck it, whatever, bro. Next you're going to tell me she let them capture her just to get inside the lab or some sh*t because these rabid f*cking animals, who have demonstrated no military command abilities or even the barest of higher cognitive functions, are tactical geniuses.

Okay, so the Queen b*tch is a tactical genius. So, in the initial future drop, the team was murdered by a bunch of these things because they were sent to a lab where they were trying to make the death plague. Now, hat i am about to say is all assumption on my part because none of this, and i men NONE of it, is ever confirmed by the movie. So, they get to the lab and everyone is dead but the green per-plague is still there. That mean they had a Queen there. It’s established after this that Queens can call for backup and the Males will lemming their way to her. I deduce that’s how this lab got overrun; Queen got loose, called for her boys, and they ate everyone. That happened. That was the first thing we see in the future. This b*tch does the same f*cking thing on the home base lab so now the males are overrunning The Pentagon. You motherf*ckers knew this was a thing because it literally already happens. Why the f*ck would you do it again? AND it gets worse... Home base, The Pentagon, is the f*cking rig where they house the goddamn time machine! You brought a hostile enemy leader, still alive and coherent, to the heart of your resistance operation, to the core of your time travel operation, knowing that at any time this b*tch can scream and have your whole ass base overrun with teeth and poison darts? Look, if the future is this stupid, they deserve to die, okay?

At least they commit to multiverse theory, even if it contradicts the entirety of their already established time travel rules.

Okay. Okay... So they create this toxin to kill all the monster things and send it back in time to be mass produced  Put that sh*t in bullets and send it back to the future or whatever. But, because of the aforementioned stupid, that plan is bunk. Time machine go kablooey. And now we are at the "all is lost" moment at the end of the second act." Solution to the problem in hand, no way to save the future because the only way back to the future was a casualty of idiocy. Right. So... just wait. F*cking just wait. You know when these assholes show up, you know how to kill them all, you even have a plague ready to be mass produced right now. You have thirty f*cking years to refine that formula, to make it cheaper to mass produced and develop variants just in case immunities start to crop up or something. There are people from the future, stuck in the past, because of the egregious future error. They have all of that intel and they are just alive. The second this dude got back to the past with that antidote, the future was saved. The war is over. Like, even if you don’t know where the ship is, you have a sure thing that will murder these white f*cks and three decades to produce, weaponize, and store that sh*t. The war is won. The Prime timeline is absolutely safe at this point. Because that's how time travel works. You have the nuclear option, right now, to averting the end of the human race, ready to be mass produced. Yo have the knowledge from the future on where these things will first appear. You still have all the future tech brought over from the beta timeline ripe for reverse engineering in order to improve the weapons of the present. There is no scenarios where we lose this war, the second Chris Pratt plops back into the present with that plague. None.

Why is everyone so dejected?? Why are there f*cking riots all over the world?? None of this makes sense. How can you assume the world ends and the war is lost just because the communication with that version of the past is cut? Wouldn’t you expect that sh*t? You just altered the entire timeline by sending Pratt back with the antidote. That future is effectively gone. How can you communicate with a place in space-time that doesn’t exist anymore? Hell, even if it’s because the time machine broke and everyone over there is dead, you have the f*cking antidote now! Multiverse theory, bud. The fact that those time displaced assholes didn’t disappear, means multiverse theory is real and you have the opportunity to Future Trunks this sh*t so why panic? Why are there no leaders n television assuring their people that this is a thing? Why are there no scientists publishing papers about how sh*t is going to be fine? Bro, I'm just so tired...

How these cats just fly into Russia on a big ass cargo plane and not get shot down? This is 2022. Putin still hates us. This sh*t would cause a World War.

So you find this ship and you don’t tell anyone where it is? You decide to just kill them all yourself? Motherf*cker, what happens if you die? Did you back up the enzyme formula somewhere or did you bring all of it with you on this stupid f*cking mission? Did you leave notes or even text your location to anyone in authority, just in case haphazard attempt goes sideways so someone else can make a more organized attempt? Or just drop a nuke on the site from orbit? If one asshole denied you funding for your mission, why didn’t you ask someone else? Why didn’t you ask f*cking Putin? Because governments are bloated down with bureaucracy? My dude, people from the future came back and interrupted the world cup to tell you that aliens are going to exterminate the human race in three decades. If you tell anyone in a position of power that you know where these little sh*ts are, they’re going to listen. Especially since everyone decided to riot because the future changed/we lost the time war/ the timeline imploded.

Why would a terrestrial saw work on an intergalactic star ship? That doesn't make any sense. This f*cking thing survived a crash landing into earth intact and a goddamn circular saw cuts it open? Fine, whatever. On to the next stupid thing.

Bro. Bro, they just blow the f*cking thing up. Motherf*cker spent the entire movie, time jumping form the past to to the future and back to the past, just to get this plague to kill them all, and a bunch of C4 just blows them all up while they sleep. Why the f*ck was everything even f*cking necessary? At this point, when the dude comes back with that claw the first time, the future is saved. Analysis on that one claw gave up the location of the hidden spaceship where these things had been in stasis for millennia. Which was blown up with C4. No plague needed. No goddamn time draft needed. No casualties needed after that first wave. The second that dude brought back that claw, it should have been  under a forensic microscope so actual f*cking scientists could figure out what a high school kid id in a matter of minutes. I hate this movie so goddamn much.

I hated this goddamn movie so much. It’s f*cking boring and the dumbest thing I've seen all year and i watched Army of the Dead. It’s pretty and the performances are decent, but there is absolutely no substance to any of this sh*t. It wants to be Independence Day and Edge of Tomorrow and The Great Wall. all in one, while infusing time travel family drama but it’s so f*cking confused trying to juggle all of that, it drops the ball on the most important part; The script. This thing must read like a fever dream induced by peyote because, in execution, it’s a wet fart. This f*cking thing is all over the place with no regard for any insular universe logic. It contradicts itself from one scene to the next and it’s goddamn offensive. I’m sure there is someone saying that i am overthinking this sh*t and that it’s just supposed to be dumb popcorn fun. I get that. However, i can’t just turn my f*cking brain off and mindlessly drool over sh*t that insults my intelligence the way this movie does. It’s dumb as f*cking rocks, man, and i want those two hours of my life back!

[iwritethat]

Jason Todd: Walking Dead

A/N: I know some of the plot points aren’t factual in the DC universe but I got creative with Jason’s character, hopefully it’s a nice read though. 🎃

>>>>——————————>

Jason’s flatmate was weird.

He was never quick to judge someone and after all of the characters he’d encountered in his life , to reach such a label so fast was saying something.

In the beginning of the arrangement the two got along swimmingly, but soon enough the dynamic became rather ambiguous. (Y/n) was a friend of Roy’s and as such couldn’t be all bad - sure, they had their peculiar introduction but once out of the way it all seemed too good to be true. Roy brought up the proposal of living with one of his old friends when Jason needed a new temporary place to stay, he’d said (Y/n) had been there through his worst and helped him with recovery -?that no one was more loyal and reliable than them.

However, it grew considerably weird with the startled scream his sharer released when seeing him in the dark, now this was perfectly normal as maybe they weren’t used to having someone around quite yet - at least that would’ve been the explanation if they weren’t 2 weeks into their deal. Not only that but (Y/n) scrambled back to their room at record speed and slammed the door behind with no justifiable means.

Strange? Yes.

Next he noticed how they had an obsession with the heating, whenever he was around it always seemed to be on even if the weather of late October miraculously didn’t call for it. It had only begun after they’d cooked breakfast together, maybe they enjoyed the heat of the oven? He’d tried giving them blankets or even his hoodies and yet it wasn’t enough to break their odd habit. Again, weird.

Luckily he wasn’t staying for long...

———

Your new housemate was insanely weird.

Of course you had Roy Harper to thank for that, the only time he pays uninvited visits is when he wants something, your assumptions proven correct with his hinting text message.

[Katniss: U know how much u love me...]

Although his proposition was rather enthralling, his friend needed a place to lay low for a while and with your newly rented 2 bedroom apartment, you were his first choice and thus agreed.

He brought ‘Jason’ over a few days later so you could be introduced - and upon seeing him a vast sea of varying thoughts raced across your mind.

‘He’s hot.’

‘No he’s going to live with you.’

‘Is he one of those friends?’

But then another momentarily fleeting option halted your positivity - is he one of Roy’s older friends, the ones from his rough days of addiction and before you could even register your next actions you’d already subtly voiced such concerns.

“Please don’t bring any dodgy things here, I can’t have the police sniffing around.”

“Like what?” Jason turned to you, brow raised in curiosity.

“Drugs?”

“Oh no, I don’t handle that - I have people to do it for me.” Jason calmly replied, like it was the most normal thing in the world as he took in your kitchen whilst you shot a look that roughly translated to ‘you better be joking’ to a sheepish Roy.

“But I have guns and other weapons, are they okay?” Jason once again faced you with a serious expression, genuinely asking your permission and honestly you could not deny that beautiful man.

“Yeah, I mean sure. You’re not gonna use them right?”

“Not in the apartment. Unless someone breaks in obviously.” The ravenette was confident in his statement, now checking out your living room leaving you slightly baffled.

“Obviously. So um, why do you have them, and why do you have drug runners?” Intrigue burned in your veins, you couldn’t help but strive for answers given the causal circumstances of the contrastingly deadly topics.

“He’s a Crime Lord.” Roy smugly cut in, an immediate expression of concern shot at Jason who you’d hope would deny the allegations.

“Dude, way to sell me. I run a drug ring, you can never stop crime but you can control it so that’s what I do. None of my people sell to kids so that’s a start. So, what’s our rent?” He playfully punched his partner before elaborating and oddly enough it made sense to you.

It should’ve been a warning sign, what normal person makes a first impression by telling you he has people who handle his drugs so don’t ever worry about them being in your apartment. No one.

Although that wasn’t why he was so damn weird. No, far from it. You didn’t know what he was.

One night, you’d awoken to grab some water and tiredly walked out to the kitchen only to meet Jason who possibly just showered after patrol but as it was basically pitch black you couldn’t be certain. You met his gaze - his irises illuminated green - and you instinctively screamed, stopping short as he tilted his head slightly silently asking why you’d done so. Now you thought it was a misunderstanding, a trick of the light maybe, so you stared a few seconds longer and yet they remained dazzlingly bright like fireflies. It was then that you scrambled back to your bedroom slamming the door behind you and sliding down it to the floor with your hand over your mouth, water long forgotten. Safe to say you didn’t sleep that night, demons have vibrant irises don’t they?

It was unknown whether he knew about his glowing eyes, nor could you find an appropriate time to bring it up. You’d built up the courage to do so a few days later over breakfast which you’d opted to cook together.

He hovered over the oven, yourself standing beside him admiring his work until he turned to you with spoon in hand insisting you try some. You did so, holding his wrist steady - his skin beyond freezing - he’d been right next to the oven, how could he be so cold?!

You’d approved of the taste, even if he’d dabbed some on your nose simply for amusement and straight after you switched on the heating to hopefully warm him up a bit.

You continued this procedure whenever you felt he radiated unhealthily low temperatures and occasionally Jason offhandely mentioned that the weather wasn’t cold enough for such measures but you simply shrugged with a smile. Although he would throw a blanket over you, or even offer to lend you one of his hoodies to warm you up and yet you couldn’t understand why he thought you were cold when he was icy to the touch. Ghosts were inhumanly cold...

Plus, although the white streak was quite attractive on him, it was apparently a permanent characteristic but whose hair is naturally white in only one place at such a young age? Frankenstein maybe? But wasn’t he a zombie?

Luckily he wasn’t staying for long...

———

Halloween was upcoming so the TV stations traditionally broadcasted relating titles and it seemed the Sixth Sense was one of them.

Jason hopped through the window, fully clad in his Red Hood armour as the film was finishing, he’d gone to get changed and by the time he’d returned another horror was beginning. He’d joined you on the sofa, resting his legs over you purely for annoyance but you found entertainment in your playful dynamic.

“Hey (Y/n), do you think yelling at a guy holding an AK-47 is a stupid way to die?” It was a random but relevant start to a story he’d intended to tell.

“Oh god you don’t want me to solve cases with you do you because I’m not ready for that man. Like I thought I might be seeing dead people but this is too much.” That particular Sixth Sense related comment surfaced after he’d brought up vigilante related drama - of which he assumed you already knew about due to your relationship with Roy.

“Okay, what is with you? You’ve been acting so weird!” He finally needed answers, the unexplained oddities becomoning too much for both parties involved to the fact Jason was compared to a horror film character.

“Me? I’m not the one with glowing irises!” You sarcastically counter after Jason’s quizzical remark.

“Glow- What?!” He shut his eyes, fingers resting on the bridge of his nose before he looked up to again with a confused glance.

“Your eyes... they glow green in the dark sometimes, didn’t you know that?” Your tone was softer now, the sincerity in it making him want to believe your claims even more.

“No I didn’t... Are you sure? I mean it could’ve been a mistake if -“ Before he could finish, you turned off the lamp beside you and held your hand mirror in front of his face, low and behold they lit up.

“Lazarus green...” His voice was much quieter, tone holding a hint of pained disappointment as he spoke with an almost frustrated expression.

“A-what green?”

“Lazarus, like the Lazarus pits. It doesn’t matter (Y/n), you don’t need to worry about any of that, it will always haunt me by the looks of things.”

“It does matter, please tell me. I’m here for you, that’s what flatmates are for isn’t it no matter how temporary we may be.”

Surprisingly, after a long period of contemplative silence he began his turbulent tale of life, death, vengeance, villains and vigilantism leaving you rather speechless. It was certainly a befitting horror film script.

“...now I’m here, but hopefully one of my safe houses will be clear soon and I’ll be out of your hair.” He finished, shifting his feet that were now entangled with yours as you sat opposite one another on the couch.

“That revival pit, do you think that’s why your eyes glow? It would explain why you’re always cold, and your physical abilities too.” With a finger to your lips you calmly thought aloud, Jason also captivated by the concept.

“I’m cold too? That’s why you insist on keeping the heating on?” Despite his jest, he withdrew himself from you at the thought of affecting you with his apparent side effects of coming back from the dead.

However you shook your head, shifting forward and placing your hand against his, of course his own towered yours in comparison and he was a contrast of bemused and skeptical with your actions. You felt his skin warm up with your touch, the result bringing a smirk to your face.

“I don’t mind it. Your skin might be cold but your heart isn’t, and besides, I can always warm you up Jason.”

“Oh can you now?” He raised a brow at your unintentional suggestive statement, cocky but flirtatious smirk dancing across his lips.

“I - that wasn’t - I was trying - you know what, I’m just glad we’ve solved our differences.” As you attempted to justify yourself, Jason only laughed much to your feigned aggravation.

“True, I’m calling Roy over tomorrow. How could he not notice?” Jason managed, his he argument raising distinct confusion.

“This is Roy we’re talking about.” Was your only reply, though you would acknowledge just how incredibly smart and tactile Roy was any day of the week much like Jason would - but being apart the Outlaws meant subjugation to a few friendly insults.

“Point taken.”

———

Both Roy and Kori had dropped by the next morning to discuss your recent discoveries over breakfast which was a revolutionary one for all of you in some way.

“Glowing eyes? Ah, to be fair you usually wear your mask and helmet so I don’t normally see them and it’s not like I sleep with you so how the hell would I know? As for the cold thing, we’re always outside - if anything I just envied how Lian would always stop crying around you.” Roy calmly sighed, the revelations intriguing to him also and you suspected that he knew more than he was letting on. For a start, keeping such a thing to himself if only to freak you out once he moved in.

“Oh! They say that babies can see the supernatural, like when they just stare into space and people say they can see ghosts. It might be like that.” You laughed, although your comment caused the boys to consider the possibility as it would certainly explain why Lian ceased in her crying around Jason.

“I didn’t say anything as I thought you were trying to match me.” The goddess Kori giggled, her eyes aglow in emerald for demonstration.

“Anyway, is everything set?” Jason nodded to the alien, now concerned with leaving you in peace.

“Sorry Jaybird, gonna need another few weeks before you can leave.” Roy haphazardly shrugged, looking between Jason and yourself as he gazed to you with a sympathetic expression.

“You don’t mind do you? It’s already been 6 weeks, I can -“

“Jason, it’s fine. You’re too weird not to like, but we should stock up on food if you’re staying.” With a wave of your hand you cut him off and smiled, gesturing toward the cupboards as you mentioned them.

The Outlaws were all equally grateful, and soon Roy and Kori headed out meanwhile Jason began writing a shopping list.

“I thought that everything was in order for Jason to come back today?” Kori politely inquired once the pair had left, the previous information contradicting with her current knowledge.

“Shhh, it is but they get on so well, a few more weeks and they both might finally have a place they can call home for once.” Roy carefully explained, a hopeful glint in his eyes mixed with that of sorrow considering what his two friends had gone through.

“I see, as long as our friends are happy then I shall ‘shh’.” The Tamaranean joyfully agreed, all too chipper with the plan.

[secondhand-trash]

Diego Hargreeves(UA)- When He Sees Me

A/N: Definitely not the first time I got inspired while listening to broadway cast recordings and very likely won’t be the last.  (OH and season 2 is confirmed WHATTTTTT)

Description: In which Allison tried to play matchmaker and set her best friend up with her brother.

Word count: 1875

(Don’t have a playlist for this one because I literally based this on When He Sees Me from Waitress the Musical. Please go listen to it, PLEASE)

“Remind me, which one of your siblings am I meeting again?”

You asked, anxiously studying your reflection in the mirror as your friend looks through your closet. “Diego. Knife boy? Does that ring a bell? No?” Allison sighed and put down the jacket she was holding up, “I know that I somehow forced you into this but at least try to remember your date’s name?”

“I’m sorry, I’m just so nervous.” you said apologetically. This was a bad idea, you knew it. You shouldn’t have agreed on going on a blind date with Allison’s brother in the first place and now it was too late to back out. She made it sound like such a good idea at that time. You were really really single, hadn’t gone out with anyone since you broke up with your ex and he was getting over a heartbreak, equally single as you were. You kept trying to tell yourself that nothing could go wrong, just think of it as a casual night out, you could at least have some fun even if you ended up not hitting it off with the man.

But another part of your mind was just screaming at you to get yourself out of this before you do anything you might regret.

“Are you sure about this?” you turned to look at Allison after giving up on making your hair look any more presentable. 

She gave you a confused look, “What do you mean am I sure?” 

“I mean,” you sighed, “what if we really don’t get along? Like, ‘getting annoyed with each other immediately’ not get along. Maybe he does not even want to meet someone new in the first place and we just sat there in complete silence for hours and like-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” Allison walked over and grabbed your shoulders, “calm down.” You took a deep breath and she let go of your arms, “You were still looking forward to it when we talked about it yesterday and now you’re full on panicking. Did something happened? Did someone said anything to you? Who do I need to talk to?” 

“No, it wasn’t that.” You stopped your friend before she could make any more assumptions. “I just... I don’t know... I have no idea what he is like but then I’m literally spending the entire night with him and so many things could go wrong! You know, blind dating can be very dangerous.”

“Can’t argue with that but you do remember that Diego is my brother right?” Allison said with her eyebrow raised, now looking at you with a hint of amusement.

“Adopted.”

“That too but we still grew up together,” she said, “besides, I won’t just set you up with someone who is any less than trustworthy. You’re my closest friend for god’s sake and I care for you, a lot.” You groaned and turned back to the mirror to fix your hair for what felt like the hundredth time.

“It’s going to be fine, I promise!” Allison said, trying her best to sound excited, “And stop messing with your hair, it looks great already and you’re not doing anything ruffling it like that.”

“Please tell me you’re not wearing this.” Klaus said in horror as he passed by his brother’s room and saw him in his usual clothes, that same black shirt with that damn harness, “You’re going on a date! At least pretend like you’ve tried. I mean, the chance to meet someone who is into bondage is so much higher nowadays but still!”

“It’s not anything special,” Diego said and went out of his room, “It’s just a blind date that Allison forced me to go on. What’s the point in dressing up for something I didn’t even sign up for?”

“But, but, but,” Klaus ran out and blocked his way, earning a glare from his brother, “imagine how hurt that person would be if you so obviouslt don’t give a damn? At this point, you might as well have ‘I don’t want to be here’ carved onto your forehead. Come on! Go change into something nicer, at least take off the harness.”

Letting out an annoyed huff, Diego turned back and started unstrapping the leather belts. “Why are you so pissed about this?” Klaus sat on his bed with his legs crossed, “You haven’t gone out and have fun in a long while, I don’t see the harm in this.”

“Because I don’t want to?” Diego said almost matter-of-factly, “Allison is trying to set me up with one of her friends and knowing her social circle, they are probably one of those flashy attention seekers that got close with her to get famous. I’m not even sure if that is actually her friend or just someone who doesn’t mind hopping from date to date.”

Klaus smirked and let out a dry laugh, “Look at you making assumptions before even meeting the person. Do you know anything about your date?” 

“Apparently, they were one of the writers for the last film she was in. They offered to help babysit Clare once when sis was having a press release which was how they got close in the first place.” Diego paused for a second and added, “And they make a banging lasagna, although I don’t see the point in her telling me that. It is not even a proper date.”

“A writer huh? Doesn’t sound that bad. Maybe they would be interested in whatever the hell you do, you know how writers tend to like the weirdest things.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny Klaus.” Diego rolled his eyes, “I’m telling you, I’m only doing this because Allison is such a bother when she insists on something.”

“Whatever you say,” Klaus threw his hands up in the air as a sign of surrender, “but you really need to consider you clothing options. Oh! I can borrow you one of my shirts! No? Ok.”

“You’re gonna like him, I assure you.” Allison held your hands. You had 20 minutes before you leave your house and you had not felt so nervous since you handed your last script to a director. 

“And if I don’t?”

“Then it is his fault for not impressing you enough to like him.” 

“What if he doesn’t like what me enough to want to impress me?”

“Then he’s missing out because you are way too good for him anyways.”

You gave her a small smile. Sometimes you wonder how you were so lucky to have such an amazing person in your life. “You know what scares me the most?” you said softly, finally gaining enough courage to tell her what was truly bothering you, “What if when he sees me, I really like him and he knows it?” 

Allison did not know how to respond to what you just said and you carried on, “What am I suppose to do when that happens? I’m not prepared to open up my life to someone new, I’m scared that it would only leave me heartbroken once again. What should I do then?”

“Oh, (y/n)...” Allison walked over and pulled you into a tight hug, “Thank you for opening up to me. I’m sorry that I haven’t thought of this in the first place. Diego can be an assholes sometimes but he is a softie deep inside and I’m sure that he won’t do anything to hurt you.” She pulled back and felt a lot more relieved when she saw your smile, ”And if he does, brother or not I will skin him alive.”

“Damn, girl. Aren’t you aggressive?” you gave her a grin which earned you a smack on the arm. Checking the wall clock, you got up as you saw the time, “I should go, wouldn’t want to be late on a date.

“Now that’s the attitude I was looking for!”

“Why are you so defensive?” Klaus yelled, beyond frustrated after Diego once again refused to get out of his usual patrolling outfit.

“I’m not defensive!” Diego said, emphasizing on the second word. “I’m just annoyed that I am doing this stupid thing when there are other ways I can spend my time instead!”

“Like what?” Klaus groaned, “Why are you dismissing the possibility that you might actually meet a nice person and have a good time?”

“Because no good person in their right mind would want to be stuck with me!” Diego yelled back, “Hell! I might be meeting the most amazing person on earth but why should that matter when I’m just gonna ruin them like I ruin everyone that came before?” His outrage left Klaus at shook. He had guessed that his brother was still deeply insecure and doubtful of his own lifestyle and felt guilty after what happened to Patch but not anything like this. Having a pretty messed up life himself, Klaus was never the best at comforting people but there was nothing he could do but try when his brother was so visibly vulnerable.

“But that wasn’t your fault,” Klaus said softly with his hand on Diego’s back, “you can’t keep on letting that holding you back from ever being happy again, you know?”

Diego sighed, “Maybe you’re right. But I’m not even sure if I can still fall in love with someone after all that.”

Klaus pulled him in for a hug. It was strange for the both of them, seeing as they didn’t have the most intimate relationship but Diego appreciated his effort nevertheless. 

“So which shirt should I wear, again?”

“Finally you’re listening! I feel like I was about to lose my mind.”

You stood outside the restaurant, nervously checking the time on your phone. At this point, you weren’t even sure if being early is a good thing or not. You felt your heart pounding harder everytime the minutes of the clock moved. Thoughts on the probabily of getting ditched even before knowing who you were seeing was about to start messing with your mind when you heard a deep voice calling out for you.

“Hey, uh, you’re (y/n) right? Sorry that my sister dragged you into this, she was very keen on getting me to go out with someone.”

You looked up and found yourself in front of this beautiful man. Realizing that staring at someone without saying anything might be a bit creepy, you reached out and gave him a quick handshake along the lines of brief self-introduction. 

Taking a better look at your date, you noticed that he was rather well-built. 

“Nice shirt.”

“Thanks, my brother forced me to wear it, said that it compliments my frame, whatever that means.” he scratched the back of his head in embarrassment and smiled. Damn, that smile. 

“Should we go in?” he said, realizing that you two had been standing out there for an oddly long time and you hummed in response. Giving him an appreciative nod as he held the door for you, you thought to yourself “Ok, maybe this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

Bonus

(You have 3 new messages)

-how was the date?

-Diego?

-????

>Good morning to you too sis

-so how was it

-and what do you mean ‘good morning’ it is noon

>well

>I was tired after getting to know your friend last night;)

-DIEGO

[p-artsypants]

Longest Night (3)

The day started out sucky to begin with. Her crush ousted to the class and Adrien. Lila taking pride in exacting her revenge. But by the time patrol was over, a young man was dead, and Ladybug's identity was at risk. Lila was the least of her concerns. Good thing Adrien was taking it all like a champ.

Ao3 | FF.net

Adrien returned to school after that, and Marinette stayed home. She spent her time designing, watching movies, helping in the bakery, anything to keep her mind occupied. It was unfair that she had to stifle her emotions, but she refused to be a pawn for Hawkmoth.

Her phone laid still all day. No word from Adrien, no apologies or further harassment from anyone else. And that was totally fine with her.

It was now evening, on the day where Ladybug made a new enemy.

—

After school, and after fencing, which was an absolute mess, Adrien returned home to his cage.

Something that Nino had mentioned at lunch time had really stuck with Adrien, and he decided to act on it before things were too late.

“Nathalie? Can I talk to my dad? It’s...it’s kind of urgent.”

She considered for moment. “I’ll see if he’s free.”

God, how awful. Having to make an appointment with his own father. But such was the life of the son of a famous designer. “Thank you.”

Nathalie walked into the office and closed the door behind her.

Adrien dropped his bag on the floor, and then collapsed in a chair with a huff.

“What a day,” said Plagg, coming out to sit on his leg.

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“I told you that Lila girl was trouble, but you decided to be all high and mighty.”

“Again, I didn’t know that she was threatening Marinette, or else I would have done something else.”

“I guess I can’t give you a hard time for being stupid.”

“Ignorant,” Adrien corrected, “I was ignorant of the problem.”

“Stupid, ignorant. The thing is that pigtails needed your support, and as a hero, you should have done more.”

“Well, what was I supposed to do?! If I called her out, she’d get hurt and get akumatized. If I let her lie, she gets caught and gets akumatized, or other people feel betrayed and get akumatized! I’m between a rock and a hard place here!”

Plagg smirked, “one of those options had a higher Akuma probability than the other.”

Adrien rolled his eyes.

“Akuma-wise, I think you made out well this time. Pig tails is strong. And checking in and making up with her was good move.”

“Thanks...it just felt like the right thing to do. It was kinda of my fault anyways.”

“By doing what? Being cute?!”

Adrien chuckled. “I mean, there had to be a reason that Lila picked me as Marinette’s victim.”

“Marinette had a crush on you. The only person who is at fault here is Liar.”

“Lila.”

“See! Even her name gives her away!”

“Plagg...”

“I’m just sore that you got dragged into petty high school drama. Same with pig tails, she seems like a nice girl.”

“She is a nice girl!” Adrien confirmed.

Plagg snickered to himself, then continued. “But because you both saw through her, you’re being dragged through the mud.”

Adrien huffed. “It’s stupid. It’s totally unfair.”

“I agree. Chat Noir should pay her a visit and hold her over the edge of building by the ankle.”

Adrien laughed. “I’m not doing that. I bet Hawkmoth would love it though.”

“Eh, probably.” The Kwami gave him a proud little pat on the cheek. “Just promising pig tails that you’d be there for her was a good move. You could have ignored it, to avoid getting involved.”

“No way, there’s no way I could have done that.”

Plagg smiled with his fangs. “And that’s why Master Fu picked you.”

“Oh you.”

The door to Gabriel’s office clicked, and Plagg swooped away to his hiding place.

Adrien looked in horror as Lila walked out of Gabriel’s office.

“Thank you again for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Agreste.” She said, her voice laced with faked concern.

“Yes, Miss Rossi. I’m glad you decided to come right to me with this. It greatly concerns me. I’ll be talking to the police to get that camera confiscated, and I’ll be having a word with my lawyer about a restraining order.”

“I’m happy to hear that.”

“You’re welcome here anytime. My secretary will show you out.” Then he glanced to Adrien. “Nathalie says you wanted a word with me?”

Adrien didn’t respond immediately, since he was too busy glaring at Lila. His fists clenched at his sides, as he trembled.

She just sent him an innocent wave and turned to leave.

“Adrien?”

He stood and walked briskly into the office, standing rigidly.

“You seem uncomfortable, does this have anything to do with those pictures from Miss Dupain-Cheng? Rest assured, Miss Rossi just informed me of the matter and I’m about to take care of it.”

“Lila is a compulsive liar.” Adrien spat, pressing his index finger down on his desk for emphasis.

“Excuse me?”

“Marinette admitted that she has a crush on me, but she insisted that she has never taken a photo of me, ever, without my consent. Furthermore, Lila has been threatening her for the last two years.”

Gabriel sat in his chair and crossed his arms. “You’re saying no photographs were ever taken?”

“None! Marinette let me look through her phone. The only photos she had of me were photos from shoots or ones of us with our friends.”

“And you believe her?”

“Absolutely. Marinette is honest, kind, and good. You know that! She made that derby hat that Chloe Bourgeois copied and tried to play it off as her own.”

“Oh yes, I remember that.”

Adrien began to pace as he ranted, “Marinette is the class president. She’s always bent backwards to help others, including me. But when Lila started lying to everyone, Marinette called her out for it, and Lila in turn threatened her. Marinette kept being the amazing person that she is, and I guess Lila finally had enough and pulled this...this stunt! Lila has turned everyone against her except for me.”

“So you’re the only one that believes Marinette?”

“Only because no one else knows that Lila is a liar! She claimed to know Ladybug! But Ladybug appeared one day and shut that down.”

Gabriel met his eyes. “You’ve met Ladybug?”

“She’s saved me from some Akuma, so yes.”

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “Be that as it may, I can’t allow you to be involved in such childish drama. If there’s even a chance that Miss Dupain-Cheng took any photos, I have to pursue legal action.”

Adrien crossed his arms. “No.”

This surprised Gabriel, as he raised his brows. “No?”

“No. Marinette is not a threat to me. However, Lila is.”

“Oh really?”

“Lila has insisted that I will ‘belong’ to her one day. She doesn’t take my feelings into consideration, and someone who compulsively lies is not the kind of person I should be professionally associating with.”

“I see—“

“Marinette, on the other hand, is interested in the fashion industry and has been recognized by you, Jagged Stone, and Audrey Bourgeois! And even though her parents aren’t in fashion, they are still well known business owners with a good reputation and creditability!”

“I didn’t say—“

“And furthermore!” Adrien cut him off. “We have never pursued any legal action action people who have done far worse!”

“Like who?”

“Like that model that groped my butt on the runway? Or that fangirl that tackled me on the street and pulled out a chunk of my hair? The rabid fan girls that send me their unmentionables in the mail? Or Chloe Bourgeois in general? All of those incidences, I told you that I was uncomfortable and wanted you to take action. Instead, you told me that was the life of a celebrity, and I had to deal with it.”

“I never said—“

“But the one time there’s a rumor about a very good friend of mine, you want to pull out all the stops! And you’re not taking my feelings into consideration!”

“Adrien—“

“Marinette is one of my best friends, dad! It’s like you purposely want me to be miserable!”

“Are you quite done?” Gabriel bit.

Adrien snapped his jaw shut, and stood silently.

Gabriel exhaled loudly. “You’ve made your point quite clear. I will withhold any legal action for now, but once there is undeniable prove that she did take explicit photos, I will be getting a restraining order.”

“Thank you. As long as this undeniable proof isn’t just Lila’s words again.”

“It would have to hold up in a court of law. If Miss Rossi gets up to testify, and the court fines that she is lying, she can be charged with perjury. That’s not something I want to deal with.”

“Oh.”

Gabriel sighed again, rubbing his forehead. “Have you had any contact with Miss Dupain-Cheng since this came out?”

“Yeah, I visited her during lunch.”

“Alone?”

“My bodyguard stayed in the living room.”

“Nothing happened?”

“No. She was crying, we talked. That’s about it.”

“Alright.” He tapped his fingers on the surface of his desk. “You…you seem to have some warm regards towards Miss Dupain-Cheng.”

“She is a very good friend of mine.”

“Just a friend?”

Adrien blushed. “Yeah…just a friend.”

Gabriel hid a twitch of a smile, “of course. Well, you know my rules for dating. You’re sixteen now, so you may pursue whomever you wish. I would just like to meet them first, and approve of them.”

“uh, yeah, but—“

“And you must be prepared for your fans. In an age with social media, people will make assumptions and become irrational. You’re significant other must be prepared to ignore the criticism that happens from dating a celebrity, you understand.”

“Yes, I do. But why are you bringing this up now?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Girls are fighting over you. Eventually, you’ll pick one. And gauging your protectiveness of Miss Dupain-Cheng, it’s not hard to guess.”

“Wait. First you were accusing her of stalking, now you’re accusing me of having a crush on her?”

“Miss Rossi was the one to accuse her of stalking. I’m only acting as a concerned father. You’re a teenager, about the same age I was when I started dating. I’m not an idiot.”

“I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were. I just…I don’t feel that way about Marinette.”

“If that’s what you say, then that’s what I’ll believe.” He turned toward his computer and started to type something, while Adrien just stood there awkwardly. “Don’t you have homework to do?”

Ah, the abrupt dismissal. “I—yes, uh…thanks.”

“Mmhmm.” Gabriel replied without looking up.

Adrien sighed and left the room, closing the door on the way out.

Gabriel waited a few minutes, then went to the painting of his wife.

—

A few moments later, Hawkmoth stood in his lair, his eyes gazing out the window into the fresh fall evening. Paris was a large city of course, and there were many hearts in pain. They echoed and ebbed together in a chorus of agony, dropping out once the emotion was spent, only to be replaced with another.

He stood waiting, focusing on a pinprick of emotion. A girl in distress and anguish, who lived not too far away.

There.

A slow burn, one that had been rolling for hours. A controlled, focused burn. These were the most dangerous akuma. The ones that felt injustice and stewed in it for a long time. The white hot flashes were sufficient and numerous, but those that burned with wrath were powerful.

But he didn’t call for an akuma.

He imagined a young kid, a designer with hope on the horizon, though she was drowning in the drama bestowed upon her as a high schooler.

It’s like you purposely want me to be miserable!

Gabriel clenched his fist. How dare he! How dare his son question his decisions! Didn’t he know it was for the best? Didn’t he know he was doing this for him!?

No. He didn’t. Because if Adrien knew who he was, he’d run. He’d scratch and claw and scream and beg to be let go.

And if he found out he had akumatized his crush, he’d never speak to him again.  

“Dark Wings Fall.”

Gabriel Agreste remained in the big empty room, surrounded by his little butterflies.

“Master?” Asked sad little Nooroo.

Gabriel shook his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Am I…am I forgetting her? Am I giving up?”

The little kwami didn’t say anything, but floated up to meet his eyes. “You’ve been passing on the ones who are grieving. You have no problems akumatizing those who are selfishly angry. You…I think you’re healing yourself, by not hurting others.”

Gabriel didn’t answer, but looked back outside.

“I think…it’s a little nicer that way.”

[fysebastianstan]

"At some point, I've got to ask you about some of your guilty pleasures out there," Sebastian Stan says off-hand to his Destroyer director, Karyn Kusama. "Because in my head, I feel like you're watching, like, super f--king amazing horror projects..." Though Kusama may be best known for her own horror films, including the "really disturbing in a great way" (as Stan put it) The Invitation and the campy Megan Fox cult classic Jennifer's Body, her tastes are hardly confined to the genre; one of her early films was the Charlize Theron sci-fi spy action flick Æon Flux. "I don't have guilty pleasures," she shrugs. "I think Point Breakis a masterpiece. I legitimately think it's a masterpiece." In fact, her latest film is most like the latter, a pulpy detective drama about LAPD officer Erin Bell (a bewigged Nicole Kidman), who goes undercover to investigate a gang of bank robbers with her partner, Chris (Stan).

(For his part, on the topic of guilty pleasures, Stan shared, "I was working out today and because of this thing with a Boston accent that I've been looking up, I ended up watching the Housewives of Boston and I was like, Oh, my God, this is so insane!") (I pointed out there is no Real Housewives of Boston.)

With Destroyer opening in select theaters on Christmas Day, Kusama and Stan sat down with ET to discuss leaving their comfort zones, what it took to make Kidman look like a meth addict and how hot Stan looks covered in tattoos.

What put this guy [Stan] on your radar?

Sebastian Stan: Our agents.

KK: Our agents, but also, you have a lot of nice friends.

SS: Oh, good!

KK: No, but you do. You have a lot of nice friends that I think are nice people and good actors, so when your name came up, I'd be like, "Oh, that's cool." And then I watched I, Tonya, and I felt like, that's so interesting to see a guy who in real life, frankly, has a leading man vibe and leading man looks -- in a great way, not holding it against you. You're a very handsome dude -- but to see you play a character who was capable of so much smallness and shame and ugliness, I just thought, "My God, that takes bravery." After our first Skype session, I was like, let's just figure out how we're going to work together.

Had you read the script by then?

SS: I had read the script and then we had a Skype session about it. I just love that it felt like you were never really figuring out entirely what was happening or who these people were. It didn't explain anything, it just kind of--

KK: Put you in their lives.

SS: Yeah, and you're there as a witness and it's as if you're walking by and you're turning and you're seeing that scene happen. That felt very real to me. I always feel like, as an actor, you're always looking in the writing for rhythms, and those scenes were written a certain way. It's a very direct, frank nature that they have with each other, at least in the scenes that I was involved with Nicole. And I was like, here's an opportunity to play a completely different character by not doing anything. By almost just letting--

KK: By not indicating anything about the character. By just being, they told so much story.

SS: Exactly. And I just knew it was going to be a very special movie. The idea of protagonist and antagonist was always flipped around here, and I think that in life, good people do bad things and bad people sometimes end up doing a good thing for that moment, or whatever. This movie was so straightforward about that. And to have a female character that had no excuse for anything in a way that didn't apologize but also, you understood where she was coming from, because all the flaws were so... Nobody shied away from any of that. And then you get Nicole to do it and then you're like, "All right, well, now it's going to be a whole other thing!" [Laughs.]

I do love that you took the guy you said has such a leading man look and shaved off half of his hair and threw him in a denim vest.

SS: But that was a blessing! It was a blessing!

KK: You looked so hot. I truly mean it. But literally, my whole editing crew would just be like, "Oh, my God, this scene again? Bring it on!"

SS: I continued to shave my head for a good six months after that. But it was one of those things where it takes you out of your comfort zone, from what you're used to seeing yourself do. I don't know how it is with directing, but with actors, I honestly feel like you have, like, a program that's always trying to go back the way that it's always been and you're always having to turn a sharp left and keep making those lefts away from the road that you're always going down.

KK: I think [that's true] for directors too, though. I personally like the idea of doing things or going into territory that's a little bit frightening or unfamiliar. It's exciting.

There are those memes that say, "You have the same amount of hours in the day as Beyoncé," but I think it needs to be switched to Nicole Kidman, because the number of projects she fronts is incredible. What were those early conversations you had with her about this?

KK: It was May of last year, because it was Memorial Day weekend, that I had heard that she wanted to talk to me about it. She was in Cannes and had four things in Cannes and still managed to have time to read this script and get in touch with me and say, "Can we talk about this?" Because, to be honest, her name had not come up yet. So, we talked on the phone the first time and one of the first things she had talked about as a driving force for the character in her mind was shame and what does shame do to your mind and body and how does that affect your entire countenance?

I appreciated that so much, because to me, shame is not a judgmental quality. She wasn't talking about being an antiheroine or being a character that is typically male. She wasn't really applying any of those assumptions to the role, she was just seeing this person as a person and she said, you know, "When you live your life in shame the way Erin Bell has, it starts to destroy you." And I just thought, God, that's so interesting. You're looking at it with this total compassion. I know that's how actors -- the great ones -- always look at their characters, but there was just no hint of judgment.

SS: Because shame is different from guilt, right? Because guilt is "I've done something wrong." Shame is "I am wrong." Like, "Something is really bad with me."

KK: Exactly! So, even the past [Erin] couldn't control made her feel she was wrong, and then the past she could control, she was like, "I am wrong." You're so right.

Did it all come together fairly quickly? Or did you go through different options before you decided this is Erin Bell?

KK: One of the things both Bill and I had talked about -- and I actually had this same process on Jennifer's Body, funnily enough -- where there was just a database of what happens with particularly meth addiction and how quickly the physical deterioration shows up. In some cases, it can be, like, six months and you see a person going from looking pretty together to looking like a ghost. So, we thought, let's scale that back and think about what time and the sun and alcoholism and stress and lack of sleep and not eating well, what does that do over almost 20 years? And it's not pretty.

SS: My God...

KK: It's really not pretty, if you think about it. Because we were using as our baseline: Here is what meth addiction can do to you in a year. What does 17 or 18 years look like of more benign but long-term habits that can wreck you?

Karyn, was there a moment from filming with Nicole, or Nicole and Sebastian, that really surprised you? And Sebastian, was there a moment filming with Nicole when she surprised you?

KK: Something happened between the two of you in a scene that is the emotional crux of the movie, where we see the genesis of her explanation for this plan. We get some emotional access into why she needs to convince Chris to go through with it with her. There is a moment that I always just understood to be true, but what Sebastian did, he said, "Do you love me?" And you realize he doesn't know the answer. Like, I just assumed, Oh, they're crazy in love and everybody knows it, including each other in the scene.

But then I saw, this was the first time you asked it and needed to hear the truth of it. Even in screening it, friends and family screenings and the moments where we shared it with a wider audience, that moment is the moment where they're just like, "Oh, my God, she does love him! Why are they doing this?" And it's precisely because they're in this crazy, crazy love affair. That was really interesting to me while we were shooting to realize, Oh, I don't know the answer.

SS: It makes it all the more confusing and crazy, because then it's like we're [undercover] and you're going, like, "Are you asking me? Or are we pretending?" Because you just get glimpses of it here and there, in a way it made every one of those scenes all the more intense to experience.

KK: More potent.

SS: But the surprising thing was probably day one, for me, when we shot this first scene [where] we meet and sort of suss each other out. My first day was that, and it was the first time I'd ever met Nicole. You just never know what to expect, especially when it's somebody of that caliber. You have no idea whether you should back away, engage, what's the deal. And she was so generous [in] whatever was happening in the scene and also, like, in life, in the sense of us getting to know each other. That's when I was like, "Wow. This is going to be very easy for me." [Laughs.]

KK: Because also she had to kiss you in that scene! And you were just like, "Hello. Nice to meet you. Let's kiss!" But that was what the scene was, too, so it kind of created this frisson of, like, what's going to happen?

SS: You wait to get to set and you're like, "Well, I know that they have to have this thing and how are we going to find it?" And when it happened, I was like, "Oh, OK. It's going be very easy."

One of my favorite things about the film is that Nicole's final line of the movie is telling you that you have a nice butt.

SS: Oh, yeah! But that was a great thing, also. We had a little improv here and there, but that was in the script. All these little moments were always there on paper.

KK: Yeah, even meant to be thrown away, pretty much every single one of them are on the page.

SS: And they all made it, so it's great. You don't always get that.

KK: No, I know. Some of the other characters in the movie don't always get [that]. We were like, "How are we gonna get more Chris?"

Sebastian, we talked about how much Nicole does, but especially considering how many Marvel movies you've been in the past few years, you've done your fair share of other projects, too.

SS: I've been trying! I've been very lucky the last couple years, especially. Like, before 2015, I'm hesitant to look back at what was happening. [Laughs.] But I was very lucky. In the last couple years, I feel like I've really gotten much more clear about what makes me operate at my best, and then it's just about really great directors and being opposite other people that are going to force you into showing up. Because it's so easy to fall into that line of comfort and go back to it, and the business is almost structured that way. You do one thing well, you can continue to keep doing that thing. Why break the habit, you know? But I feel more specific now, with wanting to be part of interesting experiences that I'm learning from rather than... Sure, it would be great to be a lead. But you get so much more out of the whole experience, if it works. It has to be a team thing.

There are reports that you could get one of those leading roles in a Bucky and Falcon series. Are you worried Chris [Evans] will feel left out?

SS: I don't know if he will. As far as I know, the only conversation I've had with Anthony Mackie has been about Miami Vice and how we should redo that. [Laughs.]

[vankoya]

The Devil Skates on Thin Ice, 2.

Genre | Hockey Player / Figure Skater Rivalry AU.

Pairing | Min Yoongi / Feminine Reader.

Words | 26,491 words.

Conspectus | The number one rule of Korea National Sport University is to never allow their elite figure skater and the captain of the ice hockey team be in the same room. Or in their case, on the same ice rink. They are infamously known for riling each other up in any way possible, and for having a mysterious history that even their closest friends know nothing about.

But when their coaches decide it is finally time to put an end to their five year rivalry, the pair of them certainly have very conflicting views about it.

Warnings | Heavy swearing and insulting. Some good ol’ pining. Alcohol and mentions of drugs. Angst. Uh, mayhaps a smidgen of smexual tension. A tad of misogyny. A very small moment of violence. Apologies to Yugyeom for making his character such a dick.

Parts | One • Two • Three (Finale)

The ‘read more’ function does not work for some mobile app users. We are still waiting on Tumblr to fix this issue, so please message them about it and not me, as I have definitely put a ‘read more’ break beneath this note!

To say you do not remember a single thing about last night is greater than an understatement.

It feels, quite literally, as though a spell of amnesia has been cast over the past multitude of hours, wearing off at about six in the evening when your first Caipiroska was poured by Minah. Everything between then and now rests beneath a thick fog of uncertainty—you could have met the bloody Queen of England, for all you knew. The scattered memories are all the more difficult to grasp as a result of the throbbing headache that pounds fiercely between your temples, encouraging you to keep your eyes tightly closed so as not to allow even a sliver of sunlight through.

A thick film coats your tongue, tasting of stale alcohol and, oh god, probably vomit. When you part your lips, your voice creaks like an old door that has been closed for years. The rusty hinges croak in a groan directed at Past You for not taking Future You, which is now officially Present You, into consideration when the soju bombs were handed out in fives.

“Fuck you, ___,” you grumble into your pillow, shoving your face deeper into the feathery plush as though you can bury your migraine in the fabric. “You insensitive, alcohol-mixing bitch. Never drink vodka and beer in the same hour. How could you forget that? It’s the golden fucking rule. Stupid girl. Silly bloody idiot.”

In the midst of aspersing yourself, there is a raucous clatter from outside of the bedroom, sounding like a lightning strike within the apartment as it shatters through the walls. More so, it is the familiar sound of heavy cutlery clanging against pots and pans within a stainless steel sink, metal-on-metal that slams straight through your skull and pierces the centre-point of your headache with a swift blow. The clanging continues in a cacophonous symphony that appears to be boundless in its protraction.

So, burying yourself into the nest of sheets with a whine, as if the thin cotton can even manage to smother the noise in the slightest, you curl your fingers into the mattress. Bracing yourself against the torture with taut shoulders, and barely withholding a distressed sob while you wallow in your agony.

You wonder what delusional, potentially still drunken state Minah must currently be in to be unleashing such torturous hell on a Saturday morning. Or why she is even awake before midday after a night out, for that matter. On any other occasion, Minah is a corpse until the late afternoon, and only when the sun is nearly perched upon the horizon to make way for the moon is she rising from the dead to inhale two litres of water and a microwave meal before she returns to her grave until practice begins at seven the next morning.

There is a vicious shout of, “Shut the fuck up, would you!” and the disturbance ceases to absolute silence. But the peace remains for the scarcest of moments until another voice is roaring back with hardly suppressed outrage, spitting, “It’s not my fault you haven’t done the fucking dishes in a week, you selfish prick! Some people like to eat, Yoongi!” followed by a punctuating, singular clang. Then, the quiet returns.

The sudden tranquillity is a soothing balm on your raging temples. You release the breath you were holding tight in your lungs while you had braced yourself against the vociferation. The exhalation gently lulls your tired limbs into a state of–

What.

When your eyes snap open, the sunlight is immediately striking; a searing burn on the sensitive film that coats your bloodshot gaze. You hardly need to adjust your focus in order to know the sole fact that settles in a heavy stone of dread within the pit of your stomach.

This is not your room.

The space is minimal, though the floor is filthy; littered with laundry and hockey gear and discarded balls of paper. A broad desk that is surprisingly neat and paired with a sleek, black swivel chair is pushed in the corner opposite to the bed, which is positioned under the window where the blinds are marginally open above you, allowing slats of sunlight to filter through and torment your throbbing headache. Next to the double doors of the closet is a free-standing mirror, and your reflection is unseen from the angle that you lay startled within. The top half is draped in a terribly familiar jersey of red and black.

The number 31 is salient in large, bold white lettering at the centre of the material. Though it is most certainly not as prominent as the MIN that stands out inches above it. The three letters set off screeching alarm bells within your mind, and you bolt upright on the mattress in a state of suffocating panic, cracking your elbow against the sill of the window in the process.

“Shit!” you yelp, cringing from the sharp pain that shoots up your arm, cradling it to your chest as you keel over your knees and dramatically collapse back onto the bed like the world just could not help but dig your hell-hole of a situation all the deeper.

You are in Yoongi’s room. Of all the fucking people it could have been, it had to be him.

Amidst the anguish, a succession of thumping footsteps steadily becomes apparent as they grow louder, nearer, almost as though they are jogging. Then, the door is histrionically thrown open and a wide-eyed, flustered Yoongi comes into view, panting a little like he had ran from the other side of the apartment at the voicing of your distress. Honestly, you surprise yourself by holding back the lurching urge to hurl up the contents of last night at the sheer sight of him.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he impassively states, hand slipping from the doorknob as the veil of concern that thinly manipulated his features is composed into one of nonchalance. “Thought you might’ve died overnight. I was hoping, at least.”

“No, I’m just sleeping with my goddamn eyes open. Of course I’m fucking awake, what does it look like?!” you shrill, squinting at him as the migraine spikes especially acute, fingertips abandoning your bruising elbow and coming to your temples to gingerly massage the thrumming flesh. “And to be frank, death sounds like a much more favourable option than waking up in your room. What am I doing here, Yoongi?”

He merely shrugs, not giving anything away. “I’d like to ask you the same thing.”

“Don’t start,” you mutter bitterly, slowly lifting yourself out of the—admittedly, exceptionally comfortable—bed at a steady pace in order to not throw your pounding head into another death spiral of agony.

As you do so, you notice an unfamiliar weight that sags over your figure. Glancing down at your body, you come to realise that your attire from last night is drowned beneath a thick, maroon sweater, the hem brushing at the middle of your thighs. The aroma that drifts from it is oaky; a damp forest on a misty morning combined with underlying tones of cinnamon. A familiar and refined scent that is so potently Yoongi, making it evident that the clothing is his. An involuntary shiver crawls up your spine.

Though before you can claw Yoongi down to the bone for answers, Minah’s voice reverberates through your hammering skull in a long-lost conversation, filed somewhere in the pages of under a year ago.

A man is no gentleman if he doesn’t let you wear his sweaters after sex! It’s just a part of the common courtesy code!

Desperately, you stifle the urge to screech as a burning sensation climbs your throat, flushing your cheeks with a heat of sheer horror while Yoongi watches on, utterly oblivious.

“We didn’t–” You emphasise with wide eyes and a swaying gesture of your hand– “Uh, you know?”

Yoongi, for a second, looks wholly alarmed by your assumption before he eases into amusement, barking out a sharp laugh. “While you were drunk out of your mind? Hell no. Do I look like some crazy sicko to you?”

The both of you stare one another down in a cursory silence, broken by your voice as you start to wrestle the sweater over your head, senses drenched in his cologne, “I’m not going to answer that.”

“Once we got back, I left you to your own devices, thank you very much.” Offence lays thick in his tone. His arms fold indignantly over his chest, and you blatantly ignore the way that the lean muscles of his biceps peek out of the navy sleeves of his shirt. “I slept on the tacky leather couch, which is like laying on an ironing board made of granite, I’ll have you know. So yeah, thank you Yoongi for sacrificing your bed to my drunk ass for the night,” Yoongi mimics in a pitched voice that is nowhere near similar to your own, proceeding to jab an accusing finger at your face. “I hope that hangover feels like a bitch for the rest of today, you ungrateful brat.”

“Well, thank you for manhandling my ass into your apartment, pervert,” you hiss with conviction, ditching the sweater to the sea of trash that comprises his bedroom floor, cringing at the mess. “And christ, into this pigsty! What the hell, do you still not do laundry? And dishes either, by the sounds of Jimin’s aneurysm.”

Still. You bite your tongue, wincing, hoping Yoongi did not notice. When you glance at him, his exaggerated smirk appears as though it is fighting to mask a twinge of something much softer. Shit.

Despite this, he sends you a slow, deliberate wink. “What can I say, the ladies love it when I’m dirty.”

“No, fuck no. I refuse to throw up right now. Shut your goddamn mouth.” Clutching at your woozy stomach, you hastily scan the room for any sign of your cellphone or purse—anything that draws significance as your own belongings amidst everything that is so entirely and unbearably Yoongi. “Where–”

“This?” Yoongi cuts in and your gaze darts back to him, noticing with a wave of relief that the familiar case of your mobile is held gingerly in his grasp. Like a magnet drawn to an opposite pole, you speedily pick your way through the colossal clutter until you stand a good metre away from Yoongi, hand outstretched.

“Thank you,” you barely manage to say as a way of inclining him to hand over the device. The expression of gratitude tastes sour on your tongue, and it ferments all the more when he merely grins wider and makes no move to give it back. Barely containing your rage, you close your eyes and exhale loudly through your nose. “Please, Yoongi. Give it to me.”

“Well, isn’t that just a little suggestive.”

As simple as flicking a switch, the restrained anger that you were genuinely doing so well to keep at bay ignites all the greater, eyes snapping back open to discover Yoongi still wickedly grinning. “I swear to–”

The starting notes of your Until the End of Time ringtone startles the both of you; Yoongi nearly drops the vibrating device while you jump with a parrotlike squawk. The shock sparsely settles before you take the opportunity of his momentary vulnerability to lunge towards his hand, reaching for your mobile. But his sportsman reflexes are too sharp, underestimated in your desperate efforts. Yoongi lifts the cellphone high above his head, a victorious blaze flaring in his eyes as you create a strangled sound of annoyance and firmly plant a palm on his shoulder so that you have some leverage to push yourself up when you jump. All the while, Justin Timberlake continues to sing above your heads and Yoongi-come-Satan laughs heartily at your meagre attempts to grab the phone.

“Yoongi! Give it here!” you shout directly in his face, mid-jump, and he cringes at the dusting of spit that sprays from your mouth onto his cheeks.

“Ugh, the fuck–”

“The call is going to end, stop it!”

Once you are stationary on the ground, preparing to leap again, Yoongi takes the advantage and yanks you down into a headlock, hunching over your torso and nestling your face against his stomach as you squeal out of surprise. Among your exasperated thrashing, the ringtone ceases and you believe, for a sparing moment, that it is due to the call having rung through to voicemail. But that credence is only fleeting when you hear Yoongi begin to speak.

“Hey Minah, yeah it’s Yoongi again,” the Devil converses casually as if he does not currently have you wrestled into submission. “Uh-huh, yeah ___’s awake now, she’s just– Oof–!” A firm elbow knocks into his side, which you come to realise is the one that you previously smacked against the window, and you both groan in unison. Even so, his hold does not let up. “She’s beating the absolute shit out of me. Agh, um yeah, sooner is better than later because we have to practice. Bring some clothes for her if you can. ‘kay, bye!”

At long last, your bind is released and you scamper to grab your phone that he now willingly offers to you. The both of you are mildly panting after such exertion this early in the morning, and most especially in the wake of your hangovers. Before you can lift the phone to your ear to catch Minah before she hangs up, you realise that the call has already been disconnected. The locked screen displays an array of notifications that you swipe through—unanswered texts and missed calls from both Hoseok and Minah. Your brow furrows when you realise they have completely ceased by about 11PM.

“What’s wrong, doll?” Yoongi teases, though his expression remains blank, leaning against the doorframe as the old nickname shoots through your heart in a kryptonite bullet. You frown all the more in an attempt to guise the pain of the fragments shattering amongst your ribs; a metal firework of old memories that you wish he would stop trying to resurface.

“Looks like my friends are a lot shittier than I first assumed,” you mutter, staring at the screen. You ignore how the fluttering vessel in your chest continues to bleed among the damage, exceptionally so as you truly begin to register how close you are to the Devil himself, right now. “They stopped the missing-persons search before midnight, which is unheard of since nobody goes home until it’s known that everyone is safe. But they clearly broke the pal code by the fact that I stayed the night with you, and they haven’t even bothered to make contact until the damage has already been done.”

The corners of Yoongi’s lips twitch, as if he does not know whether he wants to smirk at your ignorant insolence or smile at the fact that you have hardly changed. “They tried, y’know. You caused them a fair amount of trouble last night.”

Flicking your gaze up from the phone, you glare daggers at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, let’s just say that you were really drunk and you ran off on them at the start of the party,” Yoongi pushes himself off the doorframe and shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, staring right into your eyes to convey his honesty. “And then I, also quite drunk, found you out on the roof. We had, uh, a conversation, I suppose, before the police arrived to shut the place down. You kind of passed out, I had to carry you most of the way outside and both Minah and Hoseok were waiting for you, worried as all hell. They were insisting they take you back to your dorm with Minah, but you were coherent enough to say that you weren’t um–” Despite himself, a flush blossoms on Yoongi’s cheeks, which has your own beginning to burn with sheer embarrassment and a growing concern as to what you possibly could have said– “Leaving me. You wanted to stay with me–”

“No fucking way.”

“So, with their permission and after an exchange of phone numbers, we came back to my place–”

“No fucking way.”

“Yes way. I dropped you into my bed and then I went to sleep on the couch once I had made sure Jimin and Taehyung got home without missing any limbs or teeth,” Yoongi, as though he cannot help but rev the engine for the guilt trip, narrows his gaze at you like a disappointed guardian scolding their child. “If anything, I’d say you were the shitty friend for putting Hoseok and Minah through all of that. You basically ruined their night, since they spent most of it looking for you.”

A sea of mortification submerges you. The water fills your lungs and you feel yourself suffocating, unable to believe the truth that Yoongi bleeds out on you, though no surface makes itself apparent to break through and breathe once again like this is a punishment that you are deserving of for cussing out your friends when you were the one who was the burden in the first place. Still, you manage to find your voice buried in the back of your throat, meekly making its way past your lips.

“You’re lying.”

Yoongi’s frown deepens, creasing the smooth skin between his eyebrows. “No, I’m not.”

“Not about the last part, I’m sure that’s true,” you raggedly inhale, trying to hide the way your fingers shake around the device you clutch by dropping your hands to your sides, gaining the confidence to stare him directly in the eyes again so you can gauge the slightest shift in his reaction. “But there is no way that you would have just put me to bed like nothing happened. That’s not your style. You don’t leave people alone when they’re in need.”

It is barely there. The glint of vulnerability that is quick to be guised by a stone cold facade. Yoongi watches you guardedly, lacing his words with enough venom to conceal the dishonesty when he mutters, “Funny, somebody made me change that about five years ago.”

You cannot help but flinch as if he has physically inflicted you; the words are carved into your chest by the tip of a knife held by his own hand. It is ridiculous, utterly stupid to be so hurt by such sentiments when you were the one to enforce him to despise you this way by being the instigator of such a tragic rivalry. Standing there, staring into his unchanging expression that has done nothing but grow sharper and more handsome over the past five years, the pearly scars prickle and itch like a reminder as to why you must stand your ground and never hold up the white flag of surrender.

But a smothered voice at the back of your mind starts to question whether such determination to be spiteful is even worth it anymore.

The blare of a horn outside of the apartment startles the both of you silly, and a strange sense of comfort settles in your chest when you realise that you are not the only one who is feeling so high-strung around the other. A balancing act where, eventually, one of you is bound to fall, and it is up to the other whether they have the courage to face the drop with them.

You let your eyes fall to the sensation of your phone vibrating once against your palm, not bothering to check the screen. “That’s Minah,” you mumble, combing your free hand through your knotty hair and shaking it out as if doing so will rid you of the anxiety. You briefly wonder what on Earth the rest of your make-up-smeared appearance must look like when your knuckles snag on the tangled strands. “I’m leaving.”

A streak of something that resembles mild panic darts through Yoongi’s eyes, though you are already pushing past him to concern yourself with what it may have truly been. As you go, he mutters underneath his breath, and that, you do catch onto. The words send a chill beneath your skin that has not a thing to do with the cool air of the bedroom.

Just like you did the first time things got hard, huh?

The apartment layout is precisely the same as your own, allowing you to easily navigate down the hallway of mostly closed doors to enter the shared living room and kitchen. Immediately, your nose is hit by the mouth-watering aroma of eggs and butter in a frying pan that is manned by none other than Park Jimin in a pair of boxer shorts. And praise all the holy things, it is clearly not a myth that he has the thickest thighs on campus, evident in the defined muscles that curve the golden skin of his legs; flexed in unadulterated display with the way that his weight rests upon his right leg while he works. Your phone vibrates once more in your hand, and you cannot help but quietly chuckle to yourself at the thought of sneakily snapping a picture for Minah to salivate over. Though that plan is quick to be corrupted when Jimin whips his head around at the sound.

“Oh, hey Ice– ___,” Jimin says from the breakfast bar as if it is the most natural occurrence in the world to see you walking out of Yoongi’s bedroom on a Saturday morning. His gaze slips southward from your face, eyes widening as he, suddenly flustered, stammers out, “C-Cute outfit you got there.”

“What?” All mirth is eradicated as you exclaim the single word, overwhelmed by alarm and you glance down and realise that, oh god, you completely forgot how utterly flimsy, thin, and terribly short the white dress that you wore last night is. Your entire body burns with the might of the sun. “No. Shit. I’m so sorry, I–”

“Is he terrorising you, sweet pea?”

The deep, anonymous voice floats right beside your ear and you jump in surprise, covering your mouth to conceal the shriek. The speaker of the question manoeuvres around you in a silky red kimono, his peculiarly gorgeous face inches from your own. Amidst your heart palpitations, you assume him to be Kim Taehyung—a man you have only ever heard stories about and never actually seen in the flesh.

His large, almond eyes regard you with keen interest. A broad, tan palm gently rests upon your bare shoulder and sends an unusually tantalising shiver up your spine. “Hm, I see why Yoongi is so enthralled by–”

“I thought you were leaving.”

At that, all heads turn to the second intruder of the conversation. Yoongi stands behind you, appearing both mortified and infuriated. His eyes zero in on your face, vaguely fleeting to Taehyung’s hand that gingerly touches your exposed skin before coming back to stare at you with a greater volume of seething darkening his eyes. A bud of spiteful glee buds within your chest.

“That’s no way to introduce me, Yoongi,” Taehyung purrs before directing his gaze to you, and you have to admit that you are slightly blown away by the boxy grin that he gives you, absolutely dazzling at this proximity. “I’m Taehyung, sweet thing. No need to tell me who you are, I know all about you. It is a pleasure to finally meet the one and only heartbreaker of Min–”

It occurs all at once. Yoongi charges at Taehyung. Jimin hastily drops the dirtied pan in the sink to prevent the oncoming slaughter between his two flatmates, and the loud clatter slices through your migraine like it had no more than twenty minutes ago. Lastly, an angry fist pounds heavily against the front door, and at that final sound, all movement ceases to a complete standstill. Yoongi is in the process of getting Taehyung into a headlock, and Jimin already has an arm wedged between their bodies, wielding a wooden spoon dotted with the morsels of his scrambled eggs.

You stand before them, astonished by the bizarre scene. Clearing your throat, you slowly begin to shuffle around the spectacle, and the three boys shift their gazes from the entranceway across the room to you.

“M-Minah’s here so, uh, bye,” you stammer, picking up your pace and zipping away to the front door with your phone clutched tightly to your chest. You release an exhale of relief the second you are around the wall and out of their line of sight.

But the repose is short-lived, for when you open the door, you come face to face with the epitome of sheer vexation.

“Well well, if it isn’t the goods that I came for,” Minah, hands on her hips, says with bitter impatience. Her gaze slides down your attire in a manner that is similar to the way Jimin’s had. Unsurprisingly, the judgement in her eyes is tenfold. “I see why Yoongi told us to bring clothes. Vaginas are great and all, but whipping them out willy-nilly can be a little confronting.”

“You,” is hissed as you grab the hem of the dress and pull it down, cheeks burning brighter, “were the one who told me to wear this! And what do you mean us?”

Minah throws a thumb over her shoulder. “Hobi is in the car. We both came to the agreement that we’re going to get coffee and sit you down for a nice, long chat about everything that has happened over the past 24-hours. Prepare yourself for the interrogation.”

Peering past her, you notice that Hoseok is most definitely sitting in the passenger seat with his eyes closed and the side of his face smushed against the glass of the window. You glance back at her, raising an eyebrow. “He’s looking one-hundred-and-ten percent dead right now.”

“Hence why we’re doing this over coffee.”

“Hm, understandable.”

“Hey Minah, thanks for picking ____ up,” is cheerfully voiced from down the entranceway, growing nearer with his footsteps. You briefly close your eyes in all of your chagrin just as Minah flicks her own above your head, looking at Yoongi. You can practically hear the grin in his tone, unbearably close, as he continues to say, “I’m sorry she caused you so much trouble last night. It seems like she hasn’t changed much since the old days.”

Your entire body suddenly feels as though you have been dunked into the Arctic Ocean. What the fuck is he doing?!

“The old days,” Minah echoes with a tight grin while you attempt to telepathically send a giant fuck you to the pea-sized brain of the bane of your existence. You hesitantly look at Minah, who has now averted her gaze to you, eyes filled with accusation and the potential threat of first-degree murder. “Sorry Yoongi, but do you mind elaborating on what exactly you mean by that?”

“Oh, ___ hasn’t told you about us at all?” Yoongi’s faux bewilderment sounds more intrigued than anything to your own hearing. The curiosity that underlies it is undeniable, especially paired with the prickle of the small hairs at the nape of your neck when you feel the flicker of his pupils resting there. For a fearful second, you are absolutely certain he is going to reveal the history that you have smothered so well from your present life right on his front doorstep. That he will unlace the taut stitches to expose the ugly scars beneath for Minah to witness—to finally see the truths you have masked for the past five years.

Yet, you are unsure if you should consider it a blessing when Yoongi curls his arm around your frame and lightly jostles you. His bare skin is desirably warm—comforting—against your own, when he instead says, “Well, I’m sure she’ll fill you in. We were very close back then, I’ll have you know.” At that, his palm that cups your shoulder lifts, and the weight of his presence momentarily alleviates, only to return with his hand against your spine, swiftly shoving you forward and out of the house, almost barrelling you into Minah. “Enjoy your coffee date!” he calls, sugary sweet, and then the door slams with a loud bang that drives another nail into your pulsing headache.

Of course, only Min Yoongi—Satan himself wearing the flesh of a human—could possibly save your ass whilst simultaneously serving it on a silver platter to be slaughtered by none other than your best friend in the terrifyingly near future.

Speaking of the aforementioned, she would appear almost comical if it were not for the fact that she looks about ready to skin you alive. With Yoongi having pushed you out of the house, you stand nearly nose-to-nose with Minah. Her brows are raised to the skies; her eyeballs are bulging with barely suppressed rage; her fingers are digging deep into her hips as though she is tightly gripping onto the final shreds of her sanity.

Your mouth opens and then snaps close. You repeat this in your state of stupefaction as your brain tries to process everything that has occurred over the past hour, concurrently attempting to conjure an explanation before Minah makes you her next taxidermy project.

But some deity must be looking over your sorry self, for your best friend wordlessly turns on her heel and storms towards the car. Then again, you are not entirely certain this is a more positive outcome than her screaming bloody murder in your face for the entire residence to hear.

Awkwardly, you skitter after Minah as she charges towards the car pulled up on the curb, still opening and closing your mouth like a complete idiot. Yoongi has only cracked the gateway to the past open. Allowing you the choice of either filling that gap with yet another layer of deceit, or to swing the door wide open and let all that you have kept secured under lock-and-key to come flooding through. But you know that you owe it to both Minah and Hoseok after all this time of keeping quiet.

Perhaps, not the entirety of the truth. But at least enough of a glimpse to tide them over until the next time Yoongi so abruptly thrusts his hands into your history and yanks the unwanted memories right into your field of vision.

Before you climb into the backseat, you notice your reflection in the window. To say you look hungover is a grand understatement. Your silver eyeshadow has broken apart and is scattered in glittery specks over the spotty foundation on your cheeks; mascara rims your eye bags and emphasises the purple crescent moons embedded there; your lipstick only remains to be a dodgy line that outlines your mouth. You look like absolute shit. And not in the I-just-had-the-best-one-night-stand-of-my-life way, but in the my-brain-feels-like-it-is-going-to-explode-because-I-slept-in-the-bed-of-my-number-one-enemy kind of way.

When Minah slams the driver’s door, the entire car trembles on its wheels. The sound wakes up Hoseok with an annoyed garble of insults, and slices another dagger of agony through your skull. You shut your own with a soft click, behaving like a mouse in the presence of a cat. Not wishing to make any moves that may disturb your best friend and make her pounce.

Yet, staring at the haggard reflection of yourself in the review mirror over Minah’s shoulder, you finally sigh and say, “Can I at least go home and shower first?”

“No, you need to suffer a while longer,” Minah firmly denies you as she jams the keys in the ignition. The engine revs before the squeal of the tyres skidding out on the road silences whatever protest you were attempting to muster.

A small voice in the back of your mind agrees with her, whispering that you deserve this. You have deserved it all since the first moment you told Min Yoongi you never wanted to see his face again.

During the drive to the cafe, you change in the backseat into a simple black sweater, blue jeans, and your battered white sneakers. The familiar clothing is an immediate comfort, yet you continue to avoid looking at your deathlike face and dishevelled hair in any kind of reflective surface. As the promise of a hot beverage becomes ever closer, both you and Hoseok slowly gain more life. Yet the car remains to be swamped by an unpleasant lack of conversation, which is unusual for your gossipy trio. The radio is blaring so loudly that none of you would be able to hear each other if you tried, anyway.

It is not until the three of you have arrived at the cafe, ordered, and received those aforementioned orders that the silence finally begins to crack. A sigh passing through your lips acts as the key to the gateway of conversation.

“Look, I’m really sorry–”

“Apology accepted. We all make mistakes. Now,” Minah immediately cuts you off, her interests clearly residing elsewhere. Nonetheless, your mouth hangs open and she reaches across the table to lift your chin and shut it. “If you could be so kind as to tell me what one, fine Min Yoongi meant when he said the old days…?”

You nearly choke on your sip of iced Americano at the question. Hoseok, looking at least ten times more alive than he was in the car now that he has half of a latte in his stomach, jerks back in surprise. His eyes bore into Minah.

“What?” Hoseok says, completely aghast. His eyes slide over to you, bulging out of their sockets. “What? Excuse me. What the fuck happened while I was teetering on the cusp of death?”

With your knuckles digging into your eyes, you mutter, “Min fucking Yoongi, that bastard–”

“Yes, that bastard,” Minah helpfully coaxes you, leaning across the table to stick her face in your own, behaving like an interrogator trying to get a criminal to confess. “What old days did you have with that beautiful bastard?”

“We were…” you trail off, feeling years worth of bile rising in your throat, clogging up your airway. You close your eyes and bury your face further into your palms, elbows propping you up against the table, lips pressing against the heels so that both Minah and Hoseok have to lean further in to catch your mumble of, “Befthfnriens.”

There is a moment of confused silence. Then, Hoseok tersely says, “What?”

Swallowing the bitter taste that now touches the back of your tongue, you push yourself away from your cage of skin and knuckles and instead wrap them around the disposable cup. There, exposed, you finally open your eyes and let them burn holes into your drink. Anywhere but the faces of your two friends when you whisper, “Best friends.”

Minah nearly shrieks, “You and Min Yoongi were what?”

The café bustles too loudly, and you wish that you were the block of ice in your cold Americano. Blending into the surroundings; melting away into nothingness. You prod the cube with the end of your straw, gradually putting more force behind the blows until the ice is shooting down to the bottom of the plastic cup and then dejectedly floating back to the surface. Minah snaps her fingers, and you lethargically look up, feeling well and truly dead inside in comparison to the animated, wide-eyed expressions that she and Hoseok currently sport.

The big hand ticks into the third minute since the inquisition began. A sigh heaves from your lungs, and you return to murdering the ice cube.

“Do I really have to repeat myself? Again?”

Minah does not even blink. “Yes, and this time, a thorough, essay-worthy argument to support your thesis is required. Because what the fuck.”

You take a sip from the iced coffee, feel the chill slip down the walls of your throat. Although you wish you could physically project your being into any other location than here, you say, “Up until the end of high school, Yoongi and I were–” A cringe, not because of the title, but the fact that it is half a lie when you spit out– “Best friends.” Another sigh; another gulp of ice cold. “Our dad’s knew each other before we were born, so we grew up together. As kids, we shared a lot of interests, and our friendship developed from there. But once we started high school, we just drifted apart because we were both busy with our sports. The hatred grew with the natural rivalry between figure skaters and ice hockey players, I guess.”

You wonder if you cannot outright tell them that Yoongi ruined your chance at becoming a star because you are not so sure if you believe such a sentiment anymore.

“Sounds like bullshit, but okay,” Hoseok deadpans, and you automatically recoil. Minah, on the other hand, socks him in the shoulder, to which he yelps so loudly that the guy at the cashier glares at him.

“How does that sound like bullshit?” she says in your defence, crossing her arms and scowling. “It sounds completely reasonable to me.”

“I don’t know. I mean, it feels like there’s something missing,” Hoseok winces, dramatically cradling his wounded shoulder. He averts his gaze from his attacker to you, eyes narrowing a fraction. “To be best friends and then hate each other so much over a ‘natural rivalry’ sounds too fishy. Was there like, a fight or something?”

“Well, yeah,” you sigh, flicking the tip of your straw with your nail. Technically, it is the truth, even if the fall-out was over something completely different to what you say. “But it was the rivalry that caused the fight. We had a huge argument over not being able to hang out because of training, which then lead to insulting each others’ sports, among other things. It was petty and stupid. But we were only teenagers at the time, and we were already under loads of pressure with our intense training, and with getting good grades to graduate high school. So the fight was the last straw, y’know. We didn’t talk again after that, nor forgave each other, and it’s stayed that way ever since.”

Sometimes, you terrify yourself with how effortlessly you can craft a lie when put on the spot. An awful habit that nobody should be proud of.

Hoseok watches you for a moment longer before nodding slowly and leaning back in his chair, seemingly satisfied with your explanation. “Alright, fair enough.”

“Ugh, you can be such an ass sometimes. Why would you make ___ relive such a sad period of her life? Do you feel validated now?” Minah huffs after knocking back the last of her mango smoothie. Immediately, she and Hoseok launch into a round of pointless bickering, and you safely return to your silent sipping.

The topic of Yoongi ceases to be brought up again. For that, you are more grateful than the two of them could ever comprehend. But when you finally get back to the apartment and turn the shower on steaming hot, letting it scald your skin, you cannot help but think. You angle your face up at the shower head, let the mascara dissolve and stream down your cheeks, feel the day-old lipstick becomes chalky, and think.

Min Yoongi. The boy you used to know who still smells like candle wax and cinnamon. The intimate look in his eyes before he said he did not help you, did not do anything at all, last night.

Lying may not be a talent to be proud of. But at least you are not the only one who has refined it.

The atmosphere of his bedroom is discomposed. The sunlight that filters inside the stuffy space outlines the shape of her body where it has been carved out by the creases on the mattress. The sheets incline and decline like a small mountain range—an imprint of her presence. Yoongi stands at the centre of the room, slowly suffocating on his own breath, eyes boring into the lingering remnant of her existence that haunts him like a restless spirit. The hills and slopes in his bed. Her, entirely.

Yoongi did not dare to tell her that, last night, he carried her limp form across the grassy accommodation courtyard once the taxi had pulled up to the curb. Tucked safely into his chest, murmuring nonsensical sentences against his collarbone. He refused to let her know that he held her chin as he tipped nearly a litre of water past her lips over a span of three glassfuls; that he rubbed between her shoulder blades and gingerly held back her hair while she vomited in the bathroom sink; that he gave her the sweater to change into. And most definitely, he never hinted that she stumbled quietly into the living room while he was draping the couch-come-makeshift-bed in a quilt, clutching at his wrist and entreating him to stay by her side while she fell asleep.

An utter fool, he had obliged without question. Perched on the edge of the mattress, he drew soothing patterns over the back of her hand for the scarce minutes that it took her to drift off. Even then, he had remained much longer than necessary to gaze at the soft pout of her lips, the delicate feathering of her splayed eyelashes, the moonlight accentuating the youthful innocence that only sleep can ever conjure.

No, she did not deserve that kind of knowledge. That glorious victory hanging over his head in an upper-hand that she could use against him in the future.

Now, his knees tremble and he feels pathetic. An utterly despicable excuse for a human being with the sweater of his that she was wearing bunched up in his fists and clutched to his chest like a lifeline. Their smells kiss with tongues in the maroon threads; the colour of her blood. Yoongi knows this because he has seen it with his own two eyes against frozen white. Tinted silvery blue by the shadows of midnight draped across the sky, studded at the centre by the full moon in all of its might.

The thin film coating Yoongi’s unblinking eyes dries into a delicate crust. He knows why she would not have told her friends about the two of them, and yet, he cannot help but wonder. Is she really so terrified of her own vulnerability? Of being cracked open like a fault line splitting the earth, allowing those standing by to peek at the gory innards? Perhaps, it is because she already understands how it feels; the sensation of flesh slicing open, of cells pulling apart to allow the bone to cut through and be exposed to the still, icy air. She has known such pain all too well, so she folds it like origami until it can fit in the thin crack between her fibula and talus, and she lives as though she was never once hurt.

Yoongi watches the dust motes glacially glide through the sunlight, basking in the warm honey of it and landing upon the mountains that she rose amongst his bed sheets. There, with the blood-soaked sweater pressed against his thrumming heartbeat, with her tone of malice remaining to be a sticky syrup in his ear, the realisation surrounds and embraces him. He had believed he understood this entire time, and yet, he had always been beyond far off the mark. He knows this now because of the ghost of her figure atop his mattress. He understands why she pushes him away with all her might; with all the breath in her lungs. He understands why her body folds inward, smaller, like origami to hide in the spaces between bones, when she sees his face.

Yoongi has cracked her open once, and he is not afraid to do it twice. This time, for the right reasons. This time, with his eyes wide open.

Yoongi begins appearing wherever you go. Like the black plague.

Despite the hostility he had exuded before you departed his apartment after that evening, the guy has been nothing but a picture of perfect juxtaposition over the following two weeks. He wears a grin that is neither snarky, nor cocky, and it haunts your every move. Whether you are standing in line at the campus cafeteria, or rushing down the hallways to make it to training after one of your classes, or shopping at the nearby supermarket that is frequented by all of the campus residents for snacks. No matter the location, the bane of your existence has managed to announce his passing presence through a peripheral glimpse of a peculiar curve of lips. A smile that is so fleeting, so sincere, that you find yourself wondering for hours afterwards if you had merely imagined it, or even falsely fantasised that he was there in the first place.

So really, at this point, you are reasonably terrified that you might wake up in the middle of the night due to the demands of your bladder, and find Min Yoongi standing beside your bed, grinning down at you like an ultimately more horrifying remake of Paranormal Activity.

But although he has been popping in and out of existence like a spectre, and your guard is now automatically activated the instant you leave your flat, you foolishly allow yourself a moment of relaxation in a situation deemed high risk. That is, in public, as you tiredly stroll from one of your classes to the stadium.

Night-time has begun to stretch across the sky in a pink and orange sunset, looking like smears of bleeding watercolour. A threat of clouds dwells in the distant horizon, opposite to the direction that you walk, hinting at a late-night storm that crackles with lightning and draws goosebumps along your arms. Not many students are out. Those who are seem to be heading home from their training, or speedily rushing along to their evening lectures. At this time of day on a Friday, the chances of the rink being empty and you being able to get in without a booking slip tends to be high, and so you decided to save time by skipping out on stopping by the office to collect one altogether.

After a strenuous afternoon of classes, you are too exhausted to second-guess the nearing tap-tap of sneakers against the pavement. It sounds similar to a light jog, as though the person is warming down from their afternoon exercise, or perhaps heating themselves up to evade the chilly air. They are quick to gain on you with the slow trudge that you currently enact, and you mentally anticipate the mild shock that will fizzle through your blood at the sudden intrusion of a being in your periphery; the slight breeze that will come with their passing by…

Except they never do.

“Hey, ___!”

A shriek of surprise involuntarily escapes your lungs, and you are certain that your soul has been startled out of your body. “What the fuck?!”

“Normally, people say hello back,” Yoongi, who has materialised beside you, sniffs wetly. His breath comes out slightly ragged, concluding that he is the mystery jogger, much to your utter displeasure. “Or how are you?”

You purposefully take a step to the side, putting distance between your parka-bundled, sports-bag-loaded bodies, and venomously bite back with, “No, I genuinely mean what the fuck. Were you hoping for me to have a heart attack?!” With that said, you continue to walk ahead, taking deep breaths to calm yourself down. Yoongi, like a puppy waiting for a scratch behind its ear, eagerly follows. You whip your head to the side and glare at him. “Stop. Why are you walking with me? Go away.”

He sniffs again, ignoring your demand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Besides, I’m not walking with you. I just happen to be walking beside you since we’re both going in the same direction.”

“You literally jogged to catch up to me,” you deadpan, quickening your pace and praying that he gets the message loud and clear. But Yoongi, as always, is not one to accept defeat so easily.

“Actually, I was getting my blood circulation going to keep warm, but whatever you want to think,” he says with the sly smirk of a liar, and your entire body boils with barely suppressed rage. “So… how’s life treating you?”

You stop dead in your tracks, and wish to beat the sense out of whatever it is that briefly flutters in your chest at his soft, casual tone. “Yoongi, don’t act like you care. Do you want me to apologise for that night at the party? Is that why you’ve been acting like Casper the Friendly Ghost for the past two weeks?”

Yoongi, having trailed a few steps ahead after your abrupt halt, twists on his heel to face you. His expression, despite its playful facade, is otherwise unreadable. “Hey, no. I don’t care about that. I’m only doing this for the sake of our coaches who want to dick each other.” His brow furrows. “They have a point, you know. Time heals all wounds.”

“But I’ve got the scar to prove it,” you snap, taking off again, and Yoongi visibly flinches as if you slapped him. Although you are the inflicter, you cannot help the cold sliver of guilt that slides down your spine at the remark. There is a poisonous taste on the tip of your tongue, even after the words have dissipated with a cloud of mist at your lips.

But it seems that even words in the shape of a blade cannot cut through his thick skin, nor deter him from any semblance of hope. Long used to years of your bitterness. Yoongi’s resilience remains as stable as a wall of iron, and is further proven when you can hear feet catching up with you again. His voice, right beside you once more, casually asks, “Are you mean all the time, or is that anger only directed at me?”

You press your lips into a firm line to prevent the small smile that threatens to curl them. “You’re certainly a catalyst.” The cold skin of your face heats up when you quickly glance out the side of your eye and notice that Yoongi’s gaze is fixed on you, hardly paying attention to where he steps. “Anyway, how in the world is walking together doing it for their sake? They’re not around to see us.”

“Maybe, but word spreads fast. Our rivalry is infamous on this campus, after all. Check it out,” Yoongi says, and you look up, but not without a brief side-eye at him in order to see where his stare is directed.

Following his gaze, it lands upon two girls walking on the opposite side of the thin trees that separate the massive path, brazenly watching the unlikely pair across from them. No, more so, they stare as though they have come upon a sight so rare and astounding that they can hardly tear their eyes from it—like you and Yoongi are aliens walking without their disguises. When the both of them realise that the two of you have taken notice of their observations, they make a fuss of panicked screeches and grab each other to tailwind it out of there.

A small missile of unease and insecurity implodes within your stomach, causing you to scowl. You are not entirely sure what creates the twist. Perhaps, being observed like an exotic zoo animal by strangers who know no better. Perhaps, walking so closely alongside the bane of your existence that your senses are tantalised by the cinnamon whiff of his cologne. Perhaps, agreeing with his sentiment. Wounds, no matter how ugly, can heal.

What you are certain about is that you need to get away from him before the foreign, virulent twinge in your chest blooms into something dangerous. Something unmanageable.

“Cool, and now they’ve seen us, so you can go,” you firmly state, curling your fingers tightly around your bag strap and picking up the pace again. “I have more important things to do than deal with your headache-inducing presence.” The arena, your escape, now resides no more than thirty metres away, and you determinedly stride towards it.

Yoongi, for what must be the third time, effortlessly catches up with you. Damn his longer legs to Satan’s fiery den. “Do you, now? Where are you headed?”

“The stadium.”

“Oh, me too. For what?”

Apparently, a lot of mental energy is required to will him the fuck away. “Practice,” you growl.

“Me–” The tail end of Yoongi’s sentence is completely severed by his mouth snapping shut. Right there, the realisation swiftly dawns as you both come to a standstill, staring roundly at each other in the middle of the pathway. “Do you have a booking slip?”

The moment of hesitation is infinitesimal. Then, the both of you are charging at the speed of two wild and voracious cheetahs in the direction of the arena.

“No! Don’t – you – dare!” you screech, arms pumping at your sides and sneakers smacking hard against the pavement, desperately attempting to catch up to Yoongi, who managed to take off a half-second before you. “I need to practice, asshole!”

Yoongi, almost at the stadium stairs, barks a sharp laugh. “We all have to practice!” he shouts back in a high-pitched voice. Immediately, you realise he is mimicking you from the time you dismissed his missing booking slip, and your blood reaches boiling point. “Cry to somebody who cares!”

An exasperated scream rips out of your chest, driving you to push your legs harder and finally reach Yoongi’s side, just as he is about to take to the first step. But before you can even reach for the collar of his parka to yank him behind you, Yoongi is whirling on his heel and, at a frightening speed, wrapping his arm around your waist and effortlessly lifting you from the ground. There is hardly a second for your brain to process what is occurring and ultimately conjure a shriek, because as quickly as the Devil sweeps you and your sports bag up, he is ungraciously depositing you in the shrubbery that lines the pathway before taking off again.

“First in, first served. Suck it, doll!” Yoongi crows from halfway up the stairs, all the while you spit profanities and struggle to wriggle your way out of the bush. By the time you have found your feet, the bastard is grinning and giving you two middle-finger salutes from the top of the stairs. Then, he is slipping through the sliding doors of the stadium entrance. Shit, shit, shit!

“You’re an idiot, ___,” you loudly curse yourself, partially out of breath as you hastily scale the steps, and not giving a single damn if anyone can hear you. “Who cares if you have to waste an extra ten minutes and walk to the other side of campus! Always get a slip, dumbass!”

Once you pass through the doors and realise that Yoongi has already crossed the foyer and entered the ice rink, you slow down your pace, despaired. Frankly, you feel more irritated at yourself for being too lazy to get a booking slip, which has clearly made you pay the price and lost you a bonus three hours of evening training. The fact that the extra time was missed out on because of Yoongi, of all people, has you inwardly brewing a storm, no matter that you already did your required five hours per day this morning.

Well, that is until he comes bursting out of the double-doors that lead to the arena, causing your heart to stutter in its otherwise fluid pattern of beating. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if the weird kindness he has been exhibiting to you lately has caused him to turn over a new leaf of consideration, and he has come out to let you have the slot. But that peculiar sense of hope fades once you realise his features appear utterly disgruntled.

Thus, with the bitchiest smirk that you can humanly muster in your deathly exhausted state, you ask, “What? Did somebody beat you to the punch?”

Yoongi comes to a halt a few feet before you, and the wicked curve of your mouth involuntarily shrinks. His sharp, dark eyebrows are narrowed in a scowl, and you stupidly have to force your stare at the linoleum in order to stop yourself from gulping at the fierce, stomach-sinking sight.

“The Zamboni broke down in the middle of the rink,” he says, evidently annoyed. “By the look of things, they won’t be able to resurface the ice or get the shitty thing off it until tomorrow.”

Not one to directly trust the words of Satan himself without blatant evidence, you navigate around him and head towards the double-doors. Sure enough, when you peek through them, it is to see a motionless Zamboni near the centre of the half-resurfaced ice rink. Two maintenance men skate around the vehicle, seemingly trying to figure out why it has broken down, and how on Earth to fix it.

Letting the doors swing shut, you state a disinterested, “That sucks.” Then, without sparing a glance at Yoongi as a safety precaution for your double-crossing heart, you brush past him and head back towards the stadium entrance. Because if you were not going to be training on the ice tonight, then you were most definitely rescheduling your date with your plush, cosy bed to approximately 15 minutes from now.

“Hey, wait.”

Your feet turn to stone, anchoring you in place. In that instant, if the manner in which it bounds at the sound of his soft tone is anything to go by, you confirm that your heart is a traitor.

Not expecting you to twist around, Yoongi, instead, comes up to your side and roots himself between you and the exit. A terrible sincerity is laced around those two words, and they bring forth a deluge of similar instances where they have left his lips. From across a sun-warmed playground as a shaved ice van pulled into the parking lot; to racing after the bus on the first day back at middle school; to underneath a streetlight with a hand curled securely around your wrist, Yoongi hesitantly leaning in.

The Min Yoongi who stands before you now is so different, and yet entirely the same. It nearly breaks your heart all over again.

“Let’s go to a pojangmacha,” he insists, rubbing the back of his hand against his wet nose. An old habit that vaguely soothes your inner conflict and your surface irritation. “There’s one close to campus that does the best tteokbokki–”

“I can’t– I don’t want to,” you sigh, anxiously chewing the inside of your cheek at the slip-up. You shift your gaze away from Yoongi’s eyes, absently staring at the empty kiosk across the foyer instead. “I have nationals coming up. I’m on a strict diet.”

“Well, isn’t that the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” Yoongi says, surprisingly genuine. I can think of one thing sadder, skims your tongue, but does not escape. Before you can part your lips to reply, Yoongi continues to say, “One night won’t hurt though, right? For Seokjin and Namjoon, of course, to prove to them that we can be civil. That’s it.”

Your gaze drags back to Yoongi, and you can feel your pulse thumping in your ears. His mussed, midnight hair is windswept from the frantic running, fringe in a slightly pushed-back disarray. The peaks of his cheeks are still flushed in a soft, rosy shade that makes him glow underneath the fluorescent lighting. His expression borders on being somewhat tender, vividly akin to the one that he used to save for nobody but you, yet not quite. It is guarded by glass walls; allowing you to observe, though protecting him from your touch.

But your fists have been known to shatter.

“Fine,” you huff, your stare unwavering. “For the coaches. But you’re buying.”

When Yoongi breaks out into a grin, looking like everything you have tried so hard to forget, you ignore the voice at the back of your mind that begs to differ.

Yoongi knows he should despise how utterly excited he feels. Yet there he is, feeling the kind of descending-rollercoaster-rush of exhilaration that he gets in his gut when the game is tied with 30 seconds left on the clock.

The entire 15-minute walk to the pojangmacha is submerged in a dense silence, though he hardly minds. Knowing that she is keeping up to pace beside him—despite the scowl that appears permanently etched into her features—is enough to satisfy his urge to be near her for the time being. Even so, he keeps glancing out the side of his eye to make sure that she is still there. To be absolutely positive that she is not some incredibly lucid figment of his imagination which, given the circumstances, would been highly concerning.

In fact, Yoongi is still struggling to believe that she even agreed to such an absurd offer of a stir-fried dinner on a chilly Friday evening. With him. Especially since she is on a diet for a figure-skating competition, which is something that she takes very seriously. Always, when it comes down to anything that involves her sport. Her future Olympic career.

What he really cannot fathom is that she accepted on the basis of such a flimsy excuse. Given their recent history, it was wholly unnatural on her part. She must have been able to see right through the “for the coaches” facade and caught wind of his genuine desire to sit down and talk civilly with her. Because surely, there must have been better options for her to schedule into her agenda. Like burrito-ing herself with bed blankets, cramming a bland salad down her throat, and bingeing on Netflix.

So, is this a subtle sign of peace? Or is she merely hoping that if she sacrifices the next handful of hours to his overly eager grasp, he may, perhaps, cease annoying her to the end of her wits?

Yoongi, as per usual, is as clueless as a fucking goldfish. Yet knowing that he will have the chance tonight to speak at least two sensible words to her—ones that are not founded on a pointless argument or a five-year rivalry—has him trying to compose that rollercoaster sensation all over again.

Once they turn the final street corner, the orange tent comes into existence through its bustling appearance and mouth-watering aromas. She, with her lips still clamped shut, strides right ahead and through the open flaps of the entrance. Yoongi, teeth grinding to powder, is tempted to fling an insult at her for her blatant rudeness. Instead, he channels that negative energy into propelling his legs forward, following her.

Determinedly, she weaves through the busy stall and picks a table in the far corner without so much as a glance back at Yoongi. So obviously attempting to project her lack of care for him and this entire situation. Without warning, a hopeless grin itches at Yoongi’s lips.

“Hungry, are we?” he says once he is back within her proximity, dropping his sports bag beside his seat and shrugging off his parka as she does with her own. Underneath, she wears a black, form-fitting long-sleeve. He hastily casts his gaze elsewhere before she tries to call out the pink flush on his cheeks for him being perverted.

“Yes, but I also want to get this over and done with as swiftly as possible,” she grouses, tossing her jacket over the stool and then plunking herself atop it.

Yoongi proceeds in doing the same, but not without retrieving his soon-to-be-withered wallet from the parka pocket. “If you eat too fast, you’ll get stomach cramps.”

“I’ve mastered the art of speed-eating, I’ve got this,” she sneers, leaning towards the makeshift kitchen to better penetrate the constant, chattering hum of the other patrons with her calling voice. “Can I please get one serve of tteokbokki and two bottles of soju?” Without turning to face him, her eyes slide to the side, meeting his own. “That’s only for me, by the way.”

Swiftly as possible. Right.

“I thought you were on a diet.”

“Yeah, I’m actually ‘Min Yoongi intolerant’ and the diet’s been working until, well, right now.”

“Ha! She says to the Min Yoongi who is paying for her meal,” he bites back sarcastically, though the words lack any poison.

At that, her mouth slowly seals shut, eyes narrowing at him in barely accepted defeat. Triumphantly, Yoongi smirks, and then calls out the same order to the little old lady. Within minutes, the steaming hot food and bottles of alcohol are being served to them, and Yoongi is reluctantly saying goodbye to the very few bills in his wallet. He takes a healthy swig of bitter soju to numb the pain.

“Calm down, cowboy. I don’t want to be dragging you back to campus,” she comments, skewering a piece of tteokbokki and blowing away the steam. Her pursed, plush lips glisten as they nibble at the stir-fried food. Yoongi takes another swig to spite her and to distract himself from the tantalising view.

“The fact that you wouldn’t just leave me here to fend for myself is commendable,” he says, raising an eyebrow. He similarly picks at the food, while she realises what she has said with mild horror. “Besides, you were the one who ordered two bottles first. Who’s to say that I won’t be dragging your ass back to campus?”

“I’ve come to terms with the fact that I can somewhat stomach your presence when I’m tipsy,” she clarifies. “And that’s as far as I’ll be going tonight. The last time I got drunk, I woke up in your bed without a single memory of what happened the night before. Pervert.”

Yoongi blinks, completely ignoring her last comment. “You can drink two whole bottles of soju and only be tipsy?” He ungraciously shoves two pieces of steaming tteokbokki into his mouth, stuffing them into his cheeks so he can continue speaking. “I always thought you’d be a lightweight. Yet here you are, proving me wrong.”

“And I always thought you’d grow out of being a pain in my ass, yet here you are,” she sighs, taking a swig of alcohol to try and conceal the tender smile that crawls at the corners of her lips. But Yoongi is too hyperaware of every slight shift in her expression to miss it.

“Admit it, I’m a pain that you can’t live without,” Yoongi says, staring right at her. He can see in her curious eyes that she senses the underlying venom. Yet, instead of acting on it, she rests the rim of her already refilled glass against her lower lip.

“I’m not giving you that glory, Min Yoongi,” she says, though it is practically an admission in itself. She knocks back the soju, and Yoongi follows in suit. Two souls numbing an agony that is still too unbearable to even whisper.

Their voices momentarily subdue and they focus on eating their servings of tteokbokki. Yoongi feels a little ridiculous to be so thrilled about doing something as mundane as eating with her, especially now that the conversation has dialled down to nothing more than chewing and sipping. Every so often, he will glance up at her as he mindlessly brings his chopsticks to his lips with more food pinched between them. Behind her, the orange canvas trembles with each caress of the wind outside. The buttery glow of the tent lights, the eye-watering haze from the food cooking in an enclosed space—they smear the outline of her, turning her into a nebulous, dreamlike being that slowly, silently eats.

Maybe the alcohol is contributing to the warming of his insides and the softening of his muscles like sun-touched clay, but he knows deep in his gut that it is mainly because of her. This sensation is no foreign entity; it never has been. It is as familiar as her eyes, watching him with misplaced contempt.

Yoongi, in a somewhat morbid sense, finds it ironic that the one thing they loved the most—the ice—ended up wrenching them apart, like the strength of a current upon a ship in savage seas.

With the ice on his mind, Yoongi cuts through the silence with a question. Akin to her, he is on his second bottle of soju, and so his words slip from his tongue like liquid. “Are you nervous for your competition?”

Her own voice drizzles honey-like from her lips. “I mean, of course. Who isn’t nervous about them?” She leans her elbow on the table and rests her cheek against her palm, blinking slowly. Brave eyes are set on his face. A hopeless war stirs chaos inside of his heart. “But I’m confident and free-skating is my forte, so I know I’ll do good, at the very least. My only issue is that Seokjin wants me to execute a quad-Salchow, which has only ever been done by Miki Ando in like, 2002. It’s a guaranteed ticket to the 2022 Winter Olympics. But if I fuck it up, I probably won’t get the spot. I don’t know why he’s insisting I do such a risky move, even though I’m coming pretty close to landing it, now.”

Yoongi’s brow pinches. “Four rotations? Wasn’t that Seokjin’s gold medal move?”

Her brows raise in bewilderment as she grabs for her soju bottle. “How did you know that?”

“Namjoon, of course,” Yoongi grins, and she hastily looks away, suddenly focusing on pouring her nth glass of alcohol. He decides to not call her out on it; the idea of her being flustered over his smile is something he wants to savour. “Anyways, I’m sure you’ll land it and the crowd will go fucking crazy because you’re the second woman to complete the move. You’ll do it again in 2022 for the whole world to see, and then you’ll become an icon in the history of figure-skating.”

Carefully, she sips from her glass, gaze focused on the wet ring of condensation that the cold bottle has left on the plastic-covered table. “Do you really mean that?”

“Well, you’re not called the Ice Princess just because you’re an asshole.”

She does not say thank you. But her glassy eyes, in the fleeting second that they meet his own before she tips the last of the liquid down her throat, are brimming with foreign appreciation.

After making a satisfied exhalation and wiping her mouth against the back of her hand, she says, “When’s your semi-final game? And before you ask how I know, it’s because your team never shuts up about in the cafeteria. I hope you realise I had to sit through five team chants while eating my beans this week, which made them taste even more awful than they already are.”

Yoongi gets sheepish about that, rubbing his thighs with his palms. “Yeah, they like to amp themselves up when a game is near. It’s tomorrow afternoon.”

The way her eyes bulge is comical, and Yoongi has to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing. “What?! Shouldn’t you be practicing?! And you’re even drinking, what the hell!”

He shrugs. “I don’t like the other rinks on campus. That’s why I looked pissed off about the broken-down Zamboni, if you noticed.” He knows she noticed—he had clearly seen the victorious smirk on her lips when he had stormed out of the rink. “Namjoon always advises against practicing the night before a game, anyway. There’s nothing worse than having to deal with last-minute injuries, especially for any of the prelim rounds. As for drinking–” He polishes off his soju for emphasis, sealing it with a grin– “I wasn’t about to let you outshine my alcohol tolerance. If we lose tomorrow because of my shitty performance, I can at least blame it on you.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” she deadpans, though the corner of her mouth trembles with barely suppressed humour. Blaming each other for their own mistakes is something they have always done best.

Yet Yoongi, strung in this limbo between tipsy and drunk, wants to lean across the table and taste her swallowed laughter on his own lips. To be fair, she would probably slap him. Surely, she would.

Right?

Yoongi chews his desire and gulps it down. Instead of taking her face between his palms and kissing her until his tongue knows the precise shape of her lips again, he says, “You should come watch us play.”

“Don’t push your luck, Yoongi,” she says, and he smothers the small flame of hope that had unknowingly lit up inside of him. After checking the hour on her horribly cracked phone screen, she sighs. “Are you done eating? It’s getting late.”

“Yeah, let’s go.” Though as she begins to stand up from her seat, Yoongi stops her, eyes still lingering on the shattered glass that is lightning-like. “Wait, I just had an idea. To prove to the coaches that we hung out…”

When she endearingly tilts her head to the side like a curious puppy, Yoongi forces himself to not jump across the table and connect their mouths. He points at her phone on the table and continues on. “We could… take a selfie?”

He knows he sounds ridiculously unsure, but it is only because he is certain she will shut him down as quick as she did with the game-watching offer. So Yoongi is more than surprised when, after a silent pause of her chewing her lip and frowning at her phone, she shrugs. Though her nose is wrinkled with what appears to be mild displeasure.

“Uh– Yeah. Okay. Fine, yeah,” she rambles, sitting back down and pushing her hair away from her face. “But we’ll have to take it on your phone. My front-facing camera has a crack through it and it distorts the photos.”

“Oh, so that’s why you haven’t been posting any selfies to Instagram lately,” Yoongi mutters under his breath as he grabs his own phone and stands up.

“What?”

“What? Scoot over.”

Grudgingly, she obliges, pushing her seat back from the table to make room. Yoongi pulls the third, unused stool out from underneath the table, places it next to her own and sits on it. This close, her floral-scented deodorant lingers lightly in the air, and Yoongi subconsciously takes a deep inhale as he opens up the Snow camera app.

“Can’t we do it without a filter?” she says with a tinge of vexation, peering at his unblemished screen as he swipes through the different face-filters. “Hurry up.”

“Do you really think you look pretty without filters?” Yoongi lies through his teeth, and she socks him hard in the bicep for it. Her fist might be small, but her knuckles manage to dig into a weak point of his muscle, making him groan.

Knowing him, he will dote on the bruise she has made until it turns yellow as a durian.

“Fucking hell, ___,” he still grunts, finally deciding on a filter with a press of his thumb. He lifts his hand before their faces. “Here we– Hey, you’re going to have to lean in so the filter recognises you.”

“What even is the–” She cuts herself off mid-sentence when she leans a little closer and the filter attaches itself to her face, matching Yoongi. He is full-blown grinning by this stage, juxtaposing the way she frowns and presses her lips together, as if she is trying to not laugh. “Fucking heart crowns? Are you serious?”

“We’ve got to be convincing,” Yoongi says with an air of nonchalance. He cannot stop staring at her through the screen, nor will his mouth cease curving at the cartoonish pink hearts that dance around her head. “Don’t you want to make it worth it?”

“Oh my god, shut up and take the damn photo.”

“Calm your ass down. Annnd… smile!”

She absolutely does not smile. Her death glare pierces through the camera lens with an intent to murder, yet it is terrifyingly cute when paired with the little crown of hearts and the soft, rosy tinge of the filter. Yoongi nudges her elbow with his own as a means of firm encouragement, though all he can manage to weasel out of her is a half-hearted tilt of her lips.

Still, he grins wide and genuine and presses the little white circle once, and then a few more times for good measure. The shutter sound rings above the sizzling of fried food and the continuous drone of chatter within the tent. Satisfied, Yoongi drops his hand and bends his head over the phone, entering the photo album and clicking the last of the six-or-so identical images. When the preview image expands to fill the screen, air becomes locked in his throat.

“Hey, let me see,” she mumbles, her silk-like voice nearing as she leans closer to view the device. Yoongi, without peeling his eyes away from the photo, tips the phone in her direction.

He hears the air suck between her teeth; a blackhole inhaling the stars. He knows that she sees it, and he wonders if it crushes her ribs like the blows of swinging fists.

While she does not smile at her utmost potential in the photo, the mirth lingers on her mouth and lightens her soju-sparkled eyes. Her head is tilted closer than Yoongi first realised—almost close enough to be pressed against his own; close enough that their individual heart crowns overlap. In the past, they had taken hundreds of photos in this precise position. The only difference is that there would be arms curled affectionately around necks, and their cheeks would be unabashedly flush against each other.

But staring at this image of them now, it is like a brutal documentation of their reality. It reminds him of everything they lost—of what they could of been, had that incident never occurred. Although  the image depicts her hovering close by, the blatant evasion of any physical contact is stark—a black smudge on an otherwise perfectly white canvas.

A deep, unsuspecting crack on the surface of an otherwise perfectly frozen lake.

Yoongi’s throat suddenly feels bruised and swollen.

“Can you send it to me?” she quietly asks, breaking the tension that has been steadily hardening in their chests. Newfound velvet wraps around her tone, softening the syllables. “S-So I can send it to Seokjin–”

She stops when Yoongi drags his eyes away from the photo for the first time since opening it, only to look at her and realise how near their faces have become to one another.

Yoongi knows that his expression must be twisted into one of remembrance—of pure tragedy. The photo unlocked a gate that he has kept under tight security ever since that day, and he feels each of those memories anew. A scarred wound that has opened again, riper than ever. This close, her sad eyes are swallowed with pity and spite and something else that he refuses to cultivate hope for.

It was only two weeks ago that he was this close to her, hidden between the shadows, sweetness on his tongue, red and blue lights dancing in a taunt on the walls. Yet, even now in a soberer state, he cannot decide where to rest his eyes—choosing to let them flicker between her nose, eyes, and the small opening of her parted lips. Not knowing when he will get to be this close to her again.

I’ve missed you, he remembers her whispering while she was dressed like an angel, submerged beneath a sea of intoxication. I’ve really missed you so much, Yoongi.

Yoongi’s eyes settle, at last, on her mouth. The flesh glimmers, plump and begging. He has no idea how many years it has been since he felt it melt into his own, all innocent and empathetic with young love. He can sense her testing him in the way that she does not move away—how the tip of her tongue snakes between her lips, wetting them in tantalising preparation.

But I can’t apologise, no matter how unbearable this has been.

Yoongi, in an effort more strenuous than he lets on, looks away. Though he cannot ignore the cold blade that carves her initials into his heart.

“Yeah. What’s your number?” Yoongi says the question as though he did not confess his undying love for her, solely through the look in his eyes. As though he was not about to kiss her with freshly harvested apologies and offer the bouquets of repentance with his tongue, tied at the thorn-ridden stems with urgent forgiveness.

Quieter than she had first asked, she rattles off the numbers and he presses at the keyboard with shaky fingertips. All the while, a tiny voice in the back of his mind makes him realise that he now has her phone number—something he has not had stored in his contacts since his old phone was wiped at least three years ago. He clicks the ‘send’ button, and her phone proceeds to vibrate in two quick pulses on the table. By the time she is reaching for the device to open the message and save the photo, Yoongi is standing and gathering up his parka, sliding his arms through the sleeves.

“Come on,” he says with a sigh, wedging his phone into his sweatpants pocket and slinging the strap of his sports bag over his shoulder. She, having been staring at her phone screen since he moved, suddenly snaps out of her silent daze and gathers her belongings.

The walk home, much alike to the walk there, is silent. Though rather than it being weighed down by her indignation and his stifled amusement, it is suffocated by unspoken confessions and dithering apologies. Yoongi cannot get the sight of her lips out of his mind, and he is somewhat glad that he no longer faces her, for the temptation of them being right before him like a forbidden fruit dangling from a low-hanging branch is too much.

He knew that cracking her open and digging through her bones for his vindication would not be a clean task. He knew that he would be up to his wrists in blood and the gore would tuck itself beneath his nails. He just never realised how completely in love with her he still is—that this vying for first place on who can hate the other the most was never about hate at all.

The part that eats at him the most is whether the feelings are requited. But, as always, she hides herself well behind her mask of ice.

After becoming used to the rhythm of their sneakers against the pavement, her shaky exhalation is like an air horn violating his hearing. Yoongi’s head snaps to the side, initially thinking that she is crying. Though when he sees that no silver stains her cheeks and her jaw quivers uncontrollably, he recognises the signs. A welcome familiarity amidst the foreign, yet oh-so familiar feelings they traverse.

“Your teeth are chattering.” Yoongi says, and she glances at him with a surprised jump of her shoulders. “Are you still prone to the cold?”

“N-No, I’m fine,” she bluntly insists, averting her eyes and continuing to stride ahead.

But Yoongi is faster, grabbing at her elbow and twirling her freezing—and now flustered—self around to face him again. “Nope. This won’t do.”

“D-Don’t be ridiculous,” she sputters, but Yoongi is not having it. He drops his bag to the sidewalk with a heavy clunk, shucks off his parka, and wraps it around her already padded shoulders and the sports bag at her hip. While he ties the sleeves at her chest to keep it in place, she keeps her conflicted glare on the ground.

“Warmer?” Yoongi asks with a forced, lopsided smile. The cold relentlessly attacks him through his thin sweater, digging its nails into his ribs and squeezing tight as he picks up his bag.

She wrinkles her nose and returns to her initial stride, though her teeth have stopped rattling like a loose doorknob. Yoongi, following after her, knows it is the only expression of thanks that he will receive. But he cannot find it in himself to mind, anymore.

By the time they have reached the campus accommodation, Yoongi’s muscles are frigid and his skin feels permanently raised in goosebumps. The silence between them has eased in its tension, yet he struggles to grasp the right words with his tongue when they reach the walkway in front of her dorm. Because really, what do you say after a night like this? It was never a date—a compromise, at best. He cannot kiss her on the cheek and wish her a good night. He cannot book another moment of meeting, as if there is something even close to friendship strung between them. He cannot tell her he will call her for coffee next weekend.

Thankfully, she saves him from his internal war-waging. Her hands come up to the tied sleeves, about to untangle them. “You can have this back,” she starts, but the words are lurching up Yoongi’s throat before he can stop them.

“Keep it,” he insists, fists clenching at his sides in an attempt to suppress the embarrassment that suddenly washes over his body. She stills, staring with uncertainty at him, especially now that he is slowly stepping backwards. “I… I mean return it, of course. When I see you next, yeah?”

Her brows are slashed downwards. “I don’t plan on–”

“Too bad!” Yoongi shrugs, now grinning like a thoroughbred lunatic at her utterly perplexed expression. Then, before he can fully comprehend the actions of his own body, he is turning on his heel and jogging down the path, calling over his shoulder, “See ya!”

If she says anything more, Yoongi does not hear it over the adrenaline rushing through his ears, the slapping of his sneakers against the pavement, and the rattling of his bag as it bounces against his ass. With his sudden spurt of energy, he runs from her dorm to the other side of the village, which, had he been walking, would have taken ten minutes. Though he finds himself slowing at the walkway to his own apartment within a record-breaking five minutes. His muscles burn with an aching heat, and the humiliation over his blatant corniness flares like a long-forgotten mosquito bite that he accidentally scratched.

“Oh my god,” Yoongi groans to himself, yanking open the already unlocked front door. His over-exerted limbs scream at him, and he knows that the prelim game tomorrow is going to be the epitome of Hell for his body. “I’m a whole fucking idiot. What the fuck.”

“I don’t need to know the context because I completely agree with you, nonetheless,” comes Taehyung’s voice from the opposite end of the entranceway. Yoongi looks up from kicking off his sneakers to find his housemate peering around the wall. There is a sly grin on his face, and the whites of his eyes are evidently stained with red, spidery webs.

Unsurprisingly, he is as high as the Lotte World Tower.

“Piss off,” Yoongi mutters, trudging past Taehyung and entering the living space. Jimin is nowhere to be seen, which is definitely a good thing. Dealing with one of his housemates is like trying to control five toddlers, as it is. “I don’t need your shit right now.”

“Ooh, somebody’s had their kimchi dipped in ghost pepper sauce,” Taehyung cackles, trailing after him in that tattered excuse for a kimono. Yoongi makes an immediate bee-line for his bedroom. “Why’re you lookin’ so flustered, huh? You smell like fast-food and alcohol. Weren’t you supposed to be training–”

Yoongi slams the door in Taehyung’s face and locks it. In the darkness of his room, he drags his feet across the small space, lets the strap of his bag slip off his shoulder and to the carpet, and then collapses with an agonised sigh on his bed. His muscles just about cry with relief. Though as quickly as they begin to unwind, they seize up at the memory of his random outburst—his sudden escape, leaving her with the sole means of having to see him again.

“What is my damn problem,” Yoongi mutters into his pillow, body deflating like a hot air balloon. “I practically forced it on her. She was going to refuse. Now she has to come and see me to give it back. God. What the hell. I hope she leaves it on our doorstep without knocking. I hope she gives it to Hoseok and he gives it to Jimin. Fuck.”

Yoongi slowly submerges himself into his own cesspool of self-loathing. Though the thoughts gradually mould into ones of observation, the subject unchanged. His mind, as always, remains to revolve around her like a moon orbiting its planet.

After tonight, Yoongi has realised that she is not the shell of a memory he has clung to for so long. He saw her in there, although she was hidden beneath layers upon layers. She peeked out every now and then in familiar mannerisms or ways of speech that alluded to long-forgotten fondness. Maybe, she did not realise the small slip-ups she made throughout the night; her tipsy carelessness let the layers peel back and fall to her feet like a rose wilting its petals. But the knowledge that not all is lost is enough to comfort Yoongi for the time being. It holds enough importance for him to linger.

Because he knows that he saw the hint of forgiveness in her eyes—still struggling to make it to her lips.

Perhaps, he thinks sleepily, eyes drooping closed, we’ll make it there one day.

You have been awake for a whole two hours, though you have not yet detached yourself from your bed. Despite it is nearing 1PM, you have remained cocooned in your doona the entire 120 minutes (give or take), reclined on your back with your head dangling off the edge of the mattress. You are certain that all of your blood has drained from your limbs and pooled within your skull, if the prickle-like, pins-and-needles sensation across your forehead and scalp is anything to go by. Nevertheless, you lay like a corpse and unwaveringly stare across the room at the foreign item within your quarters.

Yoongi’s parka.

The black swathe of puffy material is slung over the back of your desk chair, unsuspecting as a vase of flowers. In spite of its seemingly ordinary presence, you watch it from your upside-down position like an owl eyeing off its prey, as if the piece of clothing is a mouse that is going to flee if you dare look away. All the while, you continue to mentally flick through the scrapbook of your memories from last night; meticulously reading through the pages, all smudged by the lingering effects of two soju bottles.

(Okay, so maybe you were slightly lying when you said that two soju bottles only got you tipsy. By the time you had left the pojangmacha, you were certainly sitting more on the one-more-drink-and-I’m-dead-fucking-drunk end of the spectrum.)

But you keep finding yourself stuck on a particular scene, repetitively turning back to inspect the finer details of it. In the image, the Devil’s tragic face is a breath away from your own and his molten eyes are drinking up your features like cold water on a searing summer’s day. And while your sight was softly smeared like gouache at the borders, you are certain that his midnight gaze lingered longer than appropriate on the shape of your lips. You are absolutely sure that he was restraining himself; double-checking the titanium locks on his desire to ensure it would not break free—that he would not dive into your mouth with his own and remind you that he tastes like blackcurrants and first loves.

“Jesus on a Razor scooter,” you exhale, eyes still on the parka. Your face burns like a pot on a stove, and something small and deep inside of you whispers that it is not because of your body’s blood supply gathering in your head. “What am I doing? Why am I even thinking about him? I… I hate him. Yeah. I hate him.”

That little something—in a place within you that you refuse to reach—laughs with lungs full of incredulity, as if to say: Silly girl!

It is then that your intimate staring contest with the jacket is cleaved by Minah suddenly barging through the door. She looks as though she has just woken up herself, if the struck-by-lightning hairstyle is anything to go by. “Rise and sh– Oh, you’re… What the hell are you doing? Your forehead veins are bulging like John Cena trying to piss with a urethra infection.”

“That’s… a very unique way of putting it,” you say from your position, rather perplexed. “John Cena? Of all people?”

“Haven’t you seen his forehead veins when he wrestles?”

“I– No? Have I ever exhibited any interest in John-goddamn-Cena over the past three years of our friendship?”

Something flits across her face; a flash of discomfort that is not founded on the fact that you do not keep up to date with professional wrestlers. Something that screams: Well, I know less about you than I first thought. Who knows what other secrets you harbour.

But it dissolves quicker than medicine in water. Like a bandaid on a bleeding scratch, Minah plasters a grin on her lips and seats herself beside you. “Touché. Anyways, where were you last night? I woke up to the sound of you emitting a continuous, soft scream and slamming all the doors in the flat, so I have a feeling you weren’t at the stadium.”

“Oh, shit, sorry. I thought you were staying at Hobi’s place,” you feebly apologise, lethargically rolling onto your stomach and taking your precious time to sit up. Your body feels light as a meringue as all the blood rushes out of your head and back into your limbs. “But yes, I was… out. At a pojangmacha.”

“Drinking without me? Rude,” Minah says, tugging at a corner of the doona after she notices you struggling to be freed from its confines. You mutter a small thanks when it effectively loosens the material’s bind on your body. “Since you didn’t rat me out to Seokjin after my Shark Week binge, I’ll be merciful to you and your alcohol-abused liver.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” you bite with every inch of sarcasm you can muster.

“Damn right I’m your Queen,” Minah asserts, and you roll your eyes. A sly smirk inches its way onto her lips and she jabs her thumb at your desk. “So, I’m guessing you went out with whoever owns that parka?”

You freeze mid-stretch. A thousand and one excuses charge through your head like an off-course train—your usual knee-jerk reaction to lie. And while your gut screams at you to oil the hinges of your defence and heave that bulletproof gate shut on the truth, your heart urges you to reconsider. After all, Minah is your best friend. She deserves a Royal wedding buffet over the stale breadcrumbs you have always thrown her to keep her hunger at the bare minimum of satisfied.

You can feel her eyes on your skin as you slide your own back to the jacket. The face of its owner—bright and mischievously determined—looms at the forefront of your mind when you bluntly state around a mouthful of thorns, “It belongs to Min Yoongi.”

Silence hangs like a fog over your bedroom. You do not dare to sever your gaze with the jacket and meet Minah’s stare. A year ago, you would have said it was because you wanted to upkeep your meticulously cared-for facade of strength. Yet now, you not straying your eyes to your best friend is completely and utterly due to you being terrified of witnessing her reaction up close—the range of emotions that must be stretching and shaping her dainty features like dough.

For this reason, your heart lurches in surprise when Minah grabs your shoulders, forcing you to face her near-manic grin as she giddily shrieks, “Are you pulling my dick right now, ___?! Because I swear to our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, I will shatter each of your knuckles with a hammer while you’re sleeping if you’re lying to me!”

Dumbfounded, you blink at her. “N-No, I'm serious! Please don't do that, what the fuck–"

"Oh my god. What. This is... insane! The two of you have hardly spoken since we started at KNSU a whole three years ago. Yet, in the past fortnight alone, you've slept over at his goddamn dorm and skipped training to go on a drinking date with him?!"

"Would you just calm down for a sec–"

"Are you sure you're the real ___?" Minah urgently asks, hands coming to your cheeks and squishing them like putty. Her eyes are round as dinner plates. "Has a ghost possessed you? Am I going to have to take you to a shaman? You know, like in that Jo Jungsuk K-drama where he's a chef–"

"I'm not possessed, Minah!" you finally snap, recovering from the shock that her unexpected reaction thrust upon your body. You bat her palms away from your face. "Christ, you jump to conclusions like you jump on dicks."

"Hey, don't shit on my enthusiasm," she snickers, hands falling to her lap. "Seriously, though. What's gotten into you? Has Yoongi black-mailed you into becoming friends again? Do I have to kick his succulent, Channing Tatum replica ass?”

You sigh, picking sleep-crust out of the corner of your eye. “Well, not exactly… it’s complicated. The coaches want us to move on from the past, but it’s not that easy.”

From there, you explain the incident with the Zamboni and you striking a deal with the Devil in order to get back into Seokjin’s good graces. You let the information flow out of you in a stream of truth, only retaining the part where your faces were separated by an exhalation and Yoongi’s eyes were sinkholes, set on consuming you. Nevertheless, your stomach feels less congested by the time you have finished speaking, and Minah seems pleased enough with what you have shared, if her bemused yet thrilled expression is anything to appraise.

“This is fucking wild,” Minah oh-so eloquently summarises. “Hey, can I see the photo?”

“Must you?” you groan, reaching for your phone on the bedside table nonetheless. A low-battery signal pops up when you unlock it, and you silently admonish Past You for prioritising a low-key panic attack over remembering to put the device on charge last night. “The lighting was pretty bad in the tent, so you can’t see much,” you pitch as a final attempt to get Minah to lose interest in the photo, though you know it is hopeless. She snatches your phone once you open up the message in which Yoongi sent it.

“Oh my god, the filter,” she immediately giggles, pinching at the screen and zooming in. Your cheeks are uncomfortably warm, sleepy features screwed up like a cat just passed gas on your lap. “Wow, you look like you’re one more photo away from giving him a vasectomy.”

“I was,” you partly bluff, chewing at the inside of your cheek and leaning closer to see the screen without the light of your window reflecting on it. Minah zooms the image out again so that the entire thing is visible, and a soft, heart-shaped lump wriggles up your throat.

“Dare I risk you snapping off the blades of my skates when I say this,” Minah begins, her gaze adhesive as glue on the device. “But you guys actually look… kind of cute together?”

You snort, ignoring the way your face feels as though it has been dunked in boiling water. “If you think so, why’re you saying it like a question?”

“Because the skates weren’t cheap, and thus, suggesting an element of uncertainty with my own statement might give them a chance at surviving your wrath.”

“Am I really such a heartless monster in your eyes?” you say with a pointed glare, seizing your phone from her grasp. Minah now stares directly at you, and the humorous quiver of her lip is unmistakable.

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

You smack her over the back of her head with your pillow, to which she yells in protest.

“Oh, you bitch!” she cries, though it is said through a cheek-splitting grin. She leaps off the bed to evade your second sweep with the pillow, which narrowly misses her side. From a safe distance, she says, “Wait, since Yoongi texted you that pic, that means you’ve got his number now! Are you going to message him so you can meet up and give his jacket back?”

To be honest, you did not even think of that—the fact that you now have a means of directly contacting your nemesis. “Uh, no. I think you’re forgetting that I still hate his guts,” you claim, though the words sting like nettle leaves on the tip of your tongue. “If he wants it, he can come and get it.”

Minah smirks like an evil witch. “He can come and get it, huh? Are you talking about the parka or are you talking about yourself now–” She, with the reflexes of a jaguar, catches the flung pillow before it can strike her face. She hugs it to her chest and laughs while you glower at her with faux loathing. “Well, hear me out on this,” she starts, raising her finger in a gesture of silence when you go to speak again. Mildly disgruntled, you bite down on your tongue. “I’m going to be driving to the off-campus stadium in approximately two hours to pick up Hobi. If you want, you can join me. Yoongi will be there for the prelim game and it should be over, if not close to that by the time we get there, so you can give his parka back. The match starts at 2PM.”

As much as you would love to spend the rest of your afternoon becoming a single organism with your bed, Minah undoubtedly presents a prime opportunity for you to be rid of the jacket. You make a contemplative hum, flipping your phone over and over in your hand as you chew on the offer, even though you are certain from the get-go that you are going to accept it. Your hesitation is more due to you knowing that your best friend will give you a whole lot of shit for the next handful of hours if you are to accept without a hint of regard.

“I know you’re stalling because you think I’ll give you shit,” Minah—apparently a fucking mind-reader—interjects, tossing your pillow back onto the bed and making her way to the door.

You cease fiddling with your phone and gaze impassively at her. “What makes you think that?”

She turns and leans against the doorjamb, arms crossed. “___, I’m your best friend, which basically means I’m your mother. I know everything about you, your mannerisms, and your expressions.” Then, her final comment is spoken with a raise of her brow, “Also, you’re wearing the kind of dumb smile that one does when they think about Labrador puppies. Be ready in 40 minutes, okay?”

Immediately, as Minah departs with a wicked cackle, you smack your hand against your mouth, realising that yes, indeed, your lips are goofily curved in a stupid smile. Groaning into your palm, you tip backwards onto the mattress and gather yourself into the foetal position. God, what is getting into me? Now I’m subconsciously smiling at the thought of Yoongi? What the ever-lasting fuck.

“He must be Voldemort,” you reason, giving the stink-eye to the guiltless parka and hoping that it somehow channels through to its satanic owner. “He must’ve cursed me as a method of torture. That’s the only reasonable excuse.”

If Minah had of heard you, she would have sighed and said: Really? The only reasonable excuse? Are you that blind to your own feelings? But Minah did not hear you, and thus, your totally unreasonable justification as to why you are experiencing even the thinnest sliver of pleasantness towards Min Yoongi is safe with you and his jacket.

Once you have surpassed your dramatic moment and put your phone on charge, you shower the remaining listlessness from your skin and throw on a dark grey hoodie and black skinny jeans. Assessing your attire in the mirror, you definitely look like the reincarnation of your 13-year-old emo phase, but that is exactly what you are wanting—to look as inconspicuous at the stadium as you can humanly muster. With the jacket under your arm, you meet Minah—who is still unnecessarily enthusiastic about the entire situation—in the living room and head out to the car.

And while Justin Timberlake has always lifted your spirits, you find that throughout the 20 minute drive to the stadium, you cannot even bring yourself to sing along to SexyBack. Instead, you cling to the parka on your lap as if it is the only thing keeping you rooted in place, and internally blame the way that your stomach swirls like a blended milkshake on a peculiar case of car sickness.

“Have you even breathed in the past half hour?” Minah questions once you have reached the location, striding into the stadium’s foyer. A hint of genuine concern turns her lips down. “Really, you look like you’re about to pass out. Do you want me to give the jacket to him?”

“N-No,” you stammer, instantly feeling heat gather at the nape of your neck over the way your voice trembles like a harp string. You cough, clearing your throat. “I think I might be a little hungover from last night, is all.”

“Okay.” Minah draws the word out, her tone blatantly conveying that she is unconvinced. Before she can say anything further, her phone pings and she slows her walk to a standstill, checking the notification. “Hobi says the game finished ten minutes ago, but he’s with Jimin and Wonwoo in front of the change rooms. Let’s head there.”

Although she does not say it aloud, the mischievous twitch of her near-smirking lips says, Yoongi should be there, too, loud and clear as a billboard promoting a sex shop. A little reluctantly, akin to the feeling you have right before you rip off a bandaid even though you know it is not going to hurt as bad as you think, you nod and follow her. Dodging around the crowd that is slowly spilling out of the arena exits.

By the look of some familiar KNSU faces and the exuberant commotion that they make, the KNSU team must be the ones going to the finals. A small sense of pride blossoms in your chest. Not for Yoongi’s sake, but for the representation of your university at a game that will put them up as potential contenders for the next Winter Olympics. If they are successful in the final and get the placement for 2022, they will become South Korea’s youngest ice hockey team in the country’s entire Winter Olympics history. They will be renown by the future generations for decades. It is difficult to not feel thrilled for them, as much as they annoy you in the cafeteria.

Yet, betraying your initial thought, a tiny space within your chest fills with warmth over Yoongi’s triumph in particular. He is a defenseman, so you know he would not have scored the winning goal or anything of the like. But as the captain of the team, having a large role in assisting his coach with planning the gameplay techniques, you can imagine how exhilarated he must be at the moment—chanting the KNSU anthem with his teammates; a tad breathless from being squashed beneath the pile of their bodies on the rink in a typical ice-hockey-style victory hug; still charged from the adrenaline of the game. He is probably calling his parents in the locker rooms right now to let them know of the successful game. Wait, oh shit, unless–

“___, is that you?” announces a perplexed voice, simultaneous with a hand tentatively resting on your shoulder, halting your forward motion.

In an instant, it feels like all of the blood has been sucked out of your body, and you are now no more than a sagging sack of meat with weak, jiggling knees. When you lift your head, it is to see a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair. His skin is wrinkled around the corners of his hesitantly smiling mouth.

A spitting image of Yoongi in 20 years time, except a head-and-a-half taller.

Sweet fucking Mary riding a mechanical bull.

“Mr. Min,” you almost gasp, hand reflexively tightening around the smooth fabric of the parka. “Hello! Sorry, you startled me! I should’ve guessed you would’ve been here for Yoongi’s preliminary game–”

“And what exactly are you doing here?”

The nasally, sneering voice comes from around Mr. Min’s elbow, belonging to the side of the family that Yoongi gets his shorter stature from. His mother’s crow-like, narrowed eyes peer at you with an obvious glint of contempt. Even when you and Yoongi were friends, she was never necessarily fond of you. Mrs. Min tolerated you, if you must call it anything. She thought you were nothing more than an unneeded distraction for Yoongi, and he scorned her for it, which certainly did not assist her skewed perception of you.

To her, the accident must have been a blessing in disguise.

“Honey, she’s here to support her university’s team. You know that.” Mr. Min casts a firm glance at his wife, who merely sniffs and continues to critically dissect your perturbed features. Then, with a smile that has a softer curve to it, he says, “Look at you; you’re all grown up! I almost didn’t recognise you, but your outfit is identical to the one that you would always wear during the, er, teenage phase that you went through with Yoongi.” He laughs and tenderly shakes his head, all the while you curse Emo Phase Past You for essentially getting you in this predicament.

Unsure of how to behave—especially with Mrs. Min glowering at you like you are the bird shit that just landed on her blouse—you settle with a deferential, thin-lipped tilt of your lips. “It’s been a few years, yes.”

You hope that the Min’s sense the vibes of discomfort rolling off your being, taper the conversation there, and go on their merry way. But Mr. Min, always the courteous man, continues to ask, “How are your parents? I haven’t managed to see them since the summertime.”

It is then that Minah politely clears her throat, prompting you to remember that she was leading the way to the change rooms, which are now no more than a few metres down the nearby corridor. You give her a small, reassuring smile with a look of firm insistence, to which she immediately catches on and, with a nod and a raise of her eyebrows, continues to walk away without you. Squaring your shoulders, you return your attention to the Min’s and say, “My parents are well, thank you. I wasn’t aware you were still in touch?”

You bite your lip to refrain from adding on: Since after the incident.

“Well, your father and I try to catch up for a drink every few months.” Mr. Min chuckles good-naturedly. Mrs. Min remains silent, wearing an expression of one who has just caught a whiff of expired canned tuna. “We’ve know each other since we were studying, after all.”

“Exactly, how else would you’ve met our darling son?” Mrs. Min bitterly mutters, not quite underneath her breath; intentionally loud enough for you to hear. The urge to scream at her rises high in your throat, and the smile on Mr. Min’s face slips away like water on a plate. He inhales deeply through his nose, turning to berate his wife.

“___? You came?”

The baffled exclamation of your name comes from your left, and you immediately whip your head to the side to face its owner. Yoongi is still in his red-and-black hockey gear; the safety pads underneath his jersey fill out his shoulders and chest, narrowing down at his waist like an arrowhead; the battered helmet is held by the cage with his gloveless fingers, allowing you to experience the full-force of his post-game appearance. His onyx hair is mussed and sticking up with sweat; his eyes are wide and bright, the pupils still slightly dilated with adrenaline; his skin glows a faint shade of salmon from the freezing rink and his exertion; his cold-cracked lips are creamy and plump, liberally coated in lip-balm.

Yoongi looks more a sportsman in this moment than he ever has.

Yoongi looks… fuck.

“I-I just got here,” you stutter, and it is only when your brain restarts in order to formulate a sensical sentence that you notice the bewilderment that traces his features—the panic that steadily fills his eyes. He looks down at your hand which clutches his jacket, lips slowly parting in realisation.

But Mrs. Min is suddenly bursting forth, beaming and reaching for him, nearly knocking you aside in the process. “Yoongi, sweetie! Congratulations–”

“Excuse us a second,” Yoongi bluntly cuts her off, grabbing your elbow and practically dragging you and your stumbling feet to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the foyer. You are too dumbfounded by the entire situation to shake his hand off or fire a few insults at him over his manhandling, though his hand ceases contact the moment he finds a spot that is not swamped by departing spectators.

At a loss for words, all you can do is stand and stare at him, quietly uttering, “Um.”

“Are… are you okay?” Yoongi tentatively questions, still looking a little shell-shocked. His eyes momentarily flit over your shoulder, in the direction of his parents, before they return to your painfully astounded expression.

Yoongi asking about your wellbeing makes something viciously blossom around your heart, and you grit your teeth as though the roots are situated between your molars and you have a chance at ceasing their growth. You shift your gaze to his nose when the genuine look of benevolence in his eyes only fertilises the feeling.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” You almost say: I see your mother is still a nasty bitch, though you work the affronting statement into, “I didn’t expect to see your parents here.”

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Yoongi comments with a raise of his brow, and you cannot help but quirk your lips at that. His gaze strays to his parka, still bunched up in your grasp. “If you only just got here, did you come to drop this off? I mean, thanks, but–”

“Do you really think I’d go out of my way to give your jacket back?” you snark, but the words come out a whole lot less savage than you were intending. Nevertheless, you pass it to Yoongi and let your hand fall to your side, fingers aching a fraction from how tightly you were clinging to the material. “Minah was coming here to collect Hoseok; it was nothing more than a convenient opportunity. After all, I didn’t think you’d come and get it yourself after you literally ran away from me last night. Do you do that after your dates, too?”

Yoongi, looking like you just lifted your hoodie and flashed him your bra, coughs. “Uh, I don’t date.”

“Unsurprising. I don’t know anyone who’d want to,” you tease with a teaspoonful of salt in your tone, but you only realise what you have said when Yoongi’s eyes flash like lightning. Your heart just about punches right through your ribcage as the horror dawns on you like a summer storm—out of the blue, yet in an instant.

“You did, remember?” Yoongi taunts, wearing a grin coloured by melancholy.

You want to wipe it off his face. With your hand; with your mouth—you cannot decide. After everything that has occurred over the past day, chipping away at you like a hammer and chisel on marble, you have been reduced to a state of vulnerability that you have not experienced in years. You have become a knight stripped of his armour and sword in the middle of the fight, with nothing but his fists and his willpower left to protect him.

But you cannot find the strength within you to throw a punch.

Yoongi seems to notice this when you do not immediately fire back with a scathing remark. The curve of his mouth straightens and he quickly backtracks. “Sorry, that was out of line,” he says, and you are stunned that he even apologised for the jibe. “Anyways, thanks for bringing this along. I should, uh, get back to my parents. But before I go, the usual frat will be hosting a party for the team’s win tonight. You should come.”

Grateful that the subject has shifted before it could fully develop, you fiddle with the strings of your hoodie, a hint of amusement tinting your expression. “They were that confident you guys would win?”

Yoongi’s grin returns. His eyes crinkle like his father’s. “Oh no, it was either going to be a winner’s celebration or a pity party. All we knew was that getting drunk was going to be on tonight’s schedule, no matter the outcome.”

“Well, if that isn’t the spirit of KNSU in a nutshell,” you chuckle. His grin grows impossibly wider and your heart does the ridiculous punch-through-muscle-and-bone thud again. A fierce urge to slap your chest in order to scold the traitorous vessel momentarily overcomes you. “Is it cool if I bring Minah and Hoseok?”

The smile falters. “Uh, only Hoseok.”

“Wow. I can’t believe everyone thinks that our rivalry is bad.”

“I’m kidding. She only hates me because you do,” Yoongi shrugs as he begins to circle around you. “I have to go. But I’ll maybe see you tonight?”

“Keyword: maybe,” you state with a smirk, rotating on the spot to watch him go. Yoongi nods and lifts the hand that holds his parka in a half-hearted salute, heading towards his parents. Though he only manages a few paces before you are realising what you have not said, which imminently leads to you clenching your fists and calling out, “Hey!”

Yoongi stops and turns back around, quizzically observing the immediate regret that contorts your features. Especially since—to your complete horror—a few KNSU students have come to notice the interaction occurring between you and Yoongi. The infamous foes who would once not dare be seen in the same room together. Heat spills into your cheeks, and despite the small audience, you inhale deep enough to consciously sense your lungs shrivelling up like dried grapes before they are expanding once more, releasing your voice.

“Congratulations on the win,” you say at a much lower notch than your initial shout—loud enough for him to hear you, though not at a volume where the distant spectators can precisely make out the words. “Your team has done KNSU proud.”

Yoongi’s expression shifts. The thinly veiled amusement melts into something akin to when one has an epiphany; a cocktail of sincerity and fulfilment, garnished with the shimmer of elation that softens his eyes. Although it must last no more than a few seconds, it seems as though the moment has been taken hold of at its ends and stretched out like taffy. Yoongi stares at you like the past five years never occurred and you, with your hummingbird heart, wonder what that could possibly mean. And in this prolonged time where your enemy exudes forgiveness in tidal waves, you are almost tempted to let the current sweep you under, too.

But a fist of ignorance keeps you standing by the fingers it curls around your throat, and Yoongi must see the bruise marks it leaves on your flesh. Because then, without a word, he twists around and continues to walk away.

Anger does not strike a match on your bones and light up your insides. Rather, your spine is stroked by a warm hand of serenity, and the strength to bat it away evades you. Leached from your limbs like a receding shoreline, as if Yoongi’s physical being is drawing the vigour out of your soul with every step that he takes.

From the corner of your eye, you see Minah and Hoseok approaching with quick strides. As they near, they glance between you and Yoongi, who has now returned to his parents. Once she is close enough, your best friend slings her arm around your shoulders in a manner that is more colluding than consoling, and turns you to face the windows instead of the thinning crowd.

“Were they Yoongi’s parents?” Minah hisses, looking over her shoulder to where the Min family is standing. “Oh, they’re already gone. His mum sounded like she had her head up her own ass.”

“What? What’s going on?” Hoseok asks, leaning close, hands on his hips with his brows pinched. “Why are you two always hogging the tea from me?”

You sigh, though it comes out as more of a groan. Your limbs still feel filled with air after the way that Yoongi looked at you, like he was one bad decision away from gathering you in his arms. “Yes, they were. And no, we’re not, Hobi. There’s nothing to discuss, alright?”

“I don’t believe you, you’re being shady as hell lately,” Hoseok says with a nonchalant shrug. The tips of your ears burn like smelting ores, extracting the irritation from a small nook within you and igniting it into a vivid sensation. “First, you stay at Yoongi’s overnight. Then, not even a few minutes ago, I saw you have a whole conversation with not only his parents, but with him, with my own two eyes!”

In your periphery, Minah bites her lip. Clearly torn about whether she should keep your confidences locked behind her teeth, or cease holding back the truth from Hoseok. But this is not her issue to deal with; it is your own. Thus, you shift her arm off your shoulders and breathe in, ready to exhale your defence.

“You’re overthinking it, Hoseok. I already told you that Yoongi and I used to be best friends, which is why I talked with his parents. Yoongi was merely putting up a good front for them when he talked with me; they still don’t know about the severity our fight. They think that we’re still friends.” Now that you have hastily dressed the wound, you cover it with protective plaster by steering the topic towards something more favourable. “Anyways, all he said was to tell you two that you’re invited to the celebration tonight. The frat is throwing a winner’s party for them. And no, he didn’t invite me, but I’m still coming, of-fucking-course.”

“A party?! Aw shit,” Minah excitedly exclaims, leaping on the new subject like a determined puppy, and you are beyond grateful. She looks to the ceiling, hands held up in prayer against her chest. “Coach Kim, I’m sorry that I’m going to break the rules of my diet. But it’s for a good cause, I promise.”

“As long as we can still fit into our dresses, he won’t notice a thing,” you laugh, linking your arm through her own. The both of you stray your eyes to Hoseok, who has remained silent and is still vaguely looking like his cereal has been pissed in. Your grin of encouragement slowly widens. “Are you going to come, Hobi?”

“It’s not like he has a choice,” Minah pitches in, matching the size of your smile and innocently batting her lashes at him. Hoseok’s expression does not budge an inch. Well, until she adds, “After all, didn’t your fuckbu– I mean, very good friend Wonwoo already invite you?”

Suffice to say, Hoseok’s cheeks ripen into a shade of fresh cherries and you, oblivious to this budding romance, amiably accuse him of withholding information from you, too. From there, it only takes you and Minah teasingly getting up in his face about Wonwoo—a combination of poking at his ribs while making offensive, lewd sounds—for his lips to finally split into a bashful beam, the details of his recent hook-ups with Wonwoo imminently gushing out. The three of you leave the stadium and head to a salad bar for a late lunch in good spirits, and you are finally distracted enough to put your torn emotions about Yoongi on the back-burner of your befuddled thoughts.

Until the evening, that is.

Normally, your drunken selves are more than happy to take the half-hour walk to the frat house a little ways off the campus. But now that the winter is truly beginning to settle in on this side of the hemisphere, your trio makes the wise choice of splurging on a luxurious method of transportation for once—an Uber. This not only gets you there 20 minutes faster, but it comes with a solid heater system that fogs up the car windows like morning mist on a river.

Not that the three of you notice, of course. You and Hoseok are too busy dealing with Minah, seated between you, who perhaps took this night of free-rein a tad too far, considering she consumed almost half a bottle of Russian Standard at the pregame in your dorm.

“Swallow it, you little shit!” you desperately urge, hand wrapped around the lower half of Minah’s face. While you are certainly not as drunk as she, your vowels have attained a noticeably slurred quality. “We’re turning down the street now! Only a few more seconds ’til we’re there!”

“If she throws up in this fucking Uber, I’m going to throw up,” Hoseok warns, nearly just as drunk after losing a game of beer pong against you. He holds Minah’s handbag open underneath her chin, in case you forcing her to keep her vomit down happens to fail. “I’m serious, ___. I’ll paint the fucking car with my power-puke.”

Minah tries to speak, but her voice is muffled against your palm, which impulsively presses tighter on her mouth. You glare daggers at Hoseok from across the backseat. Yet, considering that you can hardly see his paling expression in the dimness of the Uber, you are positive that he cannot see you looking at him like he has a death wish.

“Pull yourself together, Hobi!” you snap, having no desire to pay for a clean-up fee, and knowing that neither of your broke-as-hell-student-life friends can afford it, either. It is then that, to your immense relief, you feel the car slow to a stop, and the Uber driver, perceptibly panic-sweating, announces that you are at the destination. “Oh thank god. And thank you for the ride, kind sir. Minah? I’m letting go to open the door, but I promise I will throw your $300 Lush collection into the trash if you projectile spew before I can get you out.”

With that said, and with what sounds like an affirmative grunt from Minah, you use your free hand to unbuckle the both of you. (Hoseok, the unhelpful asshole, departed the car the instant the driver put it into neutral.) Then, you are hastily snatching away the hand on her mouth and grabbing the handle, yanking the car door open and stumbling out into the street with your best friend—thankfully—close on your heels, handbag under her arm. Immediately, she staggers across the pathway and bends over the frat’s neighbouring front lawn.

“At least you’ll still fit into your competition dress because you’re throwing up lunch, dinner and pregame,” you call out to her as you slam the Uber door shut, giving the driver a jolly wave as he speeds out of the street, probably signing off for the night after that traumatising experience. You turn to face the drunken mess and, luckily for her, you are the only two out on the street. Hoseok left the scene so fast that he most likely has Wonwoo’s dick down his throat already. “Are you really gonna let Jimin see you like this?”

“Shut uuup,” Minah whines, and you are empathetic enough to walk over and hold her hair away from her face. She would do it for you, if the roles were reversed. Minah takes a series of loud, deep breaths, though not even a glob of spit comes out onto the grass. She stays in her hands-on-knees position for an instant longer before she is standing, nonchalantly shrugging and looping her handbag strap over her shoulder. “Nah, I’m good. Told you guys that I get motion sickness.”

Your eye twitches. “I could kill you in your sleep, y’know?” you threaten with a smile, sharp as a sword’s edge. Minah simply gives you a knowing look, which directly translates into: Try me, bitch. “No, really, I could. Especially since I had to change after you spilled the Kremlin’s drink-of-choice all over my first outfit.”

“That was merely a misfortunate event, my sweet pal,” Minah hums, patting the top of your head like you are a misunderstanding preschooler. “But this outfit is cuter, so who cares.”

“I’m wearing a turtleneck sweater to a frat party,” you deadpan, pinching the coffee-coloured collar for emphasis and narrowing your eyes at her infinitely more party-appropriate silver, silky camisole.

“But it’s cropped, and you’re wearing your Ass Jeans,” Minah giggles and begins to walk towards the party, winking and planting a firm smack on your behind as she goes, which is admittedly shaped magnificently by the black denim. “I wouldn’t lie to you. All the better to seduce Yoongi, amiright.”

Like an elbow to the gut, the remembrance of Yoongi being no more than a handful of metres away from you—of him being the one to even invite you in the first place—forces the air out of your chest in a rush. Your stomach flutters like it is filled with moth wings and your palms grow damp as stones on a lake’s edge. The sheer knowledge of all this is enough to keep you from feeling the chill of the air—eager heat licks at your body like flames consuming kindling, burning up your skin from the inside and boiling away your intoxication. The sweater and jeans suddenly feel too hot; you are suddenly too conscious of the situation to deal with this.

“Oh come one, I was only joking. Wait, woah, you okay?” Minah, back at your side, rests her hand on your bicep. She looks as though she wants to ask something else, but instead, she says, “Have you come down with something? You look like you did at the stadium today. We can go home if you want–”

“No no, I’m fine,” you insist, coercing an assured smile onto your lips. “Just had a wave of nausea. Probably from all that vomit-talk in the Uber. Alternatively, it could’ve been you just putting the disgustingly vivid image of seducing the Devil in my head.”

“Or it could’ve been the five Pineapple Malibus that you drank at home,” Minah suggests, smirking and raising her eyebrows. You huff and roll your eyes, to which she laughs and wraps her arm around your waist. “Come on, pumpkin. Let’s get smashed and regret it in the morning.”

Shoving your nerves into a box and storing it in the back of your mind, you exhale the jitters and grin at your best friend. “God, Coach is going to break our ankles for this,” you say, stretching your arm out to rest your hand on her hip and beginning to walk towards the party.

Minah whoops with delight. “Onwards to our shattered bones!”

The house is trembling with energy as the pair of you approach. Trap music spills from the open windows into the front yard, where only a smattering of sobering partygoers wait for their Ubers or flatmates to pick them up. The front door lays open like an arm swept out in welcome, and the steam of the celebrating, clustered bodies within the purple-and-green-lit frat house immediately sticks to your skin upon entering.

Minah and yourself huddle into a corner by the stairs, and you survey the crowd for the missing member of your trio while she rapidly taps away at her phone. Neither Hoseok nor Wonwoo are in sight. In fact, you cannot see Jimin, his strange flatmate Taehyung, or any of the other ice hockey team members in the thrumming living space. Peculiar, considering this party is for them and you assumed they would all be dancing the night away.

I wonder where Yoongi is, you quietly muse to yourself, though you hurriedly bury the thought and reprimand your treacherous mind. Shut up, idiot. Stop thinking about him.

Then, Minah is leaning into your ear, yelling loud enough to nearly pop your eardrum. “I’m going to go pee! But Jimin just texted to say he’s in the backyard, if you wanna go hang with him for a moment!”

“Cool, I’ll get us drinks and text you where I’m at!” you shout with a thumbs-up and she nods, planting a sticky, raspberry lipgloss kiss on your cheek before scampering away to the bathroom.

You begin to weave through the crowd, still buzzed enough on your last few drinks to sway your hips to the beat and pause to dance with some of your classmates as you go. By the time you have passed through the mass, you are grinning like a fool and feeling slightly sweatier than you were before, but the endorphins charging through your brain like a happiness drug have you feeling too high to give a damn. Ahead, the fluorescent white light of the kitchen entryway spills into the low, pearly illumination of the living-space-come-dance-floor, and your tread towards it becomes steadfast, knowing that a treasure trove of alcohol and mixers awaits you within.

But what you do not expect is to find Yoongi in there, too.

You do not see him straight away; the transition from darkness to blinding light makes you flinch, eyes squinting in an effort to adjust. It definitely does not help that your vision is still somewhat hazy from your earlier Pineapple Malibus consumption, either. Though the blurred, watery edges of the kitchen gradually come to form solid shapes. At first, your gaze zones in on the island bench, overwhelmed by a plethora of glinting liquor bottles and red cups. But it is only once your eyes focus on what you were searching for that you finally notice the movement in the background—the girl cornering the boy into the counter, her supple, tangerine lips pressed in a feverish caress against the rosiness of his own.

The rosiness that you used to kiss.

“I…” you unconsciously say aloud, only realising when the girl jumps back from Yoongi as if his lips are suddenly buzzing with static electricity. His half-lidded, confused stare drags from the girl to the interruption, and when he realises it is none other than you, his cloudy eyes seem to clear, growing wide as moons. The connection of his gaze with your own is what seems to kickstart your heart, and your frozen tongue follows in its stead. “Woah. Didn’t mean to… Woah. Bye.”

It feels as though your soul detaches from your being when you quickly walk out of the kitchen, observing from above as your numbed body pushes its way back through the crowd. Calmly to begin with, though increasing in its haste once the front door becomes visible. You watch yourself charge into the front yard, and it is not until you have reached the walkway, separating the lawn from the road, that your soul seems to catapult back into your chest, bringing a torrent of emotions with it.

Yoongi was kissing another girl. But that is fine. That is completely okay. I hate Yoongi. I utterly despise him for what he did to me—for ruining my chances at a younger start as an Olympian. He destroyed everything I worked so hard for. I hate him. I hate him. I… do I?

You are halfway down the street when you hear your name be called out from the shadows. And while you know deep down that you should keep walking without looking back, the soles of your feet disobey, cementing you to the ground. It is as if you have become a marionette and a higher being is controlling your movements, pulling at your strings to turn you around and be faced with the last person you wish to see.

Slowing his jog to a walk, Yoongi looks like he did out the front of the stadium on the night you went to the pojangmacha. Windswept, red-cheeked, breathing hard. Except his mischievous eyes have been replaced with ones of deep-rooted sorrow and the cheeky smile is weighed down at the corners. Now, standing no more than a stride away, you can see that an apology is perched on the bow of his swollen lip, trembling and unsure.

But… an apology for what? He has done many things wrong. Yet, on this evening that took a wrong turn somewhere down the road, he did nothing that requires him to express remorse. You hold no claim over Yoongi, and neither does he with you. Yoongi looks like he knows this, and perhaps this is why the repentance clings to his mouth and refuses to be shaped into words. He did nothing wrong.

So why do your cheeks feel kissed by the cold, streaked wet and filling the corners of your lips with the taste of the ocean?

“Don’t go,” Yoongi finally murmurs, hand hovering next to your elbow as though he wishes to grab it—to keep you by his side. But the world is suddenly cracking beneath your feet and dropping you into a dark pit, sucking you back into the past.

“Don’t go!” Yoongi calls out, voice thick with desperation. Since you are physically incapable of escaping fast enough, he circles around your frame with ease and blocks your path. His expression is wild; a storm of rage and love and urgency. “Please, ___. I’m so sorry. Please. We can still be friends, can’t we? I’m–”

“Get out of my way, Yoongi,” you mutter from between your gritted teeth, staring over his shoulder and at the end of the empty high school hallway. But he continues to gripe, eyes glowing and frantic, the pleas falling like pennies from his lips. It is only when he goes to grab at your shoulders that you shriek, “Don’t fucking touch me!”

Everything is sucked from his expression in that instant, as though a higher being has plucked his soul right out of his body. He stares at you with a look of terrifying blankness, like he does not know you—like he never knew you.

And you are fine with that. It is exactly the way you want it to be. You want Yoongi to forget all about you, because you have already erased everything about him from your heart.

Yoongi seems to recognise something in your expression, for his hand drops limply to his side. And as grateful as you are that he is not burdening you with his insistence, you almost wish that he would grab your wrists and pull you close and tell you that what you saw was nothing.

That the two of you, after all these years of competing against each other in this game of spite, could still be something.

Yet, with your chest aching for the wrong reasons, you give him a final, regretful look before you turn on your heel and continue down the pathway. Yoongi does not follow you with desperation defining his tread. Yoongi does not scream out your name and beg for you to come back as if it is the last time he will ever see you. The cold night is all that grabs at your skin with its icy teeth and whistles in your ear with its freezing wind.

Deep down, tucked within a crevice of your heart that you are reluctantly—at long last—admitting exists, you wish the winter evening that embraces you as you stride further away from the party was Yoongi instead.

When Yoongi wakes up on Monday, a shadow-like something lurks at the back of his mind. A dark smudge that exudes discomposure, as if it is anticipating a horrible thing to occur. And while he savours his final moments in bed before he must get ready, it gradually creeps into his stomach and stirs the sleep-heavy contents with its inky fists, making Yoongi feel woozy and uncertain.

Foolishly, he passes it off as an after-effect of drinking twice over the weekend and the fact that it is a Monday, which is always the hardest day of training. Now that the KNSU team is in the final, Namjoon is bound to make it ten times as gruelling. Though, in hindsight, Yoongi should have known better to seize the tenebrous warning by its tail, made up a half-assed excuse to his coach, and stayed home. But did he? Absolutely not.

Yoongi knows bad things happen in threes. Monday delivers the first bad thing in the locker rooms, and the second right on his doorstep.

Number one happens after the 8AM training session, though Yoongi feels it bubbling thick and pungent like tar throughout the whole four hours. While the strenuous training grates his resilience like a block of cheese until it is nothing more than a weary nub, his uncertainty grows like a poisonous weed from Kim Yugyeom. They have never been on good terms. But there is something about the way in which the younger player watches him the entire time they are on the ice, like a prowling panther, that puts Yoongi on edge.

Thus, once the training finally comes to its end near midday, Yoongi is grateful. Not only because he can now go home and melt his muscles beneath a hot stream of water, but also since he no longer has to deal with Yugyeom eating him alive through his intense stare.

When he enters the lockers, the first thing he notices is that the men’s speed skating team is already in there, preparing to use the rink. Then, he realises that half of them are gathered around a grinning Yugyeom, cackling amongst themselves and leaning in to get a better look at whatever he holds up on his phone. Walking straight to his locker, taking out his sports bag and placing his skates inside, Yoongi decides to not engage with their little party, especially after the nasty smirks that his teammate was sending him throughout training. But the universe has apparently put a bounty on him, offering a million-dollar reward to whoever can get him to snap the quickest.

“Oi, Min!” Yugyeom vociferates, which causes the surrounding speed skaters to snicker. Yoongi clenches his teeth and ignores them, yanking away his jersey and protective gear, shoving them into the bag. But Yugyeom refuses to let up. “I know you’re listening, Min Yoongi. Now, tell us, how’s her pussy?”

Yoongi freezes for an infinitesimal moment, as if spontaneously paralysed, and then he reaches into the locker, pulling out his hoodie. No, there is no way he would be talking about her. He would not be so dumb to talk shit about her after last time. It must be about that girl from the luge team.

Attempting to appear as unfazed as possible, he pulls the soft material over his head and says, “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Aw c’mon, I know you do, Min!” Yugyeom jibes in a honey-coated tone. Yoongi does not turn to face him as he packs away the rest of his belongings, though his hyperaware senses can pinpoint the exact movements of Yugyeom’s casual approach. “I can’t believe you two hid it from us for so long. Pretending to hate each other when you were secretly getting it on behind our backs. Look, is this when you had a little lovers’ spat?”

Yoongi knows he should let Yugyeom’s sneering fall on deaf ears and walk away. There is no use in fuelling this fire because it will only serve to burn him down. Yet, despite his internal negation, Yoongi’s perfidious eyes twitch to the side to see the phone screen that Yugyeom holds out towards him. And there, in effulgent LED, Yoongi sees a zoomed photo of a girl—of her—standing in a doorway, taken through one of the kitchen windows at the frat house.

Her expression is twisted into one of desolation; eyebrows bent like longbows; eyes glassy with tears; mouth hanging open in a soulless shape. The sight strikes Yoongi like it did when he saw it in the flesh, slicing right through his chest and hunting for his heart.

The whole locker room is silent.

Yugyeom takes Yoongi’s seething silence as some sort of sick permission to continue. “So, does our Ice Princess like it gentle or rough? I bet it’s like hate-fucking. All wild and kinky and shit. Does she cry like this and call you ‘daddy’ when you stick it in her, too–”

“I would shut the fuck up right now, if I were you,” Yoongi mutters, turning his head enough to murderously glare at a still grinning Yugyeom through his bangs.

“Ooh, what’cha gonna do, big guy?” Yugyeom barks a sharp, nasty laugh and straightens his spine. He towers a head taller than Yoongi, not that it will make any difference if he continues to talk shit. “Are you gonna slap me like you slap her ass while she’s snivelling about how much she loves you on your tiny cock–”

Yoongi has never punched a person, but he would consider his first to not be so bad. The second lands much better against Yugyeom’s cheekbone, and Yoongi cannot tell if it is his own knuckles or his teammate’s bones that crunch. By the third swing, he feels like he is getting the hang of it, and he distantly finds it somewhat amusing that Yugyeom, for all the bullshit he was just spouting, is practically a bag of flour beneath Yoongi’s fist. But before he can manage a fourth, there are short but strong arms curling under his armpits and yanking him back, off of Yugyeom who now slides down the side of the lockers with a crimson-soaked mouth.

Then, the blood rushing through his ears ceases to impair his hearing, and the enraged shouting booms against his ear drums at full volume. “That’s enough!” Namjoon roars, standing between Yoongi and Yugyeom. While Yoongi does not fight the arms that keep him locked down, they do not lessen the strength of their hold. He only realises it is Jimin when the familiar voice of his flatmate mutters into his ear, telling him to settle down.

“You’re both fucking lucky that I can’t afford to bench either of you for the final,” Namjoon barks, staring hard between Yoongi and Yugyeom. Almost everyone flinches at the threat—it only serves to hit home how furious he is over the situation. Then, Namjoon’s eyes settle on Yoongi, and Yoongi truly understands the phrase if looks could kill in this moment. “Go home. Don’t come back tomorrow.”

Jimin, after a brief second of hesitation, drops his arms. Without a word and with his eyes on the ground, Yoongi calmly slings the strap of his sports bag over his shoulder, leaves the change rooms without an utterance of defence, and runs back to the dorm. It is not until he is reaching for the front door’s handle that he notices the vibrant red caked on his swelling fist, and he winces and hisses as his knuckles scream in protest at the way he curls them around the metal. He figures that he can tend to his wounds later, and instead heads straight for the shower, set on scalding his skin of the anger still clogging his pores and the abuse that Yugyeom spewed all over him.

It is late in the afternoon by the time that the second bad thing materialises at the front door in three loud thumps, as if the person is knocking with their closed fist.

His own has now been sanitised and bandaged by Taehyung, who soon after left the dorm in a bright purple tracksuit. Yoongi, as always, did not question it. Jimin has not yet come home, and Yoongi is somewhat glad, considering he needs at least another hour of downtime before he has to exhaust an explanation about why what happened, happened. Though Yoongi wonders if it is, in fact, Jimin at the door. He could have forgotten to take his house-key to training, and Taehyung could have possibly locked the door behind him as he left, which would be a first. It is definitely more common to find the door unlocked than locked—he is genuinely shocked that their flat has not yet been raided by thieves; it would be an easy entry and an even more effortless escape.

So when Yoongi opens the door with an expectation of seeing Jimin, or potentially, a delivery man, the air is knocked out of him when he is faced with her. She wears an expression that is carefully sculpted to be as smooth as a still sea, and he cannot tell for the life of him whether she is here on good or bad terms.

Nonetheless, Yoongi blinks, surprised, and says, “Hey, what’s up–”

“What the hell are you doing?”

Although her features barely shift, her tone strikes like a cobra, sinking its fangs deep. Yoongi’s eyebrows raise underneath his fringe as her venom bleeds into his veins. While he knows deep down what warrants her sudden visit, he is shocked that she would come all the way to his doorstep about it instead of blatantly ignoring him, as usual.

“Is this about the night at the frat?” he says, crossing his arms and flinching when his bruised knuckles tuck into his elbow. “Look, I don’t know what you want me to–”

“Are you really that fucking idiotic, Yoongi?” she snaps, expression cracking with a fracture of scarcely composed rage. Yoongi is suddenly taken aback, and he truly thinks that he must be what she claims he is when she lifts her hand and points at his bandaged fist. “This is about that and the fact that you beat half the shit out of Yugyeom because of me.”

Yoongi’s mouth hangs slack, stunned speechless. He cannot comprehend why she is so outraged over him defending her, and that is all he can think to say. “I– I don’t understand why you’re going off like this when I was literally defending you because that bastard was making those disgusting comments!”

“That’s exactly it, Yoongi. When did I ever ask you to start standing up for me, considering you’ve hated me until the past month?” she bites, eyes flashing like a lightning storm. “Why the hell are you doing this? Why are you acting like we’re suddenly… something when that’s clearly not in your interests?”

“Not in my interests?” Yoongi scoffs, the candlelight of anger within him steadily growing. “You know that I’ve wanted to move on and heal all this time when you’ve been the one stuck in the damn past, not allowing that to happen! I should be the one saying that us being anything is not in your interests because it certainly hasn’t been until recently, too. Don’t be so fucking hypocritical!”

Now, the indignation is painted as clear as blue skies on her face. “Oh piss off, asshole. You’re the one playing cat-and-mouse with me!” she yells, fists clenching at her sides, taking a step closer so she can stare right up into his face and he can see the finer details of her fury. “For the fucking coaches, is that really what this was? You actually wanted to be friends again? And yet you were sucking face with that girl on Saturday night after inviting me to the party?”

Yoongi cannot help the vicious grin that rips at his cheeks over her statement. He knows he is being nasty, but really, she fell into the trap with such grace. “Oh, and since when do friends kiss, doll? Huh?”

If Yoongi had of blinked, he would have missed the way that the anger washed out of her face for a split second, replaced by a look of genuine confoundedness. But he sees that gleaming surprise flicker in all of its momentary agony before the hostility returns with renewed strength.

“That’s– Don’t twist my words! What I’m trying to get through your stupid, marble-sized brain is that one minute you’re kissing other girls and saying that this thing between us is only to keep our coaches happy, and the next, you’re out there acting like you’re my fucking boyfriend! Like… like you think you have some kind of right to put your career on the line over me because of who, fucking Yugyeom of all people? Yugyeom, who we all know talks shit and has always done his very best to get on your last nerve? So don’t you dare turn this around on me when you’ve not only been the one trying to kiss my ass and pretend that I hold some kind of importance to you, but you’ve then been turning around and using that as an excuse to fuck with your future!”

Yoongi knows she has a point, that her words come from a place of honesty within her. But he has years of anger festering around his lungs, finally rupturing and oozing into his every word like a disease. Unstoppable. He latches his teeth onto the only bit of meat that she has left tender enough to shred apart.

“What I do with my future is my decision! Why do you even care if I fuck it up for myself? I thought you would be happy to see me come crashing down after what happened. Eye for an eye; tooth for a tooth, right?”

She visibly bristles—shoulders hunching up to her ears; spine curling. He cannot tell if it is due to his accusations or because he blatantly ignored the tougher parts of what she initially said. The portions that he refused to chew. “I don’t care. I just can’t live peacefully because you’re constantly wriggling your way into my life in one way or another—this is merely a prime example! And now it’s come to a point where you’re sending me mixed signals and fucking around with my feelings like it’s some kind of sick game! What did I ever do to you, other than despise you, to deserve this, Yoongi? Really, what did I fucking do to you?”

“Are you really that thick in the head that you think your feelings for me are returning because I’ve somehow manipulated you into liking me again?!” Yoongi is roaring, but he could not care. He wants the clouds in the sky to hear him and compress his words into a storm, drowning her in the torrential rain. “Does it really kill you so much to admit that hey, perhaps we never fell out of love?!”

Her eyes shine, wet with rage and frustration. “You’re delusional if you think I still give two shits about you!”

“Go on then, say it,” Yoongi snarks, and he feels hot to the touch, like he would release steam if he were to have a bucket of water dumped on him. “Say that you don’t love me anymore. Say that you stopped loving me when it all went to shit five years ago.”

He expects her to deny it straight away. Yet, under the pressure of his ferocious gaze, she simply stares over his shoulder, into the void of the entranceway, and keeps her mouth clamped shut. Her failure to speak is practically a profession of assent in itself, but Yoongi is not so sure, anymore. He exhales, harsh enough to disturb the hairs floating around her distressed expression.

“When are you going to stop blaming other people for every single thing that doesn’t go the way you want it to, ___? When are you going to realise that only you can control your own feelings? When are you going to see that some things just naturally happen, and nobody can be blamed for it?” Yoongi, without remorse, lunges for the jugular and begins to tear, tasting copper and salt and vivid scarlet. “When are you going to stop blaming me for that accident and apologise to me? I’ve said I’m sorry to you about something that was never my fault more times than I ever told you I love you.”

“Fuck you,” she immediately spits, beginning to twist on her heel and flee. The right one—the one that she is convinced he smashed to smithereens with his bare hands.

But not before Yoongi slams the door in her face with enough force to shatter his heart.

Note | If you haven’t already noticed, I’ve decided to split the finale into two parts. This will enable me to get content posted for you guys much faster and it’ll be a weight off of my shoulders!! As you can see by the word count, it was getting pretty darn long sdfghs. Also, the ending was very scrappily edited, so if it’s bad, just know that I’m going to go through it again on Monday.

Anyways, prepare for the finale to be posted sometime over the next few weeks!! In the meantime, I’d love to know all of your thoughts on their relationship and what you think happened in their past!! ♡

All Rights Reserved © Vankoya. No translations, reposting and/or modifying of the material is allowed without my direct permission.

[elizaviento]

An ask, you said? If you want to do this or not, it is fine. Do what you are inspired to do. My request is: Rick and you are out to dinner, you know, for once, and the waiter mistakes your table with another and he serves a glass of champagne with an engagement ring in it and Rick goes into full-on panic!

Oh my, this was so much fun to write!  I really hope it meets your expectations!

Surf & Turf

(Rick Sanchez x Reader)

SFW – 2100 words.  Some suggestive language.

*****

When Rick asked if I wanted to go out to dinner that evening, I groaned in protest.  It’s not that I don’t like going out to dinner.  I like to eat just as much as the next girl.  No, my objection was that Rick’s chosen venue was always the same, no exceptions.

“Rick, I really don’t want to go to Shoney’s again.  There are only so many bottomless cups of coffee I can drink and cherry tomatoes I can eat from the salad bar.”

“There you go, making assumptions.  And – and you know what the say about assumptions.  Something in – a dick up your ass or whatever.”

“That’s not the saying and you know it,” I replied, slipping my shoes on.  If he had plans for another restaurant, he didn’t mention it.  He only shuffled me into the ship and whizzed off into the night.

On the way there, I busied myself on my phone, playing mindless games.  So, I was a bit surprised when we landed in a parking lot that didn’t contain the large glowing Shoney’s sign.  In fact, this place looked fancy – much too fancy for our current attire.

“What are we doing here?” I asked as he smirked at me from the driver’s seat.

“Dinner, duh.”  He then exited the ship and began walking toward the entrance.  I sighed and did the same.  

“We aren’t dressed properly for a place like this, Rick.  I really wish you’d have told me.”

“Who – who gives a shit,” he said, pulling open the large wooden door.  He actually held it open for me instead of immediately walking in himself.  I eyed him warily and stepped inside.  

Just as I had predicted, nearly everyone in the dimly lit restaurant was in either business or formal attire.  I felt my cheeks heat up when the maître d’ fixed us with a pointed look of distaste.

“Can I help you?” he asked in the most dismissive tone he could muster.

“Yeah –” Rick replied, walking straight up to the podium and pressing his face only inches from the  maître d’s, “– reservation for Sanchez.”  He then craned his head down and jabbed his finger on the reservation book next to his name.  

He’d made a reservation?  Now I was not only utterly confused, but further annoyed that he hadn’t warned me.

“Ah, yes.  Table for two.  Right this way.”

As we followed the maître d’ through the maze of tables, I couldn’t help but notice all of the couples who appeared to be on romantic dates – many of them holding hands and looking lovingly into each other’s eyes.  I mentally scoffed at their vulgar displays, having never been the touchy-feely type, especially in public.  Again, I wondered why Rick had picked this particular restaurant, my suspicion mounting.

“Here we are.  Your waiter will be with you shortly,” the maître d’ explained with a flourish of his hands before pulling out my chair and then bowing to leave.  Rick narrowed his eyes as he walked away.

“I-I-I think that guy was checkin’ out your tits,” Rick said loudly, pulling his own chair out to plop down gracelessly.  I hid my eyes in humiliation as I slowly sat and scooted myself up to the table.    

“Get what – whatever you want, babe.  I just sold – unloaded shit ton of weapons to my arms dealer.”

Picking up the menu, my eyes bugged out of my skull when I saw the exorbitant prices.  What the hell was going on here?

“Rick, the cheapest thing on the menu is $50 and it’s an appetizer!” I whisper screamed at him from across the table.  He just smirked at me and opened his own menu to peruse the options.  Something was definitely up.  Well, then – I’d bite.  I’d bite hard.

When our waiter finally arrived, Rick unceremoniously cut him off as he began to recite the daily specials.

“Uh, none of that.  I-I-I’ll have the surf and turf.  Rare, lots – lots of butter.”

“You mean the six ounce filet mignon and the Maine lobster tail?” the waiter inquired.

“Yeah – yeah whatever,” Rick answered with a dismissive wave of his hand.

When the waiter turned to me, I said, “I’ll have the same.  Medium rare.  And, could we also get a bottle of the ‘89 Pinot Noir?”

The waiter’s eyes went as wide as saucers when he realized that this poorly dressed couple would end up being his best tip of the evening.

“Yes, yes, of course Madame!”

As the waiter left, I fixed my gaze on Rick with a self satisfied smirk.  However, to my ire, he wasn’t the least bit fazed.  I had just ordered a $250 bottle of wine and Rick was casually inspecting his fingernails.

“Are you trying to get laid or something?” I asked, crossing my arms.  

“Baby, I’m allllways tryin’ to get laid,” he said, wiggling his unibrow suggestively.  I couldn’t help but snicker.  Sometimes he was too cute for his own good.

As the evening rolled on, Rick and I stuffed ourselves silly and drank the entire bottle of wine.  I had half expected him to stop the waiter from uncorking the vintage bottle at the last second, but he only told him to fill his glass up to the rim.  And, of course, he made me order dessert – chocolate pudding for each of us.

“This was great, Rick,” I said with a giggle, the wine already going to my head.  “Thank you.”

“You know I-I-I do expect to get laid, though, right?” he asked, squeezing my knee under the table.  I jumped in my seat with a squeak, causing the other restaurant guests around us to flick their eyes in our direction.

“Hmmm,” I hummed in response, toeing one of my slip on tennis shoes off and discreetly lifting my foot up his chair to rest against his crotch.  Now it was his turn to jump, his eyes wide.  

“Fuck, you – you’re such a naughty girl.  I’m gonna eat you alive,” he growled, grinding his growing erection against my foot.  I felt a thrill shoot through my body and settle deep down in my cunt in anticipation.  “Where’s the fuckin’ check?” he all but shouted, scanning the dark room for our waiter.  

However, instead of the check, the waiter gracefully strolled up with two glasses of champagne resting on a silver platter.

“Compliments of the house,” the waiter said, smiling wide at the both of us.

“Um, okay…” I hedged, reaching for a glass.  But, before my hand could close around the one closest to me on the platter, the waiter stopped me to turn the platter around in his hands so that the other glass was within my reach.

“Excuse me, Madame,” he said with a nervous chuckle.  I furrowed my brow but took the other glass nonetheless.

“What the – hell, I – I won’t turn down free booze,” Rick said, snatching the remaining glass.  The waiter gave us both one more wide smile before bowing and leaving us be.

“What do you think that was about?” I asked, nodding my head in the direction of the waiter.

“Who cares?  I bet I can drink this faster – before you can drink yours,” Rick said, raising the glass to his lips.  

“Oh, you’re so on!” I said, doing the same.  “We go on three.  One… two…” and then I rose my glass and took an enormous gulp, downing half.

“Oh, you cheatin’ bitch!” Rick exclaimed before trying to catch up.  Of course, he still won, having years of speed drinking practice under his belt.  I closed my eyes and started to grin around the glass as I tried to finish the rest in one more gulp, feeling it dribble down the side of my mouth.  And, as soon as I felt the last bit slide down my throat, I also felt something else – something solid – slide down as well, and lodge there.

I was choking.  I couldn’t breathe and I was trying frantically to cough with no result.  Instinctively, my hands flew to my neck, my nails clawing at my throat.

“What the fuck?” I heard Rick say from what felt like far away.  

“Oh my god, she’s choking!” one of the other restaurant guests yelled, pointing at me.  I had screwed my eyes shut while attempting to draw a breath but snapped them open just as Rick jumped from his seat and ran around the table to get to me.  

Forcefully, he pulled me up and began giving me the Heimlich maneuver, grunting in my ear as he literally lifted me from the ground with each forceful press to my abdomen.  After the third press, I felt the offending object fly from my throat and out of my mouth to land with a small clink on the table.  As I sucked in a hard breath and coughed, the waiter ran up with a worried look on his face.  

“Oh my!  Oh, Madame, I am so sorry!  This is the first time I’ve delivered an engagement ring and thought the champagne would be romantic!”

“WHAT!!!” Rick screamed, nearly falling over.

I took in the exchange before me as I continued to violently cough, convinced that I hadn’t heard what I thought I’d heard.

“What the fuck?  Engagement ring?” I choked out, looking at Rick with pure horror coloring my features.  I glanced at the table and, sure enough – a diamond ring.  I started to laugh.  Hard.

“This is some kind of joke, right?”  I coughed again, shaking my head.  “You got that from a bubble gum machine, didn’t you?”

Rick’s face was frozen in terror, like he’d literally seen a ghost.  I laughed again.

“No, seriously.  Rick?  You’re fucking with me!” I said, starting to get worried.  Was this for real?

Rick held up his hands, shaking his head.  “No.  No, no, no.”

I did a double take between him and the ring before speaking again.  “Rick, um, yeah… I’m not ready for that right now.  Or, like, ever.”  

“NO!” Rick shouted.  “Neither – neither am I – fuck! – NO!  What the FUCK?!”

“Um, hi.  Excuse me.”  A young man appearing to be in his early twenties approached the table, waving meekly.  “I think that’s mine,” he clarified, pointing toward the diamond ring still resting on the table.  

“Oh my god!  Thank GOD!” I sighed with relief, sagging back into my chair. Rick still appeared horrified but stumbled back over to his chair to do the same.

The waiter continued to apologize profusely to the young man whose ring he misdelivered as his girlfriend sobbed at their table over her ruined perfect proposal.  Rick and I remained silent until our check was finally arrived.  Pulling his wallet from his lab coat, he shoved $500 in the check folder and motioned for me to get up.  

When we entered the ship, he sat there with his hands wrapped around the steering wheel but didn’t start the ignition.  

“Everything okay?” I asked, placing my hand on his knee.  He looked over at me with an expression that suggested that he’d forgotten I was even there.

“Yeah.  Uh, why did you lose it – freak out so much?” he asked.

“Are you serious?  I almost choked to death on a diamond ring!” I laughed, hoping it would lighten the mood.

“The idea – t-t-the thought is really so horrible?”  I knew what he was referring to and suddenly felt guilty.

“Rick, stop.  You and I both know we aren’t marriage material.  What we have going now is fine – it’s great!  Marriage though?  Besides, you weren’t exactly cool as a cucumber yourself,” I pointed out.

He just narrowed his eyes and finally started the ignition.  As he lifted us from the ground and steadied the junkie craft in the air, he continued –

“It’s our – our anniversary, you know.  Of when we – of the first time we fucked.”

I turned my head toward him with a look of awe.  He had actually remembered that?  I hadn’t…

“So, that’s what this dinner was about?  Your attempt at romance?”

“Shut up” he said, pulling his flask to take a swig.  “I-I-I still expect to get laid.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s fair.”

The End.

[allthephils]

Repose

Chapter 11

Rating M  word count: 2036/ 32497 so far

Read on Ao3

As the day wound down, no one came. The next day, Phil wondered if Dennis would show. He wondered if he’d ever be allowed back there. Dennis did come though and the day proceeded as usual, with no interruptions. Still, as Phil wandered the room, watering the plants, a knot of nervous energy grew in his stomach. He’d grown fond of his strange new normal, but any minute, it could all be taken from him. He could lose this little home away from home. He’d put energy in to this, he’d put love into it, and it hurt to think of walking away. He still assumed Dan would wake up but now he wasn’t sure he’d be here to see it. Then there was a small dark corner of his mind that questioned his own assumptions. The curse could be real. It absolutely could be and Phil may be the only answer for Dan. His feelings were complicated enough without this responsibility. Add fear to that and he ached for Dan, in a way that he hadn’t in years.

He didn’t know what to make of it. He paced the room, quieter than he had ever been, trying to remember the last 5 years. They’d been full of accomplishments and memories but it all seemed to fade to the background.

He inventoried his romantic history, trying to make sense of the magnitude of emotion he was experiencing now. Online dating never yielded more than one or two dates. There had been hook-ups, nothing to write home about, mostly with people he met at industry parties. There had been the time he ran into Jimmy at the garden center. It was just a few weeks after the break up and Jimmy was familiar and pretty and kind. He’d invited Phil to see his new place and one thing led to another. Phil had cried in Jimmy’s arms afterward. Of course, Jimmy was lovely and understanding but Phil had been so mortified, he never called him after that.

Then there were the relationships. Michael was a friend of Phil’s manager. He was beautiful, funny, confident, and he adored Phil from the start. He loved him with an intensity Phil just couldn’t match, however hard he tried. Phil ended it after a year, telling Michael he deserved better. Michael didn’t agree. Breaking his heart put Phil off dating for a while. The next time was only last year. Phil had loved Sebastian, he really had. All his friends loved him too. He felt the relationship grow around him, watching Sebastian get comfortable and make plans. He just couldn’t see a future with him though. Phil’s family didn’t get it, it all seemed to be going so well. Even Louise didn’t understand but she was supportive anyway. The thing was Phil couldn’t really see himself with anyone. He broke it off after 8 months. It didn’t seem that unusual at the time. Now, here with Dan, he had to wonder if his inability to fall deeply in love was because his future was already written. Maybe he had never truly let go of Dan.

There was Dan and Phil at the start and there was Dan and Phil now. What came between felt out of focus. If you had asked him a couple weeks ago, he would have said that 5 years is a long time. Now it was a flash. Back then, he’d known that the depth of feeling between he and Dan was irrational for a relationship that lasted only months. He had believed in love though, with his whole being, and he trusted that these things are bigger that two people. He had believed they were meant to be. Now that everyone else agreed, he was frightened. This situation was manipulative. It had shaped and molded Phil’s heart and mind into something he recognized from all those years ago. He couldn’t be sure which pieces were genuine and which were nostalgia. He couldn’t be sure if what he felt was love or fear or if there was even a difference.

 That night he lay in bed, contemplating what he’d do if they told him he couldn’t come back. There had to be a way around this. He texted Louise. Hey Lou, sorry it’s so late. I’m scared Lou. Prince Walter definitely doesn’t want me there. I don’t know how much longer he’s going to let me come.

Louise answered immediately, of course. You know you can text me anytime Phil. That man is an absolute bell end. I’m with you. Let’s just take it day by day. Try to get some sleep love.

    “Hello?” What a strange thing, answering the phone.

A sigh came from the other end. “Hey.”

“Hey Dan. Everything ok?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to hear your voice.” He sounded exhausted.

Phil warmed at the sweet thought of Dan making an actual phone call to hear Phil talk.

“I’m really sorry I’ve been so busy. I may have bitten off more than I can chew. All these projects add up to a full-time job. I miss summer.” Dan said, glumly.

“That’s ok. I understand. Besides I saw you three days ago.” Phil really did miss him but this slower pace was probably a good thing. His heart had been rolling downhill, picking up speed, ever since that first wink. He was grateful for the time alone, to work and consider what exactly all this was.

“Was that only three days ago? Huh. Feels like longer. Anyway these lunch dates, they just aren’t enough.”

“I don’t know, it’s kinda romantic, our stolen hours together. I’ll take anything you can give me.” And he would. Phil would run away with Dan today if he asked or take only the thin scraps left of him after everyone else in his life got first pick.

“I know you will. You’re amazing, but you deserve better.” Dan sounded frustrated, almost defeated.

“Are you kidding me? Better? Dan, the hour I spent eating lunch with you the other day was the highlight of my whole week. What’s going on? What’s happened?”

“Nothing new. I’m just tired of having my life designed for me.”

Phil wished he had any idea what that was like. He didn’t know how to help. “You’ll get some freedom at university, won’t you.”

Dan mumbled, “fuck university. It’s just the beginning of the end.” There was silence on the line. Phil didn’t dare respond to that. Finally, Dan spoke, “I miss you Phil. I want to introduce you to my brother. I want to take you places.”

“You have taken me places.”

“I want to be alone with you, really alone.” Dan said, lower, obviously trying not to be heard.

“I know. I want that too.” Phil closed his eyes.

“I have to attend some meetings with my father, which means I’m trapped at bloody Windsor for the week, then this stupid benefit party on Halloween.”

“Oh. Ok.”

“Promise me I can see you after that?” Dan asked.

“I promise.”

“I have to go. I’ll text you when I can get away from Prince Vlad.”

 Days went by without a text. Dan had told Phil about his father . He was a taskmaster, idle hands are the devil's workshop and all that. Phil didn’t want to get Dan in trouble but he missed him and he was a little scared from his Halloween week movie watching habits. Mostly, he just really wanted Dan to know that he was thinking about him. When it was late enough that he assumed Dan would be alone, he sent a message.

Phil: Just thinking about you, wanted you to know. I hope you are having an ok time.

Dan: Phil. Thank god. How is the real world?

Phil: I watched some freaky horror anime and I wasn’t scared watching it but now I’m sat in my room with the light on and I think I’m just gonna have to sleep like this.

Dan: Lol. I wouldn’t be any help at all if I were there. I’m a complete coward.

Phil: I still wish you were here.

Dan: Me too.

Phil: Are you feeling any better?

Dan: Better than what?

Phil: Than the last time we talked?

Dan: I don’t know. I’ve just been focused on work.

Phil had a a question nagging him, running through his head all day. He typed it fast and hit send before he could change his mind.

Phil: What did you mean when you said that uni was the beginning of the end?

Dan: Just that, after uni, there are expectations. No one cares what I do right now, as long as they still believe I’ll end up where I’m supposed to.

Phil: Where you’re supposed to?

Dan: Married

Phil stomach turned.

Phil: To Iris?

Dan: That’s their pick yes.

Phil: So I’m just your gap year then?

Dan: What? No.

…

…

Phil watched the dots, waiting for a reply. Instead the phone vibrated in his hand.

"Hey." Phil huffed.

"Phil, listen..."

Phil cut in, unleashing all the thoughts he'd been carrying, “This is why I wanted to talk. But we just kept kissing instead and then I guess I decided I didn’t care. But I do, Dan. You’re not interested in Iris but that doesn’t mean you aren’t promised to her. Uni will come and you’ll leave and then after you’ll have to get married or whatever. England’s not ready for a gay king. And I just wanted to know all of this before I let myself admit all these things I’m feeling. And now fucking Iris is your future and I can’t even dream of a future with you, but I never should have to begin with because it’s all so new.” He took a deep shaky breath, “But it feels so real.”

“Phil.” Dan was practically whispering, hiding in his bathroom with the fan on, desperate for privacy. “It is real. It is. And it doesn’t matter who I’m promised to. They won’t force me to marry.”

“They won’t?” Phil squeaked out.

“No. It’s complicated, but let’s just say, I have an out.” Dan spoke slow and soft, doing his best to reassure Phil. “They wanted me to bring her as my date to the benefit and I said no. I said I wouldn’t string her along anymore. She knows how I feel, please don’t blame her for any of this. She’s actually really smart, incredibly strong, and she’s been a decent friend to me. Her life has been mapped out since before she was born, just like mine has. She is doing the best she can with the options she’s been given. My parents don’t even really know her, she’s just from the right family is all.”  

Phil’s breath had steadied, the initial flood of emotion subsiding. “And what would your parents think of me?”

Dan sighed heavily. “They don’t need to know about you. You’re none of their business.”  

This did nothing to assuage Phil’s fears. He was quiet.

“Phil, when the time comes, I will tell them about you. I’ll tell everyone. I swear.” He sounded frightened, whispering and rushed. Phil wished he could take back every word and just wrap his arms around Dan. “It’s just going be hard, mostly on you. I just want to keep you to myself for a bit longer, ok? I haven’t even decided what I want to do for the next few years, for uni. You are the only thing I’m sure about right now. Please don’t doubt this. I know it’s new, but I...we’ve come this far. Please trust me.”

Embarrassment took hold now that Phil was calm. This was exactly what he had been trying to avoid, too much too soon. “I trust you. Of course I do, I’m sorry. You must think I’m crazy, saying all that. You probably want to get off the phone.”

“Phil, do you not hear me? I feel exactly the way you do. It’s fast but it’s real. I’m not scared, Phil. I’m not going anywhere.”  

They kept talking, in hushed tones, easing into normal conversation They talked about what Phil had planned this week, about the food at Windsor castle, and about Dan’s brother and how his voice was cracking. They talked until Phil was nodding off. Their goodbyes lingered, dancing all around the words they both wanted to say.

[panda-noosh]

I ghost wrote that other Lotor annon o3o (the one with the scenario LOL) But uhh, I wanted to request how the paladins(+Lotor) would react if their s/o was mind controlled? Like, Haggar somehow manages to control her actions/words and the s/o is forced to kill them all. However, what Haggar doesn't know is that she's been fighting this control since day one. And stabs herself to break the control going "I'd much rather die than hurt my lover you witch." or sth? Thanks so much!

This got so angsty why am i like this. Here you go! x

Shiro:

For weeks, he had been under the exact same assumption as everybody else.

That you were gone. They had lost you to Haggar’s powers. There was no getting you back. You were part of her group now.

He was a mess this entire time. He was so used to you being by his side, that coming to terms with the fact that that would no longer be a thing was excruciating, and he was even in denial for a little while.

He doesn’t want to believe that you let Haggar get into your mind, but you never let him believe anything else. 

Until now.

The Paladins were kneeled in front of you, hands bound behind their backs, gags in their mouths. You stood over them all with a knife raised, one order being sent to you; kill them all.

And for a moment, Shiro thinks you’re going to do it. 

But then he looks into your eyes, something he had refused to do for the past few weeks, and he sees you. You. The real you.

And absolute horror suddenly floods his body, because he knows you would rather die than hurt any of them.

You turn the knife on yourself before Shiro can do anything. He starts screaming behind the gag, rutting against the rope around his wrists, begging Haggar for mercy, for her to untie Shiro so he can get to you.

For the first time, Shiro is begging, and it’s a god awful  sound because it’s mixed in with sobs and the horror and heartbreak of him watching the love of his life bleed to death in front of him, and he can do nothing about it.

Keith:

The moment you decide to turn the knife on yourself, shocking the entire hall by going against Haggar’s orders, Keith doesn’t even fully understand what’s going on.

He had tried to block out what he thought was your brainwashed self for weeks. He had been trying to almost wean himself off of you, lose the connection so he wouldn’t be hurt in the end.

So whenever you’re suddenly just there, the real you, he takes a moment to shake himself.

Because he has to process so much at the one time, and he’s so overwhelmed that it’s like traffic in his brain.

First, he’s bound and gagged, on his knees in front of Galra. He’s embarrassed and ashamed to even be in this position in the first place.

But then suddenly you’re going against Haggar’s orders and the entire room is exploding into hysterics, shocked.

And then you’re apologising to Keith and then the knife is imbedded in your abdomen and Keith just stares at you as you collapse to the floor.

Everybody else is yelling, screaming your name, and Keith can barely form coherent thoughts.

He can’t hold himself up once the realisation settles on him. He falls forward, completely colliding with the floor due to him being unable to hold himself up because of the confines in his wrists.

Shiro tries to pull him up, but Keith has lost all strength in his limbs. He can’t breathe. He doesn’t want to. 

Lance:

Whenever you first make it clear that Haggar’s brain washing hadn’t worked, Lance thinks it’s all fun and games.

He kind of had a hunch, I feel like, which is why, whilst everybody else is gaping at you in shock, Lance is grinning from ear to ear.

“That’s my baby!”

His smile dies quick enough, though, whenever you start apologising so him, looking him directly in the eye.

He doesn’t understand what’s going on. What are you doing? Why are you saying sorry?

He catches on just a moment too late.

You look him directly in the eye as you plunge the knife into your stomach and crumble to your knees in front of him.

Lances scream is immediate. There’s no moment of shock, no moment of just staring. He is screaming as soon as the knife makes contact with your skin, yelling words but nobody even knows what he’s saying.

He’s just yelling, spluttering out words, trying t gasp for breath at the same time.

Because this is honestly his worst nightmare come to life.

Hunk:

He knows you well enough to know what you’re about to do before you’ve done it.

From the moment Haggar ordered you to kill him, he saw the horror strike your face and knew immediately that you weren’t actually under the womans control.

He also knew that you would rather turn the knife on yourself before you ever laid a hand on any of the Paladins, which is the moment he starts to panic.

You had been selfless enough to go with Haggar and pretend to be brainwashed for months on end - Hunk had no doubt in his mind that it wouldn’t cost you a second thought to plunge the knife into your stomach if it meant protecting the ones you loved.

He speaks softly at first, not wanting to cause a scene before a scene is needed. 

“Y/N, you either put that knife through my heart or you put it down. There is no other option.”

Every bodies staring at him all confused because they all believe that you’re brainwashed. Hunk doesn’t stop to explain the situation.

He doesn’t get the chance to. He sees you turning the knife towards yourself and she panics.

“No. No, Haggar, she isn’t brainwashed. Take the knife off of her. Haggar! Somebody! Take the knife off of her!”

But nobody moves. And you plunge the blade into your own stomach.

Hunk yells, slamming his bound hands against the floor as hysteria erupts in the room. He just wants to get to you, to hold you in his arms, heal you, but he’s bound and he can’t move.

So he just yells. He just yells and yells and hopes that somebody will understand and do something.

Pidge:

You and Pidge had discussed the whole ‘pretending to be brainwashed’ thing ages ago.

It was a plan to you two, not something spontaneous. Pidge knew you were going to do it for the good of the group, and she had your escape plan all sorted out aswell.

She truly thought she was all prepared for what was about to happen.

Months pass of you being in Haggar’s clutches, and the day to finally get you out comes around at long last.

But all does not go to plan, and the Paladins end up bound and gagged, on their knees in the middle of the battle grounds.

In front of you, who has just been ordered to stab Pidge.

She looks at you, reassuring you that it was for the best, that you needed to do what you needed to do to keep the other Paladins safe.

But even as she tries to communicate these reassurances to you, she knows there’s no point.

The moment you turn the knife on yourself, Pidge’s entire world falls apart.

She’s not screaming as much as she’s groaning.

It’s bard to describe. You fall to the floor and she groans, fighting against her restraints,  not raising her voice.

The tears racing down her cheeks are enough to communicate how panicked and shattered she is in this moment.

Lotor:

He prides himself on how calm he keeps himself during difficult situations, such as the one he finds himself in in this moment.

He had only wanted to return you home. He wanted to release you from Haggar and, honestly, he thought the job would be easy enough. Haggar’s battalion was nothing in comparison to his.

But Lotor also wanted to be a hero, which was why he thought striding into Haggar’s courtyard with his hands stuffed in his pockets, oh so casual, was the best idea.

On his own.

In seconds, he was bound and pushed to his knees and you were emerging from the back room, still pretending to be under Haggar’s spell.

Lotor, never one to seem weak, keeps up the cocky persona.

“Oh hey, babe. You ready to go home?”

And then Haggar’s voice: “Kill him.”

Lotor just about throws up then and there, immediately regretting every singe decision he had made up until this point.

But he’s a smart man; he sees the flicker of horror on your face. He sees you. 

And that’s what makes him drop the persona and start fighting against his bounds.

He barely even sees it whenever you plunge the knife into your own chest.

He just sees you fall to your knees, and then you’re dying and he’s like ???

His brain just kind of disappears and he’s silent and he doesn’t know whether to curl up and cry or lash out.

He immediately thinks it’s his fault. He is immediately swarmed by this overwhelming sense of self hatred that he can’t control.

But he just stays silent, watching your body with tears leaking down his face.

[smokeybrand]

Tomorrow Should Have Died

So i was planning on reviewing The Tomorrow War because it’s a new film and i like new films i can watch without having to brave the plague. I saw a preview for this thing a while back and had real low expectations for it, figured it’d be dumb fun like Independence Day. Imagine my abject horror when it turned out to be so much worse. Okay, first things first, the good stuff. Chris Pratt is good and so is J.K. Simmons. Betty Gilpin and Yvonne Strahovski work miracles with what little they have. The sound design is exceptional, probably the best thing about this sh*t flick, and the actual effects are on point. The problem with the movie is the script. It’s f*cking terrible. Oh my god, so much dumb! Here’s a list of sh*t that made me irrationally angry, in order of plot progression.

Eleven minutes in and i hate it. How are you losing a war to anything if you have mastered the ability to traverse space-time? How the f*ck is your technology so advanced, that you have found a way to exceed the light speed limit and literally break physics, but lose to a bunch of rabid, interstellar, komodo dragons? This is the dumbest f*cking contradiction I have seen all year and i am offended that whoever decided to make this film, is asking this of their audience. Sh*t is patently absurd. These f*cking things don't even have written language, man, and you really expect me to believe they have pushed a human race that has harnessed the power of time, to the brink of extinction?

Eleven minutes, bro. Eleven f*cking minutes.

Seriously, you can create a time machine, you should conceivably have the ability to harness gravity or one of the other fundamental interactions. Why the f*ck haven't you designed a miniaturized rail gun that uses modern tech or materials to build? You have worked out the science in the future, go back to the past and build miniature or handheld doomsday devices for use in the field. Why isn’t everyone running around with f*cking Megatron fusion cannons on their arms? Why the f*ck am i fighting aliens with ARs and Glocks?? The fact that there is an active time machine built from tech on hand from thirty years into the future, means cats could have spent their time building actual weapons to kill these f*cking things instead of betting the literal human race on a time displaced draft. This movie is dumb as rocks.

The way they describe how their time travel works is dumb. I mean, it isn’t, but i can guarantee this sh*t is going to be a problem later. I can feel it in my bones. They are definitely going to contradict this sh*t because multiverse theory is the only way to make movie time travel work and they are trying their damnedest to not do that.

This f*cking thing is over two hours long and the first drags. I hate when cats attempt to develop characters and they just fail at it. I'm sitting here trying to figure out why I should care about any of these people and i still don't have an answer after half the goddamn movie is over. Like, why should i care about Chris Pratt? He’s the main character and the writing has done nothing to endear him to the audience in a whole ass hour.

Also, the reason he’s so mad at his dad is stupid. Dude did right by his kid by bailing because he would have been a terrible father. Pratt’s character would have known that as a father himself. He didn’t have to like it and, of course there’s animosity there, but you’re an adult. Your dad knew he was lousy. He did you a favor by walking out. It wasn’t like he didn’t help support you or make sure you went without. As far as i can tell, dude was there in every way by physically. Because he couldn’t. Because he was f*cking shell-shocked from fighting in Vietnam. Where they raped innocent women and set babies on fire. Holy sh*t, this cat is an unlikable protagonist after this one scene. Which brings me to my next thing...

Pratt f*cking abandons his family?? Word? After that entire scene with his dad and the very obvious trauma he has suffered, he turns around and abandons his own kid because he lost his job?? Word? Like, for real? You expect me to believe that the Chris Pratt who cussed out his pops, was willing to go on the run from his future conscription, abandoned his own family because he lost a teaching job?? What the f*ck, movie? Do you want me to like this asshole or not? More than that, how the f*ck you mess up your character so bad in what i imagine is just five pages of actual script? Nothing we know about this character would ever even hint at him doing this to his family, to his daughter, so why the f*ck would he? Why the f*ck would you, as a write, believe we, as the audience, would just accept that sh*t as a forgone conclusion?

You got ropes on a Queen and you don't kill it? How the f*ck you make it that deep into the hive to even do-si-do the b*tch to the surface? We just watched these things tear through Miami to the point that they needed a whole ass bombardment just to survive and you not only go into their hive, their home, with no heavy ammo, but you somehow lasso a queen and drag her to the surface. Alive. If you can do all of that why not just drop a nuke down there and blow them the f*ck up? Why do you need a live Queen for your science? Shoot the b*tch, take the juice of her corpse, and end this sh*t! Why is all of this stupid recklessness necessary??

Okay. Okay... F*ck everything i just said, right? Why the f*k did you bring this Queen b*tch back to your base? You don’t have a different offsite lab to do this sh*t? You gotta bring her to your stronghold? Isn’t this a military operation? Why aren't their security protocols and sh*t in place to stop this stupidity? You don’t bring the enemy home. You take them to black sites for sh*t like this, not to the goddamn Pentagon!

All of a sudden, the aliens understand science? We spent this entire movie establishing that they are mindless beasts with teeth, eating the human race into extinction but now, because the plot demands it, the Queen one understands what the people are doing? That the green sh*t they made is plague that can murder them all? How the f*ck she even know what science is? They don’t even have language, dude! How the hell she know they made a death plague for her people?! F*ck it, whatever, bro. Next you're going to tell me she let them capture her just to get inside the lab or some sh*t because these rabid f*cking animals, who have demonstrated no military command abilities or even the barest of higher cognitive functions, are tactical geniuses.

Okay, so the Queen b*tch is a tactical genius. So, in the initial future drop, the team was murdered by a bunch of these things because they were sent to a lab where they were trying to make the death plague. Now, hat i am about to say is all assumption on my part because none of this, and i men NONE of it, is ever confirmed by the movie. So, they get to the lab and everyone is dead but the green per-plague is still there. That mean they had a Queen there. It’s established after this that Queens can call for backup and the Males will lemming their way to her. I deduce that’s how this lab got overrun; Queen got loose, called for her boys, and they ate everyone. That happened. That was the first thing we see in the future. This b*tch does the same f*cking thing on the home base lab so now the males are overrunning The Pentagon. You motherf*ckers knew this was a thing because it literally already happens. Why the f*ck would you do it again? AND it gets worse... Home base, The Pentagon, is the f*cking rig where they house the goddamn time machine! You brought a hostile enemy leader, still alive and coherent, to the heart of your resistance operation, to the core of your time travel operation, knowing that at any time this b*tch can scream and have your whole ass base overrun with teeth and poison darts? Look, if the future is this stupid, they deserve to die, okay?

At least they commit to multiverse theory, even if it contradicts the entirety of their already established time travel rules.

Okay. Okay... So they create this toxin to kill all the monster things and send it back in time to be mass produced  Put that sh*t in bullets and send it back to the future or whatever. But, because of the aforementioned stupid, that plan is bunk. Time machine go kablooey. And now we are at the "all is lost" moment at the end of the second act." Solution to the problem in hand, no way to save the future because the only way back to the future was a casualty of idiocy. Right. So... just wait. F*cking just wait. You know when these assholes show up, you know how to kill them all, you even have a plague ready to be mass produced right now. You have thirty f*cking years to refine that formula, to make it cheaper to mass produced and develop variants just in case immunities start to crop up or something. There are people from the future, stuck in the past, because of the egregious future error. They have all of that intel and they are just alive. The second this dude got back to the past with that antidote, the future was saved. The war is over. Like, even if you don’t know where the ship is, you have a sure thing that will murder these white f*cks and three decades to produce, weaponize, and store that sh*t. The war is won. The Prime timeline is absolutely safe at this point. Because that's how time travel works. You have the nuclear option, right now, to averting the end of the human race, ready to be mass produced. Yo have the knowledge from the future on where these things will first appear. You still have all the future tech brought over from the beta timeline ripe for reverse engineering in order to improve the weapons of the present. There is no scenarios where we lose this war, the second Chris Pratt plops back into the present with that plague. None.

Why is everyone so dejected?? Why are there f*cking riots all over the world?? None of this makes sense. How can you assume the world ends and the war is lost just because the communication with that version of the past is cut? Wouldn’t you expect that sh*t? You just altered the entire timeline by sending Pratt back with the antidote. That future is effectively gone. How can you communicate with a place in space-time that doesn’t exist anymore? Hell, even if it’s because the time machine broke and everyone over there is dead, you have the f*cking antidote now! Multiverse theory, bud. The fact that those time displaced assholes didn’t disappear, means multiverse theory is real and you have the opportunity to Future Trunks this sh*t so why panic? Why are there no leaders n television assuring their people that this is a thing? Why are there no scientists publishing papers about how sh*t is going to be fine? Bro, I'm just so tired...

How these cats just fly into Russia on a big ass cargo plane and not get shot down? This is 2022. Putin still hates us. This sh*t would cause a World War.

So you find this ship and you don’t tell anyone where it is? You decide to just kill them all yourself? Motherf*cker, what happens if you die? Did you back up the enzyme formula somewhere or did you bring all of it with you on this stupid f*cking mission? Did you leave notes or even text your location to anyone in authority, just in case haphazard attempt goes sideways so someone else can make a more organized attempt? Or just drop a nuke on the site from orbit? If one asshole denied you funding for your mission, why didn’t you ask someone else? Why didn’t you ask f*cking Putin? Because governments are bloated down with bureaucracy? My dude, people from the future came back and interrupted the world cup to tell you that aliens are going to exterminate the human race in three decades. If you tell anyone in a position of power that you know where these little sh*ts are, they’re going to listen. Especially since everyone decided to riot because the future changed/we lost the time war/ the timeline imploded.

Why would a terrestrial saw work on an intergalactic star ship? That doesn't make any sense. This f*cking thing survived a crash landing into earth intact and a goddamn circular saw cuts it open? Fine, whatever. On to the next stupid thing.

Bro. Bro, they just blow the f*cking thing up. Motherf*cker spent the entire movie, time jumping form the past to to the future and back to the past, just to get this plague to kill them all, and a bunch of C4 just blows them all up while they sleep. Why the f*ck was everything even f*cking necessary? At this point, when the dude comes back with that claw the first time, the future is saved. Analysis on that one claw gave up the location of the hidden spaceship where these things had been in stasis for millennia. Which was blown up with C4. No plague needed. No goddamn time draft needed. No casualties needed after that first wave. The second that dude brought back that claw, it should have been  under a forensic microscope so actual f*cking scientists could figure out what a high school kid id in a matter of minutes. I hate this movie so goddamn much.

I hated this goddamn movie so much. It’s f*cking boring and the dumbest thing I've seen all year and i watched Army of the Dead. It’s pretty and the performances are decent, but there is absolutely no substance to any of this sh*t. It wants to be Independence Day and Edge of Tomorrow and The Great Wall. all in one, while infusing time travel family drama but it’s so f*cking confused trying to juggle all of that, it drops the ball on the most important part; The script. This thing must read like a fever dream induced by peyote because, in execution, it’s a wet fart. This f*cking thing is all over the place with no regard for any insular universe logic. It contradicts itself from one scene to the next and it’s goddamn offensive. I’m sure there is someone saying that i am overthinking this sh*t and that it’s just supposed to be dumb popcorn fun. I get that. However, i can’t just turn my f*cking brain off and mindlessly drool over sh*t that insults my intelligence the way this movie does. It’s dumb as f*cking rocks, man, and i want those two hours of my life back!

[booksaremyoxygenn]

Ready Player One: Book Review & Discussion

“We’d been born into an ugly world, and the OASIS was our one happy refuge.”

If you love video games and the 80s, you MUST read this book. USA Today’s comparison of Ready Player One to Willie Wonka & the Chocolate Factory couldn't have been more spot on, but instead of the inheritance of a man who owns a chocolate factory he is playing for the inheritance of a video game creator.

Overall Rating: 4.5 / 5 Stars

My biggest argument is that because there was so much info and teaching about the 80s and video game references it felt choppy and it was hard to get lost in the book. However I absolutely loved learning all of those fascinating pieces of information. There were surprisingly many great life lessons in this book and I feel like I am walking away more knowledgeable. 

Age Recommendation: Well.... it depends on the child. It does curse a few times (but let’s be honest the kids already know the words, the aim isn’t for them not to learn it but to know not to use it.) However there is a bit of a lengthy section on things I would not even want my 13 year old sister reading on 193-194 so I recommend you take their book, rip that page out and then they are all ready to go. They will never even miss it. I think there are great life lessons in this book though for a young teen age group like the importance of logging off and living offline and not getting wrapped up in trying to constantly escape the real world. It talks about how people should be judged by their personality not their appearance. If we could simply choose out skin color, gender, and appearance like an avatar, life would be easier but life doesn’t work that way so accept people the way they are. You may surprise yourself with who your closest friends up being. 

Spoiler- Free Review: 

Wade just really doesn’t like his lot in life, whether that be in the real world when he’d rather be in a video game or that he is in the 2040s when he’d rather be born in the the 80s, or at the least before the Global Energy Crisis. Though he doesn’t mind living in OASIS soaking up the endless knowledge. The vast source of all books, movies, art, history, videogames, and, most importantly, information on James Halliday. OASIS is like the internet but with VR glasses only 10x more detailed, advanced, and infinite. Wade doesn’t even go to a real school he goes through the virtual reality of OASIS. “In OASIS, you could become whomever and whatever you wanted to be, without ever revealing your true identity, because your anonymity was guaranteed.” (pg 57) When James Halliday, inventor of OASIS, dies and leaves his fortune (240 billion dollars) to the first player to find the three keys hidden within his own video game, the world goes crazy in pursuit. Though after numerous years no one had found a single key, until Wade. That’s how the story begins. 

I loved that Cline’s writing encourages readers who know nothing about the 80s or video games to read this book. That has been a massive concern for people before they pick up this book, that they won’t understand the references. To be honest, there were many hidden “eggs” in the text that I saw that I knew were references that I just didn’t understand. (Which was still cool and I enjoyed looking them up and learning more.) However, all of the big, important references he explains in the book and he doesn’t make you feel stupid for not knowing but explains it clearly for those of us who aren’t experts. I genuinely feel more intelligent by reading this book and now know a lot more about pop culture in the 80s. Who knows this all may come in handy on Trivia Night? I highly recommend this book for a fun, nostalgic read. 

SPOILER Review / Book Discussion: 

Isn’t it scary how possible this all could be? With virtual reality continually advancing (in real life) how much longer will it take until people go to school in virtual reality like Wade or before the internet takes on this new form?

Though obviously in Wade’s world as technology has advanced his real world has been given up on. The stacks, while a great concept and super cool looking on the front cover, are atrocious living conditions. Though I must give Wade kutos on his battery powered heater and computer but really just his van in general. It makes me want to make my own Bat Cave inside a van. This was when I knew what his advantage would be in this game, he was a self-teacher, self-motivator, and dedicated his whole life to the hunt. 

One of my favorite parts about Cline’s writing was how it was constantly breaking stereotypes and speaking about important topics. I really appreciated the backstory that he gave Halliday. Especially how even though he wasn’t good at school he became a multi-billionaire. I am so tired of the assumption that being good at school has a direct correlation with future success. So many people who have changed the world never went to college, dropped out, or did poorly in high school. Another thing that I loved was the fact that this whole story wouldn’t have happened if Ogden Marrow (Og) wouldn’t have walked over to Halliday when he was sitting alone and invited him to play Dungeons and Dragons. It reminds me how much can change by a simple act of kindness and stepping out of your comfort zone to talk to new people. This whole story wouldn’t have happened, their world may have been drastically different if it wasn’t for Og’s invite. My favorite part though was how he had Asperger’s autism because my older brother has it as well and I could see the connections. Halliday’s lack of desire to express social skills, inability to step into other people’s shoes, and his few unhealthy obsessions were the most common traits. However I wish he wouldn’t have made the connections between Halliday’s crazy side and his Aspergers because that gives a bad name to this type of autism. (I mean you can’t win every battle right?)

One thing that really bothered my is how indifferent Wade was to risking everyone’s lives in the Stacks during his meeting with IOI. Once he realized he wasn’t actually gambling his own life because he wasn’t at home then it didn’t bother him anymore. He was willing to risk that. I understand that his aunt was cruel to him and that there were thieves and rapists roaming around the stacks but that’s not a good enough excuse as to why his conscious was clear about all those people he played a part in murdering. He said that there were no survivors. I understand that his other option was be enslaved to IOI but he is very smart, he could have figured out an alternative where hundreds of uninvolved people don’t die. (pg 146)

I personally love when authors put deep meaning into characters, places, animals and other things’ names. I loved that Art3mis was the greek god of the hunt and that Wade was Parzival. “On the day the Hunt began, the day I’d decided to become a gunter, I’d renamed my avatar Parzival, after the knight of Arthurian legend who had found the Holy Grail.” (pg 28) I love when author’s twist different stories together like that and give character’s deeply meaningful names. Like Alaska in John Green’s Looking for Alaska, or Katniss from The Hunger Games whose name is from a plant that is latin for archer. I prefer a bit more meaning than when Rainbow Rowell named the twins in Fangirl Cath and Wren because the mother didn’t know she was going to have twins so she split up the name Catherine. Though I do apprecaite it more than when authors just randomly name thier characters. (Also, Darth Vader’s name is literally Dark Father in Dutch so his name is a spoiler in itself.) I applaud Cline for his good choice in names. 

The first task was where players went into the Tomb of Horrors from Dungeons & Dragons to play Joust against Acereak. It was amusing to me but as someone who doesn’t know the first thing about Dungeons and Dragons the references were lost on me. However this line really stuck me as funny..... “It suddenly occurred to me just how absurd this scene was: a guy wearing a suit of armor, standing next to an undead king, both hunched over controls of a classic arcade game.” (pg 82) The whole time after he met Acererak I just imagined him going from his scary, glowing eyes to his best friend playing a video game and them fist bumping each other. Like I genuinely wanted them to become friends. Haha.

The first gate was where players played Dungeons of Daggorath to open the gate where they had to say and act all the lines of the character David Lightman in the film WarGames. This was my favorite task / gate he had to do and I wish I had my own version for The Hunger Games where I could be Katniss. Anyone else agree? They called them “Fliksyncs” (112) and I genuinely think if they make something like it in real life, it could be my favorite invention of all time. You would get to walk, talk, and live the life of your favorite character, your heroes, or be 1/2 of your favorite OTPs. ( I would gladly be Clary to play besides Jace from The Mortal Instruments... just putting it out there.)

A really important message that spread throughout the span of the book was that the internet (OASIS in RPO’s case) can take over our lives. ”It had become a self-imposed prison for humanity,” he wrote, “A pleasant place for the world to hide from its problems while human civilization slowly collapses, primarily due to neglect.” (pg 120) How much truer does that get?? Than once Wade won the egg even Halliday admitted that that was one of his biggest regrets, not logging off and living life the way it was meant to be, truly using your senses and awakening your body instead of constantly trying to mute it and hide yourself.  “I created the OASIS because I never felt at home in the real world. I didn’t know how to connect with the people there. I was afraid, for all all of my life. Right up until I knew it was ending. That was when I realized, as terrifying and painful as reality can be. it is also the only place where you can find true happiness. Because reality is real. Do you understand?” (pg 364) I think that is something people across the globe can relate to. We could all use a lesson in learning when to turn off our screens and fully engage in the world around us. 

Another really important message was during that OH MY GOSH! AECH REVEAL!.... which at first I felt like it changed everything but that’s the whole point, it didn’t change anything. She was still the same person she had always been. We see what we want to see in a person when we make assumptions about them from what they look like. It’s just a genuine reminder of how the lines between gender are so fluid and it doesn’t matter what you are born but how you act. I’m not even referencing transgender specifically but just boys being free to like pink and girls feeling free to be obsessed with Star Wars and video games. Though there was another lesson in this which was how she chose to be a white, male avatar, because her mother told her it would help her get treated better, even in the virtual world.  “In Marie’s opinion, the OASIS was the best thing that had ever happened to both women and people of color. From the very start, Marie has used a white male avatar to conduct all of her online business, because of the marked difference it made in how she was treated and the opportunities she was given.” (pg 320) Why is this so painfully true?? I really loved what Wade said after he found out,  “We’d connected on a purely mental level. I understood her, trusted her, and loved her as a friend. None of that had changed, or could be changed by anything as inconsequential as her gender, or skin color, or sexual orientation.” (pg 321) Though I will admit I am glad that Cline made Ache a lesbian because I was worried she was going to confess her love to him and then Wade would have to choose.... and there just wasn’t enough pages left in the book for all that drama. Plus I really love when books allow guys and girls to just be friends without every liking each other romantically. 

The final thing, that I wouldn’t dream of ending this review/discussion without talking about is... Art3mis. Can we talk about how she started out such a strong character who was a fighter, independent blogger and full time badass who knows exactly how she plans on saving the world with the prize money from the egg. But then as time goes on she transforms more into a love interest than a fierce competitor. I think she sees this as well which is why she leaves him to focus on the competition. Though at the very end when she finally meets Wade in person she does that thing that Reese Witherspoon talks about in her Woman of the Year speech. Where Art3mis, the female,  turns to Wade, the male, and pretty much says, what do we do now? This is a phrase Reese says she hates reading the most and is usually written by scripts with no female involved in the writing.  She says “Now you do you know any woman in any crisis situation.. who has absolutely no idea what to do?” Reese made a good point in saying that it’s top woman stop playing the damsel in distress because we so rarely are. Art3mis went from this total badass who could carry her own to a self conscious, love interest. However, I am so glad that Art3mis gave up Wade for the hunt in some ways because if she would have given up her passions and her life long goal for a boy, I would have been more insulted. Personally, I just really like strong, female leads and am getting tired of women being accessories to males. I’m also tired of the never ending line of self conscious characters (both female and male) who find their self worth and beauty once their romantic interests informs them that it exists. So thank you to characters like Celaena Sardothien, Alaska Young, and Margo Roth Spiegelman for showing the world that it’s cool to love yourself and know you are amazing. Though I was still rooting for Art3metis because of her strong will and good intentions for the prize. 

In the end everything seemed to fall perfectly in place which made me so happy. No loose threads and a beautiful, sappy, happy ever after. The character development for Wade was so great and I felt happy walking away from this book knowing that things were going well for him. 

Favorite Quotes: 

1.) How the protagonist, Wade, feels about video games is how I feel about books...

"Playing old video games never failed to clear my mind and set me at ease. If I was feeling depressed or frustrated about my lot in life, all I had to do was tap the Player One button, and my worries would instantly slip away as my mind focused itself on the relentless pixelated onslaught on the screen in front of me. There, inside the game's two-dimensional universe, life was simple" (pg 14)

2.) Me when I get into a good book series....

“I was obsessed. I wouldn’t quit. My grades suffered. I didn’t care.”  (pg 63)

3.)  “Spending time with her was intoxicating. We seemed to have everything in common. We shared the same interests. We were driven by the same goal. She got all my jokes. She made me laugh. She made me think. She changed the way I saw the world. I’d never had such a powerful, immediate connection with another human being before. Not even with Aech.” (pg 174) 

4.) “I was watching a collection of vintage ‘80′s commercials when I paused to wonder why cereal manufacturers no longer included toy prizes inside every box. It was a tragedy, in my opinion. Another sign that civilization was going straight down the tubes.” (pg 176)

5.)  “And then one night, like a complete idiot, I told her how I felt.” (pg 179)

6.) “No one in the world ever gets what they want and that’s beautiful.” (pg 199)  

7.) “I stood outside her palace gates for two solid hours, with a boombox over my head, blasting “In Your Eyes” by Peter gabriel at full volume.” (pg 203)

8.) “Art3mis had led me to believe that she was somehow hideous but now I saw that nothing could have been further from the truth. To my eyes, the birthmark did absolutely nothing to diminish her beauty. If anything, the face I saw in the photo seemed even more beautiful to me than that of her avatar, because I knew it was this one was real.” (pg 292)

9.)  “In Marie’s opinion, the OASIS was the best thing that had ever happened to both women and people of color. From the very start, Marie has used a white male avatar to conduct all of her online business, because of the marked difference it made in how she was treated and the opportunities she was given.” (pg 320)

10.)  “We’d connected on a purely mental level. I understood her, trusted her, and loved her as a friend. None of that had changed, or could be changed by anything as inconsequential as her gender, or skin color, or sexual orientation. (pg 321)

Discussion Questions: 

1.) Would you apply for the virtual OASIS education like Wade?

When Wade talks about his classes and how he is able to travel through a human heart, visit the Louvre, Jupiter’s moons and more it makes me think that our education system could be so much better with this technology. For one, he discusses how discipline isn’t a problem, how Wade can mute out bullies, and how even the teachers liked the system so much more. It gives students the ability to do things like Wade did and go to chat rooms with his friends in his free time and hang out with people he likes and avoid / mute the ones he doesn’t. I think there are major problems like affordability and the fact that you miss out on real human interaction that scientists have proven is needed for a healthy mind, body, and soul. 

2.) If you were a gunter, would you join a clan or stay solo? 

In the end I think that part of the lesson Holliday was trying to teach is that you need other people to succeed. You need help and can’t do everything on your own. Why else would he have made the door only open with three keys?

3.) If you were Wade would you sell out to sponsors, movie and book people, and the Suxors? or would you risk it all on the chance of being the first to find the egg?

4.)  What movie would you want to enter into like Wade did for the first gate for a “Syncflik”? Could you complete the dialogue for a whole movie?

5.) Did they fake drink at the bar at Og’s party because they hadn’t ever been able to eat or drink inside the OASIS before? 

6.) Has social media become obsolete in their world or is the avatar practically their form of social media? Or instead of trying to impress people with how they went to the beach or the expensive Louis Vuittons they just bought, do they put their energy into impressing through their OASIS accounts?

7.) Doesn’t IOI trying to capitalize on OASIS sound a lot like the government trying to end net neutrality? I think this whole story is a lot more realistic than most of us would like to admit to ourselves. (pg 33)

Movie Trailer: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSp1dM2Vj48 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Scj3wiIcSu0&t=115s

I really hope they keep the Rocky Horror Show scene (pg 179) in the movie because I want to see them have fun and be laid back together. Plus it would be really funny. It was super entertaining in Perks of Being A Wallflower when Charlie has to be in the show. Also, I saw the zero gravity dance floor and the revamped Delorean in the movie trailer and can’t wait to see more of that. (pg 182)

The only thing that would make me immediately hate this movie is if they don’t give Art3mis her birthmark and so far in the trailer I noticed that they have only distinctly shown one side of her face but in the clip where she is sitting in a chair across from Wade you can see most of her face and I didn’t see any scar. What a missed opportunity? Unless they are having her cover it in the first half of the movie with makeup or something. The greatest parts of this book were the lessons learned and I think him meaning that he would love her no matter what she looked like in person because he loved who she was is a crucial part of the story and the birthmark plays a large role in that. It was an opportunity to give people who had similar situations like birthmarks have someone that looked like them in a movie to relate to. I think it really could have been something special. 

The other thing that is a bit of a turn off is the body form they gave Ache in the movie because it means that she won’t be able to have that moment talking about how she chose a white, male avatar because of how she felt at a disadvantage as a African American woman and wanted her avatar to be able to escape that. Also the actress they cast is thin so it is another missed opportunity. 

Also the choice of the song from Willy Wonka “Pure Imagination” was genius for the trailer. It was beyond perfect!

Side Note:

Also, if you would like to watch part 2 of this book... it’s called WALL-E. There are different characters but it is definitely what Wade’s planet earth is going to look like very soon. They were all absorbed in the internet and forgot about real life and how to make connections, just like this book. I mean Wade even notices his weight gain from being overly absorbed into the game. (pg 196)