#hindsight is everything when youre a moron

[thinkingstoned]

hi so UPDATE to this thhat no one asked for-

i remembered this later today andd was trying to keep the pizza song in my head for a bit until could get back and Accomplish Task (there were clean hand towels in room that i wanted to remember to bring to kiitchen)

i did remember thhem, not sure if it was because of the song or not,

✨✨however✨✨

i then faced thhe 100% predictablle-and-shouldve-been-exppected consequence that i somehow managed to completely-and-absolutely-nnot-expect:

i had it stuck in my head.. after the task was done

so now ii have it going, and every so often Realize its going, and remember what that means, and go "oh shiT what am i forgetting about-?? oh no its, i did that, now its just ........oh."

thiis probably exisits somewhehre already as liike an scp or horror moviei/game smth cos nno experiiences are 100% individuual bUT notiiced a neighboringn winndow w liight on very low outsiide andn was liike 'huh thats weirid dont remmeber seeingn that before and it looks so far down,??' but liike i was in process of smth andn looked away p instantly, had those thouughts, and went to look back at iit and it seemed……..closer😳

[zerosomnia]

Neteyam x Human! Reader

Summary: You don't show up to your morning lessons with the Tsahik, Ronal, and Neteyam finds himself worried over nothing.

Might make a part 2 👀

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: none apart from spider being canonically stinky - you can't tell me that boy doesn't need a bath 🫣

Word count: 1.8k

Translations -

Skxawng = Moron

You remember the day you first visited Awa’atlu like it had happened yesterday. The Metkayina’s had been wary when you had arrived, stepping down from the helicopter with a hurried expression and wild hair. You had ignored their gathering and babbling as you bolted towards the marui pod that Jake had said Kiri resided in, ignoring Norm’s calls for you to wait and darting inside to see your beloved friend. Your heart sank to see her in such a state, and yet you had been given a gift. You were able to witness the true wonder of Na’vi healing, and you had been obsessed ever since. You weren’t so much obsessed in the spiritual way, though you had no reason to doubt Eywa’s existence, but you had always been highly scientific. It was then that your chance appeared. Norm and Max decided they needed a scientist to stay back and keep an eye on Kiri - and you all but jumped at the situation. Desperate to study the new life at the reef, you begged them to let you stay, promising you’d send back reports of the local fauna if you were allowed the chance to look after your friend.

In hindsight, your curious nature was likely due to growing up around Norm and Max, as the other child who was left behind. Spider had integrated himself with the Sully’s family - whereas you had integrated with the scientists, engrossing yourself in the biological wonder that was Pandora. Though you were still plenty close with Kiri and Lo’ak, it wasn’t hard to be when they were constantly dotting around the lab with spider, Neteyam and Tuk were more distant to you. Tuk was always around her mother, as a child should be, and Neteyam had been busy working and preparing for his iknimaya - his rite of passage. You were tentative acquaintances with him, but you certainly found yourself admiring his kind and jovial nature;  especially compared to his harsher mother.

As of recently, you had been assisting Ronal, Tsireya, and Kiri, adamant about learning the ways of Na’vi healing. Ronal, although wary of you, reluctantly let you tag along; even if it was just to keep an eye on you. She wasn’t keen on risking a human running wild about her village. And so you had been studying, soaking in everything she told you like a sponge. You found that your fluency in Na’vi often surprised her and coupled with your intense curiosity you made an adequate student. This is why it was unusual when you didn’t show up to your usual morning training - luckily, she wasn’t particularly bothered about your presence. After all, a human would never be Tsahik - but she did find herself offhandedly mentioning it to the girls as they were working. The lack of your questioning made for a considerably quieter session.

Once the morning’s training had passed, the group of teenagers and Tuk found themselves gathered on the shoreline. Sharing tales of their day and bantering about old adventures. The relationship between them had gradually been getting better, and again they found your presence was sorely missed. “Has anyone seen Y/N today?” Kiri’s concerned stare turned to Spider, who shared her cabin that was a little ways off the village. It was the only place the two humans could breathe normally,so it made sense that they would stay together. Spider hummed for a moment.

“I haven’t seen her since last night, she was in her lab again. Told her to eat dinner but I don’t know if she actually did.” Surprisingly, Neteyam was the one who seemed most interested in the conversation. The others had already broken off into other topics, but he found himself pressing for more.

“You think she’s still there?” Spider nodded in response. 

“If she’s not with us or Ronal, she’s there. She never goes out alone.”

Despite spider’s reassurances, it wasn’t long before Neteyam found himself clambering up the small hill to the rockface where your cabin resided. He found himself worried, despite his lack of closeness with you. He didn’t want anything to happen to you. He peered in through the windows into the living space, a nervous choking panic began to fill his throat when there was no signs of movement within the room. Usually, he wouldn’t enter the human cabins unless he needed to. But he wanted to know that you were safe, Spider’s negligence of you irritated him in some way. He found himself surprisingly riled up as he opened the airlock and slipped on one of the CO2 masks that you kept for Na’vi visitors. He released the air seal and ducked under the doorway, it was only then that he realised he had no clue which room was yours. He had never been into the personal cabin that you and spider shared, and he found himself peering around the main living space with eyes like saucers. It was homely, woven blankets scattered over the couch, and various textbooks covering the coffee table and the floor in front of what he assumed was a TV (Spider had described it in detail to him). Some of Spider’s crafts were strewn across the lunch table - some sculptures that were barely started, and a weaving that looked far too intricate to be Spider’s own work. It appeared to be an arm band of some kind, with various pearls and beads woven into the pattern. 

He moved on through the building, quickly finding what he assumed was Spider’s room - surprisingly he found himself recoiling a little at the smell of the room. He had never noticed the boys smell personally, but then again they were always outside with him. 

Neteyam decided to close the door and move on, which left one more door that was cracked open. He peered in and quickly laid eyes on your slumped over figure. As he stalked closer he felt relief flooding his body hearing your heavy breathing, you were asleep. Judging from your uncomfortable pose and the samples strewn across your desk, you had fallen asleep while working. He found himself curious about what you had been doing and he peered down into your little microscope, quietly gasping at the millions of little circles and shapes that danced under the glass lens. It was only when he drew back a little he realised how close he was to your sleeping face. You looked so peaceful and serene, and he found himself reaching towards you. The skin of your cheek was soft under his gentle touch as he traced down the side of your face, he had never been this close to you. You were lovely, in a very human way, softer than the other muscled Na’vi he had grown up around, smaller too - he could tell even from his palm beside you that your entire head would perfectly fit into his hand. You stirred a little, jolting him out of his admiration and shifting him into a role more reminiscent of a caretaker.

“Y/N,” he whispered lowly, he didn’t really want to wake you - but you looked terribly uncomfortable leaning over the desk. You hummed lightly in response to his voice, leaning into his touch but not really waking. He repeated your name again, trying to be a little more assertive and louder with his words. “Y/N. You need to get up now, it’s midday.” The change in volume had your eyes slowly opening, squinting in the bright light that was beaming through your window. As you pushed yourself upwards and looked around a little, it took you a moment to realise who had woken you.

“Oh… hi Neteyam,” Surprise seemed to be laced into your tired voice, though you hadn’t yet noticed the proximity the two of you were sharing.

“Are you alright?” he nodded towards your work, waiting for your tired brain to catch up with what he was saying. You looked around in a confused manner before leaning back into his shoulder a bit to stretch and rub your face, the close contact had the scent of your shampoo consuming him, sweet and artificial in a mouth watering way.

Then your brain seemed to finally catch up, and the feeling of his towering figure leaning over you and his steady breathing against your neck sent a flurry of waves through your chest that turned your legs to jelly. 

“Uhm… yeah,” you managed to stammer out, whirling out from under him and towards the door in a flustered mess. “I… I really need a coffee.”

He followed your retreating figure through into the main room, where you hunched yourself over the coffee machine, desperately waiting for the ambrosia to cool so that you could fill your aching brain with thoughts again. You hadn’t noticed that Neteyam had wandered back over to the lunch table.

“This is nice,” he held up your weaving work. “Too nice to be Spider’s.” he chuckled and looked at you knowingly. The lump in your throat felt impossible to swallow, he wasn’t supposed to see it yet. His birthday was still at least a week away. Instead of answering you just nodded and inhaled a mouthful of coffee - in your haste it was still far too hot and you found yourself coughing and spluttering as molten lava made its way down your throat. Neteyam rushed over and took your cup. “Ah! Skxawng! Why would you try to drink that?!” He cursed at the heated mug as reached over and placed it behind you on the counter.

“I don’t know! You…” you trailed off as you realised how close to you he was, he had you trapped in the small corner, chest to chest with him. You found yourself lost in his honey coloured eyes, your breathing had both slowed down and sped up so that your heart was bursting out of your chest. He was so tantalisingly close, almost magnetically pulling you towards him.

“ I what…?” he whispered, leaning closer, his warm breath was fanning over your cheeks and you weren’t sure whether you should try to step back and press yourself further into the counter, or lean in and let the electricity between you both flow. But then suddenly he was gone, pulling back and away and your head was swimming, confused and nearly insulted, until you heard familiar laughter and chatter as Spider and Lo’ak barged through the door in a conversation. 

“You ok, Y/N?” Spider called to you, your frazzled expression and red face clearly causing some form of concern for him. You hummed a breathless yes back to him and quickly gathered your coffee, trying to rush back through to your room before you gave yourself away more - but not so quickly that you missed the small smile and tint of darker blue that graced Neteyam’s cheeks.

Maybe you hadn’t embarrassed yourself so much after all.

[thenanbakacorner]

Can I ask Hajime, Enki and Kenshirou's reactions to their partner (fem Reader) trying to break up with them because they've been ignoring her for too long? Like they didn't spend time with her anymore or they told her to leave them alone every time she tried to be around them. With a little fluff or NSFW at the end? (Sorry for asking so many times, I love your writing.)

Ooh, interesting idea o7o Sure thing, and it's okay! Thank you so much!!

* * *

🦍 Hajime 🦍

Hajime's initial reaction was confusion, asking what you meant and what the fuck you were on about-- almost like he thought you weren't being serious

Then he sees the look in your eyes that he knew spelled "I'm being dead serious", and he puts both his hands on your shoulders, demanding an explanation

When you explain why, he suddenly feels like a moron. Right. He had been so busy, he barely paid attention to you, constantly shooing you off when you interrupted his work

He supposed your anger made sense. In hindsight, it was wrong to give you, his girlfriend, such little attention

He assures you he was just busy, that he does want to spend time with you, and that whatever he had to do to make it up to you, he would do it in a heartbeat

Does his best to be there for you more often despite his packed workload, and when alone at his or your house, he spends lots of time cuddling and loving on you to make up for lost time

Also decides to treat you to a fancy restaurant date as an apology for being so stupid once he gets the time and extra funds for it

🗻 Enki 🗻

Upon telling Enki that you want to break up, he's quick to ask you why, a serious look on his face

He didn't think there were any problems in your relationship, so you telling him you wanted to cut off what you had struck him as alarming

Then the explanation, and Enki sighs heavily. Of course that would be the reason

Puts a hand on your shoulder and explains that he is just a very busy man. Just because he doesn't have much time to spend with you doesn't mean he doesn't love you, or not want to spend time with you

He then uses a hand to cup your chin and lift it to look directly at him, promising to make things up to you and that he'd try to make more time for you

He holds true to his word, and spends significantly more time with you, as well as treating you to something he knows you'd like to make up for his absense and the stress he caused

He isn't much of a cuddler, but after what he did, he decides, yes, some cuddles are well needed

🐕 Kenshirou 🐕

Kenshirou is stunned when you tell him you want to break up, and he grabs both your hands in his own, pleadingly asking why you would want such a thing

He finds your reasoning to be acceptable— he had been so distant from you with how busy he had been as of late, and he felt terrible as it dawned on him how little time he’d spent with you

He leans to kiss the back of your hands, profusely apologizing for causing you such feelings and asking you to, please, change your mind, assuring he can make up for it and do better

If you continue to make a point that you want to end it, he’ll end up on his knees begging you otherwise— he doesn’t want to lose you over this

Despite his workload, he spends lots more time by your side and doing things with you to make up for everything, and takes you on several dates to apologize

Lots of kisses when it’s just you two alone and quiet promises to never leave you hanging so long again

[petpippin]

I LOVE UR YAN SOUYA KAWATA HCS. can i req a one shot where basically idk she realizes her friends are going missing and then she like distances herself from souya and nahoya and they get mad n shit and one day y/n stumbles across in an alleyway and sees blue ogre souya beatinf tf outta this guy she talks to and nahoya js watching so she goes and tries pulling him off but souya is js like hold her tf still. things get intense a lot of fighting and souya accidentally hurts reader idk what happens after that i love ur books and everything it’d mean a lot!!

cw: explicit violence / manipulation / isolation/ general yandere themes

a/n: thank you so so much lovely :) :)

one by one, your friends appeared to have been slipped off the face of the earth.

it was as if they dreaded to be seen around you. the replies to your (many, confused) messages dwindled, eventually became entirely obsolete.

school had become a miserable lull, days spent hiding in empty classrooms, the bathroom, where no one would see you eating alone. crying.

it'd went on for weeks, radio silence. you were being dodged in the hallway, flat-out ignored in class.

nahoya had noted so, too, shuffling closely behind. how those friends of yours didn't seem to give a whole lot of a shit about you, if you'd done something to piss them off.

trailing by, souya seemed apprehensive to the entire ordeal. an attempt of comfort was made, however weakly, as he had rubbed your shoulder. murmured words of comfort.

the twins hadn't been friends, as much as they had been persistent bodyguards; ensuring you survived the walk to and from the train station, weren't approached by some creep.

the older, nahoya, wasn't shy, when it came to prying eyes. took joy, even, in getting in the faces of others. threatening to gouge out their eyes, laughing when they'd flush.

nahoya was proud of his violence, wore bruises and scratches like a badge of honor. he'd joyfully recount his escapades, visibly lift at possible conflict.

you shouldn't have been surprised, in hindsight, not when it came to nahoya.

souya, on the other hand, always appeared reluctant to cause any commotion. it wasn't that he was scared, as much as he was timid, didn't derive any joy out of making others fear him. he'd tried to tone down his scowl, politely adressed his seniors, as he did those younger.

you didn't believe he had it in him. "blue ogre," nahoya had told you, wrangling you into a stronghold. screaming, pleading with him to stop, to stop hitting him, please, you're killing him, "should've thought twice, 'fore you gave that moron your number."

he's disfigured. hitoshi's barely concious, you're going to kill him, souya, stop. again, and again, and again, his face is kicked in; blood comes out hitoshi's nose in spurts, staining his teeth, his shirt.

souya must be possessed. his eyes, alight with pure, unfettered hate, hardly follow, as he beats the mangled boy into the ground.

you've long gone hoarse, screaming, when he finally stops. souya's hands are bloody in the dim night, his breathing comes out in shallow, ragged puffs.

he doesn't turn to look at you, not at first. stares at what's left of hitoshi, panting as he makes out the corpse splayed in front of him.

nahoya keeps your knees from buckling from beneath. "he's not dead," he tells you, "sure does looks like it, though, huh?"

you're not thinking straight. not thinking at all, when souya steps over the body, and ambles toward you. too worn to properly make out anything meaningful, he regards you expectantly, as if awaiting his thanks, as if you'd wanted this.

"souya," nahoya croons, "you can have your reward, now."

in the unabashed moonlight, he stands before you. he's been bloodied, one not of his own, darkened with filth. his hands, stained a hideous red, are raw and calloused, rough, when he cups your cheeks.

you're lightheated, nauseous as hitoshi is made obscure by a cloud of baby blue. he dissappears from your sight, only when you're kissed.

souya's lips are soft, shy as he quickly retracts. a childlike-innocence lingers, made sour by the grime that sticks to your face, long imprinted on your brain.

pitifully, hitoshi groans.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Nick Anderson

* * * *

SOTU DEBRIEF - DARK BRANDON BRINGS IT!

TCINLA

MAR 8, 2024

The Party of Class and Integrity celebrates another ass whipping - look at all those around the Dumbest Congressional Bimbo Ever as they realize how bad they got their asses kicked

Last night’s State of the Union was a punch in the face not only of the heckling MAGAT Morons, but the Otherwise-Unemployables of the DC Press Corpse. As well, the Democrat’s Professional Pearl Clutcher’s Caucus can join the others in officially retiring “He’s too old” once and for damn all. The Press Corpse stands today beside their MAGAt buddies, trying not to admit to the exact nature of the material covering their faces.

Over.

Done.

Finished.

The official Democratic response to this collection of clucks from now to November is, “You saw that State of the Union speech. Joe Biden is sharper than Donald Trump will ever be and is ready for the fight.”

You can tell November’s Losers saw their coming loss clearly when their majority criticism of President Biden was “He was too mean and talked too fast!” You know he left a mark. That was the most perfectly tuned-in SOTU speech I have ever seen, delivered with fire and energy by a man as far from the Press Corpse’s concept of a doddering old man, diminished in drive and energy as possible. The New York Times Opinion Section got hit in the face by a freight train of ideas and energy.

Joe was Old Man Strong. Dark Brandon. Killer Joe.

Biden delivered.

It was the best center-left populist presidential speech ever. Less technocratic than Obama; less curated than Clinton - a solid knock-it-over-the-outfield-fence.

As many Republicans feared, Biden was more than able to “spar with the disruptors,” as one observer reported, using their jeers to make his own policy points. (“Sparring with MAGAts” is also known as “shooting fish in a barrel”). It’s hard to believe the GOP could be so stupid with their heckling that they walked straight in to a second SOTU trap, that went off when Biden maneuvered them perfectly into taking their proposed $2 trillion dollar tax cut off the table. But then again, they are Republicans, and it’s well-known you have to score an IQ lower than ambient room temperature to get your party card there nowadays.

Biden’s speech was combative and sharp, the solid punch in MAGA’s face they’ve been asking for every day for so long. The “senile” narrative went flying into the dumpster fire. Once again, Republicans set the bar too low, and got knocked on their collective fat ass.

Joe argued forcefully from the strong side about America’s destiny, security, and purpose, laying down a fierce bright line against Putin and the forces of autocracy.

He more than made it through the SOTU address. That moment his supporters always fear never came. Politico, demonstrating that most real political knowledge is 20/20 hindsight, called the speech the “turn-the-tables SOTU.” They go on to report that the Biden campaign had their best two hours of fundraising so far in this cycle from 9 to 11 p.m. last night. A CNN flash poll finds that 62 percent of viewers thought the policies Biden laid out would move the country in the right direction.

The New Republic’s Osita Nwanevu wrote: “That overall impression—of a vigorous president, strong enough to take the fight to his detractors —will linger more deeply in the minds of most who watched than the substance of anything he said.”

But what was really interesting to me was watching the political midget behind Biden’s left shoulder. Mike Johnson’s histrionic facial expressions demonstrated everything wrong, idiotic, dangerous and treasonous about MAGA Republicans.

Johnson was both ridiculous and politically smaller than he actually is. He did applaud Biden’s call for aid to Ukraine early in the speech, which he does seem to support personally, even though doing so demonstrated how he’s too afraid of his crazy caucus to allow a straight-up vote. He is likely to go down in history as the one person who more than any other handed Ukraine to Vladimir Putin.

His mugging for the camera was more obviously overdone than what passed for “emoting” in silent movies. He nodded that solemn “more in anger than in sorrow” nod. He rolled his eyes more than a teenage girl listening to her elders.

What was really sad was noting what he rolled his eyes at! The most important was January 6 (of which he is a noted participant in the attempted coup). When Biden said: “We must be honest. The threat to democracy must be defended. My predecessor and some of you here seek to bury the truth about Jan. 6. I will not do that.” MAGAMike gave his most sustained eye roll. Close runner-ups were his responses to abortion rights and freedom, and the border bill that he killed when told to by Dear Leader. And he did that last one while Senator James Lankford - the chief GOP negotiator on the bill - listened to Biden lay out its provisions and nodded on camera, clearly mouthing “That’s true.” Mikey even shook his head at “buy American”!

His eye roll over “The very idea of America is that we are all created equal, deserve to be treated equally throughout our lives. We’ve never fully lived up to that idea, but we’ve never walked away from it either,” was the real demonstration of just how dangerous he really is.

The MAGA Republican Party doesn’t believe we’re all equal. MAGA, and MAGA Mike, knows that if you’re not a right-wing Christian, you are not a good American.

Of course, there was also Marjorie Traitor Goon, whose ridiculous getup and MAGA hat elicited a “WTF?” look from Biden when he first saw her - and which was in apparent violation of House rules (but then, she IS a violation of House rules). Lindsey Graham’s pasted-on embarrassed smile at least demonstrates he has more self-awareness than his fellow MAGA cockroaches, as he considers how far he has fallen. Watching the MAGA screamer in the gallery get arrested was nice. It came down to just how dumbstruck the Republicans were as this man who - according to the Volkischer Beobachter, er, I mean Faux Snooze - can’t remember his own middle name or string two sentences together, zingered them repeatedly as he publicly exposed their un-American extremism.

Overall, Biden’s speech showed how he can win, and how MAGA, being on the wrong side of history, will lose.

And then, savoing the speech, just when I had forgotten there was going to be an Official Response, there was “America’s Mom,” sitting on a stool in her kitchen, there in East Buttfuck, Alabam-bam. Katie Britt had the most scenery-chewing response to a SOTU speech I’ve ever seen, and given that her competition was the ever-thirsty Marco Rubio and the ever-hapless Bobby Jindal, that was quite a win. Just another example of The Rising Young GOP Star, Cursed Forever by the SOTU Response.

The kitchen setting was the perfect metaphor for what MAGA intends for women: put them back in their place - “Kinder Kirche Kuche,” as their wonderboy Adolf put it.

I’ve spent enough time in Hollywood to be completely conversant with serious failure in public, and Britt’s performance didn’t even rise to the local-dinner-theater overacting you see from those who never had talent to begin with. With a Republican candidate for governor in her state of Alabambam campaigning on revoking women’s right to vote, and all the other MAGA moves to make the Handmaid’s Tale a documentary, delivering her speech in a kitchen was…

A choice. One of those tiny moments that completely illuminate the larger reality.

And then…

Appropos of nothing other than I love it when a Real Asshole gets punched really hard in the face, the news this morning that Doctor Feelgood Ronny Jackson has “Gotten His” brings a smile to my face that might last the weekend:

After the Defense Department Inspector General report on the White House Medical Unit found “Doctor Feelgood” had engaged in “inappropriate conduct” when he was the top White House physician for Presidents Obama and Trump, the Navy removed him from the Rear Admiral list last June. Yes, Jackson, who was a rear admiral when he retired in 2019, is now listed as a captain.

A spokesperson for the Navy stated that the “substantiated allegations in the DoDIG investigation of Rear Adm Ronny Jackson are not in keeping with the standards the Navy requires of its leaders and, as such, the Secretary of the Navy took administrative action in July 2022.”

Hurrah!

The losers just keep on losing. It’s what losers do.

[cadyrocks]

So I know that CAD is often and widely considered a punchline in the circles I run in. And not without reason - the early stuff is all pretty terrible for a variety of reasons, Loss is a tone shift so stark and out there that it can't help but be funny*. The jokes didn't work, attempts at being serious didn't work, and it rarely rose past the level of "mediocre Penny Arcade knockoff" (and, let's be honest, I don't exactly think very highly of Penny Arcade).

But for some reason, I never stopped following that RSS feed. And... uh... I regret to inform you that at some point in the intervening years, CAD got pretty damn good.

Some context: the most recent run of CAD focuses on our longstanding protagonists, Ethan and Lucas, in new personas as superheroes. Lucas can make DDR arrows appear, and Ethan can respawn after death. They're not exactly A-Grade, but for someone who's as much of a complete moron as Ethan is, being able to die without consequences is a pretty useful power to have. A power which "The Troll" (a minor villain who he previously dropped off a building, with some ambiguity as to how hard he tried to save him), appears to have taken away at the conclusion of a genuinely pretty solid arc about overcoming his ego. Or maybe not! It's unclear. But, y'know, you can't exactly test whether or not your power of respawning after death works, and if you've spent your whole life living without any kind of mortal peril... It'll fuck with you.

This arc, which, on the whole, works really well. The tonal shifts between comedic violence and earnest superhero drama feel natural and earned; Ethan is relatable enough that we can understand his pathos and feel what he's like even as he tries to raise money for a new graphics card by draining all the blood from his body, getting annoyed when the blood "despawns" on his death. Lucas similarly makes a sympathetic and effective supporting character.

The art isn't exactly gonna take the comics world by storm, but it's professional and has a consistent style without simply copy-pasting everything, a huge step up from the early stuff we all make fun of. If you told me this was a DC comic... well, it'd be a pretty big stylistic shift from the usual DC fare, but it'd probably wouldn't be the worst-drawn comic on the shelves. To be fair, he's been doing this for 20+ years, so you can expect some growth, but some people wouldn't necessarily expect much growth from Tim Buckley, so that's a pleasant surprise.

In addition to this, there's a few other projects under the larger CAD banner, and most of them work pretty well. The Starcaster Chronicles is a bit bogged down with melodrama but is generally an enjoyable sci-fi romp with some neat ideas and character turns (I really love the reason why Cort, our main character, turned into an outlaw). Console Wars, while a very dated concept, is still pretty funny when it shows up.

All in all, CAD has matured and grown with its author, and can comfortably take up the mantle of "a pretty solid webcomic", and that's probably worth mentioning every once in a while if we're going to keep making more and more obscure Loss memes.

*Although, worth noting, it was apparently based on real life experiences of the author he was processing, so while it's still really bad, it does feel a little mean to treat it like a huge memey joke. That ship has very much sailed, but, uh, I get why he banned HBomberguy from his forum. That was, I think we can say in hindsight, kind of a dick move on Harry's part.

[macksting]

Stop ideologically grilling each other every time you meet another leftist goddamit

Like, obviously don't sit at the table with the Nazis, but if one is required to commit to a Take on every subject, some of those opinions will be absolute dogshit. It's not so much that it's okay to have dogshit opinions, as that it's inevitable you'll have at least a couple of them, and we're not gonna learn from each other's experiences if we are constantly trying to make sure everyone around us thinks the same things about the Winter War. That is not a hypothetical example. I don't think either party had any relation to Finland or Russia whatsoever, but one of the sticking points that cost me friends when they met each other was whether the war was "silly" or "an atrocity." It can be both.

[ID: Three images, screenshots from Legend Of The Galactic Heroes. Yang Wenli sits writing an opinion piece at a table at his home on Heinessen. It reads, "The reasons for 90% of all wars are chillingly moronic in hindsight. In the remaining 10%, the reasons are even moreso, and clearly evident to those involved." /end ID]

Yes there were other problems in that conversation, but that this was one of the complaints is a point worth belaboring a little. Expecting everybody to agree with you and be right on everything when you barely know each other is practically solipsistic. How much of a goddamn individualist do you have to be to be sure that your opinions are so goddamn good that you can't have a civil conversation with other leftists? Admittedly everybody involved in this conversation is super traumatized. But that does seem like reason to walk away for a few fucking minutes.

Or keep it up. Just be glad, I guess, when the fuckin' neo-nazis jump you, that your friends were perfectly correct in their opinions that they dared share with you, and that you died in perfect solidarity against the real enemy. We have a right to be angry. Angry as fuck. We have a right to expect better of each other. When we have personal experience or history involved in a matter, that should be given extra credence, and some things are unsafe. I won't put up with antisemitism around me, for example. There's some really obvious and easy lines out there. I also won't put up with my white friends grilling my Jewish friends to make sure they have the right opinions about Israel, and I am sick and tired of fucking cosplay anarchists and communists who do no fucking work but are willing to murder each other over Barcelona. And if someone comes at me saying "bisexual lesbians" are a disastrously dangerous notion that hurts lesbians everywhere, and you press me as to why I do not want that discourse in my server, I am gonna eventually have to tell you that opinion is TERFy, and you need to calm the fuck down if I do, because sometimes our opinions are dogshit. That is not a hypothetical.

I am so fucking tired.

[ID: Bubblegum Crisis gif. Nene's suit's engine pops open and vents hot air as it shuts down, and the air swims with heat distortions. /end ID]

[rei-makes-big-robo]

Project HD Devlog #1: Late to start writing

Project HD was the second of my late 2022-2023 VR game prototypes, it progressed far within the first month of development until I lost track of what I wanted it to be and started to develop Project CWD. Project HD was sort of a half accident half intentional mix of goofy action oriented gameplay mechanics for a VR action platformer, mostly revolving around having hammers for hands and needing blood to heal (Very original I know).

The blood part was sorta vaguely because I wanted that sort of blissful ignorance for how much health you have in games like Ultrakill, need health? just kill an enemy and bathe in their blood! I still have not implemented any method of this as in it's current form it lacks any organic entities, just the Squeakers which are named from their early prototype form (and the rubber domed tutorial version) producing a squeak from a dollar store Halloween rat decoration.

Originally they were just a red block with a knife that would either stab or do a spin attack, they have since grown to be weird stabby trashcans that slide around and if you're unfortunate enough to be sitting when it attacks you might get stabbed in the eye. The big conflict with the Squeakers is that their current version uses a character controller instead of a Navmesh agent and it can be very derpy (video below), which has been causing me to consider reverting them to the Navmesh version.

So now that I've infodumped about stuff nobody will care about or find interesting here's the real shit! Project HD relies on the ability to adjust how much mass your hand hammers have with the analog triggers which allows you to jump very significant heights and distances. The problem with this is that my headset uses inside out tracking which I thought caused a lot of inaccuracy and inconsistency in these jumps, however that was not the case. My partner (romantic) has a Valve Index which uses lighthouse tracking which is pretty much the best kind of tracking if you have space for it. So after 3-4 months of leaving Project HD dormant I opened it up in Unity and prepped the testing scene for a build.

After I sent my partner it I immediately had to rebuild it with proper controller configurations for the Valve Index controllers which was as simple as clicking a button or two. After trying it for a bit her takeaway from it was that it's movement and mechanics were "counter intuitive and inconsistent". Both things I didn't expect but now I was filled with glorious purpose, a reason to pick up the hammer and smack some C# with my crappy oem keyboard. In hindsight I should have seen both these problems coming, most weird movement mechanics in VR are sorta the inverse off a mass jump leading to the counter intuitiveness of it. The inaccuracy however was just me being a moron, an absolute hamster pressing the buttons and waiting to see a red error telling me to try that again. However in this case everything worked, not well but I didn't know any better at the time I wrote a lot of it. The entire hand controller script was updating with the framerate, sounds pretty normal for most things. Until you consider the fact that half of it was controlling physics objects.

So back to the purpose stuff, today (technically yesterday but hey that's what happens when you don't sleep till 6am like some kinda vampire gremlin) I started to change some stuff around to try to fix some of these issues. I started by adding interpolation to the rigid bodies of the hammers, which makes them feel a little sluggish but they almost come out feeling better like this. I then changed the entire hand script to run off FixedUpdate, meaning it updates with the physics tics which are consistent rather than the frame rate. Clearly having a wave of inspiration from the time spent on Project CWD I started to work on implementing post processing effects to get it closer to the visual style I wanted. I also set it up to change the effects based on health which ended up working really well with the existing effects of your energy hammers fading away more and flickering.

After two gameplay tests by myself the inconsistency of the mass jumps had been resolved feeling smooth and vastly more precise to respond to my intentions. The bloom and other post processing effects helped to really make things feel a lot more alive and even made me reconsider my stance on scrapping a certain parry indicator (story for another time). Thus I have begone developing Project HD again by accident and this time I wanted to share it somewhere other than Discord creative channels. I'm still very uncertain of what I want to do, I really like to make stuff like this and I really think it's a very fun game concept but my financial situation forces me to consider it as business and I'm not sure I'm good enough to ship a product worth paying for. My skills are varied across so many fields and none of them have a diploma to my name or are relevant to my existing job experience. That's part of why I post to accounts like this to serve as a sort of portfolio to prove to myself that I am capable of making things. That the years I've invested into this haven't been a waste. I've been considering trying to apply for a digital art position at some game development companies, but I'm also very much afraid of losing my time to projects I have no passion for and not having time or energy on the side to do what I really want to be doing. To anyone that read this far thank you and sorry. Writing this has given me some confidence that this is what I should be doing, that I should keep crawling like the worm I am.

[gerdavonrinnlingen]

Writer's Game: First Sentences

I was tagged by @semper-draca - thank youuu :D

I'm tagging @funnygirl117 @sunangelflowers @spiegatrix and everybody else who wants to do this ^^

Rules: post the first sentence of your last ten fics. If you haven't written ten fics, share as many first sentences as you have.

Season of Change (Gingerrose) Some called Spring the most beautiful time of the year, trees waking up from their slumber, flowers blooming in all kinds of wonderful colours, small critters and insects buzzing in the first tentative sunrays, the frost of the winter receding. A tender, enchanting time … Morons, the lot of them, Rose thought with a huff. (Okay, that's two sentences muahahaha)

The Palm of Your Hand (Gingerpilot) Poe sauntered over the airfield, snow crunching under his boots.

Fix it (Gingerrose) Rose waved as Finn’s and Poe’s ship took off. Snow dust swirled up when Poe adjusted the thrusters, she could hear the CY-twin engines roar and couldn’t help but smile. (Again two sentences, but come on ...)

The Order of Things (Gingerrose) In hindsight, it was startling how fast and yet how unremarkable their demise was. Even after  Crait, after everything they had lost, deep in her heart Rose had always believed that the Resistance would eventually win.

Creature Comfort (Gingerrose) Rose wrinkled her forehead. “Are you sure?”

Etchings in the Ice (Gingerrose) A cloud of breath escaped Hux’s lips as he smoothly glided over the ice. All was silent but the sounds of his breaths and the scratching of his blades.

Bites and Kisses (Gingerpilot) Hux gasped and jerked up, only to groan when he felt the dull pain in his chest that made breathing a laborious effort.

Artemis (Gingerrose) Lukewarm spindrift splattered across the foredeck as the bow drove into the azure blue waves, bringing the smell of seaweed, salt, and fish with it. Captain Hux stood on the bridge of the frigate Naseby , pulling the corners of his mouth down as the wind did nothing to cool him.

Never Alone: Corbos (Gingerrose) Every bone in her body hurt as Rose crawled out of the dark pod.

Never Alone (Gingerrose) Rose stared at her hands. They weren’t pretty. Short fingers, palms full of calluses and old cuts where her grip had slipped when using the hydrospanner, short, chewed off nails.

[queenscharacters]

"You can tell me anything, nothings going to scare me away." Olivia to Xavier

Xavier knew he owed Ollie the truth. After everything, especially now that he uprooted her and Jolie’s lives with little to no explanation…he knew half truths weren’t enough anymore. As much as he wanted to keep them out of everything, he didn’t have a choice now. They were involved. He hated it, he hated himself, but he couldn’t change it. Therefore, the days of holding back were over.

He didn’t want to fight her. He wasn’t even trying to - he knew he was going to tell her everything she wanted to know. He was just terrified. Any chance of her forgiving him, of them maybe having a chance again was about to be thrown out the window…Xavier didn’t even know why he had optimism in the first place. He didn’t deserve their love and it was more apparent than over.

“They just sent me a picture of the two of you sleeping in your apartment .” Xavier began, his voice low and strained. She asked what made him come back, she’d been asking, so it was only fair to start there. “I left not just because of them, but they played a big part in my decision. I just wanted to protect you and Jolie. I thought I had been covering my tracks with you two, but it was getting harder and I didn’t want you associated with the family by any means. I couldn’t risk it. Things were starting to go downhill and I just wanted the two of you to be safe…I figured the less you knew the better.”

Xavier hung his head in shame. Hindsight was 20/20, but he felt like the biggest moron for his actions. And the biggest jerk for unilaterally deciding everything for their family - especially knowing how wrong he had been. “I thought I had been so careful. I kept tabs on you guys - I had our people watching you from afar, too. And for the last few years, nobody even came close to you two. I thought I made the right call.

“And then I came home and that fucking picture was lying on my bed…” Xavier’s voice caught in his throat. “I didn’t think twice, Ollie. You got my call twenty minutes later.” The only reason he hadn’t called sooner was because he had immediately disintegrated into a panic attack at the sight. It took both his brothers to calm him down. Lena, luckily, was already en route to the safe house with Felix and some other guards.

“The family isn’t in a good spot right now. Some are going into hiding, including us, because I refuse to risk anything when it comes to you or Jolie.” Xavier continued, meeting her gaze. He didn’t know how he could recover from this. “I am so, so sorry, Olivia. It wasn’t that I never trusted you; I just never wanted to put you in danger.” He grimaced. “Good thing I went ahead and fucking did that anyway.”

[moni-logues]

i finished reading this like, what, fifteen minutes ago? And i was going to give myself time to process before I reblogged because i needed it, because I knew this chapter was going to stay with me, because there was a lOT happening on my insides.

but I also find myself unable to NOT reblog but i can't do that without spoilers so i'm gonna cut when they start

I haven't been silent about this series here but I am not sure I've been loud enough. i feel like i should be reblogging this every fucking day

and each chapter just gets better and better (yeahyeahyeah my biases whatever, fuck off)

i had my heart in my throat for so much of reading this. and despite your writing, dESPITE MY READING because in HINDSIGHT, I can SEE ITTTTT

everything about that scene with Hyunjin. EVEryTHING in Minho's thoughts. i'm there, like, GODDAMIT MONI YOU FUCKING MORON!!!! HOW did you let that take you off-guard?!?!?!!??! Jade fucking TOLD YOU what was goingto happen and YETTTT

I

I

if you had killed her, i#

i

i mean

i don't know what I'd have done. it was SO GOOD. SOOOOOO fucking good. oh MY GOD.

I know you're a a fucking hotshot lawyer doing good shit but quit your job and write books. I am not kidding. you are a WRITER. for real. for really really real.

i'm in awe. i'm full of envy but in a way that does NOT detract in any way from how much I enjoy your writing. you're a cut above. i'm so so so so so sos ososos fucking grateful that you are writing fic and putting this shit out here for FREEE. cause you should write books but maybe if you were, I wouldn't have heard of them or you or they would pass me by and I'd never get to read stuff like this. this makes my fucking stomach hurt and my heart hurt and i can't beleive i can just read it??? and you just wrote it?? you just did it??? like that??????

I almost cried reading this, yuo know?? when she was gonna die?? you know how often fanfic makes me cry??? NEVER

i'm honestly scared for the next chapter. because you know chan is my boy. i love minho. i do. i really do. but chan...... don't hurt me, please, jade esquire tumblr user eoieopda.com, please

i'm begging

FORCE QUIT // EPISODE III: SPIDER

somebody has to make sure you make it through the firefight alive.

pairing: lee minho x reader | series masterlist (3/4) | prev. episode series summary: it's 2077, and life's a fucking nightmare. corporate titans ate the state and shat it back out, leaving citizens of the new republic to fall in line, or fall to their knees. a reckoning is coming — where will you fall? au: series — dystopian, cyberpunk; episode — mutually-pining fuck buddies. ➢insp. by: cyberpunk 2077 + the true lives of the fabulous killjoys genre: smut + angst word count: 23.5k rating: 18+ — minors do not have my consent to interact. series warnings: violence (hand-to-hand, firearms, explosives), depictions of injuries (blood/bruising/burns), some characters have cybernetic modifications, class conflict + poverty, surprise - corporations are bad!, unethical medical/tech experimentation, self-indulgent references to non-skz idols, reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns. episode: above + combat leader!minho, disabled!hacker!reader, pov switches, time skips, reader has a prosthetic/cybernetic leg, loss of limb due to injury (not depicted, minimally described), ref. to hospitalization + recovery, sunshine/storm cloud dynamic, minho is kind of a dick, depictions of combat violence, minor character death(s), unprotected p in v penetration. a/n 1: this part required a lot more external resources than anything else i’ve written, so i’ve kind of… footnoted? what i used. see the note at the end of the fic for the list! a/n 2: each episode features a different member x reader pairing, but the plot is linear, so you'd need to read them (in order) to get the full picture! you can sign up for the taglist to be notified of the next uploads. thank you to my beloved @sailoryooons for beta'ing this and @jihopesjoint for being my emotional support internet wife even though she doesn't stan skz. ily both endlessly!

Yours is the Black Screen’s worst kept secret.

The irony of that isn’t lost on you. Professionally, your most marketable skill is your ability to lower others’ defenses; to build and break walls as needed to take what you want for keeps. With finesse few can imitate, you vault over boundaries. Unfortunately for you, you don’t personally have any of those.

You’ve always been this way — no poker face, no affinity for bluffing, no discernible self-preservation instinct — and just the same, you’ve always wished you weren’t.

Time and again, your cards are on the table the second they’re dealt. If that alone wasn’t shitty gameplay, you and that relentless optimism of yours raise the stakes, double down. There’s no hesitating before you go all in; and there’s no surprise when you lose it all, either. Nothing you’ve ever felt has shocked anyone because they saw it coming in the previous turn.

Like Seungmin, for example, who won’t stop rolling his eyes at you from the other side of the room.

“If I took a shot every time you looked up at the door…” He sighs, gesturing from your corner of the Hub to its entrance, “I’d have died of alcohol poisoning six times over by now.”

The grimace you don’t want to concede can’t be hidden, so you reign your gaze in and direct it back at the screen in front of you. You don’t absorb any of the information flickering in front of you, however, because Seungmin has a point. Any second you haven’t spent staring wistfully out of the room is wasted on glancing at the clock. 

It’s close to nine o’clock now, which means your not-so-secret distraction is due any minute.

That reminds me…

You check again, wondering how many minutes have passed since you last looked, only to learn that it’s been less than one. That’s when the reflex takes over. Without your permission, your eyes wander from the glowing, green digits on the wall to the door — just in case.

No dice.

Damn it.

In a feeble attempt to cover your chronic — terminal — hopefulness, you try to refocus on your work. All it takes is a few seconds of staring before your eyes glaze over again. That disinterest isn’t reflected in your rigid posture, though. Your brain may be a flat tire, but your body is a bow drawn back, ready to fire.

Anticipation is a hell of a drug, isn’t it?

Seungmin crosses his arms. From the corner of your eye, you can see the knowing look he shoots you. He may not speak his favorite words, but that doesn’t mean you can’t hear them, loud and clear.

Told you so.

“It’s kind of funny, actually,” he says instead. 

You know better than to be thrown off by his trademark, flat affect. This is the most amused you’ve seen the weaponsmith in weeks. The corner of his mouth even twitches slightly; it might be the closest he’s ever been to smiling. “He only steps foot in here when you do.”

With all the heat you can muster, you aim to warn him — to puff out your chest a little, just this once — but it just sounds like a whine. “Seungmin…”

As if on cue, light footsteps sound off from down the hallway, shifting closer with every muffled step and cutting your would-be bickering off in the process.

Even with Seungmin’s judgment focused elsewhere, you continue to pretend that the glaring, blue light in front of your face has garnered any amount of your attention. It doesn’t. It hasn’t and won’t, so long as you can feel the seconds tick by in your chest.

He snorts. “Like clockwork.”

Damn it.

For being as light on his feet as he is, Minho tends to drag them more, the longer the day lasts. You never point that out to him; he doesn’t need to know that you’ve noticed. That fact sits among the million others you try to keep to yourself, just like your ability to identify him by gait alone.

Besides, you think, he’d never listen if you begged him to slow down, even if it’s just for a night. Rest doesn’t feature on the short list of things Minho wants from you. Come to think of it, neither does advice or concern for his well-being.

“Well, well, well. Look who it is,” Seungmin sings out when the shuffling stops short. “You lost, hyung?”

The way your head snaps up has nothing to do with Seungmin’s mocking tone and everything to do with the flutter in your chest. You’d attempt to keep that a secret, too, but then Minho walks in, and it’s game set. 

He’s fatal with his tattered, grey t-shirt half-tucked into ripped, black denim; and you have to clench your jaw to keep it from dropping. Before your dry throat can choke you, you clear it, swallowing down the thought that Minho and his jagged edges are the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen.

It gets easier to get a fucking grip on yourself when Seungmin starts needling again: “No, seriously, are you lost? What are you doing here?”

Dark, cat eyes flick to you, then back to their target. Deadly, you think, just like the rest of him.

“Wishing you weren’t,” Minho responds without missing a beat. 

As usual, his tone is carefully balanced between bored and annoyed. You suspect that’s purposeful. A tactic. It leaves listeners in the dark about his feelings, so they have to guess whether or not they should run.

Nine times out of ten, they guess wrong.

This time, Minho deigns to give a hint. It’s quick enough that you would’ve missed it if you hadn’t been staring. Thankfully, his target sees the microscopic flex of his eyebrow, too. 

All that bark leaves Seungmin in a hurry, no bite to follow. With his tail between his legs and his palms raised in defeat, he skirts around Minho before slipping wordlessly out the door. 

You frown slightly as you watch him flee, although you sure as shit won’t mind his absence.

“Seungmin’s harmless,” you remind Minho quietly, although you don’t know why you bother. He’s never felt threatened in his life, as far as you can tell. You don’t necessarily hate it when he flexes that fact in front of you, but that doesn’t mean he should. “You don’t need to scare him off.”

Minho crosses his arms and tilts his head in a way that makes you only the slightest bit insane. “I’m not scary,” he rebuts matter-of-factly, as if that’ll make it true.

You make the mistake of looking him in the eye then. Like it always does in moments like this, heat immediately rushes to your face like a backdraft.

Like he always does, Minho senses the spike in temperature. To crank it higher, he meanders his way across the room to you, eyes glittering impishly all the while. Your heart thuds harder with each footfall. Stupidly, you wonder if he can sense that, too.

“In fact, I’m offended,” he corrects you as he closes in.

His palms press down against the opposite side of your desk once he reaches it. This close, you can read the mischief scribbled all over his face, which only serves to tear you in two — equal parts fucked up by his assertiveness and the rare playfulness that only comes in flashes, only with you.

Minho looms over you now, his hardened stare softening just slightly. Whispering through what almost looks like a pout, he adds, “And you’re mean.”

For a second, you think that the hand inching its way across the tabletop is seeking yours. Anticipation makes your fingers twitch. Try as you might, you can’t think of a single fucking thing you want more than to slip them between his. 

Proving once again that you’ll never read him right, Minho’s hand darts out to your side instead. You watch in slow-motion as he snags the bag of honey twists from its resting spot near your left forearm, which is nowhere near fast enough to catch him before he pulls away. Useless, your empty hand drops back onto your desk. 

You stare longingly at the stolen packet, so dejected that you really could cry, and mumble, “It took so much effort to get those.”

“It shouldn’t have,” Minho counters with a shrug.

He isn’t wrong, and you hate that.

The Black Screen’s demolition expert, Lee Jihoon, is as hard to crack as the shit he blows to pieces. His footlocker full of snacks — a rarity, given the whole everything going on in the world — is even more impenetrable. Charming your way through his stony exterior had been your only option to gain access. It took months, as well as unrelenting friendliness administered in small, persistent doses.

Just like —

Minho wouldn’t have wasted his time with flattery or nuance. He never needs to open his mouth to get what he’s after because his presence — from his stance to his intense, vaguely violent gaze — does all the talking for him. All he would’ve needed to do is blink in Jihoon’s direction, then he would’ve walked out of there with the older man’s treasure trove and the jacket off his back.

Having just been robbed blind yourself, you keep your mouth shut about that.

Shrugging once again, Minho throws down the gauntlet: “Finish your shit quickly, and I might decide to share them with you.”

How thoughtful.

If he’s expecting a verbal response, he won’t get one, you decide. The most you give is a disgruntled sigh. Dying star that you are, you collapse in on yourself, sinking deeper into your chair until you wind up as a half-crumpled heap on the desk below your monitors. It’s a perfect picture of abject failure, making this the only thing you’ve gotten right all day.

You don’t expect Minho to ask after your current state, so you’re not disappointed when he doesn’t. Or, at least, you will yourself not to be. In reality, your bated breath is held for a second or two before you remember who you’re dealing with. 

He does speak, though, which surprises you. Your first guess would’ve been that he’d give a hard pass on your dramatics and wander back out the door while your face was buried in your arms.

“Spider,” he sighs, and his tone is so gentle that it shocks the hell out of you. Intimate, almost, even if it is just a caricature. “Call it a night.”

More curious than cautious, you lift your head enough to blink up at him. Between his eyebrows, there’s a small crease that you don’t see often enough to competently translate. You stare at the tension there for a beat longer than you mean to before your gaze drifts downward to meet his.

See? Beautiful.

The second Minho sees your eyebrows raise slightly in question, a switch flips. He shuts the light off, irons out his expression. Whatever softness you found there is gone as quickly as it came.

He clears his throat, then huffs, “Come on.”

You frown and gesture to the screen ahead, pointing out the program you’ve spent all goddamn day working on to no avail. The silent protest doesn’t work on Minho. His stare only becomes more expectant the longer he levels it at you.

“Seriously. Fuck it.”

Having chosen the hill you plan to die on, you envision roots tying your unmoving body to the floor beneath you. Your frown deepens. No, you think emphatically, as if making your internal monologue shout will make him listen.

Minho tries again. “It’ll be here to ruin your day tomorrow.”

You don’t budge, and it pulls an exasperated noise out of him. Curling his right hand into a loose fist, he taps the knuckle of his index finger lightly against your elbow, like the contact will force your mental task list to shut down. 

“I’m bored.”

You know exactly what that means.

“Come up to the roof with me.”

Strike that.

“The roof?” You peep, hardened expression smashed to bits before you can blink.

Minho looks a little too pleased by your sudden concession. He even makes one of his own, chuckling slightly before he rolls his eyes and elaborates, “It’s nice out.”

It’s nice out, so you want to fuck me… on the roof?

The hand at your elbow pulls away and re-routes towards the back pocket of his jeans. When it returns to the space between you, there’s a dented, silver flask glinting in his grip. He shakes it, arches one eyebrow, and tops it all off with a wolfish grin that makes your stomach flip. 

“Stolen whisky tastes best in restricted areas, I hear.”

He nods his head towards the door, beckoning you to give in, and you’re on your feet without needing the invitation to be repeated. 

The sudden movement after sitting for so long means that your body isn’t as enthusiastic as your brain. A sharp pinch pulls a slight gasp out of you. That’s the extent of your own reaction, but Minho isn’t used to this the way you are. Alert eyes flick down to where your residual limb slots into your manufactured one, then back up to search your face. 

Once again, he asks without saying a word. You answer with a wave of your hand, “All good.”

Minho’s concern doesn’t immediately dissipate. To prove that you meant what you said, you snatch the packet of honey twists out of his unsuspecting hand and circle around the desk until you’re face to face. 

“If I’m on my ass for too long, my leg forgets how to leg,” you explain, grinning more out of triumph than reassurance. Then, you dangle your reclaimed prize from your fingertips because you are nothing if not a little shit. “I’m not a doctor, but I think science says that food helps.”

“Science says?” Minho snorts. 

You nod authoritatively, then you turn to the spare folding chair near your work station. Your jacket waits for you there, carefully folded on the cracked, plastic-coated cushion. Shrugging it on, you shove the honey twists in your right pocket and tease, “Sure does.”

The corner of his mouth tugs slightly upwards, and you swear there’s an affectionate smile threatening to break loose.

It doesn’t.

Instead, after pushing off his palms, Minho stands fully upright, nods his head towards the door a second time, and starts making his way towards it. You follow because you always do, biting back your lips to keep your giddiness to yourself.

As the pair of you exit and head down the hallway in comfortable quiet, you note his proximity to you. It’s always the same; he’s always close by but never near enough to touch. The edge of his shirt sleeve brushes against your arm, although his skin never does. 

You stopped wondering about that a long time ago, unwilling to figure out if this is a tactic, too.

Halfway to the nearest stairwell, Jeongin appears in a doorway. The room he emerges from used to be an office for the human resources department, back when the factory was operational — back when employers bothered with pretending to give a shit. 

Now, the room’s function lands somewhere between a bar and a bedroom. The latter only comes into play when the former makes staggering upstairs to the residential area too much of a hassle. From what you can see over the younger man’s shoulder, that’ll likely be the case tonight.

Jeongin gives you a cursory smile before directing his full attention to the man keeping cursory distance at your side.

None of it makes sense to you, all this effort spent to hide intentions. Maybe, you think, that’s why you’re so fucking terrible at it.

“Hey, hyung!” Jeongin chirps as the pair of you approach. He lifts his hand to wave, but it just looks like he’s shaking the deck of cards in his hand at Minho. “Do you want to —”

Without slowing down, Minho cuts him off mid-ask and at the knees. “No.”

And then his finger slips into the belt loop of your jeans, tugging you along beside him as he keeps up the pace. You’re gone before you can see Jeongin’s face fall, but you’re sure it does. 

Yours would.

When you reach the stairs, Minho matches your careful pace, albeit much less awkwardly. For as life-saving as the chunk of metal and carbon fiber on your right side has been, there’s at least one problem it hasn’t solved: going up steps is a bitch. 

To compensate for your less dynamic knee, your left leg takes stairs two at a time so you can simply step straight up with your right. And even though you’re a bit out of breath from the extra effort, you open your mouth to comment on what you just witnessed.

Minho stops you before you can start. Shooting you a look you know far too well, he sighs, “Don’t.”

You’re as good a faker as you are a listener.

“He’s just trying to —”

He releases his grip on your belt loop. It’s the only reason you realize he’d still been holding on. Stopping at the landing, Minho turns to look back at you. “Can’t think of anything I want to do less than sit next to someone and have to hear about their fucking day.”

Eyebrows raised, you stare up at him. This time, you don’t say a word, letting your expression speak for you.

“With the ever-present risk that I’ll be murdered by the state tomorrow, forgive me if I’m not wasting today by listening to shit I don’t care about.”

There it is, you think.

The combat leader’s insistence that his life will only end one way: too soon and bloody.

That unexploded ordnance drops heavy between you. You step over it, joining him on the landing, and you don’t look back. Just at Minho, who watches you carefully for a reaction; whose tension leaves his muscles when the slight, upward curve of your mouth says, I understand.

Together, you climb the remaining flight until you reach the thick, steel door leading out to the roof. It’s barely functional, like the vast majority of the factory, and can’t shut all the way. With more force than is even remotely necessary, he kicks it fully open. The thick, rubber tread of his boot thuds against the metal. It’s quickly drowned out by the strangled squeak of its hinges.

You’re at least slightly thankful that those hinges don’t explode into a cloud of rust.

On his way to the ledge, Minho grabs two empty buckets from the pile of discarded odds-and-ends near the doorway. The rest of the pile — mainly two-by-four planks too busted to rehab and similarly spent range targets — threatens to collapse without its foundation, but neither of you stops to fix it. He leads, and you follow, ultimately coming to a stop near the ledge.

“So?” 

His insufficient question is underscored by the two buckets landing mouth-down on the concrete with twin thunks.

You’re still blinking through your confusion when he unceremoniously drops himself on the furthest bucket and when he stretches out his leg to tap the remaining one with the side of his boot. Coincidentally, you’re still waiting for the rest of his inquiry when you sit — much more gently — next to him. This time, it’s you who moves, nudging your chrome knee against his flesh-and-bone.

Minho finally takes the hint and continues, pulling out his flask as he does. “How was your day?”

The whiplash makes your neck ache.

Remind me again about the last thing you said to me.

After taking a swig without incident, he passes the flask to you. You take your sip — small, cautious — and immediately let out some clownish, choking noise when the strong notes of wooden barrel hit your taste buds.

“Oh, that’s —” You cough, nose scrunching. Whisky-laced breath slips out of your teeth in the form of a hiss. “Absolutely wretched, I fear.”

For the first time all night, Minho’s mask cracks, and a full-fledged laugh tumbles out of his mouth, high and clear as it cuts through the otherwise dead air.

“It’s not,” he counters. Without taking his eyes off your pout, he lifts a hand to catch the flask that you toss at him. “You’re just childish.”

In recompense, you swat his arm. 

He lets you.

“Shut up.” Your distinctly childish comeback is breathy because, like always, your laughter isn’t something you can successfully hide. “Am not.”

Another swig, no further incidents.

“Think you need to be demoted. Maybe I should start calling you baby instead of Spider.”

The violent flutter in your chest doesn’t seem to care that what it heard isn’t at all what he meant. For now, you let it happen. You focus instead on his creased eyes and barely-crooked smile; drink them in as quickly as you can, knowing that your window is closing.

As rare as it is, levity looks perfect on him.

While your laughter ebbs, the wind kicks up slightly, bringing a chill with it. You pull your jacket tighter around you as you watch browned leaves spin in pirouettes near your feet. Their presence here is surprising, given how devastating the War was to the ecosystem, but it’s welcomed. It’s a reminder sorely needed: nothing’s ever truly fucked beyond repair.

Minho pipes up suddenly, “You never answered me, you know.” And even though his voice is low, it startles you.

He’s too busy fiddling with the cap of his flask to see it when you turn your head to look quizzically at him. He probably missed the way you jolted just then, too, which is fine by you. Your goldfish brain is still trying to recall what he asked that went without a reply.

When you remain quiet, he supplies, “Your day.” 

As it turns out, you’re just as stunned by his question the second time he poses it. Part of you wants to remind him that he could be murdered by the state tomorrow, just in case he wants to reclaim his wasted time. The rest watches as his absentminded fidgeting stops, and his head lifts to look at you — not impatiently, not sardonically, but with the tiniest bit of insecurity scribbled into his slightly furrowed brow.

Oh.

Now, you’re frozen into silence for an entirely different, entirely devastating reason: he wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t genuinely want to know.

A self-effacing laugh serves as a smokescreen for how fucking flustered that realization makes you. 

“Well, I had plans to go phishing, but they fell through.”

“Beach advisory?” He feigns a frown, making your lips curve upwards at the corners. “Those hypocrites at Thanotech really need to stop dumping their shit into the reservoir.”

At this, you laugh outright. 

This is the Minho that no one but you could pick out of a lineup: the one that will take a bit and run with it, who lets his guard down and catches you off yours. This one may not be yours — you know he isn’t, not really — but at times like this, when it’s just the two of you alone, it feels like he is.

“I’ll make sure to tell them you said so.” You pat his thigh, which tenses slightly in the second your palm rests on it. Redirecting your thoughts from where they’re headed, you pull your hand back and tuck it into your jacket pocket. “I really think they’ll listen if they know Lee Minho’s the one asking.”

His eyes roll in response, but the amused smirk he wears doesn’t dissipate. It’s still there when he slowly leans closer, making your breath hitch. His hand shifts closer, too, and your pulse hammers harder with every millimeter that’s cast aside.

There’s an old saying about where the shame should fall when a person gets fooled twice. You practically feel it collide with your thick skull when, for the second time, Minho turns the tables. He nearly turns your pocket inside out in the process, hand snatching the yet-untouched packet of honey crisps before you even know what’s happening.

Just like last time, you put up no fight when he settles back into his own makeshift chair with a smug glint in his eyes. A forlorn sigh is covered by the racket of plastic ripping, followed soon after by a faint crunch.

“Speaking of bait,” he snickers once he’s swallowed. “What are you dangling?”

You really want to hate him for that segue, along with all the rest of his committed atrocities, but you can’t. So, you offer up the only thing you still have: 

Technobabble.

“The plan is to sneak in a program to mine data. So long as nobody interrupts me —” You pause to shoot him a pointed look. “— I’ll finish coding it tomorrow and fire it off at some grunt in Ulsan’s fiscal department using a cloned, corporate email account.”

“You think they’ll fall for it?” Minho asks, curiosity piqued.

You flash a grin. “I know they will. Nothing spooks a low-level employee quite like an overdue, mandatory, cybersecurity compliance attestation.”

If you didn’t know better, you’d swear he looks almost proud when he hears about the form of your Trojan horse. It’s certainly what you feel blooming in your chest, especially when you pluck the crisp from between his unsuspecting fingers and pop it into your own mouth.

“Once the program installs, it’ll start reaping what they have access to,” you explain. “I’m sure it’ll be limited at the start, quarterly budget reports and such.” 

You shrug dismissively, then look down at your hands. There’s no way this is interesting to someone that isn’t you, but he asked, and you’re answering, and you can’t seem to stop talking. 

“But those point me in the direction of invoices and their line items, which gets me to payment accounts, recipients, and other shit they don’t want me to know. It’s a paper trail leading to a paper trail, honestly, but it’s —”

“— how you weave a web.”

It stops your brain in its tracks, leaves your would-be sentence to peter out. You can’t remember the last time anyone followed where your explanations led, let alone saw the importance of all the tiny, tedious steps you take. All the intricacies of your carefully plotted architecture.

With you stalled out, Minho finishes that thought where he left off. “Strand by strand.”

“Yeah,” you exhale, warmth creeping from your chest to your cheeks. “Strand by strand.”

You sit on that bucket on the roof for however long it takes for your ass to go numb, and then you sit some more. Hours, maybe a day or two — irrelevant, as far as you’re concerned. You have Minho next to you and a burgeoning sunrise ahead; and you’ll bask in the glow you’ve found there for as much time as you can.

Minho, it seems, has other plans.

He sighs and flattens his palms against his knees before standing, causing the bucket he’d been occupying to scrape against the concrete. The noise is what gets your attention, not the movement. You turn to look up at him. Your disappointment is more than likely broadcasted all over your face.

“Stay with me,” you whine before you can stop yourself.

Needy isn’t normally a word you’d use to describe yourself; you’re far from it. Now, though… In this moment, it might be written in blaring red letters on your forehead, judging by the extremely brief flash of surprise you see in front of you. It’s gone as quickly as it came. The twinge of embarrassment you feel sticks around to keep you warm.

Minho is quiet for a beat, like he’s got something to consider. Whatever he decides on, it makes his head tilt to the side. A devilish look takes over his features, washing from his narrowed eyes to his tilted lips. All mischief, he counters, “Fuck me.”

Why do those things have to be mutually exclusive?

You don’t voice your question out loud, even though you kind of want to scream it, because he holds his hand out to help you up, and instant gratification together feels so much better than waiting through a delay alone. So, you take his hand, just like he knew you would, and you follow. 

Back to the door, back down to the second level of the factory, back to your room in an otherwise unoccupied wing, until the door is shut softly behind you.

Every single one of your rendezvous has been different from the last. The time, location, everything varies, not unlike the version of himself that Minho lets you see. Even though the steps change completely from tryst to tryst, they still feel like they’ve been choreographed and rehearsed ahead of time.

For example, he’s never caged you against a wall and pinned your wrists one-handed above your head before, but your body reacts as if this is the sole position it was made to occupy in life.

His teeth nip at the side of your neck, and your head falls back instinctively. You don’t give a shit about the muted thump of your skull against the brick, but Minho seems to. 

“Watch yourself,” he murmurs, lips fluttering against your throat. Despite the muted volume, his tone carries an authority to it that makes even your chrome knee weak. “If you wind up with a concussion, I’m not explaining it to Doc.”

You gasp when his tongue flicks out to soothe the sting his teeth leave behind. Beyond desperate, you push up on your toes to bring yourself closer to his mouth. It’s further out of reach than you remember — it shouldn’t be. Barely a week has gone by since he last had you like this. 

Embarrassingly breathless already, you ask, “Have you gotten taller? What have they been feeding you?”

His knee comes forward slowly to nudge yours apart. You make room, letting his thigh press into the gap created. If his left hand wasn’t keeping you stretched up to your full height, you’d be riding that thigh by now.

“You know what I eat.”

Your eyes roll back. You’re not sure if that’s a reaction to his line or the way he clenches his thigh, shifting it further into the space between your spread legs. Either way, that taut muscle is only millimeters away from your cunt now; the low hum that rumbles from his chest says that he can feel the heat rolling off you in waves.

You want so badly to be able to touch him, cling to him, scratch your nails across his scalp and pull him in by his hair. You want him to touch you — really touch you — not just to tease you the way he is, threatening to mark you up with his mouth without following through. 

If you try to tug your arms down, will he let you?

Part of you hopes that he doesn’t. 

At least, not without consequences.

Minho can tell how fucking restless you are. You’re not surprised; you vibrate with want at a frequency he’s always been attuned to. Speaking any of it out loud would be redundant, so you save your breath. His fans warmth over the shell of your ear, pulling the hammer back: “What’s the matter, Spider? You don’t like being the one in the trap?”

You can’t help but tremble at that.

“Fine,” he tuts, finger on the trigger.

Your eyes widen in anticipation when his hand drops its hold on your wrists; and your arms fold slowly back down when he retracts. There’s a muted ache in your muscles from the strain they’d been put under. You can’t say that you mind.

His hands move next to his belt buckle, deft fingers making quick work of the metal before the two pieces dangle on either side of his zipper. That’s the image burned into your brain when he leans in close enough to kiss you. He doesn’t kiss you — he never does — but he finally fires at point blank range:

“Turn around.”

Bang!

It’s so unexpected that you don’t register it as real at first. Neither does Minho, whose demanding gaze stays glued to you. The noise comes again, louder than the first, and you hear the cry that comes with it through the door.

“Spider, are you there?”

Hyunjin.

It’s his voice, you know, but it doesn’t sound right at all. The air of self-assuredness he usually carries is long gone. Whatever’s replaced it sounds completely unlike him in a way that makes your stomach turn.

Minho puts distance between your bodies in the time it takes Hyunjin to push open the door. You notice that he forgot to address his belt buckle, but you suppose it doesn’t matter. The youngest among you is too visibly shaken to see it as he stumbles inside with red-rimmed eyes.

Oh, fuck.

Panicked, you shoot a quick glance at Minho, hoping he’ll see your alarm and know what to do with it. His eyes are locked onto Hyunjin, who comes to a stop in front of you; Minho’s expression is the definition of illegible.

Your hand lifts instinctively to Hyunjin’s shoulder. Apparently, that reassuring touch is all it takes to break the dam; to break him down into sobs.

“Hey!” You gasp, knitting your arms around his frame and hauling him towards you. His face slots into the space where your neck meets your shoulder, allowing his hyperventilated breaths to hit your skin directly. “Hey, it’s —”

You know better than to lie and say it’s okay. 

Minho may be fearless, but it’s Hyunjin that’s the least flappable in the entire group by a long shot. If you were to search back through the last decade, you wouldn’t be able to find a single moment where he seemed annoyed or anxious, let alone fucking devastated to the degree he currently is.

This is the farthest from okay things could possibly be.

You can’t tell if it’s heartbreak, nausea, or both that swells when you fill your fists with the back of his jacket and hold on tight.

From his spot two meters away, Minho cuts to the chase. “What happened to you?”

Hyunjin can’t answer, not at first. 

Maybe, you think, saying whatever it is out loud will confirm the reality of the situation. You don’t push him. Instead, you stop holding him long enough to pull him over to the far corner of your makeshift bedroom, where he drops down to sit on the mattress held off the floor by two wooden pallets. Despite his wiry frame, the force of his collapse makes the wood clatter against the concrete floor below.

When you take a spot beside him, it’s much less quickly, no more graceful. Hyunjin doesn’t mind the hand you place on his shoulder to keep yourself steady. If he hears the click at your manufactured joint over the sound of his own barely-regulated breathing, he doesn’t say so.

Still standing where he was left — where he left you, more like — Minho’s narrowed eyes hone in again on Hyunjin. The expression on his face is just as unreadable as before, and he still won’t look at you.

As much as that bothers you, your own feelings are never your first priority. You turn your head to look from Minho to Hyunjin, whose hands grip the black denim of his jeans like a lifeline. When the latter finally does speak, the explanation hemorrhages out of him, spilling and flooding until there isn’t much air left in the room to breathe.

Three things in particular hit you like a train:

The Bliss Beta is infinitely more insidious than you could’ve imagined — even for Ulsan — and its mass rollout is closer than you ever would’ve guessed.

You now have the data you need to find the servers running the Beta, which means there’s a chance that the way things currently are is the worst they’ll get.

There’s a guillotine blade looming over the Professor’s neck, and it’s your hand on the rope, obligated to let go. It’s your scale that’s tasked with weighing lives.

Nausea, you realize, almost too late.

You grab hold of the wastebasket near the foot of your mattress and squeeze your eyes shut while your honey twists leave you in a hurry.

He loves her.

He loves her, he loves her, he loves her, and there are fifty-one-million faceless reasons why he can’t have her. You feel the weighted stares of every single one of them on you when he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, silver datashard. It’s thin, flat with sharp edges, but it’s a bullet if you’ve ever seen one.

When Hyunjin places it in your hand, your fingers don’t close around it. You can’t even look at it without feeling faint; your body won’t accept the weight of it in your palm. You avert your eyes, praying that your object permanence disappears along with it. 

And then that reflex kicks in again, craving some semblance of safety.

Minho is already watching you intently when you turn your head his way. The relief you feel is immediate, and you don’t have the energy left to pretend that’s not the case.

You love him.

You love him, you love him, you love him, and this goddamn horror show you’re living through feels survivable while he’s around, even if it isn’t. 

Maybe, you think, if you live to see the end, his presence will help you hate yourself less for the things you’re about to do to get there. That’s been the case so far, anyway. You’ve got a decade’s worth of scorched bridges behind you, and the ash on your face has never made him see you any differently.

Hyunjin clears his throat, dragging you back into the moment you don’t want to be a part of. 

“She said there’s multi-level encryption on this thing,” he mumbles, voice weak. His hand envelops yours and gently folds your fingers over your palm, as if he knows damn well you won’t do it yourself. “I don’t have to tell you this, but be careful, Spider. One move too many, and we’re all dead.”

You freeze; he stands, wiping invisible dirt from the front of his jeans. Nothing he attempts will make him feel clean, you know, but you don’t fault him for trying.

Before he can take a single step back towards your door, you reach out and grab his hand, preventing him from leaving.

“Keys,” you croak.

His eyebrows knit together.

“Cryptographic keys — characters. Numbers, usually.” You shake your head to realign your thoughts. It doesn’t do much; your explanation still comes out sputtering. “Each encryption is going to have a different algorithm altering its data, and it’ll be faster if I don’t have to write a separate program to try and find the strings I need.”

Judging by his face, the explanation makes sense, but he still looks as if he has no fucking idea what the answers might be.

For the first time in nearly an hour, Minho speaks. The suddenness of his participation makes both you and Hyunjin flinch.

“Dates,” he offers gruffly. “Ones that are significant to the two of you, maybe.”

The suggestion cracks against your skull like a baseball bat. 

Of all the things you could’ve expected him to say in the presence of someone other than you, something sentimental didn’t even come close to making the list. Hyunjin, it seems, is just as startled by this — by the appearance of your invisible friend, who’s spent ten years refusing to let this side of him be seen.

You make a note to ask Minho where this idea came from. If there are any dates he holds onto, with no one the wiser.

Hyunjin’s brow furrows for a moment while he thinks. Then, the light bulb behind his eyes flashes.

Eureka.

Dashing now towards the door, he calls out to you over his shoulder. “I’ll make you a list,” he promises breathlessly before he disappears altogether.

Without Hyunjin’s voice to fill it, the silence of your room roars in your ears. You need to shrug it off you, physically; move around so that you stop feeling like you’re being hydraulically pressed. 

In a wordless request for help, you hold your hand out to Minho. The jury’s still out as to what you want when he takes it: to drag him down to you, to be hauled to your feet, or to simply have it held. 

For the first time — possibly ever — he doesn’t take it.

Well-practiced hands drop to his belt buckle instead of reaching out to you. He re-fastens it quickly, and over the clink of metal, he grunts, “Stop looking at me like that.”

You blink rapidly when that sucker-punch statement hits you. “Looking at you like what, Minho?” You ask gently, as if your excess will make up for his lack.

“Like I’m your future.”

And just like that, he’s gone without another word or a backwards glance.

Eleven days crawl by without you seeing or hearing from Minho. You struggle to keep count as they pass. You’re so preoccupied that there’s no real difference between them, leaving them all to bleed together. It doesn’t help that all ten nights so far have been more or less sleepless.

While you’d love to say that all your time awake has been productive, you’d be lying. Sure, you spend the vast majority of it with the bright light of your monitors boring into your retinas, but that doesn’t mean you’re actively engaging with the shit displayed there. Between your program and your spent brain, it’s your neural pathways that are most in need of re-writing.

“Goddammit,” you hiss when a shock jolts through your upper right thigh for the umpteenth time today alone. 

Halfway crazy from frustration, you glare down at your quad and see the remaining muscles there twitching violently. And even though it’s been over a year, your brain is still surprised to find that the source of your pain doesn’t exist at all.

That outburst from you certainly isn’t the first, yet it’s the one that catches Chan’s attention. Like you, he’s spent an unhealthy amount of his time in the Hub over the past week and a half, pouring over who knows what. It’s safe to assume that’s how he’d describe your work, too.

“Been especially bad lately, hasn’t it?” He asks, head popping up from behind a stack of files.

He probably doesn’t expect you to squeak out a laugh at the sight of him, but you can’t help yourself. 

“You look like a meerkat when you do that.” The frown you get in response only makes you giggle more, despite yourself. “Like an overworked, overtired, under-caffeinated meerkat.”

Chan works overtime to control his expression, steel himself. It doesn’t work. It never does, no matter how obnoxious you and your comrades are around him because at the end of the day, all he ever is, is fond.

He sighs as he sits up fully in his chair. “Spider.”

It’s funny, you think. He sounds just like your father when he takes that tone with you, although the name he uses is nowhere near the same.

“Talk to Doc.” Realizing he sounded more stern than he meant to, Chan’s mouth softens from a thin, straight line to a slight smile. He adds, “Please.”

And because you’re the best behaved of all his pseudo-children, you don’t put up a fight. You don’t roll your eyes the way Seungmin does, or do the exact opposite of what you’ve been told, like —

Don’t go there.

You just get up, ignoring the strong urge you feel to buckle at the knees and hit the floor, and push your chair back with the underside of your thighs. Chan sees the pained look on your face immediately and moves to stand up and help you. You wave him off.

“All good,” you lie through gritted teeth, bearing weight on your palm as you maneuver your way around your desk. 

Chan may not believe you, but he listens, nonetheless. While you guide yourself from your workstation on the far side of the room towards the door, you try very hard to ignore the thought that keeps ricocheting around your skull like a bullet, shredding whatever grey matter gets in its way.

There’s one person that line wouldn’t have worked on. 

It takes a considerable amount of time to hobble to Doc’s clinic, which is clear on the other side of the compound, but you eventually make it there without breaking too much of a sweat.

In a past life, the space was an employee locker room that featured shower stalls and toilets on one side, and numerous lockers and benches on the other. Jeongin tried his best, but the plumbing was fucked beyond repair; all the utilities were scrapped. Whatever useful parts remained were repurposed elsewhere, while the broken bits wound up in that pile of assorted garbage on the roof.

Don’t.

Due to the size of the space, there’d been a multi-day debate on what to use it for. In the end, the decision was made to give it new life as a makeshift field hospital because Minho was right. The tile and drainage system is ideal for —

Stop it.

When you push through the swinging, double doors and stagger inside, you learn that you’re not today’s only patient. On one of the cots up ahead, Doc’s nimble fingers work to stitch Scraps’ left eyebrow back together, while Felix paces in the background with his hands in his hair.

“I’m so —”

“Felix!” 

Scraps slaps her hands down onto her thigh. The sound echoes off the tile walls like a thunderclap, but she doesn’t flinch at the contact. Doc does, however. She freezes solid, needle-holder in hand.

If Doc is frustrated, she doesn’t show it. That bedside manner of hers is unparalleled. Her gentle voice sounds suspiciously like Chan’s when she pleads, “No violence until I’m done holding a needle near your eye.”

Scraps nods in acknowledgment, which only contributes to the panicked look on Doc’s face. You bite your lips to hold your laughter in as you amble closer and dump yourself onto a nearby cot.

“Seriously — stop apologizing,” Scraps calls over her shoulder. 

If it wasn’t for Doc’s gentle hold on her chin, you suspect that she’d turn her head to look at Felix outright. 

“I told you to raise the stakes, and you did. So, I owe you a gold star for being a good listener, I guess.”

The way he looks at her when she can’t even see him kind of makes you want to sob. That ache only grows when he puts his hands on either side of her head, leans down, and plants a kiss on her hair.

Meanwhile, Doc is muttering, “Please stop moving, please stop moving, please stop moving,” like those are the only words she knows. You feel as guilty as you do grateful; her distress is a sufficient distraction from your own.

“Done!” She chirps moments later. Relief washes over her in a heartbeat, releasing tension from every single muscle cell she has — like she’s successfully disarmed a bomb, rather than sutured a minor injury.

And even though she’s too polite to say it, you swear you can hear her thinking it:

Please leave now.

And they do. They fall into lockstep, with Scraps tucked under Felix’s arm and hers wrapped around his waist.

And you’re still staring at the door once it swings shut again, so lost in all your conflicting thoughts that Doc has to call your name twice to get your attention.

“You’re not due back in for another month or so.” She frowns. “What’s on your mind?”

As usual, you don’t know where to start. You don’t know how to turn the faucet on without overflowing the bathtub, either, so you just let it all pour out.

“Everything was fine — perfect, probably. Or the closest it’s going to get, I guess. Then — I don’t even know what happened, but he won’t fucking look at me now. Won’t talk to me, walks out of a room when I walk in, like he can’t even stand to ignore me in my presence.”

You suck in a breath through your teeth to make up for all the ones you skipped out on while you rambled on. 

Of course, that doesn’t mean you stop rambling.

“And I think it might be breaking my heart. I don’t know. I don’t — I don’t know what to do now. It’s very distracting,” you mutter, frowning. 

A laugh slips out to signal how uncomfortable you are with the sudden intentional vulnerability. It sounds more like the sort of hiccup that precedes a sob. 

“Stupid thing to fixate on when the world’s on fire, isn’t it?”

To say that Doc is taken aback would be an understatement. Her eyes go wide; her lips purse. She pauses for a moment before she ultimately whispers, “I meant your leg.”

You’d go dig your own grave out back if you could walk that far.

“Oh.”

Doc does you the favor of averting her eyes. She focuses instead on her lap, eyes widening without blinking, as if she’ll be able to see her way out of the conversation more easily that way.

Self-conscious now to the point of nausea, you play with the frayed edge of denim that lays over the end of your residual limb. You can’t help but wonder how many right-side pant legs you’ve chopped off over the last twelve months, and what those bits of fabric ended up being used for.

Maybe they’re in that pile on the roof.

“Is mirror therapy helping at all?”

You glance up at Doc. “Not as much as it used to,” you sigh. “I think my brain figured out I was trying to bamboozle it and threw another wall up. Those are all it has at this point — walls and holes.”

It’s quiet for a few moments. Now, you wonder if you’ve taken Doc out of her depth. You were her first — and thankfully remain her only — amputation. If anyone’s gonna stump her, it’s you.

You snicker at your own unspoken joke.

Get it?

“How much do you remember?” She asks, catching you off-guard. It was the fact that she asked you anything that surprised you, not the question itself, but she assumes she’s offended you. Quickly, she apologizes. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to talk about it.”

The truth is, the before and during are both incredibly vague. You know that you went with a small group to Ilsan, planning to fuck up one of WraithCo.’s supply lines, and that their ghouls caught wind of your plans. 

Beyond that, it’s anyone’s guess. The audio underscoring this montage in your mind is warped to all hell; the faces and voices are blurry, as if they’ve since been censored. Deleted, just like the lower two-thirds of your leg.

As for the after… All that comes to mind is pain, in one form or another.

Fighting off an infection, which left your waking hours in some fever-filled daze that only stopped when the various meds worked their magic and knocked you back unconscious.

Being bed-ridden for an eternity after that fever broke and the infection cleared, too exhausted and depressed to keep your eyes open. 

Aching all over as you forced your body to remember how to walk, too obsessed with your newfound crumb of independence to let anyone see you stumble.

Self-imposed isolation to hide the toll it’d all taken on you, and the frustration that came with knowing what you were doing but being unable to stop yourself.

“Nothing I wouldn’t mind forgetting” you finally say.

Doc hums thoughtfully but offers nothing beyond a tiny frown. The part of you that wants to know why she’s asking is overrun by the part of you that fears what she’ll tell you; clearly, she’s similarly torn.

Add this to the list of things you’ll have to learn to live without.

Time continues to both slip and crawl by. Days are gone before you can blink; nights encase you in cement, trap you in place. You know it’s not a coincidence. You’re only alone after dark.

Still, it’s not all bad. You’ve certainly been more productive lately, whether or not you truly want to be. That’s not a coincidence, either. You’re capable of accomplishing quite a bit when the only person you truly want to talk to has no interest in listening.

If he did want to listen, you might tell Minho that he was right about the keys to the encryption being linked to dates. You could thank him, if he’d hear you out. Maybe you’d finally summon up the courage to ask where the idea came from.

What if…?

These little hypotheticals of yours only get more painful, the longer you steep in them, and you’re no good at reining your mind in when it starts wandering. It runs off in the same direction every time it goes — back to the night you finished peeling back all the layers.

You know there’s no point in imagining the ways Minho would’ve distracted you then because he didn’t. He was nowhere to be found; and you cried alone in your room, overwhelmed by both the relief of having answers and the all-consuming guilt of knowing what — and who — it cost to get them.

A familiar, prickling feeling at the corners of your eyes pulls you back to the present. You tilt your head back and blink rapidly to keep the dam from breaking. Part of you is proud. This might be the first time you’ve ever managed to keep your feelings to yourself.

“My halmoni always said that holding back your sneezes like that takes a year off your life.”

With a jolt, you snap to attention. Your neck does the same, head falling back down so quickly that your teeth click painfully against one another. The surprise — and the inadvertent scowl it prompts — melts away when you register Jeongin in the doorway.

You frown, although you laugh a little. “That’s horrifying, kid.”

If Jeongin sees you swipe the back of your thumb over your cheekbones, he doesn’t say so. He simply ambles into the Hub and finds his usual spot at the far side of the central table. 

“She said the same thing about being under streetlights when they burn out,” he tuts, taking a seat. He blinks through thoughtful silence for a moment before re-focusing newly-widened eyes on you. “Now that I think about it, she did die young...”

You would’ve loved to hear that theory play out, but the opportunity flies out the door as soon as Hyunjin walks through it. The comment you want to make about his surprising punctuality is swallowed down just as quickly as it bubbles up. His expression tells you that he’s not up for much of anything, let alone teasing. With a cursory nod, he acknowledges that he is, at the very least, capable of noticing his surroundings.

Unfortunately, you’re not capable of looking at him — seeing the state of him — without your bleeding heart cracking right in half.

Chan serves as a sufficient distraction, thankfully. He enters shortly after Hyunjin with both Seungmin and Doc in tow. He ignores the former’s nagging about who knows what and ushers the latter to the chair next to the head of the table. He doesn’t sit, though you wouldn’t have expected him to; he never does. Instead, he stands at the back of his chair with his eyes flicking expectantly over to the door.

In the time it takes you to cross from your workstation to your usual folding chair, the guest list doubles. Holding up the wall in the corner, Jihoon stands with his arms crossed loosely over his chest. To his right, Scraps sits on a rare patch of free space on Chan’s desk, legs swinging idly as they dangle; and to his left, you spy the cat-eyed girl whose name you still haven’t learned. All you know about her is that she works under Hyunjin, and they’re so in-sync that people have taken to calling them siblings.

You see no similarities between them now, however. She has light left in her eyes.

Several others filter in as the minutes pass, most of whom you haven’t yet crossed paths with. Well, you might have. Your days all run together; your short-term memory isn’t firing on all cylinders. You don’t take the opportunity to register their faces now, though. Your eyes only linger for the second it takes to confirm who they aren’t.

Chan turns his head to you, earning your attention. “Where’s —?”

Doc shoots him a look that interrupts his question before he can finish it. She knows what he doesn’t, after all: You’re currently the worst person to turn to for information on Minho’s whereabouts, even though you used to be the first.

Behind you, a heavily-accented voice chimes in, “He’s with little Yongbokie on an errand. They should be back soon.”

You don’t have to turn around to know who’s speaking. Sierra, as she’s known within the collective, has the sort of presence you can feel, even when she can’t be seen. It’s still unclear to you how she wound up a world away from the island she grew up on, but you’re glad that she did, and that she’s on your side. If she wasn’t —

Well…

Suffice it to say, there’s a reason why this foreign mercenary is called what she is — two reasons, actually, according to her native language — and neither bodes well for enemies. Specifically, there’s a mountain of bodies behind her, all of them hacked to bits by those blades she’s so fond of. 

Yeah, you think. Definitely better to keep her close.

“Just start without them,” she snaps at Chan, eye roll evident in her tone. 

Despite outranking her, Chan can’t hide the uneasiness that comes with being addressed by Sierra directly. You watch him swallow the lump in his throat before he clears it fully. “Everyone, listen up,” he says with the sort of gentle authority only he’s capable of. 

You can’t help the smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s such a stark contrast to the tone that goaded him to speak in the first place.

Still, a hush falls over the Hub immediately.

“I know some of you have heard whispers about this. I don’t necessarily trust that the rumors swirling are accurate —” 

Pointedly, Chan looks at Jeongin, who’s often the point in the relay where things go horribly wrong. The youngest never intends to pass on off-base gossip, but his attention span is about as poor as his audio processing. Jeongin ducks his head down; the tips of his ears go a dangerous shade of red.

“— so I’d like to make sure our record is straight.” Chan claps his hands, and as he rubs his palms together, he turns on his heel towards your side of the table. “Take it away, Spider,” he sings, beaming.

You turn your head quickly to the left and then to the right, searching for whoever the hell he’s truly cold-calling because it simply cannot be you. He knows better; he has to. For the decade you’ve worked together, you’ve hidden behind your screens because you don’t have the stomach for this leadership shit — especially not public speaking. It’s why you nominated him to run the show.

Eyebrows disappearing into your hairline, you stare incredulously back at him, silently begging him to pick the gauntlet back up.

Meanwhile, at least twenty pairs of eyes burn holes into you, like sun rays through a magnifying lens.

Fitting.

“Well,” you eventually manage to squeak out. “I — um… I spent the last month or so spelunking into confidential files relating to the — uhh — the Bliss Beta?”

It’s not a question. You don’t know why you made it sound like one.

Collapsing in on yourself, you knot your fingers on the table in front of you and stare down at your hands. “There’s a facility, it turns out, in — umm —”

“Is this going to take long? If it is, I can go and grab snacks.” Seungmin, from his spot across the table, smirks at you in such a way that you might — for the first time in your life — choose violence. 

That is, if his jokes at your expense didn’t have your nervous stomach churning even harder, sending bile up your throat.

That is, if a cold voice didn’t fly out of nowhere, primed to eviscerate Seungmin before you can even process your own reaction. 

“It’ll be a bit hard for you to chew after swallowing all your teeth, don’t you think?”

You hadn’t noticed Minho enter, but you find him easily now that he’s given himself away. He leans casually against the door frame with his hands in his pockets, leaving his tone as the only indication that he is, in fact, bothered. Everyone that had previously been standing near the door must’ve cleared a perimeter at some point — undoubtedly without being told to.

In response, Chan’s warning look is bifurcated, shot off to both men with equal, albeit subtle force. Seungmin’s face gives way to something apologetic. You can see it in his eyes that he thought he was being funny; that there’s no malice, only an inability to read a fucking room. To the contrary, Minho’s expression is pure venom, jaw set so tight that his teeth could crack.

He may have just interjected on your behalf, but he doesn’t look at you for more than a split second, as if he didn’t mean to concede even that much time.

And even though it feels illegal somehow, you keep your eyes fixed on him, as if you’ll catch another sliver of acknowledgement.

“In Cheongju,” you continue shakily. Your voice barely registers above a whisper, like you’re speaking to a single person, rather than a room full of them. “There’s a facility in Cheongju. All the servers currently associated with the Beta are operating out of there.”

Despite your anxiety, you manage to laugh. “They’re sitting ducks, really. Terrible planning from a security standpoint — either stupidity or arrogance.”

“Both,” Jihoon adds gruffly. If you’re not mistaken, he directs his next line at Seungmin. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

You know it wasn’t his intention, but you crack a tiny smile, nonetheless. “Comorbidities, aren’t they?” 

As soon as you say it out loud, your cheeks set to burning. You send a panicked glance to Doc and duck your head, like your fear of looking stupid isn’t on full display. “Please tell me I used that term correctly,” you mutter, feeling instant relief when she nods and a profound sense of comfort when she pats your still-clenched hands.

“So, what are we going to do about it?” Sierra cuts to the chase, as she often does. “Arson?”

Her eyes sparkle at the suggestion. You find yourself surprised that she’s offered something so tame. Only a week ago, her response to seeing a cockroach in the canteen was to shoot at it.

Not for nothing, you’re also surprised by how endearing you still find that little anecdote — but maybe you shouldn’t be. It’s not the first time you’ve developed a soft spot for someone so sharp.

Reflexively, you look over at Minho. You see his eyes flicker, like he’d averted them just in time to miss yours. It’s the only reason you have to believe that he’d been watching you, save for the inexplicable warmth you’d felt crawling up your neck.

You don’t know what to do with any of that.

“Destroying the servers would only be a bandage,” you sigh. “I want to fully eradicate the program itself, which means those servers need to remain intact — for now.”

“So, we do it like Daegu, then?” Felix suggests. Judging by his sudden participation, he’s overjoyed to have something to contribute to a conversation he wouldn’t normally follow. “We broke in and set up that…. thing for you, in that room that was like an…. air-conditioned microwave?”

You bite down on your lips to keep from laughing. It’s a miracle that he remembers the Thanotech raid at all with the concussion he sustained in the process. It’s even more incredible that he remembers the non-technical explanation you gave for the server room within that data center.

Shaking your head, you frown. “I need to be on-site for this one.”

“Absolutely not. Fuck no.”

Across the room, Minho now stands fully upright. His hands are no longer in his pockets; they hang at his sides, clenched tightly.

You can’t help the incredulous scoff you let out. Bold of him, you think, to write you off completely and then attempt to dictate where and when you get to exist. That slap in the face still stings, but you keep your tone as light as possible. 

“If something goes wrong, or if things have changed from the schematics I was able to access, I won’t be able to handle it remotely. I need to be there to troubleshoot.” And even though it goes without saying, you remind him anyway: “We’re not getting a second crack at this.”

“I know you don’t remember Ilsan, but I do,” Minho glowers, tone as dark as his eyes. The rest of the room falls into a charged silence; everyone is too tense to breathe, let alone speak. “I remember carrying three-quarters of your body out of Ilsan and spending weeks at your bedside.”

Just like that, the air in your lungs turns to cement. 

How do you admit to not knowing he was even there? 

And what the hell are you supposed to do with this information now that it’s reaching you for the first time — a year after the fact — in front of an audience? 

You try to start somewhere. “Minho —”

“No.” His voice is sharp when it cuts you off, but there’s a crack in the blade, so microscopic that you wonder if you’re imagining things. He clears his throat to try and keep himself even. “You don’t get to make that call.”

Here comes that prickling feeling again, causing tears to spring up at the corners of your eyes. You clench your jaw and try to wish them away.

It’s Chan that speaks next. “You’re right. Spider doesn’t get to make that call,” he concedes. Then, his expression turns to stone. “I do. She said there’s no way around it, so she’s going —”

Minho seeks to interrupt, but Chan raises his hand and stops him in his tracks. You want to argue, too, because you’re right here and don’t need to be spoken about, as if you’re not in the room. The leader plows through, unaffected.

“— and because you know what the stakes are, your only job is to keep her safe.”

If the anguished look on Minho’s face says anything, it’s that he wants nothing to do with the burden of keeping you — what’s left of you — in one piece. 

The briefing continues after his outburst, but Minho doesn’t hear a word of it. It all flows past him, waterlogged and warped, without sinking in. He finds it hard to give a shit about that fact, though. 

Clearly, his input doesn’t matter. Worse, the sole order that’s been made of him is fucking redundant. He can’t imagine that the rest of them would mean much, so what does it matter if he didn’t pay attention?

He’s halfway out the door by the time Chan wraps up. Dodging eye contact, Minho turns to leave outright, to disappear somewhere and lick his wounds. One last lash manages to hit him as he goes: 

When you cross the room, you’re not headed his way. No, your quick steps take you straight to Jihoon.

Minho knows that he has no right to feel this bitter. He should be grateful that his pushing you away is having the intended effect — that you might’ve found someone other than him to lean on — but the relief he’s been waiting to feel is nowhere to be found.

It never is.

The quick fixes he’s gotten of you in back rooms and shadows didn’t satiate him, either. Cutting you out completely has only proven to be more of the same ache.

Unwilling to watch the consequences of his own actions unfold, Minho turns sharply out of the doorway. Automatically, his feet carry him down the hall, up the stairs towards the roof. His brain might tell him otherwise if it wasn’t currently swimming, but his body acts on its own, seeking out the last place and time where he didn’t feel like this.

It’s a bad call, he realizes as he ascends.

He’ll never be able to recreate a scene with half the cast absent. The stage directions are fucked now. There’s no reason to take the steps one at a time now that he’s alone, but he still does. Without context, his motivations make no sense; and his hands don’t know what the hell to do without a belt loop hooked underneath one of his fingers. They twitch in the absence of denim. 

With every step, he repeats his only line:

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

And when he reaches that busted fucking door and kicks it with everything he has, no one looks at him with amused disapproval.

It’s all wrong.

Steel hits cement with a sickening clang that’s still ringing out as he stalks over to the ledge and drops himself down on a familiar, overturned bucket. Its counterpart sits unoccupied at his side. Minho can’t look at it, can’t get up to throw it off the fucking roof, can’t do anything except simmer in his rage because —

Your only job is to keep her safe.

He tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and shouts into the void above, “Fuck!”

As if he needs to be told. 

As if he hasn’t been trying to do exactly that for all the years he’s known you, driving nails further into his own goddam coffin with every second spent in your web.

Elbows come to rest on his knees. His face falls, too, until it drops into his palms. No matter how hard he tries to control his breathing, it comes out through gritted teeth, seething.

The fucking audacity.

Even if Minho hasn’t given you a reason to know better, Chan should. He’s seen better, firsthand.

Every time Chan stopped by the clinic to check in on you, he found Minho already sitting next to your glorified cot, watching your sleeping form like a hawk for any sign of distress. 

Chan didn’t need to ask how your hair ended up in poorly-executed braids because the unskilled hands that made them were wringing themselves at your side. He never needed to ask why, either. When you finally stopped thrashing through nightmares, you didn’t wake up to find yourself tangled in inescapable knots.

Keep her safe.

That’s the fucking problem, isn’t it? 

When his candle gets snuffed out — and he knows it will, can feel it in his bones that this is it — who’s going to keep you safe? 

Hyunjin doesn’t have the capacity — not anymore. Minho was there with you the night Hyunjin’s whole world exploded into pieces. You saw love, but Minho saw your future. He sees it every time he looks at Hyunjin, who’s still listless, still lingering on the periphery like a fucking ghost. Hyunjin will never be the same, and if Minho lets himself get any closer to you than he already has, you’ll wind up just as empty.

Then who?

Chan is too busy. Doc is just as preoccupied, and as kind as she is, she’s never understood you — not really. Felix and Scraps can barely manage themselves; you’ll fall through the cracks amidst their bullshit shenanigans. Neither Seungmin nor Jeongin can be trusted with anything —  or anyone — this important. They’re both fucking disasters in their own right, although Jeongin may eventually grow out of that. Changbin is too reclusive, and so is Jihoon; Jisung’s an anxious mess. Sierra is, at absolute minimum, insane.

And Minho may be the worst of them, but he tried his best for you. He’s still trying, even though that means keeping you as far away from him as possible.

“Fuck,” he repeats, albeit much less strongly.

That pathetic, choked-out word hits the air and dissipates quickly, leaving Minho alone in self-imposed exile. He stays there until sunrise, when the unoccupied bucket to his left becomes too visible to tolerate.

The next time Minho steps foot in the Hub, it’s much less crowded than the last. In fact, for what might be the first time ever, he’s beaten everyone else in. It’s no wonder; his stomach has been churning for hours now, and it was useless to keep laying in a bed he couldn’t sleep in.

Because life is far from fair, you’re the second to arrive. He doesn’t have to see you enter to know it; definitely doesn’t need to look up to confirm that it was your deliberate, slightly uneven footfalls he heard coming up the hall. It’s a reflex, though. His gaze lifts just in time to meet yours.

“Oh,” you peep, eyes bright despite the dark circles below them. “Hi.”

You seem startled to find Minho here ahead of you. Warranted, he thinks. The sunshine you cast on him isn’t, but you don’t try to withhold it — or maybe you can’t. As much as he loves that about you, it confuses the shit out of him and scares him just as badly. You either didn’t get the memo when you chose this life, or you don’t feel the crushing weight of it yet: 

Sparks like yours can’t last forever.

His voice sounds like gravel after last night’s anxious reflux, but he echoes you, nonetheless, “Hi.”

And then Chan walks in. He stops short when he sees the two of you, eyes flicking from your face to Minho’s with barely-hidden intrigue. Somehow, he misses the daggers Minho shoots at him with eyes alone.

“I re-routed everyone else to the vans and told them to load their shit. You ready?” Chan poses the question to both of you, but his focus is fixed solely on you. It lingers for a moment, like there’s some secret, second question hidden between the lines. 

Minho doesn't know what’s going on, but he does know that he hates whatever it is.

You nod. Whether that’s in response to what was asked or what wasn’t, he can’t say. Your mouth sits in a tight, straight line. That, Minho can easily translate to feigned confidence. You’re not ready; you’re not good at bluffing, either. 

He sees his window in that bit of doubt and tries to leap through it. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

It doesn’t sound as firm as he wants it to. If you listen closely — and you always do — it probably sounds like he’s pleading, which feels both alien and illegal to Minho. He clears his throat. “We can do this without you, Spider. I’m serious. Tell me how to get you set up for remote access, and I’ll —”

“I don’t know how many more times I have to say this for you to understand: You can’t do this without me. You need me.”

Despite what you say, there’s no heat in the way you say it. It sounds like you’re pleading, too; scratching at the door to be let in. He knows you well enough to catch the subtext; to know that you’re not just talking about the job. But Minho can’t make his mouth move. Likewise, he can’t turn away.

Stop looking at her like she’s your future.

Chan doesn’t have time for the thousand of things going unsaid, so he interjects with an exasperated grunt, “Vans.” He points to the clock before gesturing between you and Minho. “Ten minutes, or you’re both walking to Cheongju.”

Neither of you moves once he clears the threshold and disappears again. Say something, he tells himself. Say anything.

He doesn’t.

“You didn’t sleep last night,” you muse, eyes narrowing slightly with concern. It’s not a question. There’s no uncertainty in the way you look at him, although that’s nothing new. “I read somewhere that peppermint gum helps with reflux.” 

You shrug, like it’s simply a fact you’re sharing. It’s not. It’s the millionth way you’ve found to say “I love you” without using those words.

Minho slips off the empty workstation desk he’s been sitting on, dusts off the back of his jeans once he’s back at his full height. With a nod of his head, he gestures to your workstation. “Take what you need,” he advises quietly.

When he moves towards the door, you move forward into the room. Your paths cross in the middle, but Minho keeps his distance, too aware of that magnetism of yours to take any risks now. Upon reaching the door, he pauses and looks back over his shoulder to call out your name. As if you were anticipating it, you look up from the desk drawer you’re combing through.

He freezes for a moment, although he doesn’t mean to. You might be the only person capable of catching him off-guard. Once his brain stops lagging, he says only half of what he wants to: “Don’t forget your mask.

Hurriedly, like you really would’ve forgotten, you pull open a drawer and fish out a black gaiter, which you then tuck into the zippered pocket of your jacket. Instantly, Minho’s posture gets a little less rigid. Not for nothing, yours does, too.

“Thanks,” you sigh. The corners of your mouth raise slightly. From what he’s been hearing lately, this might be the closest you’ve been to smiling in weeks. Your reaction stops when you notice the way he’s halfway out of the room. “No need to wait on me. I’ll meet you in the loading dock in a minute.”

Minho stalls, feet unwilling to move, until you go back to gathering items. He nods once, as if you’ll even see his acknowledgment, then slips off into the hallway without you.

The loading dock he’s headed for is on the opposite side of the factory, but his anxiousness propels him there in half the usual time. His team is loitering around the two vans when he reaches them: one unmarked, one branded, both stolen.

Felix grins from the hood of the primary vehicle, where he sits cross-legged. He slaps his hands on the white metal below and proudly states, “I told you it would work.”

“Let me guess.” Minho looks over at Scraps. “You were the one who hot-wired them.”

She glances apologetically at Felix, then turns back to Minho with a shrug and a sheepish smile. “He tried his best,” she sighs. “If we had all day, he probably would’ve succeeded.”

At this, Felix’s grin droops into a cartoonish frown. “What do you mean probably?”

Minho rolls his eyes. “Enough — and go put a hat on, or you’re getting a full balaclava.” He points to the mess of blue hair spilling onto Felix’s shoulders. “If your fashion statement gets us pinged on a security camera, I’ll kill you myself —”

A laugh rings out behind him. He turns on his heel to find Sierra snickering at Felix’s reddening cheeks, both tattooed hands covering her mouth as she does.

“— and you know better,” Minho snarks, pointing straight at her. “Gloves. Now.”

Scraps’ eyes are as wide as the moon when Minho swivels back towards her. She doesn’t give him the opportunity to say it; she’s already shoving her decorated arms into the sleeves of a plain, black jacket and zipping it up as high as it’ll go. He hears relief leave her in a quiet sigh when his focus finds who he’s truly been looking for.

A few meters away, Jeongin is buried so far under the hood of the secondary van that his feet barely touch the ground. With his target now acquired, Minho crosses to the neighboring bay.

“Well?” He demands, “Did you find them?”

The younger one startles at the sudden questioning; there’s a dull thud when he smacks his head on the underside of the hood.

Jeongin groans, “Aigo,” and carefully ducks his head until it clears the obstacle above him. His cheeks are pink and smattered with both dirt and grease — and the mess only gets worse when he mindlessly wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his semi-blackened hand. 

“Behind the radiator on this one.” Jeongin then thumbs over his shoulder to the van Felix sits on. “That one was attached to the undercarriage, near the fuel tank.”

With a grunt, Jeongin exhumes himself from the engine compartment and hops to his feet. It’s completely unnecessary, but he drops the tracker he just detached onto the concrete and smashes it under his steel-toed boot. 

“You won’t need the GPS blocker anymore, so make sure to turn it off,” he advises. And he clearly didn’t learn his lesson thirty seconds ago because he taps one of his temples, leaving a dirty fingerprint behind. “Otherwise, it’ll interfere with your comms.”

Jeongin then blinks up at Minho like he’s expecting a pat on the head. 

Over my dead body. 

Minho instead points at the shards of plastic littering the ground. Affect flat, he tells his junior to clean that shit up, which is the closest he will ever fucking get to you did good, kid. The second Minho steps away, Jeongin drops down to hurriedly scoop the broken bits into his palm.

While he waits on the rest of the group — namely you — to roll up, Minho busies himself with checking supplies. 

The unmarked van will carry the backup team to a rendezvous point half a kilometer away from the Ulsan facility, just in case. For this reason, it’ll also carry the big guns, which — like the vans themselves — were nicked from corpo rats. The seats inside were gutted immediately to clear out a cargo area. The trip sure as shit won’t be comfortable, but six people and a few ammo bags will fit inside without much issue. 

Most importantly, there’s enough room for Minho’s crown jewel: a goddamn, motherfucking anti-tank gun. He’s been dying to try it out since the WraithCo. raid that brought it into his possession, but he has a sinking feeling that he never will.

Moving on to the primary van, Minho notes the logo emblazoned on the side. This one was harder to steal than its counterpart, but you stressed the necessity, and he made it happen. Now, when the infiltration team drives up to the facility, it’ll be under the guise of the outsourced IT company that Ulsan uses for routine maintenance. 

According to the data you managed to reap, Ulsan’s made two glaring security errors, likely because they assume they’re infallible — not handling their own shit in-house, and scheduling their tech contractors to pop by on the same dates every month. Both details were barely footnoted in the reports; anyone but you wouldn’t have thought twice about them.

Something twinges in his chest when his thoughts start wandering in your direction, so Minho shakes his head to clear them. It doesn’t work. Instead, it seems to summon you. You step onto the loading dock a few seconds later.

You’ve changed since Minho left the Hub. The lapse in time makes sense now that his eyes sweep over your frame. The black jeans you’re wearing now aren’t chopped halfway up the right side. In order to conceal that highly recognizable part of you, you struggled through the significant extra time it takes to get your artificial foot through the openings — and he didn’t have to tell you to do any of this, unlike the rest of the team.

It’s been so long since you’ve been one of the boots of the ground that he underestimated you. Clearly, he shouldn’t have because you haven’t skipped a single detail. The treads of your boots have been filed down; but the platform sole remains intact, concealing the brand and size, as well as your true height. Specially-designed black gloves cover your hands, so you can utilize whatever touchscreens and keys you come across without leaving your trace behind. Likewise, the gaiter you grabbed at the last minute rests just below your chin, ready to cover your mouth and nose.

His breath catches in his throat when he sees the long-sleeved black top hanging loosely and hiding your figure. He wants to ask if you remember, but he doubts you do. You borrowed it from him so many years ago that it might as well be yours now.

To stop himself from staring, Minho starts to address the group. “Now that our guest of honor has shown up —”

“We still need Jihoon,” you interject with one finger raised, gently asking Minho to wait.

“What?” Minho can’t keep the confusion off his face, and he can’t wrap his head around this curveball you’ve thrown. Incredulously, he scoffs, “It’s a covert break-in.”

There isn’t a single reason he can think of to include the demolitions expert in something requiring finesse.

You don’t respond with words; your eyes flick to Chan, which is enough of a hint. The two of you are planning something — keeping him in the dark about something — but Minho can’t figure out what or why. The leader doesn’t provide much in the way of explanation. All he offers is, “We need a driver and an extra pair of eyes,” as if that’s the whole truth.

Whatever.

The second Jihoon finally walks through the door, Minho immediately starts his briefing.

The main team — including you, Chan, Felix, Sierra, Jihoon, and Minho himself — will head straight to the facility. The reinforcements — Scraps, Changbin, Eunjae, Sunwoo, Hongjoong, and some fucker from Texas known only as “Cowboy” — will wait just outside the property line with range weapons, ready to party with any gatecrashers.

On site, Felix and Sierra will take out security at the gate; only two men guard that post at any given time. Meanwhile, you’ll slip in and disable the remaining security measures: cameras, mainly, although the alarm system is your biggest priority. To get everyone inside, you’ve cloned the badge of a mid-level researcher who, like the Professor, has authorization beyond the front desk.

From there, the interior group will divide into watchdogs and infiltrators. Given the relatively small size of the building, it shouldn’t take long to get you to the control room, where you’ll take a crack at the main computer housing the Beta’s program. If everything goes as planned, you’ll be in and out within 30 minutes.

Nothing ever goes as planned, though. That Ilsan mission was simpler with significantly lower stakes, and it was a fucking nightmare. Minho can’t think about anything else when he crawls into the back of the van next to you.

For over two hours, Minho has been sitting cross-legged on the floor of this godforsaken van. His brain, unlike his body, is wholly fucking incapable of staying still. Now matter how hard he tries to ground himself, he can’t shake the chill running down his spine or the voice in his head. It just keeps repeating the same thought, over and over: 

This van will be missing passengers on the drive back.

“It’s your turn, Minho.”

His head snaps up. Instead of Atropos and her scissors, it’s Felix staring back at him, smiling curiously. Warmly. Minho’s pulse should ease up at the realization, but it doesn’t.

He clears his throat, although his voice still comes out jagged. “My turn?”

“He’s asking everyone what they’re going to do with their lives when this is all over,” you explain. Minho turns his head to look at you. For once, he can’t decipher the look on your face. You laugh when you squeeze his bent knee gently, adding, “Don't worry. I didn’t have an answer, either.”

But it’s not an answer that he lacks, it’s time.

Don’t you know that I’m already dead?

The van slows considerably, shifting from paved roads to gravel. Then, it stops entirely. Jihoon turns in his seat and squints through the holed, metal divider between the cabin and the back of the van. 

“Spider?” He calls out over his shoulder, and it’s no wonder he struggles to identify you. Everyone sitting in this unlit area is cloaked in black from head to toe. 

To help him out, you raise your hand and wave. Even if the dark gloves you’re wearing aren’t visible, your smile is. Your voice is just as bright when you chirp, “Over here!”

Minho sees Jihoon smile for the first time in all the years he’s known him. If he was anyone else, that flicker at the corner of his mouth wouldn’t count for shit; but Minho’s no stranger to steel or your uncanny ability to bend it. He knows your impact when he sees it.

“End of the line,” Jihoon reports. “The next time I stop, you’ll need to sneak out the side. I can see a camera positioned directly above the security vestibule, pointing downward from the left. The van will create a blind spot if you stay low to the ground.”

Now, Jihoon’s involvement is starting to make sense. He’s one of only four people who joined the Black Screen within the last year — after the Ilsan disaster, which led to the incorporation of masks into all field ops. Out of the entire organization, his face is one of the only ones that won’t tip off the guards.

Until the next news cycle, Minho thinks ruefully.

Once the driver is satisfied that the passengers are on the same page, he turns around and sets the van back into motion. Every dip in the uneven road below throws your shoulder against Minho’s; and every time you collide, he wants to wrap his arm around you to keep it from happening again. He doesn’t. Eventually, the opportunity disappears along with the faint crunch of gravel beneath the tires.

The brakes squeak slightly when the van stops a second time. Minho can’t hear the conversation Jihoon is making with the security staff from where he sits, just the slow-motion movements of you, Felix, and Sierra as the three of you inch the side door open and spill onto the driveway like molasses.

All Minho has left to do is wait — for you to come back or for shots to be fired. His pulse picks up when seconds slip by without either of those options playing out. 

It’s funny, he thinks as he pulls his rifle into his lap, that the thing bringing him comfort now is designed to take it away. His thumb hovers over the selective fire switch, flexing in anticipation. Any second now, all his best laid plans will explode. 

It’s only a matter of time until —

“All clear,” comes your voice through static.

Minho flinches. In all the tense silence, he’d completely forgotten about the earpiece he’s wearing. The breath he’d unknowingly been holding leaves him in a hurry, taking the tension in his shoulders with it as he deflates.

“Meet us at the fire exit on the northeast side. I shut off the emergency alert system, too, so we shouldn’t have any issues getting into that stairwell.”

Jihoon is already pulling the van around by the time you finish speaking. In a matter of seconds, he pulls up to the door in question and shifts gears to park. 

You’re standing in the doorway when Minho’s feet hit the ground, eyes crinkling when you see him with a smile he can’t otherwise see. He doesn’t know what to do with that, so he addresses Sierra first. She’s got blood on her temple, and Minho can’t tell whose it is. 

“You didn’t make a mess, did you?” He asks, frowning slightly.

“This is business, not pleasure, so no.” She rolls her eyes. The sigh she lets out reeks of disappointment. “Wrung out their necks like chickens and shoved their bodies into cabinets.”

Glancing quickly at Minho, Felix figures out where his leader’s eyes are focused. “Not hers,” he clarifies, nodding to Sierra. With the back of his sleeve, he reaches over and gently wipes the blood from her face, like he’s cleaning gochujang off a child. “Didn’t leave a trace, though.”

That’s all Minho cares about, so he asks no further questions. Instead, he checks his watch before looking up to check on you. He doesn’t pose the question, but you answer him, regardless; and when you do, you accompany it with your thumb raised.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“All good!”

You then gesture with that thumb to the stairwell over your shoulder and ask, “Shall we?”, as if you’re inviting him to dance.

“You two —” Minho points to Felix and Sierra respectively, drawing their attention. “Station yourselves along the main hallway. If anyone so much as pokes their head out of a doorway, blow it the fuck off. No witnesses.”

Both nod in acknowledgment, but it’s not enough, not when your life is in his hands. He glares expectantly at them, waits in silence until they get the hint.

In tandem, they repeat, “No witnesses.”

Good enough.

Wordlessly, Minho waves his hand and sends them on their way to the second floor. He doesn’t budge until he sees the tops of their heads through the window, disappearing past the landing. Seconds later, Felix’s voice sounds off in Minho’s ear to advise him that the area is clear.

He turns back to the three people standing behind him to ensure they’re ready to move in. The second he sees the pistol in your grip, his stomach lurches so violently that he really might vomit on his boots. 

It’s categorically fucked — so fundamentally, intrinsically wrong — that you’re standing here now with lethal force in your hands. Over ten long years, you’ve never fired a single shot in combat; never stolen the light from someone’s eyes while you’re staring into them. Still, no matter how nauseous the image makes him, the irony of it all can’t be ignored. 

You only know how to shoot because he taught you.

“Let’s move out,” Chan says when Minho doesn’t.

Minho takes point with you close behind him. Behind you, Jihoon follows with an inexplicable duffle bag strapped to his shoulder. By now, Minho knows better than to question what’s going on here. He wouldn’t get an honest answer if he did; and Chan makes no excuses for it as he trails after Jihoon up the stairs.

At the top of the landing, you tap Minho’s shoulder, prompting him to stop. When you gesture up ahead, his eyes follow, gaze sweeping down the long corridor towards the southwest side of the building. Near the end of the hall, a pair of glass doors interrupts the path to the server room, which sits further down on an intersecting corridor. Somewhere between that server room and the bulletproof barrier in front of you is your target: the main computer running the show.

All the signage he can spot declares the area secure and for authorized personnel only. You’re neither safe nor sanctioned, but the badge you pull from inside the neck of your — his — shirt will let you pretend to be. 

Lim Namseok, it reads.

That poor bastard will probably be dead before sunrise for the things you’re about to do. Minho doesn’t have any higher hopes for himself, but he wonders whether or not you’ll be able to sleep when this is over.

No, he ultimately decides. You won’t.

You keep glancing down at that man’s photograph, swallowing hard like you’re choking down an apology. Committing those features to memory, as if you’re obligated to remember each one of the creases in his forehead.

It’s not a question of if that face will pop up in your nightmares but when.

Minho’s both unwilling and unable to let you keep torturing yourself, so he shifts his assault rifle to his non-dominant hand and reaches out to you. Neither of you says a word as he gently removes the badge from between your fingers and lets the lanyard unfurl. You watch the ID flutter downwards until it rests against your chest; his eyes don’t leave your face.

“Come on,” he says softly. “There are fifty-one-million Namseoks out there that still need their asses saved.”

You don’t want to laugh. Your furrowed eyebrows inform him that you’re trying very hard not to, like your half-hearted glare will override the muted chuckle that slips through your mask. His attempt at levity worked, though. You start moving again when he does.

On the way to the first set of security doors, the four of you pass both of your lookouts, who’ve taken up posts half and three-quarters’ way up the corridor, respectively. Not for nothing, both look bored by the lack of action.

When Felix sees Minho, he complains, “Why is it always unpaid fucks like us who have to work on weekends? Shouldn’t these goons be here to justify their salaries?”

He’s not wrong. This place is a fucking ghost town, and although the datashard you combed through said this would be the case, the emptiness still makes the hairs on the back of Minho’s neck stand up. Whether or not he can put his finger on it, something feels off.

“Wouldn’t mind a desk job,” Chan muses, more to himself than to the rest of the group.

Minho leans into the assumption that he wasn’t meant to hear it. If he was, he’d have no choice but to point out that Chan hardly leaves his fucking desk as it is. So, to keep the peace, he keeps his smart mouth shut.

When several more meters come and go, the four of you reach the security checkpoint. With the badge back in hand and nerves evident in your tone, you hold it to the scanner and mutter, “Here goes nothing.”

Nothing is precisely what you get. No sirens wail, no trap doors give way to swallow you all down. The glass panels simply part with a click before sliding outwards along their respective tracks. Your shoulders sag with relief, unlike Minho’s. He carries tension in every single one of his muscle cells; and he only grows more rigid with each passing second.

To keep his pulse down, Minho counts each step he takes towards the control room. It’s an exercise in futility, of course. He’s a goddamn mess, no matter how hard he tries to hide it.

16…17…18…

Present moment excluded, he can only think of one other in which he’s ever experienced fear. Real fear, that is; the kind that begs his limbs to lock. It’s no coincidence that he can barely function now. How could he, with the common denominator trailing behind him like a shadow?

19….20…21 —

Suddenly, you hiss, “Shit!”

By the time he wheels himself around, you’re frozen in place with your pistol aimed through a doorway that wasn’t open when he passed it. A woman in a lab coat stands there with her hand still on the handle, eyes doubling in size when they land on you. Immediately, the coffee mug in her hand drops, sending both liquid and shards of ceramic flying. Both of her hands are in the air before the pieces can settle at her feet.

You fire once, panicked, and strike her in the upper arm. It’s a shit job, one that’ll give her time to call for help before she bleeds out on the floor, so Minho’s instinct takes over.

“Turn around,” he tells you. 

You do. 

From her knees, the woman clutches her bicep and begs Minho to lower his weapon. She still wants to have kids someday, she tells him, sobbing. She’s too young to die.

Unaffected, Minho aims at the space between her brows. “Aren’t we all?”

Bang!

Her body drops to the floor like a bag of cement, lifeless. Although the shot still echoes, it’s otherwise dead silent until you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Stepping to the side to look at you, Minho furrows his brows. “Don’t be. We can’t leave witnesses.”

“I’m sorry that I didn’t do it right,” you clarify, voice wavering but louder than before. “You taught me better than that.”

For a minute, he forgets where he is; loses track of the two people standing on eggshells behind you both. There’s definitely still a corpse lying two meters away, but all he sees in his peripheral vision is proof: You may have chosen this life, but this life hasn’t chosen you.

Despite the bullets and the viscera making a mess of the tile nearby, you’re still the person he met a decade ago — someone with the instincts to do what’s needed but too much heart to be swallowed by them.

He hopes you never change.

“There may be more people that we haven’t accounted for.” Chan’s reminder forces three pairs of eyes to focus on him. He urges, “We need to get this done. Spider, where’s the control room?”

With his gun and without a word, Minho gestures to an office several doors down from where the group currently stands. In giant, black letters, it states, “CONTROL ROOM”. Your answer would be redundant at this point, so you don’t bother giving it. Moreover, Chan can fucking read.

“Oh,” is all the leader says before the group presses onward.

You swipe the badge again when you reach the control room. As was the case with the previous door, this one opens without any theatrics. All four of you slip inside before they close on their own, several moments later.

As soon as he steps foot inside, Jihoon whistles. “Damn.”

Damn is right.

The room feels even larger than the dimensions he saw on the blueprints; and with the forced air flowing from the overhead vent, it’s far less welcoming than Minho expected. Halfway between an operating theater and an airplane, the crisp whiteness of his surroundings seem both sterile and stale. He’d wash the feeling off himself if he could, but he can’t, so his skin continues to crawl.

Consuming the back half of the room, a U-shaped desk boasts multiple monitors, keyboards, and switches. Minho has no fucking clue what any of this equipment is supposed to do — he doesn’t give a shit, either — but he sees your eyes go wide with that childlike wonder he’s always been stupefied by.

Your hands twitch, likely from a desire to touch every surface they can find, so you hold them close to your chest while you look around. After studying all the options at your disposal, you take a seat behind the monitor at the left end of the desk.

Jihoon asks what everyone else is wondering: “Is the main computer not the one in the middle?”

Normally, this is the sort of thing you'd laugh at. You don’t, though; you barely seem to have heard it. Transfixed, you simply mumble something about that computer being hardwired to the server room. Minho doesn’t catch the rest of your explanation, but he hears the words “temperature control” and “ventilation” before concentration makes your voice peter out mid-sentence.

The next few minutes pass by without you noticing. Nobody speaks, nobody breathes too loudly for fear of interrupting your train of thought. That’s not to say it’s silent; far from it. Your rhythmic typing takes over the room, and the effect it has on Minho is borderline hypnotic.

A siren song, sort of.

In response to its call, Minho’s mind picks up and races from the room you’re in — back to the Hub, where this all started; to the countless hours he’s spent just like this, watching you work. As mundane as those moments might be in the grand scheme of things, they’re still his happiest.

Maybe he’d count this moment among them if the Sword of Damocles wasn’t swinging so blatantly overhead.

Out of nowhere, you slam your fist down on the desk, startling everyone else enough to flinch. It’s not just the noise that has Minho, Chan, and Jihoon on high alert; it’s the fact that none of them have ever seen you explode like this.

“Goddamn it!”

Immediately, Minho rushes over to where you’re sitting. His eyes dart from your face to the screen, then back again, finding no obvious answers for your distress. 

“What?” He demands, “What’s wrong?”

Eyes glued to the monitor, you continue to mutter, “No, no, no —“

“Spider, talk to me. Tell me what’s going on, so we can fix it.”

“They fucking —” You smack the desk again, like hitting something will knock your thoughts loose. “Fuck!”

For a second, you let the rage simmer. Then, the defeat you still haven’t articulated settles in. You slump down in your chair with your face in your hands, forcing your breathing to slow. 

“They must’ve added it after the Professor defected. I can’t — It wasn’t referenced anywhere on that datashard, Minho. There was nothing.” 

All your panic is funneled directly into the palms of your gloves, making it difficult to decipher what you’re saying. Minho leans closer just in time to hear you cry, ��They built a failsafe.”

Minho is out of his fucking depth. In fact, he’s drowning. 

“A failsafe?” He asks, “What, like a back-up program?”

“No, as in, any attempts to delete or alter the program data will invalidate the study.” 

Based on your phrasing, Minho assumes you’re quoting something directly. Swallowing back the acid rising in his throat, he opens his mouth to ask you what the fuck that means. Before he can hurl his question out, you look up at him with abject hopelessness in your eyes; and suddenly, he can’t speak.

“All of their research subjects will be purged,” you spit.

On the other side of the desk, Chan and Jihoon exchange a look — a grim one, but not one of surprise. They’ve arrived at the conclusion before Minho can leap to it, and they’re still talking without saying a single goddamn thing out loud. 

Minho can’t take it anymore. He shouts, “What the fuck does that mean?”

“If Spider wipes the beta, everyone with that chip goes with it,” Chan sighs. He scrubs his hands over his face until it’s red. “If they don’t drop dead immediately, it’s not outside the realm of possibility that their brains will be permanently and irreparably fucked as a result.”

Now what?

Now what?

Minho’s legs grow less steady by the second. He presses his palm flush against the desktop to keep his knees from buckling. He knows damn well it won’t make a difference; his spinning head will bring him down if his body doesn’t. Everything — including the pulse hammering in his ears — is simultaneously too quiet and too loud.

What the fuck was this all for? The time, the energy, the lives everyone keeps sacrificing to this fucking cause — any of it. 

All of it. 

What’s the point of fighting this hard if Ulsan will always be ten steps ahead?

“Minho!”

His head snaps in your direction only to see that you weren’t the one calling his name. He blinks, confused. Who —?

“Minho, they’re coming! Lim Namseok — terminated yesterday. His badge — it flagged —” 

Scraps’ voice comes shrouded in gunfire. The weak connection makes it even harder to hear her; whatever isn’t exploding is crackling due to the distance. Each word fizzles at the end, as if lit by a fuse.

“— to get out —”

Hand flying to his left ear, Minho presses down the button at the center of his ear piece. “Who’s coming?” He barks, “Scraps, what the fuck is going on?”

When she doesn’t respond, someone else takes over.

“It’s the fucking retention team. A sniper took Eunjae out before any of us even saw them coming,” Hongjoong yells. “They’ve got a unit on the ground and one in the air. I’ll try to shoot the chopper down, but you need to get out of there now.”

“Hongjoong, do as much as you can to tear them up, but don’t push your luck. If you’re outnumbered, fall back before we lose anybody else. Do you copy?”

He doesn’t get a response.

Jihoon moves closer to the door to listen for any incoming footsteps. Hearing none, he growls, “Who the fuck called the boogeymen? Don’t they only deal with defectors?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Chan waves him off, “They’re here, and we need to be anywhere else.”

Despite what he just said, the leader doesn’t move; doesn’t budge a centimeter in any direction. Chan simply glances across the room at you, and when you stare back at him, it’s with the same, eerie calmness. Some quiet resignation that makes no fucking sense under the circumstances.

“If I can’t kill the program entirely, I can make it inoperable long enough for the existing chips to be removed,” you say, like you’ve already had this idea in your pocket. “Force quit, so to speak.”

You don’t elaborate, leaving Minho’s frustration to drive him halfway out of his goddamn mind. Worse, you ignore the way he’s staring so fucking desperately at you and address the person standing several meters behind him. 

“Jihoon, did you bring the party favors?”

In response, Jihoon slips the duffel bag off his shoulder and holds it out to you. Only then do you move. Chan follows behind as you cross towards the door; neither one of you says a thing when you pass Minho, who’s still cemented in place.

“What the fuck are you planning?” He demands, although his voice shakes. “What fucking secrets have you been keeping, and why?” 

Once you secure the duffle bag on your own shoulder, you finally bring yourself to look at him. Above your mask, your eyes soften. They crinkle at the corners, as if you’re smiling, but there are tears brimming at your lash line, threatening to fall.

Please don’t look at me like you don’t have a future.

“For what it’s worth,” you start. Then, you sniffle, breath hitching as you try to get the rest out. “You’ve always had my heart. All of it — every stupid piece.”

And with nothing more than a nod to Jihoon, you’re gone, running out the door with Chan towards the server room before Minho can say a single word to you; before he can even think of chasing after you. 

In the blink of an eye, biceps wrap around him like a vice, pinning his arms behind his back and gripping tighter with every kick he tries to use for leverage.

“Spider!” Minho yells.

He fights with all he has to break free of Jihoon’s hold, to throw one or both of them to the ground, to get to you, but the older man doesn’t bat an eye. As if Minho weighs nothing at all, Jihoon begins hauling him back down the hallway towards the fire exit.

“You’re going the wrong way,” he grunts as he thrashes. “Let me — go —” 

Jihoon doesn’t say a word, doesn’t waste a breath, doesn’t stop pulling. Whatever strength he has left in the reserves, it’s wielded against Minho, not on making apologies. 

Minho bucks again, throwing all the weight from his legs to his back. It does nothing apart from exhaust him, but he can’t stop. He’ll never stop. 

“Spider!”

Close to feral, his anguished shouts devolve to desperate, growling noises. “I swear to god, I’ll bury you for this, Lee —”

He digs his heels into the ground to slow the older man’s momentum. His knees could snap at the force with which he’s resisting. He doesn’t give a shit if they do; he’ll crawl to you if he has to.

“I’ll splatter your brains against the fucking wall when I get my hands on you,” Minho spits. “I’m your commanding fucking officer!”

The next time he kicks, someone grabs him by the ankles to help carry his restless body down the stairs. Felix, judging by that pathetic, apologetic look in his eyes. Minho resolves to kill him, too, when he gets his limbs back. He’ll burn the whole goddamn compound to the ground for standing in his way; for letting you do this.

It should be me.

You’re the best of them, and they’re letting you die. 

It should be me.

They’re going to stand here, watching while you —

A sob he wasn’t prepared for bursts out of his chest in the form of your real name. With it, his threats dissolve into pleas, so goddamn pitiful in comparison to the violent way he still flails.

“Please!” He cries, voice raw. Making himself louder doesn’t make him heard. Incapable of doing anything else, he begs, “Please don’t let her do this. She’s all I have — All I want — Goddamnit, please! I need to get her out of there —”

So useless.

“I have to get her out,” he sobs with one final burst of energy rattling through otherwise spent limbs. 

The arms and hands around him still don’t relent. Over and over, he repeats his only thought in rapid succession until his voice gives out: 

“I have to get her out.”

Two seconds before they drag his body over the threshold, the whole facility shakes, like the earth below has opened up to swallow it down. Even from the opposite side of the building, Minho can hear shattered glass hitting the ground like sheets of rain. With the heavy, black cloud swirling over the southwest section of roof, he might’ve believed in some storm.

He might have.

But now, Minho sees the flames licking at the sky above, and he no longer believes in anything.

There are 244 kilometers between Cheongju and Changwon. By car, the distance flies by in fewer than three hours, assuming the expressways aren’t clogged with corporate commuters. All things considered, it’s not a trip that disrupts a person’s day. It’s straightforward, and above all, it’s easy.

What isn’t easy is crawling on your stomach underneath a blanket of smoke, only to drag half of someone else’s body weight with you down a flight of stairs.

There’s nothing straightforward about slipping through alleyways and ditches, trying to avoid nearby police blockades as they pop up; or attempting to conceal clothes that are singed in some places and actively smoking in others.

That distance does not fly by in three hours, even though the expressways aren’t clogged, because there’s disruption after disruption: 

Starting on foot, only to steal — and later dump — a car when the walk becomes unbearable. 

Wandering blindly without a working mobile, unable to access assistance or a map, and learning that your best guesses are wrong turns more often than not.

Avoiding phones in general due to the localized surge in cell surveillance, knowing even a coded message could wind up with you and any recipients dead.

Stopping repeatedly with burning lungs to check on someone in far worse shape than you, pretending not to hurt for their sake.

No, the estimates are all fucked. 

It takes twenty-one hours to travel the 244 kilometers between Cheongju and Changwon; and you feel the weight of every single one of them when you hobble through the front doors of the factory just to drop, exhausted, onto the floor.

News of your survival spreads like dandelion seeds throughout the compound. Within minutes, it seems, everyone you’ve ever made eye-contact with swings by the clinic to pat you on the back. 

One of them — Sierra, of all people — does you the greatest kindness of all: bringing you a change of clothes and then refusing to stick around for a chat. 

Half of them have never spoken to you before now, though you try not to hold that fact against them. 

Almost all of them throw the word “brave” around like it’s weightless. 

You know better.

What you did was useless in the grand scheme of things, and knowing that is heavy. Crushing, even, so much so that you find it hard to catch your breath. No, you’re sure, what you did was peak cowardice.

You need to get out of this clinic. You need all of these well-wishers to stop looking at you like some tragic hero. You need —

You push off the cot you’re occupying without giving it a second thought. The lightheadedness threatens to take you right back down again, but the feeling passes as quickly as it comes. You stay on your feet, even though you sway, by sheer force of will.

That’s it. There you go.

Doc gave you once-over when you were first hauled in. Neither one of you truly felt like you were a priority. She may have been justifiably distracted, but in forming her expert opinion, she saw your bruised — not broken — body and declared you “good enough”. You take that glowing assessment at face value now and promptly discard the bit about “needing to stay for observation”.

Her primary concern is that you shouldn’t sleep with your concussion. Baseless, you think ruefully. You’ve been awake for two days and don’t see that changing any time soon.

Before you attempt to make a break for it, you glance at the far end of the clinic. There, a white screen stretches longways across most of the area for privacy, leaving two exits on either side. You don’t see the point of it; it doesn’t hide a thing. Two work lights shine so brightly from their spots by the wall that every movement in front of them is broadcasted on the thin, nylon divider.

As expected, the shadow puppet you’re looking for is still hovering around an unmoving mass in the center of the screen.

Chan.

He’s alive, even though he doesn’t look it. He’s talking, too, which is a marked improvement from the state he was in just a few hours ago. The morphine drip must be helping, you figure. Until now, he had a belt between his teeth to quell the pain, which would’ve kept him quiet.

Otherwise, there’s only one explanation for the corner he’s turned over the past few hours: The love of his life hasn’t left his side since he was carried into the clinic; and he knows she’s there. 

You’ve learned the hard way that both of those conditions must be met to make a difference. 

One without the other isn’t enough.

You can’t hear what they’re murmuring to each other, and you don’t want to. It’s theirs. Thankfully, their hushed tones give you the only confirmation you need: neither of your pseudo-parents will catch and scold you for leaving against medical advice. They’re oblivious; they’re fine; they have each other. You have —

Do you, though?

The person you want to see is coincidentally the only one in the entire compound that hasn’t come by seeking proof of life.

At first, you feared the worst; ripped your cuticles to shreds when the faces passing by weren’t his. No one mentioned his name or asked you if you’d seen him, as if there was no him left to see.

Then, you saw Jihoon walking around with his cheekbone stitched together. There’s some sick comfort in knowing that Minho at least lived long enough to beat his knuckles bloody. You’ve apologized to Jihoon three times now for the effect you caused, but he’s shrugged off every single one of them, like yesterday was just another day at the office.

Wasn’t it?

You creep out the door undetected and make your way to the nearest stairwell. The quiet throughout the halls in the factory isn’t comforting in the way it used to be. No part of the deeply familiar landscape is. 

It should be.

It’s the only real home you’ve ever known — one you thought for sure you’d never see again.

But every empty doorway you pass may as well have a body in it. You still see that woman and her unspent aspirations everywhere you look. You still hear the way she begged for her life before she lost it.

And when the stairs ahead finally come into view — ones you’ve taken a million times — they’re insurmountable. Your body aches automatically, like you’re still pulling Chan’s phantom weight out of the fire. That memory is muscle-deep now, you fear. There’s no getting rid of it.

At the landing, you force yourself forward. The siren song only you can hear is far stronger than the call of your own bed. It lures you around the corner whether or not you’re ready to follow it.

You aren’t, you realize as your steps continue automatically. The guilt threatens to eat you alive, and frankly, you’re prepared to let it. You deserve it. 

Somehow, despite your bullshit insanity and your numerous violations of trust, you still managed to skate through with a life left to live. Considering what you did, you figure it’s only fair that you pay this price — feel this fucking awful — for the rest of your unearned years.

Maybe. 

You don’t know. 

You’re in uncharted territory now because your plan didn’t include an after. 

As your footsteps draw closer to Minho’s room, it dawns on you that you don’t have a plan at all now. You don’t know what the fuck to say to him, let alone where to start. You wonder whether or not you should bother at all. 

If Minho knows you’re back at the compound, that means he made a choice not to find you. You have no right — none whatsoever — to take away his options a second time.

He’ll never forgive you, you tell yourself. If the roles were reversed, you’d do the same.

Maybe.

You don’t know.

You can’t take those hypotheticals and draw conclusions because Minho has never — would never — put you in the position you stranded him in. He wouldn’t hijack a mission you created or exclude you from a half-baked, shittily-executed contingency plan. He’d never force a friend to make some destructive, deathbed promise; wouldn’t have you dragged out of blast radius, kicking and screaming and fighting and spitting, just to drop you in a front-row seat.

He’s the best of all of you, and you did your absolute worst to him.

It’s selfish, walking up to his door now. You know it is. Despite that, you can’t make your body stop moving now that it’s started; can’t keep that boulder from rolling down hill. One last look, you tell yourself. That’s all you need. 

Even if he never looks you in the eyes again, this can be enough.

You raise your hand and reach out to the scraped-up wood with your knuckles leading the way. They’re dirty, you note, caked with soot in every crease. They shouldn’t be. You scrubbed them raw to get the blood and plasma off your skin. It’s possible — likely, even — that your brain is fried beyond fixing, and that you’re imagining things.

Maybe.

You don’t know.

You don’t hear an answer when you finally bring yourself to knock. No, you correct yourself, that’s an answer in and of itself. Acting selfishly once again, you don’t heed that silent reply. You don’t knock again, either. Heart hammering against your ribs, you wrap your hand around the knob and twist.

Part of you wants to laugh. Of course, his is the only door in the whole fucking factory that doesn’t squeak horrifically on its hinges. His tolerance level for annoyance has always been low.

Inching your way over the threshold, you call out, “Minho?” 

And once again, you don’t hear a response.

Standing now inside his room, you don’t see him — not at first. He certainly doesn’t see you. His back leans against the window frame while he slumps on the ledge, presumably staring off in the opposite direction through the glass. His defeated posture is as telling as the position he’s in. 

The Minho you know never sits with his back to a door. It’s too big a risk and too broad a target; an invitation for a nasty surprise. He’s said it a thousand times: whoever kills him needs to look him in the eyes.

This is what it looks like when a person’s given up, you think. 

This is what you did.

Throat thick, you call his name again. This time around, it barely qualifies as a whisper; all your breath is caught up in that tangle in your chest. There’s no way he heard it because you barely did. Really, you should —

“Fuck off,” Minho growls without turning around. “I won’t tell you a third time.”

His words don’t carry the same venom they usually do in circumstances like this. He just sounds hollow, and it devastates you so completely to hear the emptiness that tears start falling without your permission. You don’t move from where you stand, too overwhelmed to process both ambulation and falling apart at the seams.

The lack of footsteps tips him off to your ongoing, unwanted presence.

“When will you people give up? ” After slamming his left fist against the window frame, he pushes himself abruptly off the ledge to his feet. “I don’t want your goddamn sympathy. All I’ve ever fucking wanted is —” 

He wheels around then, fists clenched and ready to swing. All the air in his lungs leaves him when he sees you standing there. The rest of that thought is strangled, and it drops lifeless on the floor.

“You.”

You can’t guess what comes next: screaming, blame, silence, violence. You don’t even know which of those things would be worst — just that he’s entitled to all of the above, and you’ve earned the lot.

What you end up with isn’t an outcome you ever would’ve anticipated. It’s him, his quivering mouth, and his exhausted, red-rimmed eyes taking several steps forward on shaky legs. It’s a desperate bid to close the distance, and a look built on so many conflicting emotions that you can’t even begin to take inventory.

At first, your hammering heart tells you to back away; that he may hate you enough to hurt you. 

But he doesn’t.

He falls to his knees in front of you when his legs ultimately give out. Boneless, he crumples forward onto his palms until his head hangs low between his arms. From where you’re standing, it almost looks like he’s praying. That is, until you notice the way his shoulders shake.

Of all the people you’ve met in your life, Minho is the only one who seemed to be incapable of crying. Nausea swells now that he proves you wrong. It feels like a violation to see him this way, especially knowing that you’re the reason for the state he’s in.

Through a clenched jaw, he begs for answers you didn’t anticipate needing to give: 

“I’m hallucinating, aren’t I? I’ve finally lost my fucking mind?”

Oh.

Without a second thought, you fall to your knees, too. Chrome and carbon fiber scrape against concrete as you scoot yourself closer, and you pray that your proximity will be proof enough that you’re here.

It’s not.

“I left you for dead, and now I’m seeing ghosts. Is that it?”

Heartbroken, you try your best to get through, “Minho, no.”

Tentatively, you reach out to touch his shoulder, thinking that you might be able to ground him, even if you can’t comfort him. Before your fingertips find him, he senses your movement and lifts his head. Your hands automatically reroute to claim either side of his face, fingers sliding into unkempt hair. To your surprise, he doesn’t pull away. Instead, Minho studies your features intently, like he’s ruling out translucence; like his sanity is on the line.

Maybe it is.

More desperately than you ever have before, you drink down the sight of him. Beautiful, you think, even like this. 

Now that you’re able to see his face in full, you find it tear-streaked. Somehow less alarmingly, his right temple is scraped to hell and back, while his left is black-and-blue. It’s a perfect portrait of the fist that struck him. The darkest shades of indigo demarcate where the knuckles dug in deepest; and the scabbed, scarlet lines on his other side illustrate the state of the ground he fell to.

Gravel.

You have to stop yourself from asking who hurt him. After all, it doesn’t fucking matter whose name he’d drop. You already know who’s to blame. 

Nevertheless, Minho sees the question in your eyes, and he tells you, “I tried to run in after you once the bomb went off. After the fire started.”

Of course he did. What did you expect?

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, as if that’ll ever be enough. It doesn’t and won’t erase what you did, yet you repeat it anyway, “I’m so sorry.”

Opening your mouth was a mistake, you quickly realize. The dam breaks, and you can’t keep the words from spilling out. They all pile up, overlapping in time and urgency. 

Every word you say comes out in one breath; sputtered, as if your head has finally broken through the surface of rushing water. “I should’ve told you about the contingency plan, but I knew you’d try to take my place, and I couldn’t —”

“I couldn’t leave you there,” he swears, as if you left him with any other choice. “Even if I was too late to save you, I needed to bring you home.” 

Minho suddenly shifts, prompting your hands to fall from his face. To erase the distance he’s created, he sits back on his knees and pulls you into the space between them. You melt into his body when his arms wrap around you. Just as easily, you give in to the thousandth conflicting reason you’ve found to cry:

He’s never held you like this before.

With his cheek pressed to the side of your bowed head, you can feel his runaway tears. Though his voice wavers, his intentions are rock solid. “I fought like hell to get back to you. They had to knock me out just to get me into the fucking van. I didn’t want to leave you. I swear, I wouldn’t —”

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t stop the rollout,” you cry. “Keeping you in the dark was the only way to keep you safe.” You bury your face into the front of his shirt and repeat it even more emphatically, “Minho, I’m so fucking sorry.”

For a moment, he stays quiet. As curious as you are about his silence, you don’t pull away to look up at him. You think you’d rather actually die than sacrifice a single second of the closeness you walked through hell and back to find.

Eventually, without prompting, Minho does speak. His voice is so soft that his question hardly reaches you. “Why did you do it?”

You pause, unsure of which part of your explanation he wants repeated. If he’s truly asking you to start over from the top, you will. You’re prepared to rake yourself over those coals forever, but you doubt he has the time. 

“In the control room,” he explains when you don’t arrive at the point yourself. “You told me that you love me, and then you ran off to blow yourself up. Why did you leave without letting me respond?”

Once again, you’re thrown; so disoriented that you can’t find the starting line. There were several reasons for running out the way you did: fear that he’d stop you if he caught on too quickly, or that he’d follow before Jihoon could drag him to safety. More than anything, as you sheepishly admit, “I didn’t think you’d say it back.”

He goes silent again. His arms pull you even closer, though you didn’t think it was possible. 

“I think Medusa had it easy,” he confesses, sounding almost self-conscious for the first time in his life. 

Though you’re caught off-guard, you don’t interrupt him. 

He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “I think my curse has it all backwards. I turn to stone when people look at me, not the other way around.”

At this, you finally unearth your face from where it’s buried in his t-shirt. His body goes slightly slack without your frame to hold him up; the look on his face is just as deflated. 

Turning in your spot to face him, you frown, but you tell him the truth. “I’m not as good at reading you as I thought I was.”

“Say it again.” 

You blink.

Minho lifts his hand and cups your cheek. “Please,” he begs, thumb brushing over your skin. “Say it again, so I can get it right this time.”

You lean into his palm, allowing the warmth of it to radiate until you feel it everywhere — feel him everywhere. From there, as is always the case, the reflex takes over. “I love you. I think I always have.”

“I love you,” Minho echoes emphatically. “And unfortunately for you, I think I always will.”

It strikes like a pickaxe, sending cracks through a well-built wall. You swear you can hear the pieces of it falling. If you look closely, you can see the light as it rushes in.

There you are, you think. I knew you were in there somewhere.

He kisses you then, scrambling your brain so thoroughly that you almost forget it’s the first time he ever has. But he’s no stranger to you, and he proves it. Calloused hands maneuver you into his lap without resistance, without interruption, and lean arms snake around you as you straddle him, pinning you against his chest.

In an instant, you thread your fingers through his hair, hellbent on clinging to whatever parts of him you can get your hands on. That desperate grip of yours has always made him lose his mind; tonight isn’t any different. He groans into your mouth when you tug those strands now, proving that you’re no stranger, either.

His tongue flicks over your bottom lip, like he’s scratching at the door to be let in. You let him, let out some needy, mewling sound as he licks into your mouth to claim it.

Yours, you think. Yours, yours, yours.

When he unexpectedly pulls away from you, those little whines of yours only get louder. Kiss-bitten, Minho’s lips flatten into a thin line that indicates he’s fighting off a smile. 

“Spider, I know vulnerability is your thing,” he sighs. His left hand releases its hold on the bottom of your thigh. With it, he gestures to the other side of the room. “But did you mean to leave the door open for this?”

Whipping your head around, you confirm that you did not, in fact, close the door behind you. Heat rises to your face before you can stop it. No matter how thoroughly you rack your brain, you come up short. There’s no excuse— not even a bad one — for a cybersecurity expert being this abysmally accessible offline.

You’re in the middle of questioning your qualifications for the role you occupy when Minho gently pats the side of your leg, wordlessly asking you to leave his lap. With great difficulty and a dash of awkwardness, you do. Just as soon as you’re back on your feet, your body riots. All the exhaustion and soreness you’ve been ignoring screams for acknowledgement.

Minho must hear it. 

“Bed,” he murmurs, punctuating his instruction with a quick kiss to your temple.

Also a first, you note. 

Despite your long history of entanglements, you’ve never once ended up in his sheets. Your heart flutters involuntarily at the prospect; the fever-grade burning in your cheeks only gets worse. Thankfully, with his back now turned to you, Minho doesn’t see how eagerly you stagger towards the stolen bed frame in the corner. You hope he doesn’t hear the relieved moan you let out when you collapse in an aching heap on his mattress.

Across the room, the lock clicks. Footsteps follow so quietly that you would’ve missed them if you didn’t have his gait committed to memory. The person walking back to you looks unfamiliar, though — somehow. There’s no trademark sharpness at the edges now. There’s no want darkening his eyes, but something delicate that softens them.

It’s need, you realize when he comes to drape himself over you. It’s gentle, the way he compensates for your strained muscles and takes it upon himself to shed your clothes, layer by layer. And it’s trust, finally letting him see the way you exist on your own — with your artificial leg removed from the equation and set carefully off to the side.

After positioning himself between your thighs, Minho pauses. His forearms rest on either side of your head, caging you in against the pillow below. Time doesn’t seem to pass while he gazes down at you, and you certainly don’t mind the delay. Of all your moments, this one — here, with him —  is your happiest.

“In case it doesn’t go without saying,” he murmurs, nudging the tip of his nose against yours. “I forgive you for doing what you had to do.”

Blinking quickly doesn’t do much to dispel the tears prickling in the corners of your eyes. You bite your bottom lip and nod to the extent that you can. “Thank you,” you whisper.

“Do me a favor, though?”

“Anything.”

“Kiss me,” he requests, and you do.

When your mouth is finally on his, he rolls his hips forward with deliberate precision, length sliding through your arousal until he enters you, groaning. He maintains that slow, careful pace; coaxes you open for him until the stretch melts from pain to pleasure.

Eloquent as ever, you mewl with your lips still pressed to his. It’s muffled, of course, but there’s no context to miss. “Oh, my god.”

Once you acclimate to his size, Minho could ramp up the intensity if he wanted to. He doesn’t. He takes his time, grinds against you so perfectly that you’d never dream of rushing through this. 

At this pace, every stroke hits deeper than the last; each languid drag of his cock along your walls converts more and more of your thoughts to static.

It’s such a change-up from every other time you’ve wound up underneath him. Part of you wishes that you could scrap all those trysts and pretend that this is your first. In a way, you suppose, it is. There’s a drastic difference between being fucked by Minho and being loved by him. For obvious reasons, you don’t plan on going back to the way it was before.

His length grazes your g-spot, pulling a whimper out of you. Dizzy from the sensation, you don’t notice the way your cunt clenches down on him until he curses under his breath.

“Shit,” he moans, “Wish you knew how perfect you feel wrapped around me. I swear, I’m not leaving this bed as long as you’re in it.”

Another stroke hits you exactly where you crave him most. 

“Please,” you gasp, back arching off the bed. He leans in to capitalize on the length of neck you’ve left exposed; the heat of his tongue on your flesh drives you absolutely insane. “R-right there, Minho. Please, I’m so close.”

Other people have described Minho as defiant, but you have to disagree. He does precisely what you beg of him, angling each thrust to get you gushing around him. And even after he has you shaking underneath him, he refuses to slack off.

The orgasm he pulls from you is so overwhelming that you feel it tingling in your scalp, resonating down your spine until every nerve in your body is a live wire. You’re still somewhere in the stratosphere when Minho unravels, twitching and spilling inside of you until he’s got nothing left to give.

Spent, he pulls out of your heat, maneuvers himself carefully around you, and collapses at your side to catch his breath.

His eyes are closed when you regain enough motor function to turn your head his way. Across his forehead, stray strands of black hair stick to a thin veil of sweat. The slow rise and fall of his chest says he’s halfway to sleep, and with how hypnotic you find it all, you’re nearly there yourself.

Just a few more minutes, you tell yourself. It’s too hard to look away from him. You’d never had the chance to see him this way before, and you know better now than to waste it. 

“Please don’t ever stop looking at me like that,” he mumbles with his eyes still closed.

Your quiet laughter doesn’t prompt him to look at you, but it does spark the hint of a smile. “Like what, Minho?”

“Like I’m your future.”

while likes are appreciated, comments/tags/reblogs with your thoughts are really what make my brain go brrrtt.

series taglist:

@saintriots, @mal-lunar-28, @dabiscrustyfeet @ldysmfrst @obeythemasters @moni-logue

stray kids permanent taglist:

@variety-is-the-joy-of-life @sourkimchi

multi permanent taglist:

@jihopesjoint @bahng-chrizz, @/variety-is-the-joy-of-life

resources used

regarding prosthetic limbs: tiktok users @/bren_hucks @/footlessjo @/alex1leg @/bionickick; amputee coalition regarding hacking + world-building: gurps: cyberpunk guidebook by loyd blankenship

[foxymoxynoona]

Tell Me What Changed (Pt. 5)

Banner and lines by the talented @awrkive

Summary: Alex and Jungkook have been best friends since childhood –actual best friends. She is NOT in love with him, for real, and wishes people would stop assuming that. Why does no one question if he’s in love with her? Huh? But it might have to do with his successful fuckboy status, while Alex is very much… not that. Which is fine and doesn’t matter! Until Jimin’s impending wedding leaves her eager for a date and willing to put herself out there, and Jungkook can’t believe what happens next.

Fuckboy Best Friend JK x OC

CW and tags: fuckboy behavior, jealousy, pining, heartbreak, angst, bad language, explicit sex, sexy photos, alcohol, f2l, who knows what else

Read on AO3 here or below

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter

The beauty of a 5am shift was that you were still asleep when you arrived, and you chugged the coffee you had on hand, and by the time you finished waking up your shift was three-quarters of the way over. 

Alex thought this every time she worked the 4:30 am shift.

Normal day. Normal day. Everything is normal.

Everything was not normal. 

They got a double shipment of sandwiches! So many sandwiches! As the opening shift lead, Alex was all too happy to tackle this problem head on. It didn’t take up nearly enough of her brain power but it was something.

The morning rush was something.

The pop songs Amy and Milo kept singing through the drive-thru headsets were something.

The kiss was not something.

It was just a kiss. Just a drunk kiss. Two kisses. Attempts at kisses. Failed kisses.

The guilt was eating her alive. Every time Amy spoke to her, she worried it was obvious on her face.

But she hadn’t reciprocated! She’d just lay there in shock as his mouth pressed against hers, as she’d had an out-of-body experience, like she was watching the whole thing from the sidewalk. She’d walked in on him with another girl, that was all, except the girl was her! And they were on the hood of her car under the stars which hadn’t been romantic until in hindsight, as she’d lain awake in bed trying to wash the whole thing from her mind. Except it was Jungkook! Nothing could be romantic with Jungkook because it was Jungkook and it hadn’t been romantic in the moment at all. Just shocking.

She had to tell Hobi. Right?

She couldn't tell Hobi.

She had to. No way could she put off mentioning to Hobi that her roommate who she swore was platonic and they’d never had any attraction and never kissed and there was nothing there– that that roommate had suddenly drunkenly kissed her.

Drunkenly! He hadn’t been in control of himself! He was just drunk and confused and probably horny and maybe he’d seen Alex’s boobs in the shirt she was wearing and gotten confused and forgotten who she was…

God Alex wished that was true. Maybe it would be believable if he hadn’t said that thing… goddamnit, why did he have to get so fucking eloquent when he was drunk?!

It was just him being drunk, she was positive. Jungkook was not in any way shape or form in love with her. Well, only the friend form. She knew that. He just got poetic when he was drunk, and she knew he was struggling with her having a boyfriend, and he was afraid of change. He was like a baby whose mom went back to work. He was desperate. And confused. 

I think I’m in love with you.

“You fucking moron,” she mumbled under her breath.

“Huh?” Chesley said, spinning from the carafe he’d just reloaded to brew.

“Nope, nothing, don’t forget to set the timer.”

Chesley rolled his eyes, “Don’t you forget to bring something to the park this time. You’re dating an ass man, we can’t feed you forever!” Ass man… assistant manager. Fuck, her brain was the consistency of wet coffee grounds right now. It didn’t help that she knew Jungkook was an ass man. Also an ass. And not dating her.

“Hey, Hobi brought the meat last time,” she defended.

“Oh I know he always brings the meat, tell him you don’t have to be shirts v. skins in a volleyball game– no, scratch that, don’t tell him.” Alex rolled her eyes at Chesley’s laugh. “He’s coming with you today?”

Shit.

“Uh… not sure. I may not be able to make it either… we’ll bring something if we do though, duh.”

She turned and fled to the backroom at the call for more milk she may have imagined. 

She’d forgotten she and Hoseok were supposed to be heading to the park to grill out and volleyball again today, maybe going to the pool at Amy’s place afterwards again. That put a timeline on figuring out what the fuck to do about that disaster last night because obviously if she didn’t tell Hobi right away, that would bite her in the ass later.

But what the fuck was she supposed to tell him?

Hey, Jungkook got trashed and kissed me. I swear he was just drunk though, he had me confused with someone else. She’d literally sweat through her shirt lying like that.

Ok, he kissed me and said he thinks he’s in love with me but he is definitely not, he’s just having a hard time with me dating someone– Ok, nope, that sounded way sus. Like what kind of person had a hard time with their friend dating someone? No one unless you were secretly in love with them!

But he wasn’t. He was just a possessive, clingy asshole because none of his tantrums so far had returned her to the previous status quo of building her fucking life around him.

Which lifted her from the shock and confusion about the kiss into the nice, warm, cozy safe space of anger. 

How fucking dare he do that?! He’d put her in a terrible position now trying to figure out what to tell Hoseok that wouldn’t make her sweet boyfriend think she’d just been lying all this time about it being totally cool she lived with her male friend and nothing to worry about, no problem-o. He’d put her in a terrible position trying to understand what to do about their friendship.

Because obviously in a world where he was in love with her that was… a problem. 

But he wasn’t in love with her, which meant he had thought it was perfectly fine to… to what, drunkenly kiss her because he felt like it? Because he thought it would be funny? Because he thought he had a right to just do that? Surely he hadn’t thought she’d fuck him. And he knew she was in a relationship, a relationship she was serious about, and he’d just thought it was ok to kiss her? To fuck with her like that?

Because that was the last option, and the one she liked the least, but one she couldn’t quite shake off. Jungkook took what he wanted from women all the time and then never talked to them again. Yes, he claimed he was a generous lover –gross– and the ones Alex saw tended to seem happy, at least as they were leaving the apartment. But they were replaceable to him, disposable, forgettable.

Was she those things now too?

She had a headache by the time her shift ended. Even so, she debated going home because the last thing she wanted to do was face Jungkook right now. Would he try to cover his ass with more lies? Would he just apologize and expect her to forget it happened? 

He would, she decided on the drive home. He would apologize. She was getting so worked up because it was a stupid mistake, but it had been a mistake. He hadn’t actually meant to hurt her, he had just been too drunk and it had led him to do something stupid because she was the one there. He’d seen a woman panicking at something he did and blurted out the thing his pea brain thought would soothe her. He was just stupid, not evil, not mean, not hateful or reckless about her. This kind of mistake was bound to happen, right?

Right! Just a mistake. There was no need to crucify her best friend over the kind of mistake bound to happen. She could be pissed at him and demand an apology but he would apologize, she was sure of it. Probably he would be tripping all over himself to reassure her it had been a stupid mistake and how sorry he was and that he loved her but not like that and it would never happen again and he’d do whatever it took to make sure it didn’t cause a problem with her boyfriend.

Unfortunately, he was not there to apologize right when she walked through the door, and Alex felt regret mingled with relief. She wanted the apology, but she also wasn’t quite sure she was ready to face him yet. 

Because even if it had been a mistake, he had kissed her. Twice. And a little flutter of feeling flattered by it, because she’d never expected he would want to or even think of kissing her–

Ugh, except she obviously hadn’t kissed him back, so he probably thought she was a terrible kisser. Hobi said she was really good! Her boyfriend, whom she kissed all the time. 

But Jungkook wasn’t there, his bedroom door standing open for an empty room. 

Alex took some advil and face-planted in her bed to take a nap. Maybe she wouldn’t tell Hobi about this. 

**

She woke up to her phone buzzing, Hoseok calling her because he was downstairs ready to pick her up for the coworker hang. Alex wasn’t ready at all, and after a quick answer to beg him to wait, she whirled around the apartment getting her clothes on, her hat and sunglasses, a bathing suit just in case.

It wasn’t until she was safely in Hoseok’s car that she registered Jungkook’s door was now shut. He’d come home and she’d missed a confrontation with him. Had he heard her running around? Was he avoiding her now?

I’m not going to tell Hobi, she decided as they pulled into the parking lot of the park. Belatedly she wished she had asked to skip this and just hang at his place but it was too late now because Brittany and Andrea had pulled in next to them and were already pulling Hobi into conversation the second he opened his door. 

Forced to socialize and try to be distracted, she did her best to be her usual self. They played volleyball badly. They grilled mediocre-ly. They drank spiked punch from water bottles to hide that they had alcohol in public. Alex would realize she’d been quiet abnormally long and then rush to make up for it, earning a few jokes over the course of the afternoon about being sleep deprived or over-caffeinated.

She shouldn’t have been surprised by Hoseok’s concern when they loaded into his car late in the afternoon –ostensibly to go to Amy’s pool– and he asked, “Are you ok?”

“Huh? Me? Yeah, it’s good, what’s up?”

“Uh… you just seem like something is up.”

“No.” She left her lips in the ‘o’ shape for effect and shook her head. When he just looked at her, she nervously pulled her ponytail holder out to redo the ponytail, but the dangling hair still annoyed her, so she redid it again into a bun. Her hair was too straight and stuck out like an African Crowned Crane –she and Jungkook could name all the birds like that thanks to how many documentaries they’d watched, joking they ought to get a dog and name him Richard Attenborough–

No! No thoughts of Jungkook.

“Ok well I told Amy I wasn’t really feeling up for her pool,” Hoseok admitted. “Do you want me to take you to your place or you come to mine?”

“Oh, you don’t feel well?”

“Ah, you’re confusing me, Alex,” he said, smiling but shaking his head. “Don’t you feel like there’s something to talk about?”

Alex’s heart stopped. Did he know? Did he somehow know? Had he driven past them in the park and seen the whole thing like some ridiculous serendipity movie? Had Jungkook texted him this morning, apologizing without even talking to Alex first? 

“I…”

The corners of Hoseok’s mouth lowered, the sparkle from his eyes gone.

“Should we go to your place and we can talk there?”

“No, to yours,” she said, only realizing after she wouldn’t have a car. Whatever, if Hoseok was too upset she would call a friend or something… but not Jungkook. 

The drive to Hoseok’s apartment was awkwardly silent. The shift in his mood was massive; it felt like all the light was leaking from the sky with every mile. She half expected it to be nightfall by the time they stepped out at his place. Happy Hobi made the breezes blow and the birds sing but unhappy Hobi, her first glimpse of that just now, sucked the oxygen from the room just with his frown.

Seokjin wasn’t home so Hoseok motioned her to the couch and got them each a glass of ice water. Alex remembered to pull the blanket off the back and stretch it along the faux-leather seat so as not to leave sunscreen marks behind. She lifted the glass of ice water as soon as he set it on the coaster. Hoseok sat too on the blanket but with space between them and looked at his glass of water. 

Suddenly he gave her a smile that didn’t seem quite true and encouraged, “You can say anything you want to me.”

“Ok.” She looked at the ceiling for strength. “Um… I don’t know how to say this or if you’re going to believe me but um…” She pulled her ponytail holder out again, finding comfort in the familiar act of retying her hair as she rushed out, “So Jungkook got really drunk and kissed me last night and I swear I didn’t kiss him back and it was just– he was just drunk and confused. Like I went to pick him up after he left some girl’s house and he was just walking through the park and he was confused so– but it’s never happened before and I swear it won’t ever happen again either but I just feel really bad and worried that maybe you won’t believe me that he’s really truly just a platonic friend–”

The noise that rushed from Hoseok’s chest was a surprise to her and cut her off. He pressed a hand to his chest like something had just terrified him.

“Ah,” he sighed, almost like a groan. “That’s why you’re like this?”

“I feel really guilty about it! I wanted to tell you because I don’t want to hide things from you but like… are you even going to believe me now that he’s just a friend? I’m honestly in shock, I never expected him to– he just got me confused with one of this girls or whatever but–”

“I thought you were dumping me,” Hoseok admitted, cheeks once again balling up with his smile. 

“What? No! I’m worried you’re going to dump me!”

“For what? Your friend kissing you? And you didn’t kiss him back and you told me about it? When did this happen?”

“Last night.”

He made a face, almost comically casual, and insisted, “Why would I dump you, you didn’t do anything wrong!”

“So you just… believe me? You trust me it was one-sided?”

“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I trust you? You’re my girlfriend.”

“Oh god, Hobi,” she sighed and reached forward, wrapping her arms around his neck, overcome with relief. His reaction was everything she had worried wouldn’t be possible; she hadn’t expected him to just believe her so easily, and hug her back, or even to be that worried she was breaking up with him just because she was weird for an afternoon! She felt tingly with warmth for this great guy who was her boyfriend and trusted her and respected her.

He must have been overcome with the relief too because he squeezed her tightly and gave a playful growl before laughing, “Thank fuck.” Him cursing was always so funny to her, it made her laugh too. He kissed her forehead and let out another deep sigh. “Ok. OK. Now you know we’re ok. I really appreciate you telling me, I get why you would be scared I’d be mad or something, but it was a kiss and you didn’t respond so… ah, your friend basically assaulted you.”

She yanked away from him.

“Wait, that's a big word for this,” she quickly corrected, waving her hands. “It’s not like that. It’s just…”

“Well he kissed you without your consent, right?”

“Yes, but… no, don’t use that word, it doesn’t feel right to me. He shouldn’t have done that and– but we have a history so it’s not like it was–”

“A history as platonic friends,” he clarified.

“Yeah. But I mean… no, it’s just not that to me so– don’t say it’s that, that makes me feel even worse.”

“Ok ok I’m sorry, I just…” He trailed off, clearly not sure what else to say, but Alex didn’t really need any further prodding. Now that she knew Hoseok wasn’t mad at her, that her boyfriend was in her corner no matter what, she felt all the pent up words begin to tumble. Maybe unlocked too by the shock of how Hoseok had just labeled it.

“I mean, I’m mad, don’t get me wrong. He shouldn’t have done that. We’ve never kissed before and he knows I have a serious boyfriend.”

“Sure but you having a boyfriend shouldn’t even matter. You can just not want to be kissed by someone.”

Alex flapped her hand, “Yes, right, but I mean– I don’t know I’m just still so shocked by it. He has never wanted to kiss me. I’m serious, we are so platonic, like best bros.”

“He’s like your brother,” Hoseok nodded.

“Wellll, not quite like my brother because I know like way too much about his sex life but– but kind of that idea, yeah. Like when we were younger –oh, senior year of high school, prom, right? Neither of us had dates, we just went with a group of friends, I don’t still talk to any of them but anyway, he was driving me home at the end of the night and he started talking about how sad he was that he didn’t have a date because it’s this big romantic life thing and even if he didn’t have a girlfriend, he still wanted to have that experience of it all, of like the corsage and stuff, just to be like ‘oh yeah I went to my high school prom with so and so.’ And I was like… you could have just asked me? Like if you didn’t need a girlfriend for it, I’m a girl and I’m your best friend. We could have gone as friends. But he hadn’t even thought of that, like he does not think of me as a girl. Definitely not the kind you kiss.”

“He’s stupid then, you’re a great girl to kiss.”

His comment earned a laugh and face-wipe from her. Leave it to Hoseok to say something adorable like that in the middle of her rambling, trying to convince him of something he didn’t even seem to need to be convinced of: that she was a faithful girlfriend.

“Thank you, but I just mean this came out of fucking nowhere. TV shows always make that joke or whatever that if you’re a boy and a girl who are best friends as teenagers then you practice kissing on each other or lose your v-card to each other or whatever but that is never– that is not what our friendship is like. He’s been drunk around me so many times and there’s never even been an attempt so I don’t know what was suddenly different last night but–”

“Well you have a boyfriend now,” Hoseok pointed out. “That’s different.”

“I’ve had a boyfriend before!” she gasped, giving his arm a playful shove.

“Yeah briefly but not like me.” She knew he was being serious, but it was a cute and true thing to say. She glared playfully but didn’t deny it. “Was he possessive like this when you were dating that other guy?”

“Yoongi?”

“Oh you have more than one ex?”

“No, not really…” she grumbled, belatedly realizing she must have not said Yoongi’s name before when she’d confessed her very light dating and sexual history to Hoseok. More distracting was the other thing he’d just said though and she called out, “You think he’s possessive?” She had obviously thought Jungkook was being kinda bratty but she hadn’t expected her boyfriend who didn’t know him to pick up on that.

“Uh… isn’t he? He just seems really– to be honest, I’m not surprised he kissed you. Based on what he’s been like when I see him.”

Alex wasn’t sure how to respond to that. She couldn’t understand the turmoil of her own feelings, already exhausted by the morning of stress and confusion, but now with the added confusion of her boyfriend calling Jungkook possessive. There was a defensive gut reaction to defend Jungkook against any outsider saying something shit about him– but Hoseok wasn’t an outsider! And it wasn’t shit if it was true. He was kind of possessive, wasn’t he?

Hoseok quickly added, “I mean he just clearly– well.”

“What?”

“I was going to say he’s clearly very protective of you and wants the best for you. You told me from the beginning you’re best friends so I expected that. I wasn’t surprised by it. But now he kissed you so I don’t think he’s just worried about me being good enough for his sisterly best friend,” Hoseok clarified. He looked as serious as he might at a staff meeting –or maybe moreso, not trying to be a cheerleader right now, just serious and straightforward. “Now you’re moving away from him because you have me and then he kisses you, maybe he’s trying to get you to break up with me so he can have you to himself.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Alex insisted. “He doesn’t want me.”

“But he kissed you.”

“Yeah because he was drunk and bratty and… and I don’t know, I haven’t talked to him since it happened but you’re making him sound all toxic and it’s not like that. He is just worried about whether you’re good to me or not. I know he’s been a little weird around you but it’s because he knows I’m serious with you and you're new and it changes our comfy routine. He’s just living his bachelor life you know and I was this constant companion, stable–”

Hoseok nodded, interrupting, “Yeah you take care of him a lot. That’s why I”m not surprised if he’s worried that now I’m here, I’m ruining it. Even if he doesn’t want you, he may not want anyone else to have you either. Maybe he just wanted things to stay exactly the way they were and now he’s trying things to get it back to that. You’re very lenient with him.”

Alex’s chin lowered as she asked carefully, “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean you do so much for him!” Hoseok insisted.

“Yeah but he does a lot for me too.”

“Ok.”

“Why did you say it like that? He does! Before you were in my life, he was my go-to guy and–”

“Yeah, exactly. But now I’m here and so maybe he just wants to break us up.”

“No. No, that’s just so childish… he’s not like that,” Alex insisted. But now she felt annoyed that she was having to defend Jungkook’s intentions instead of getting to vent her own righteous anger about the whole thing. “I mean, he’s childish sometimes but… I don’t know, I think he was just drunk and weird last night…”

“But you said he’s never made a move on you when he’s been drunk before.”

“Yeah, he hasn’t.”

“And then suddenly he gets drunk and kisses you without your consent, when he knows you have a boyfriend. I can never figure out if he hates me or he’s trying too hard to prove to you he doesn’t hate me…”

“He’s trying really hard,” Alex insisted. “I think it just makes him nervous because he knows how important it is to me for you two to get along.”

“Did he get along with that other guy? Yoongi?”

“Uh…” Alex tried to think back. “They didn’t not get along. They just didn’t really interact much. I didn’t date him very long.”

“But now I’m here and I’m not going anywhere so he has to get more extreme to try and win you back–”

“He’s not trying to win me back, Hobi. I was never his to have in any way like you’re saying–”

“Ok. You seem like you’re getting upset with me but I’m on your side here,” Hoseok said, reaching forward and grabbing her hand. “I’m not trying to make you more upset. I’m just trying to help you. Your best friend kissed you suddenly.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he’s this evil mastermind who’s like– like trying to tsundere me into being his housewife minus the marital duties.”

“Ok that’s too extreme,” Hoseok admitted. 

“Yeah, it is.”

Oops, she sounded really pissed.

“I just don’t want you to hate him now,” she continued.

“Don’t worry about me right now. What are you going to do about it? Do you think he’ll be respectful if you clarify that he’s not allowed to– sorry, I just thought that was already a clear boundary between you.”

“It was… it is. I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. Probably that will depend on how apologetic he is. He’s a really good friend to me and I think this was just a really weird drunk thing for him and it looks worse because he’s trying so hard to be friends with you because he knows it’s important. He’s scared of exactly this happening.”

“Of what happening exactly?” Hoseok asked.

“Of you guys like hating each other and me being stuck in the middle and having to choose,” Alex clarified. “I don’t want to have to choose between my best friend and my boyfriend.”

“Yeah I didn’t do anything to make you choose, I know that. He’s the one who kissed you.”

Alex’s chewed on the inside of her cheek, a bad habit she’d mostly broken. That was true. She wasn’t even sure it was what Jungkook was afraid of, or the motivation behind his struggles with Hoseok, because they hadn’t talked about it, because sometimes getting emotional information from Jungkook was like wringing a sponge and you had no way of knowing if it was dry and you wouldn’t get a drop or if you were about to be drenched. Usually the drenching came when he was drunk and waxing poetic. Probably that was why he had kissed her while drunk–

Except the accidental implication her brain made that he was drunk and emotional in a way that led him to kiss her and confess his love was too much for her right now. 

Should she mention that part to Hoseok?

But she knew instantly she couldn’t, because Hoseok was already unhappy. He wasn’t mad at her, but she got the feeling now that Hoseok had this whole idea that Jungkook was controlling and possessive and trying to take advantage of her and ungrateful to the effort she put into their friendship. The next time they crossed paths, things were going to be awkward. 

How long could you date a guy if he didn’t get along with your best friend?

But what if your best friend was the one who made it awkward?

Had Jungkook just done something that was going to make her have to choose? But between what? A friend who suddenly drunkenly kissed her and a boyfriend who was being sweet about all of it? Or a friend who suddenly decided he was in love with her and a boyfriend who thought her best friend was manipulative and controlling?

Or had she just caused herself to have to make a choice by telling Hoseok about something small and meaningless that she should have just worked out privately with Jungkook? She didn’t even know what Jungkook was going to be like today! Maybe just super fucking embarrassed and apologetic and tripping over himself to make it up to her. And by telling her boyfriend, she’d fed into this bad image Hoseok apparently was forming of Jungkook, and while Jungkook might be eager to prove himself not a threat, her boyfriend wouldn’t forgive him.

Alex rubbed her hands over her face, wanting to step out of her own skin for a moment. She was exhausted. Her stomach hurt. Her head hurt. 

“Hey,” he said, voice low and soothing. “It’s going to be ok.”

“Is it? I have to figure out what to do with him and now you hate him–”

Hoseok slid his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close, and insisted, “I am withholding judgment and ready to rally to whatever you think is best.”

“But you have this whole idea of him as this juvenile, controlling asshole who’s just kissing me to fuck with me or to manipulate me back into his control–”

“Well the other possibility is that he’s in love with you,” Hoseok interrupted. “And he didn’t realize it until he had to watch you be happy with me.”

“He’s not. It’s not that,” Alex quickly said to cover her lie of omission about that exact confession. Because she didn’t believe it was true! No reason to make this even more frustrating. 

“I didn’t want to say it because it makes me nervous,” he admitted with a sweet, shy little chuckle. “What if he’s in love with you? What if you choose him? He’s your best friend. That’s hard to compete with–”

“That’s not what’s happening, Hobi,” Alex assured him, wrapping her arms around his torso. 

“You know him better than I do but you’re surprised this happened and I’m not. I think it’s one of those two things and if you don’t think it’s true that he’s taking advantage of you, then I think you have to consider he may be in love with you and that your friendship isn’t as platonic as you thought.”

She didn’t want to consider that. That was impossible. It was unheard of. And it would completely change every single thing about her friendship with Jungkook, way more than her getting a boyfriend would. It wasn’t even like she was running off to the altar or anything. It actually disrupting her life with Jungkook in a real way –other than her being less available– was years away! She could live with Jungkook and maintain their special arcade nights and movie nights and all of that while also having a boyfriend, just like Jungkook always had tail he was chasing. 

But Jungkook being in love with her would add meaning to those interactions. The kind of meaning it wouldn’t be fair to take part in while she had a boyfriend. She wouldn’t be comfortable if the roles were reversed. Hoseok living with a girl who was in love with him? She’d die of jealousy and worry. She couldn’t do that to Hoseok –or to Jungkook either, because how sad would that be for him? Or to herself, because she’d just feel like she was hurting everyone all the time!

“I am so completely positive it’s not that,” she insisted, carving the words of certainty into her heart. Finding comfort in saying it out loud. “I mean, we do love each other but in a truly platonic way. I really just think he’s acting out like a child because my priorities shifted to include you and this was his latest drunk temper tantrum so… so I just need to talk to him about it.”

“Ok.”

“And be firmer about my boundaries and the respect I deserve.”

“Yes,” Hoseok nodded, shifting on the sofa as if they were going to settle in here now. 

“And he has to respect those or… or he’s the one making me choose. Right? Because you aren’t saying to me that I can’t still be friends with him.”

“I’m not,” Hoseok agreed. “If I think he’s a bad friend to you… I haven’t wanted to say anything because I didn’t understand everything… I don’t know. I want you to be happy and have good relationships, and I want the people you care about to treat you right. What do I do if he’s not?”

“You won’t have to do anything. I’ll handle it.”

“Ok…”

“You don’t think I will?” she asked, pulling away. “Is there something else you saw or want to say that makes you think I won’t?”

“No! I do think you have a soft spot for him, you let him get away with things maybe most people won’t–”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, just the way he brings women home all the time and the mess he makes in your apartment,” Hoseok shrugged. “You said he couldn’t even go grocery shopping without you… I don’t want to say more! I don’t want to sound critical…. I just feel critical right now because he kissed you without your consent and it’s not ok to do that.”

Alex nodded. She felt defensive. She felt right in the middle right now and she didn’t like it. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts and feelings, she decided. Hoseok was supportive and it was a relief to know he wasn’t mad at her about this happening, but she felt like what she had hoped could be a simple friendship between the two men in her life was maybe never going to be that.

“If I work this out with him, and I feel like he’s respecting my boundaries and all that, do you think you’ll be able to forgive him and be friends?” she asked slowly.

“Yes,” Hoseok insisted. “I just want you to be treated the way you deserve. Sometimes that’s hard with old friends…”

“Just leave it at the yes,” Alex pleaded.

Hoseok grinned and kissed her forehead, “Yes, Alex. It might be a little awkward for a while because he kissed my girlfriend but–”

“Hobi… leave it at the yes.”

“Yes,” he said again and let his head rest against hers.

But she felt conflicted, because she wasn’t sure she believed him. She didn’t like the feeling of not believing him. Or of not believing Jungkook –who had just done something stupid, she was certain of it now, but then done that shitty thing of trying to mask it over with a love confession, as if that would make her not angry about it. 

He’d disrespected her. He needed to understand it wasn’t ok and prove he would behave better.

And prove to her boyfriend that he was a harmless, good presence in her life. 

But he would. He would do it! This was Jungkook! One stupid kiss on a drunk night could not possibly undo all the years of their very precious friendship. He’d made a mistake but it wasn’t like they’d never had fights or made mistakes before. Never around a kiss but why was a kiss actually any different than any other mistake? She definitely did not feel assaulted or manipulated the way Hoseok thought. Those were such big words.

She just felt stupid for having brought this up with her boyfriend at all, because now Jungkook would have to convince both of them in his apology, and she didn’t know if Hoseok would actually be as forgiving as he said he would and…

Goddamnit what a mess.

Goddamnit, Jungkook. She was really going to have a talk with him about maybe taking a break from the drinking, if it was so bad he had fucking kissed her and confessed love. Like he clearly was hitting it too hard these days.

Maybe there was something else going on, she suddenly realized. And then immediately felt like a shit for not having even thought of that before. Like maybe one of his parents was sick, or he was sick, or something! Something he hadn’t told her about, and he was acting out but she wasn’t even the actual issue, and she just had assumed his weird behavior was about her but actually she just wasn’t around enough for him to feel like he could talk to her about it?

She hadn’t even considered any of that… 

Ok, she decided. She was freaking out prematurely. She just needed to talk to Jungkook and understand if he had some extenuating circumstance she needed to take into account, or if he was just a stupid drunk idiot last night and he needed to do repairwork with her and her boyfriend now. 

I mean, this is Jungkook, she reminded herself. She knew him inside and out. She definitely would have known if at any point in their lives he’d been either attracted to her or in love with her. He definitely was not. 

They could fix this. They would. They were so important to each other, one mistake drunk kiss wouldn’t be the end of things.

Jungkook had never wished more to be hungover and sleep through the day but unfortunately he was awake stupid fucking early, hollow and garbagey feeling, but sober. Painfully sober. Regretfully sober. 

He just hadn’t drunk the right amount last night. Too much to stop himself. Not enough to stop himself. Definitely not enough to forget what had happened. 

A hangover would have kept him from thinking. He could have embraced the headache and the nausea and coaxed himself back to sleep. Instead he lay in bed running through it all over again.

The kiss.

The rejection.

The confused confession.

The certainty with which Alex assured him he did not love her.

He couldn’t make sense of it yet. His brain was alert but uncooperative. He was trying to lock together the wrong puzzle pieces. He didn’t even know the question he was asking because every question just led to another, an infinity loop of dominos in his brain.

Why did I kiss her?

Do I love her?

Is she right that I was just drunk and jealous?

Why am I so bothered she has a boyfriend?

Do I love her?

Do I love her like that?

Why am I not sure?

Does that mean she’s right?

But then why did I kiss her?

Why did I want to kiss her more?

Do I still want to kiss her?

He wasn’t even in the same room as her and he could feel her stiff-arming him away. The shame of that was gut-wrenching. He might not remember every word and gesture from the night but he remembered that she had not responded in any real way. And she had been angry with him. 

Of course she was angry. Why wouldn’t she be? Confused too. Poor Alex. If some other guy had just kissed her like that, Jungkook would beat the shit out of them, but he’d been the one to do it. Shy, inexperienced, romance-nervous Alex. The whole thing was proof he was just drunk and stupid, like she’d said, because if he was going to seduce or confess to Alex, he would never do it like that. 

He’d make dinner and put a movie in, something that would have them both laughing, and then as soon as the credits rolled and she had that flushed face from laughing so hard and was still trying to (badly) repeat some joke from the film, he’d slide his hand into hers and say…

Say nothing. Nothing seriously. He’d just correct her on the joke and laugh too. 

He’d definitely never say what he had said last night. I think I’m in love with you. 

God, who said shit like that to a girl? He was proud of her for telling him off. He’d kissed her without her asking for it– he wished she’d punched him. He’d feel better if she had. Better that she’d stick up for herself, even against someone like him. 

Well, at least she was mad at him now. Probably she felt like he’d used her and lied to her. Not only had he crossed a very clear and ancient line in their friendship, he’d also done it when she had a boyfriend she was crazy about. So. Yeah, he’d really fucked this one up. 

It was a relief she’d already left for work by the time he dragged himself from his room to get his car he’d left at the bar. It was too far to walk so he took the bus, even though it dragged the errand out painfully long. The inside was uncomfortably hot and so while he waited for the A/C to cool the steering wheel, he contemplated what to do right now. 

He needed to talk to Alex, that was obvious.

He needed to apologize.

Yes. That was the obvious and immediate thing. He needed to apologize for this massive fuck up and promise it wouldn’t happen again. Every minute he put that off made it more likely she’d be so pissed she’d…

What, end their friendship over it?

He hadn’t thought until just that second, sitting in his boiling car, that he might lose Alex over this. He didn’t know! Because this had never happened before! But she’d been mad, really mad if his drunk memories were close to correct. And if she had this shadow of doubt that he might be in love with her–

That shadow would change everything. He could see that. She’d already started to draw lines –lines he didn’t think were necessary because everything was platonic. Like who cared if she was platonically lying in his bed and eating crackers on his pillow to piss him off while he read her Reductress headlines to see if he could make her choke on her own crumbs? 

But she’d drawn that line, and if she thought he had feelings for her, she’d draw even more. The truth of his feelings didn’t matter; he realized with sudden clarity that he needed to apologize fast and reassure her that she was completely 100% right. He was just a drunk, jealous asshole.

He clung to the hope it would be easy to convince her of that. He was a drunk and jealous asshole. She knew that. All their friends knew that. Hoseok probably knew that too. Hopefully Alex would be forgiving and let this slide and accept the waterfall of apologies he was going to dump on her. Things could go back to the way they were, for as long as they could stay that way. It wouldn’t last forever, because someday, he knew, she and Hoseok were going to take more steps. They’d move in together. They’d get married.

Jungkook was going to be left behind no matter what, he understood that. Alex’s reaction to all of this had made that crystal clear, if he’d had any lingering doubts. But if he acted like this, he was going to lose what little of her he could keep. He was going to rush her out the door. 

It wasn’t worth looking closely to understand his own feelings. Even if they were there, they were too late. They couldn’t exist because it was friend or nothing, that was clear without her even saying it. If he made her say it, it was over. 

He drove home, ready to just rip the bandaid off and get the apologies rolling. He’d beg her to pretend like it never happened, and admit he was too drunk, and promise to lay off the booze. He’d agree he was just jealous because she was happy with a boyfriend and he missed spending time with her. He’d agree that was his shit to deal with and that she shouldn’t feel bad. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. 

He hit every red light but it gave him time to rehearse lines in his head so he wasn’t even mad. No impulse bullshit this time. Simple, straight-forward, move things along, agree with any anger, get things back to normal as fucking fast as possible. 

He was sure her work shift should be over now, and it was clear she’d been through the apartment, but she wasn’t there now. Her bedroom door stood open but she wasn’t in it.

He deflated like a bounce house turned off. He’d worked himself up for the conversation and was now left with his legs cartwheeling in the air over nothing. 

So he cleaned. He did the laundry and cleaned until it was time to bring it up. He wiped down all the counters and cabinets and washed the stove. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to clean; Eomma would never have let him enter adulthood without that training. He and Alex were just sort of lazy about it. He thought it would be good for her to come home to a nice clean apartment but mostly he cleaned so he wouldn’t think anything at all, except what the best way to get the coffee stains out of her white work shirts were.

He ate dinner alone.

And then once it got late enough it really felt like she was avoiding him, he texted.

[JK]: hey

[JK]: i’m really fucking sorry about last night

[JK]: are you on your way home?

It was a while before she responded.

[Alex]: crashing out tonight, talk tomorrow?

What. the. Fuck. did. That. mean?!

She hadn’t said she was staying at Hobi’s, but is that what she meant? She hadn’t said ‘it’s ok.’ 

[JK]: mom asked us to come to dinner tomorrow you in?

[JK]: I don’t think we need to grocery shop yet

His hands actually shook. He didn’t know why. But he typed these casual messages to see how she’d respond, if she’d respond, if she would pick up on the way he was nervously pacing their home because he just needed to get her forgiveness and let things go back to normal and now she was going to make him wait until tomorrow.

[Alex]: sure 

Jungkook let out a rushed sigh and collapsed on the couch. Ok. She couldn’t totally hate him if she was agreeing to dinner at his mom’s. It was a bone of reassurance and he clutched it to his heart as he called his mom to let her know they were coming for dinner and also that she needed to pretend it was her idea.

“Gukka? You’re calling me? It’s late, are you sitting at home? Isn’t it Saturday? And you’re always so busy, too busy to call your eomma…”

Alex, not sure where else to go, had crashed at Minxi’s apartment. She had two roommates Alex didn’t know well but was also the person least likely to ask too many questions when Alex just said she wanted to watch movies and oh my it’s so late can I just crash here? It was obvious Minxi thought there was more to it but she didn’t press.

Between a decent night of sleep and a mostly reassuring conversation with Hoseok, Alex felt much better prepared to face Jungkook. Granted, the texts he had sent helped. Apologetic, casual, friendly. She told herself it was the best case scenario as she drove home the next morning after getting roped into dim sum at a nearby place with Minxi and her roommates. A full tummy was another good thing, Alex reminded herself to assuage the guilt at pushing off going home for so long.

She wanted to laugh at herself and the dread that crept like lead into her feet as she trudged up the stairs to her apartment. What was she so afraid was going to happen? He’d already even apologized. But she felt a boulder sloshing around with the lo mai gai and lo bak go in her belly.

The apartment was empty when she entered, to her surprise. It also looked like Jungkook’s mom had been by; the kitchen was sparkling as she stopped to shove her styrofoam of leftovers into the fridge. A basket of her laundry sat in the hallway outside her door, everything folded, t-shirts in Jungkook’s peculiar method of folding that he’d slowly converted her to.

The front door opened before she’d even set her stuff down. Jungkook was charging down the hall a moment later, hair spiky with sweat, but he stopped and tugged his headphones out when he saw her in her room.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she returned with an awkward wave.

“I’m gonna shower real quick.”

“Yeah, ok.”

She felt like she ought to tell him no rush, but the fact he’d told her he was going to shower like he needed to check in because they both knew they had an impending important conversation, it just all made it so awkward. 

“What time do we have to go to your parents’?” she called down the hall after him.

“Whenever we want,” was the answer; he didn’t even look back as he disappeared into the bathroom without a change of clothes.

Meant he’d be wandering out with a towel afterwards. 

Alex went to put her clothes away and not be in the hallway for that. She’d been trying to think of any particular requests for boundaries she’d make, and she didn’t think Jungkook wandering around in a towel was a problem she needed to call out since it wasn’t like he was doing it for her, it was just his state of existence, but maybe it did need to be?

Or maybe he’d react terribly to her request for boundaries and it would be moot.

Maybe he was going to make her choose right now. She didn’t know what he’d say but… but the fear was there. 

Once her clothes were away, she darted out to the living room, and that’s where Jungkook found her, awkwardly looking at things on her phone so she wouldn’t look like she was just sitting there waiting for a conversation she didn’t want to have. 

He hesitated beside the couch for a moment before sliding down to sit; only then did she see he’d pulled his phone out too.

She put hers away.

He did too.

“So…”

His hand went instantly to his neck, scratching at the base of his skull, his face scrunched up as he launched into, “Look, Alex, I’m really sorry about… about the other night.”

“Yeah…” Internally she was sighing with relief. If he was going to talk first, that made this so much easier. Hopefully. As long as he said the right things.

“I’m sorry, it was really fucking shitty of me to do that, and I know I put you in an awkward position and I’m really sorry. You were right, I was just drunk and… and yeah I’ve been kind of a brat about you having this guy sticking around and I know that’s immature but… all I can say is that I’ll do better. If you can forgive me and uh, we can just forget that happened and move past it.”

God it was like she’d given him a fucking script for exactly what she wanted to hear him say. 

She tried to keep herself steady and calm though as she said, “Thank you for saying that. It did really suck because… you’re my best friend. We’ve never– you’ve never treated me like that when you were drunk. And then what you said, that was so mean.”

“Uh… mean? What was mean?”

“To say you think you love me to try and keep me from getting mad about you kissing me?” she clarified. Something in her wavered. The train was wobbling on the tracks…

“Oh. Uh…. yeah I think I just… I just got really confused by the whole thing… because you’re more than a friend to me.”

She froze.

“You know, you’re my best friend and I know it’s weird to get jealous about you having a boyfriend when it’s– it’s not like I’m trying to be your boyfriend or anything. So I know that’s weird and I think I just was panicking and confused– I wasn’t trying to be mean.”

He sounded so soft when he said it. He was so sincere, his eyes big, his face and neck flushed with embarrassment. Alex knew all his mannerisms. She knew when he was lying or sincere or nervous and right now he was two of those things. Lying was not one of them.

“Ok,” she said. “I know. You just… you can’t do that. It’s not fair.”

“Which part isn’t–”

“Kissing me just because you’re drunk! I’m not just some girl who’s there for you to–”

“No, I know,” he said, scooting closer on the couch. “I’m really really sorry, Alex. It wasn’t like that at all. I don’t know what I was thinking but it wasn’t that. You aren’t just some girl to me, I swear.”

“Ok…” 

“I promise. I know I fucked up. I promise it won’t happen again. It’s not because I don’t respect you or anything. I just was– just feeling sorry for myself about you being so busy and having someone and the thoughts just got all fucky in my head. That’s all. You know how I am, just do first, think later, right?”

She watched him for a moment. He was almost… too calm about this. Usually if they had an argument, he got defensive, sometimes a little mean, always infuriating. He didn’t want to admit his mistakes, or he tried to convince her not to be upset. The two of them could really butt heads over the stupidest stuff and yet right now, he was just leaning right in. Apologizing. Taking accountability.

“Why do you look like that?” he asked her.

“I just… I was worried this was going to be a really hard conversation but you’re just…”

“Sorry?” he laughed. “What can I say about it, I fucked up! You didn’t do anything wrong. Am I going to make it sound like it’s your fault? This was my fault and I just really don’t want you to end our friendship over it.”

“Koo…” She felt every bone in her body softening for him. “Of course I’m not going to end our friendship over this. I mean, if you were going to be shitty about it but– it’s a bad mistake and you can’t do that but– I got all freaked out that it meant you just think I’m like a disposable woman–”

“I don’t!”

“--Or that you just want to be controlling and ruin my relationship– but it didn’t make sense because you’re not like that. That’s not the Jungkook I know.”

“I know,” he groaned, covering his face. “I just fucked up, Alex. I’m sorry. I’m really embarrassed.”

“Ok, and you shouldn’t be kissing girls without their permission!”

“I don’t!” he promised. “I really don’t. I was just extra stupid for you.”

“Ok…” She saw the way he watched her, like he was still waiting for a final verdict, but she could tell he had a sense of relief about the conversation so far. She did too! This really was the best way it could have gone. She felt her worst fears wash away. Everything she’d talked herself into and out of and around. 

Jungkook loved her in the right friend way, and this was a mistake that didn’t need to ruin their friendship, and he was willing to do whatever it took to move past it. Just like she expected from him. He was exactly who she knew him to be. Maybe she could just be secretly be a tiny bit flattered that kissing her had been a good idea to his drunk brain and leave it at that.

“Ok,” she said again. “Just… All of what we were talking about was just about me, even if I was single… but I also have a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, I know…”

“I told him that you kissed me.”

“Oh.” Jungkook blinked once. “Uh…”

“I just felt like… like I needed to be honest with him because I always tell him he has nothing to worry about. I mean it’s kind of weird for a guy, for his girlfriend to live with a male friend she swears is platonic and I was worried if he found out about this somehow and I hadn’t told him, it would just make him think I lie about everything and that you and I are carrying on or whatever–”

“Ok, I get it. But is he going to like beat my face in or something?”

Alex gave him a wild look, “No. He’s going to respect what I say is going to happen.”

“Ok because I understand if–”

“Come on, what about Hobi makes you think he’s going to be violent?”

“I just mean I kind of deserve it–”

“No, you don’t.”

“If someone kissed my girlfriend like that, I’d want to punch the guy. If uh… if that’s what you need to let him do to make this ok–”

“Jesus Christ, Koo, you’re going too far about it now. It’s not like it was some big romantic kiss or something, you just kind of pecked at me while you were drunk. You don’t need to be crucified for it!”

He went quiet and looked off to the side, lips pursed like he was stopping himself from saying something more. So she waited. He shrugged.

“I’m sorry he probably hates me now,” Jungkook muttered. “I didn’t mean to cause problems with your boyfriend. I um… I just hope he doesn’t make you not be friends with me.”

“I choose who I’m friends with,” she said and felt pretty fucking powerful saying it. “He’s not trying to do that, he just wants to know you aren’t going to be sabotaging our relationship or that you’re not like… secretly a bad guy who wants to take advantage of me or something.”

Maybe she shouldn’t have said that. Jungkook looked genuinely devastated.

“I’m… not.”

“I know,” she assured him. “And you can reassure him too by just not doing something like this again. And I’ll reassure him by being clearer with you about what boundaries I need you to respect.” There, that sounded mature. Alex was proud of herself again. 

Jungkook’s face took on a slack look, like now he would finally hear the terms of his sentencing. He nodded and asked,

“Ok, like what?”

“Uh… well the only one I’ve thought of so far is that you can’t kiss me. And we shouldn’t call each other any of the little names you’d call a girlfriend –I know you just do it to joke and I do too! But like, maybe we shouldn’t call each other ‘baby’ or be handsy with each other or anything.”

“Ok.”

“And… I don’t know,” she admitted, laughing nervously. “Because I didn’t think we were inappropriate! We’re just friends! But I want to make sure you and I and Hobi all feel clear about like… our places, you know?”

“Ok.”

“You’re just saying ‘ok’ a lot.”

“Yeah I’m a little worried I’ll fuck it up again if you’re that vague but uh, I won’t kiss you or call you baby and you aren’t going to lie in my bed anymore so… let me know if there’s anything else.”

“Well now you sound kind of sulky about it,” she snickered. Trying to joke, obviously, because this was awkward as shit. This was the most serious conversation they’d ever had. It was uncomfortable. She hated it! He probably hated it too! “We’re being such good grown ups, don’t start sulking now!”

“God, Alex, I can only be a grown up for so long,” he joked back. “You know me.”

“I know. Ok. We’ll be ok.”

“Yeah.”

“And just– Jungkook, stop worrying that just because I have a boyfriend I’m going to leave you. I’m not, ok? We’ll be friends for our entire lives. You don’t need to get fucky about it.”

He sighed deeply, “Yeah ok, I know.”

“Like I get it because I’m fucking amazing but–” She was joking. She expected him to joke back.

“OK, shrimpy, don’t get a big head about. Fuck, can I still call you shrimpy? Is that too romantic?”

“No, it’s perfect,” she assured him. “Except don’t call me that because come oooon!”

“Your boyfriend can call you nice things. I just need you to help me get that slushee machine, we’re so close!”

“Are we though?”

He stood, pulling his phone out, and without answering just said, “OK well, if you aren’t dumping me forever, we should get to my parents’ house.”

“Already?”

“We should go early. They asked us to. They want us to help cook. Your parents are going too.”

“Goddamnit, is May going? I owe her money and I don’t want to pay her back.”

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “I think Eomma was just inviting everyone.”

“Is there a special occasion? They don’t usually invite us, we usually just go. It’s not anyone’s birthday.”

Jungkook shrugged again, “I don’t know.”

“Should we take something?”

“Woah, dial it back, you’re sounding way too grown up now,” he teased. The relief of being casually teased wrapped around her when the conversation itself left her shaky. It felt like it shouldn’t be that easy. But shouldn’t it? They were best friends! He’d made a mistake. He’d been upfront about it. She wasn’t wrong not to hold onto her anger for longer… right? If it happened again that would be different but this was a one-time offense. She doubted it would ever happen again. She felt very confident in that, honestly. 

She thought about telling him she was impressed, that he’d been really mature about this and it was a good improvement, but decided not to. Don’t push it too much, just let things settle, and be glad they went the way it did, and hopefully soon the whole thing would be forgotten. Hopefully Hoseok would trust her feelings on it. Jungkook certainly seemed scared straight by the whole thing.

Maybe it was for the best they’d head over and be surrounded by their parents early. As she took her turn with the shower and getting dressed, she could feel the staticky air. She felt a little awkward when she bumped into him in the hall on the way to the bedroom; she felt naked even though she was wearing a robe that was way more coverage than the towel he’d probably had wrapped around his hips earlier. 

Again she thought maybe that was a boundary she should establish. Hey stop walking around in just a towel or without a shirt on. But it wasn’t like it mattered. What next, full Hazmat suit so she wouldn’t notice he was hot? It seemed overkill. He just needed to not kiss her or do boyfriend things, that was all. It wasn’t like she was just seduced by him being shirtless. Honestly the best part of him being shirtless was throwing things at him to see if anything would stick to his chest. He got sweaty a lot, or used sunscreen, or lotions, and she swore sometimes oil but he denied it and she’d never found a bottle. He hated when she played that game but it was her favorite. 

Yeah, not a problem. She gave him a finger gun as she shuffled past in her fluffy robe.

“Hurry up,” he told her.

“Why? There’s no rush.”

“Appa asked me to get plum wine on the way over.”

“Noooo our moms get so giggly on that.”

“Yeah you’re definitely getting grilled about your boyfriend.”

“No way, I’m bringing up– shit, I already told them about your commission win…”

“Just go get dressed!”

“Fine fine.”

“Maybe I should go get the plum wine and come back for you. It’s going to take you forever to put your face on,” he mumbled. “Why did you start wearing so much makeup?”

“You bastard, no it won’t!”

“Oh… you’re just going to look like that– ok! Whatever you–”

“You’re such an asshole,” she laughed, and shoved him on the arm before leaping into her room and slamming the door. Tease her about wearing makeup in one breath and then not wearing makeup in the next?

Yeah, Jungkook was just Jungkook, same as always. A bad kiss didn’t change that.

Holy shit, what if Jungkook was actually a bad kisser?!

***

May had in fact been invited and shown up, much to Alex’s chagrin but Jungkook’s delight. Watching them bicker was hysterical. Anytime one of them tried to enlist Jungkook’s opinion on something, he made sure to side with May, both because it infuriated Alex and because May never trusted he was actually siding with her and would glare at him, which was funny too.

He laughed a little less when Alex’s mom demanded to know why she hadn’t brought Hoseok “because everyone is here!” That was almost true. Even Jungkook’s brother and his very pregnant wife had come on short notice. Claudia was as big as a house and Jin-hyun rotated around her like the moon around the earth. Only Alex’s brother couldn’t make it since the flight would have been a little too long from Italy. Jungkook stifled his laugh when Mama Song proudly announced how hard Edgar was working at his new job. That was probably true during working hours but Jungkook knew the dirty shit Edgar was getting up to outside of those working hours. Definitely not the kind of things you told your mom.

It was Edgar, after all, who’d first helped Jungkook figure out how to talk to women. Edgar who’d helped Jungkook see that being an Asian man in America didn’t have to prevent him from getting all the pussy he wanted. Edgar who now carried forth his legacy that was completely hidden from his parents over into Europe. 

He wondered what Edgar would say if he found out Jungkook had kissed Alex? He probably wouldn’t do anything; he was more a party guy than a fighter. While Jungkook had his thirst trap accounts and actually hated being in the middle of big crowds or parties, Edgar always cruised the nightlife. 

Alas, he wasn’t here, “but maybe he’ll come home for Christmas.” 

Maybe Jungkook should move to Italy with him. 

It was a joke of a thought but stuck in his mind as he ducked out of another argument between Alex and May and instead leaned against the counter to demand of Claudia,

“Aren’t you popping yet?”

“You know pregnant women love being asked that,” she retorted with a grin to soften her teasing. Jin-hyun kind of sucked as a brother but he’d somehow managed to catch Claudia. She was way out of his brother’s league, which he’d been happy to put in his best man speech at their wedding. 

“Well you’re the first pregnant person I’ve ever talked to so…”

“The baby kicks,” Jin-hyun informed him, leaning in. “Do you want to feel?”

Claudia gave Jin-hyun a perturbed look, only to laugh when Jungkook admitted, “There is nothing I want to do less.”

“Here stick a fork in your eye,” Jin-hyun suggested, handing one over.

“Instead of feeling up your wife? Gladly.” He took it but Claudia took it back and tossed it into the sink and waved her hands to clear them out.

“If you aren’t cooking, get out of the way.”

“I’ll help, ‘Ma, you go lay down,” Jin-hyun suggested, suddenly completely forgetting Jungkook. His hand slid around Claudia’s waist as he pressed close to her. 

“I’m fine.”

“No, you were up early this morning, go rest. I can handle this.”

“... you sure?” she asked, looking up at him. He nodded and smiled and so she went.

“Hey, are you actually a good husband or something?” Jungkook demanded.

Jin-hyun rolled his eyes and, glancing over his shoulder to make sure none of the parents were listening, whispered, “Fuck off with that, I’m a great husband.”

“Weird.”

“Meanwhile you’re still running around with your pants around your ankles, huh?”

“Why are you so worried about my pants? No one cares what you’ve got in yours is less impressive–”

“Are you kidding? I started an instagram and every three days it reminds me that I know you. The last thing I need is my coworkers seeing you’re my brother, your account is embara–”

“Carefully crafted, huh?” Alex asked, squeezing awkwardly in between them. “It’s a real commitment to a theme, you gotta admire it!”

“No. I don’t.”

“Ah, I guess it’s a young person thing,” she shrugged, and gave Jin-hyun a shit-eating grin. “You were probably a little too old to develop the internet social skills necessary to amass the kind of following Jungkook has.”

“You mean to lack basic self awareness and scrounge together enough dignity to not seek approval from–”

“You sound like a real prude,” Alex said. “How did you manage to get Claudia pregnant again?”

Jin-hyun closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. Alex laughed. And Jungkook pouted because Jin-hyun was such an asshole to him but Alex could get away with fucking murder and Jin-hyun would just sigh. 

May had overheard this and now leaned in on Jungkook’s shoulder to suggest, “Awww, Alex, you’ll figure it out someday.”

“Oh believe me, I’ve figured it out.”

“Ew gross, why would you tell me that?” May immediately scowled. “Just because you’re dating a hot guy–”

“Ha! So you did Facebook stalk him, I knew it!”

“I mean how many Hoseok’s do you think there are in the greater–”

“Mom! Ma! Is May the one who helped you find his picture?” Alex demanded, fleeing the scene of defending Jungkook to go demand answers from her mother. 

Honestly, this was how it always was when they were all together. And the grown ups never intervened with any of it, they just watched proudly like it was just all one big happy family. Maybe sometimes Appa swatted Jin-hyun’s arm and told him to be nicer to Jungkook, but Alex was usually his defender. And then he’d do what he always did and whine to Alex about her intervening, and insist he could have handled it himself while secretly wanting to wrap her around her in appreciation because Jin-hyun was just really mean sometimes and she was really good at comebacks.

Jungkook didn’t need to be reminded that he wasn’t a successful married engineer like his brother. It wasn’t like Jungkook could even claim to be that successful in his counter-lifestyle. He didn’t have the tattoos or piercings he’d wanted since he was a teenager –he couldn’t because of work. It wasn’t like his work was that impressive, even though he was doing well there, he knew that. He didn’t want a girlfriend but he also realized he was the only person in the two families who didn’t have someone –even May had started seeing someone, some guy in banking who she’d been only too happy to divulge details about to the parents because the dude apparently checked like every single box of what they’d want for their daughter.

Jungkook checked no boxes for anyone’s parents. He was–

“Ow,” he complained as Alex’s elbow dug into his ribs. She had to lift her arm high to do it. Definitely on purpose.

“You look like you’re about to cry.”

“I’m cutting onions.”

“You haven’t even picked up the knife yet,” she pointed out. Lowering her voice, she whispered, “Are you still feeling upset about– we’re ok now, Koo.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” he assured her. He forced a smile and picked up the knife to slice like Eomma had commanded. “Go in the other room, I’ll let you know when I'm done with them.”

“I can stay!”

“No you can’t, don’t be a fool,” he teased. Alex way overreacted to onions. He was convinced she was allergic to them but she insisted she wasn’t. At home he made a point of always cutting them when they cooked together, but even if she was just in the room, her eyes would get so runny and red and swollen, her nose so runny, he’d be convinced she was dying. 

“I’m fine–”

“No get out of here. Go, shrimp!” He set the knife back down and touched her shoulders to guide her out of the kitchen.

But Jin-hyun had just done the same thing to Claudia, grabbing his wife’s shoulders to force her to go rest. Jungkook wouldn’t have thought of the similarity at all any other time but right now it made his brain do the fucky stuff again.

He lifted his hands quickly from Alex’s shoulders and went to slice the onions.

Once he was done and they’d been approved by and turned over to Eomma, Jungkook went to call Alex back to help and found her sitting by Claudia, one hand nervously on her stomach, her face almost a grimace. She laughed at something Claudia said. Jin-hyun settled briefly on the couch armrest to give Claudia something –a packet of graham crackers. She must be hungry. Alex loved graham crackers too, especially the cinnamon ones. As if cued, Claudia offered Alex a graham cracker and she accepted. She must have made a joke and patted her tummy because Claudia smiled politely. 

What would Alex look like pregnant? She’d probably be even bigger than Claudia; she was shorter. Jeon babies were big.

Claudia was having a Jeon baby. Not Alex.

Fucky things like that.

And it didn’t help that Jungkook knew all these things about Alex. He knew she wanted a kid in theory, just one, but she wasn’t sure she’d be a very good mom and she got kind of panicky if you mentioned it because “I’m just not anywhere near ready to have a baby,” as if anyone mentioning babies around her would suddenly make her pregnant. 

He knew Alex had been bald as a rock as a baby and had big sticky-outy ears and so many rolls her parents had to put vaseline between them to keep her from getting rashes. And also that she yelled every time her parents told that story, like she was still embarrassed about being a fat, happy baby. With rashes.

“What are you smiling about?” she demanded, passing him because Eomma was calling for her helpers back in the kitchen.

“Thinking about what a fat happy rashy baby you were.”

“Jungkook!” she whined and punched him right in the hip bone.

“Ow!” he complained, to distract her as he tried to karate chop her in the neck.

“Children!” Mama Song called, a note of insistence to her voice. “Cooking if you want to eat tonight!”

He did want to eat tonight. But he also didn’t want to stop rough-housing with Alex until she wagged her finger at him and scolded him and told him he could starve. Only as she skirted past him to the kitchen did he wonder if that had actually not been ok. Too handsy?

He’d enjoyed it, so probably it wasn’t ok.

Jungkook liked cooking with their parents. Eating the Korean-Chinese dinners they pulled together was almost as fun as just being in the kitchen for the chaos of it. The Songs were from the Hunan province and got really competitive with Jungkook’s parents about spicy tolerance, which meant even the steam in the kitchen was likely to make your nose run and your eyes water. Obviously there was a lot of food crossover which meant they went out of their way to demonstrate the unique dishes. 

Jungkook loved being part of the cooking process. He loved sliding around all the short women in the kitchen and hearing his mom say he’d done something better than Jin-hyun. He liked when Mama Song would scold Alex in Chinese and she’d scold back and then they’d snicker at each other while May rolled her eyes that Alex got away with being sassy just because she was the baby. He liked talking to Eomma in his own less-fluent Korean and seeing the suspicious way Alex watched him, as if everything he said must be about her, even if it was totally unrelated! 

He liked being encouraged as the official taster because Eomma said his face could never lie about the things he liked. She said he had a good taste for flavor and a good nose for aromatic integrity. He liked watching Alex try to act like she knew just as much, or pretending not to notice that she’d somehow streaked chili sauce on her forehead. She put her hair up in a bun when she cooked and looked like one of those African cranes. He dangled a noodle at the back of her neck but she figured out it was him and just lightly slapped his cheek with cornstarch.

“Leave her alone, you two are like small children in the kitchen,” Eomma scolded, trying to shoo Jungkook away. “Go check the rice, Gukka.”

“Yeah, stop pulling her hair, we get it already, you’ve got a crush,”  May added. “Take this pot with you, it’s hot.”

Jungkook fumbled the pot and burned the tips of his fingers trying to catch it. He turned quickly away and rushed it to the sink so no one would see him start to sweat. Why would they joke like that? They all knew he and Alex were just friends! And that Alex had a boyfriend! And that Jungkook was not that boyfriend!

“Are you hurt? Your hand?” Mama Song asked beside him at the sink. She took his wrist and flipped it over but he waved her off.

“I’m all right. At least there’s one nice person in the kitchen,” he said more loudly.

Mama Song grinned, “Ignore them, they’re just teasing like they always do.”

“Yeah but…” He let it trail off. Oops. Obviously he couldn’t say yeah but I kissed her the other day so you can’t make jokes like that anymore.

What about yeah but now her boyfriend thinks I’m trying to steal her so don’t say that.

Or maybe don’t make it obvious or she’ll make me stop.

“Do you need ointment, Gukka?” Eomma called.

“No it’s not that bad,” he assured her. “It doesn’t hurt.”

He turned from the sink to see Alex watching him. She tilted her head with concern but when he waved his hand she looked relieved and went back to her task. She’d worried about him. That was a normal friend thing to do!

The thud in his chest and flutter in his stomach were not normal friend things to do.

The rice was ready. The dumplings were ready. The edamame was steamed enough for snacking. One by one the dishes were ready to be scooped into shallow bowls and carried to the tables Appa and Baba Song sat up on the back deck. Claudia got the place of honor despite her protests. Jungkook wound up wedged in between Eomma and Jin-hyun. Alex was diagonal from him which just unfortunately meant he kept looking at her. Pure coincidence, just because of where she was sitting, and because her laugh was loud, and because everyone kept getting up to get things they’d forgotten from the kitchen and they had to walk behind Alex.

Baba Song’s story about a car wreck he’d seen was very loud. Alex got her loudness from her dad. For a while they’d worn similar glasses and Alex had once cried to Jungkook in high school because she didn’t want to look so much like her dad, but Jungkook thought it was kind of cute for girls to take so much after their dads. Obviously Alex didn’t look exactly like him. She was much prettier and well, you know, boobs. And hair; Baba Song was very bald, like Alex had been as a baby. 

Alex wasn’t wearing her glasses much lately though. She’d been doing contacts more. Jungkook suspected it was another thing to impress Hoseok. He always thought she looked nerdy and pretty with glasses. Sure, he didn’t wear his glasses but he wasn’t blind as shit without them the way she was and anyway, it was different for girls. He looked like a fucking infant with his glasses on. She looked–

He turned his attention desperately to anything else but Jin-hyun had gone inside after Claudia. Now Appa and Baba Song were trying to convince May and Alex to go fishing.

“Take Jungkook.”

“I want to take my daughters,” Baba Song insisted. “To prove you are no different than my sons.”

“You only have one son and he’s in Italy,” May quipped. “Kind of fishing…” Alex nudged her, clearly covering for her brother, just like she’d covered for Jungkook so many times. Alex was loyal to a fault to her brothers. Of which he was one.

“Jungkook and Jin-hyun are like more sons to me.”

“Besides, I’m not a son and I don’t want to fish. You can go shopping with me, Baba.”

He muttered something in Chinese and looked to the sky, which made Mama Song laugh and flap her napkin at him.

“Ah, we are out of ice,” Eomma realized as she went to refill her drink from the pitcher; it had all melted.

“I’ll get some,” Jungkook offered, desperate for a break from the table. Why the fuck did he keep catching Alex’s eye so much?! She was going to think he was crazy staring at her. He grabbed the pitcher and quickly shuffled around the table. 

Inside, he washed his hands before digging ice out of the bucket and tossing it in all the way to the top. When he closed the freezer door, he was confronted with his mother’s collection of fridge photos, of which the Songs were in many. There was one of him and Alex on the steps of their apartment the day they’d moved in with the help of their parents. Eomma and Appa had made such a fuss about it; when he’d pointed out they shouldn’t be so excited about him moving in with a girl, they’d had two different answers.

“You’re a respectful boy and Alex is a good girl,” Appa had said. “We aren’t worried.”

“I will embrace her as my daughter-in-law,” Eomma had said. “You’re old enough to marry now.”

Alex and Jungkook had both laughed and rolled their eyes and then whined until his parents agreed to take them out for dinner because they didn’t have any food in the apartment yet. They would do the same exact thing to her parents the following day when the Songs helped them with the last of their things.

Jungkook turned away from a photo Jin-hyun sent from his honeymoon with Claudia. They’d gone to Hawaii. Cliche.

Fuck, he hoped this wouldn’t all mean Alex and him couldn’t go on their European trip? Probably she would want to bring Hoseok.

Jungkook pushed away that unpleasant thought and left the kitchen, just chancing a glance down the hall to the bedrooms as he traversed the house. Maybe motion had caught his eye; Claudia was coming out of the bathroom, wiping tears from her face. Jin-hyun was right behind her though and slid around, sliding his thumbs across her cheek and lifting her face. He said something quietly Jungkook couldn’t hear, and Claudia smiled and nodded. Jin-hyun kissed her forehead.

Embarrassed to have witnessed such a tender moment, Jungkook moved more quickly towards the sliding door. Mumbling song lyrics as his brain tried to do the fucky stuff again.

He’d comforted Alex so many times when she cried, but never like that. Shoving ice cream at her and poking her cheeks to make her laugh wasn’t the same. It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to do a little romantic gesture like that; he faked it all the time with girls! Girls loved shit like forehead kisses! 

Alex’s forehead was at a perfect height for him to bend down and plant a kiss there when they hugged. He’d thought that plenty of times but never done it because he wasn’t trying to seduce her and in his mind it was such a fuckboy move. But that obviously wasn’t what Jin-hyun had just given to Claudia. 

God, maybe he should just get laid and get all this confusion out of his system.

But in a very unsettling realization, the idea of it had never been less appealing to him than in that moment. He didn’t want anything to do with anyone else right now. 

That would change. Hopefully soon. He was just in emotional exhaustion right now. He needed the stability to return to his friendship with Alex and then he could resume his fuckboy antics. He’d fuck it all out of his system in a couple days. Maybe by tomorrow! He had work and– fuck, he’d have to deal with Geneva but ok, he’d get through that and give someone a call. Literally anyone. Whoever looked least like Alex. Seychelle! He’d text her when he got home tonight, get something set up. 

That’s what he was good at, right? That’s what he wanted! He didn’t want what his parents had or what Jin-hyun had because… yeah, because women were great but he liked his life with Alex! He met some amazing women, he wouldn’t sell them short, but no one he felt like he could just relax and be himself with. He met the sort of women who slid into strange dude’s DMs on instagram, or gave their number to the Verizon employee setting up their phone, or put their hand in suggestive places while talking quietly in his ear in the kitchen at a house party. Women like that were awesome, no judgment! He just didn’t feel like exposing his nerdy hobbies or habits to be ridiculed by cool, confident women.

Look, he’d pieced together a life that worked for him. One that gave him the things he wanted: a home with Alex and sex. Because the two things couldn’t be one, that had been made clear over the years. That had just been very strongly reinforced! 

Alex was wheezing laughing at something at the table. Everyone was laughing but she was laughing the hardest, having pushed her chair back. Jungkook had missed the joke but smiled as he carried the ice over, to slide back into the social atmosphere of the dinner table.

Suddenly Alex gasped, “No! My contact!”

“It’s gone?” Mama Song asked.

“It fell out!”

“How do you laugh out a contact?” May demanded.

“We will look! We will look!” Baba Song assured her as everyone began to shuffle around. 

“Ya, wait,” Jungkook said, just because he had a gut feeling. “Wait, wait.” He leaned around Alex and took her chin and turned it up to him. “Look up. Look down. Now look to the side– yeah, it’s there, you dummy, it’s just out of place.”

“What? No! I can’t–”

“Hold still, just wait,” he said. “Open your eyes.”

“Did you wash your hands, Gukka–” Eomma asked, the whole family watching this moment with unneeded drama.

“Yes I washed while I was getting the ice,” he answered his mom as he carefully caught the corner of Alex’s contact with his nail. She was holding the arm gripping her chin steady, obviously nervous but still as he pulled it down from where it had gotten tucked behind her eyelid. “Ok blink blink.”

“Ah! I can see!” she cheered, bright-eyed, smiling.

Face inches away from Jungkook’s.

He quickly pulled away as their parents cheered, like he was some fucking hero just because he’d found her contact in her eye.

“How did you know it would be there?” Mama Song gasped in awe. “He’s such a smart boy!”

“Ah, mine do that sometimes too.”

“You rarely wear contacts,” May noted. “Why don’t you wear your glasses? It’s hot when guys wear glasses.”

“He doesn’t need them much,” Alex answered, rubbing the tears from her cheek. Like he couldn’t answer for himself. Like his habits belonged to her anymore than hers did to him. Wasn’t she the one crossing a boundary now? You didn’t see him there wiping the tears from her cheek. He knew her tears didn’t belong to him. 

Jungkook sat back at the table and nodded appreciatively as Appa poured him some ice water and passed it down, his reward for this grand victory at dinnertime. He sank into his chair, embarrassed by the attention and glad when some new story took center stage. His parents could make the most mundane things sound entertaining. It wasn’t like there were any big exciting things that ever happened. Edgar moving to Italy was the big exciting thing. Jin-hyun’s baby. Alex’s boyfriend. 

Jungkook’s life was just mundane and until recently he had been ok with that. He hadn’t wanted or needed more. He’d been happy.

Fuck. He accidentally caught Alex’s gaze again, and while he knew her smile was just because he’d found her contact, and that she was going to tease him somehow about it later, right now he couldn’t endure it. He needed to just sit in silence for a few minutes and let life move on around him.  

You are the most important person to me in the whole world and all I want in life is to be with you for the rest of it, with you in every way, for you to be only and completely mine, for me to be what you want too. 

That’s what he would say while holding her hand after the movie ended and the credits rolled, right before he’d brush the hair behind her ear and kiss her forehead, and then her nose, and then her chin, and finally her little pouty mouth.

If he wanted to confess to her.

If he was in love with her.

Which he was.

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter

[looooooooomis]

FINAL GIRL | FIVE

You were his final girl.  And there was no chance in hell that anyone or anything was going to mess that up.

p a r t   five  |  t h e  c a b i n (part I)

masterlist here

pairing: Billy Loomis x f!reader word count:  5.6k (I’M SORRY I GOT CARRIED AWAY) warnings: s m u t (18 +!!!!!)

A/N: after 8 months of MIA, SHE’S BACK BABY!!! this is part 1 of 2 of our fav couple being at the cabin x next chapter will have soft moments I promise lmao 

You should have been paying more attention.

If you’d been paying more attention, you wouldn’t have had five sets of eyes currently watching your every move, waiting for an answer you didn’t have. Why had you thought it was a good idea to stay up as late as you had packing your overnight bag for the cabin? If you had gone to bed at a reasonable hour, you wouldn’t have been as braindead as you currently were and, if you hadn’t been braindead, you wouldn’t have wound up in whatever ring of hell you were currently stuck in as your friends stared at you as though you’d grown a second head.

You pleaded with your tongue to say anything, pleaded for your brain to register a decent enough lie to make this uncomfortable silence end but nothing came out of your mouth. Only a pathetic hum and a gusto of forced laughter.

You wanted to die.

It should have been an easy enough answer to what was an even easier question. One that you’d practiced answering for the last two days and yet, as the moment for the lie came and went, you were left scrambling like a fucking moron.

You didn’t dare look at Billy as Sid curled into his side knowing if you managed to catch his coffee-coloured stare, you’d only be met with something between terror and amusement as you royally shit the bed. So, instead, you did the next best thing. You replayed the question over and over again in your head until you were driven mad.

‘Are you up for a movie this weekend?’

It was a simple enough question, one you’d managed to decline easily enough but, as Tatum frowned and asked the one question you were expecting to hear, your mind went blank.

‘Why? What are you doing?’

The answer you were supposed to say: I have to babysit my cousin in Santa Rosa all weekend. The answer they got? Silence. Pure, awkward as fuck, silence.

“Earth to Y/N,” Tatum laughed, brows furrowing. “Are you alive?”

“Sorry,” you huffed out a quiet laugh and shook your head, “I barely slept last night, I’m braindead.”

While it wasn’t a lie, you were still on edge. You’d think after months of sneaking around with the asshole sitting in front of you that you would have chilled out a little more but not today. Maybe it was the nerves of a full weekend away with Billy Loomis as his girlfriend hosted a fucking movie night sans her boyfriend and best friend – but something was making you stumble over what should have been second nature to you.

“You feeling okay?” Sid, the angel she was, asked with a small frown. Your stomach twisted in the familiar way it always did when your sweet friend showed concern. Concern which you most definitely didn’t deserve. “You seem…off.”

It would have been so easy to confess your dark little twisted affair with Billy right then and there. To just open your mouth and let the truth of everything you’d been doing behind her back play out. But you knew it would break her heart and, more than that, you were a fucking coward.

“I’m fine, Sid,” you smacked on a small smile and leaned into your locker. You had one more class until you were home free. Free of your friends’ inquiring eyes, free of Biology, free of Woodsboro. If you managed to get through this incredibly uncomfortable moment. “And I would if I could, trust me. I have to babysit my little cousin in Santa Rosa.” You feigned disappointment with a small frown. You could see Stu’s lips tug up in mild amusement out of the corner of your eye. “She’s nine, so if I don’t come back on Monday, know that she annoyed me to death.”

Randy scoffed and casually threw his arm around your neck. “Every day I’m thankful I don’t have any snot-nosed kids in my family. Losing my weekend to babysit? I’d rather rot.”

Despite your guilt, you managed a small smile as you looked across at him. “I think the kid would rather you rot, too. You’d be a terrible babysitter.”

“She’s right,” Tatum smirked, “you’d show the kid one of your weirdo movies where a girl with big tits is running helplessly away from her killer. It’d scar the kid for life.”

“Or,” Randy mused, “prepare them for the real world. Put some hair on their chest and all that shit.”

“Furthering my point, Meeks, you’d be a shit babysitter.” You laughed. “But, yeah, I’ll be suffering at the hands of a nine-year-old, so you guys have fun without me.”

“How about you, lover boy?” Tatum asked, looking across at Billy. “Will you be joining us this weekend?”

You should have averted your eyes. Should have done anything besides wait, with bated breath, to see what Billy would say. Slowly, those brown eyes tapered over towards you just briefly before looking at Tatum. With a casual shrug of his shoulders, Billy shook his head and leaned into Sid. “Can’t,” he merely said, “I’m going up north with my dad. He wants to get some of his affairs in order or something, I don’t know.” He ran a hand through his hair. “All I know is I was promised free beer if I helped him. So, I’m helping him.”

If Sid caught onto his lie, her face didn’t betray her once. And, as she looked up at her boyfriend with doting eyes, you couldn’t help but feel that pang of shame slice into your gut once again. She believed him. She always believed him. Believed you. Regardless of how good it felt to have Billy, that shame of knowing just who it was unwittingly hurting in the process never dissipated.

“You sure you guys won’t need help?” Sid asked, further digging that knife of shame into your chest. “Besides this movie, I’ve got nothing else going on this weekend.”

“Real nice,” Randy teased. “She’d rather watch Billy’s dad punch away at a fucking calculator then sit down with her nearest and dearest.”

Billy ignored Randy entirely as he glanced down at the brunette. “I’m sure,” he affirmed, giving her a quick squeeze. “Enjoy the movie night. I’ll be there for the next one.”

He lied so effortlessly, so casually, that it should have unnerved you. But it didn’t. Because for as good of a liar Billy Loomis was, you were right here with him. This dangerous little game the two of you were playing was becoming second nature to you and for as much as it pained you to see Sidney get lied to, you couldn’t help yourself.

You loved Billy. Billy loved you. Right person, wrong time. Only rather than wait like you knew you should have, Billy’s glow was much too enthralling to miss. You were both moths to each other’s’ flames and no amount of guilt or shame was strong enough to outweigh the otherworldly affliction the two of you had for one another.

The bell signifying your final class rung out, snapping you out of your brief reverie as you blinked and focused on pushing Randy off of you. “Want to drive me to the bus station?” You asked him. “I don’t want to drive all the way to Santa Rosa, so I bought a bus ticket.”

“Tonight?” Randy considered it briefly before shrugging. “Sure, I guess. I’ve got a shift tonight at seven, though. When’s your bus leave?”

“Six thirty,” you lied, mainly doing this so that should anyone drive by your house this weekend and see your car still neatly parked in your driveway, they wouldn’t bat an eye. “I owe you.”

“Yeah, you do,” Randy agreed. “And, lucky for you, I accept a lot of different payment options.” He wriggled his brows, earning a playful smack from you and an annoyed glare from Billy. Thankfully, Randy didn’t catch onto the latter. “Pick you up at six?”

You nodded. “Perfect.”

With your eyes flickering to Billy’s once more, you managed to shoot everyone a quick smile before disappearing down the hall towards Biology. Just how you’d managed to dance your way out of what could have been an incredibly awkward moment, you didn’t know. But as you felt that weighty stare of Billy’s on your back as you walked away, there was an air of excitement that swallowed you whole.

No matter how much guilt you felt, no matter how sick it made you to see Sidney get hurt, even if she didn’t quite know about just yet, there was a much larger part of you that couldn’t wait to get Billy alone.

Because for the first time in the seven months since you’d started this torrid little affair, you were finally getting Billy all to yourself. No prying eyes, no secret kisses, no having to hide every part of your relationship with the man. None of that.

This weekend, it was you and it was Billy.

And you couldn’t fucking wait.

»»-------------¤-------------««

Randy, being the superstar he was, had dropped you off at the station a little after six-fifteen and by six-thirty-two, just around the time the actual bus was leaving for Santa Rosa, you were scrambling into Billy’s car with a wild grin on your face.

Just how the pair of you had managed to pull it off, especially given your brain lapse earlier in the day, was beyond you. But, as Billy tore off down the main street leading to the freeway, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of freedom engulf you the farther and farther you got from town.

It was exhilarating.

And, as you glanced at Billy, who couldn’t have looked more like a movie star with his dark locks blowing with the wind cascading in through his open window, you couldn’t help but reach across the divide to gently squeeze his jean-clad thigh.

“Thank you,” you found yourself muttering and as those brown eyes met yours, you couldn’t help but grin. “For your stupid key proposal. In hindsight, it was very sweet.”

The dimple in Billy’s cheek deepened as his own grin grew. “Glad you let me steal you away?”

You loosened your seatbelt momentarily and leaned across to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Very glad.” You made a move to pull away but stopped when he gently grabbed your chin with the hand not holding the wheel. “What—”

The kiss, while dangerously stupid, was short and sweet but the emotion behind it, the genuine happiness that exuded out of Billy in those few seconds was palpable. “I really do fucking love you, you know that?”

“You’ve mentioned it,” you hummed and slinked back into your seat. When his large hand found your thigh, he gave it a firm squeeze that sent shockwaves throughout your whole body.

“Not going to say it back?” He teased, giving you a sidelong glance as he drew nearer to the freeway.

“I’d rather show it.” Rather than put your seatbelt back on, you shimmed in your seat and leaned into him as your fingers scraped along his thighs towards the button of his jeans. “Eyes on the road, Loomis.”

Easier said than done, Billy thought, torn between watching the road and watching you unzip his jeans. Raising his ass out of the seat just long enough to allow you to tug his pants down his thighs, the second Billy saw yours eyes light up as his now somewhat erect cock sprung free of his jeans, keeping his eyes on the road seemed impossible. But, the second he saw that pretty mouth of yours perk up in anticipation, it was game over. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

A low chuckle escaped your lips as you began to pump his length with your hand. “Focus on the road, Billy.”

“You say that like it’s easy.” Not being able to keep his hands off of you, he reached for your nipple and gave it a pinch through your shirt. “Take your shirt off, baby.”

“Shut up and drive.” You chided him, shimming in your seat so that you were on your knees leaning over the console. His cock was rock hard now and, as you ran your tongue alongside his length, from the base of it all the way up to coax your tongue along the precum that had gathered along his head, you felt him shiver beneath you.

“Fuck,” he hissed, tangling his fingers through your hair. You were too fucking good with that mouth of yours.

Still pumping the base of his cock with one hand, you swirled your tongue along the tip of his dick again before taking that perfectly girthy cock in your mouth. His grip tightened on your hair and your eyes watered as he pushed your head down to fully take the length of him inside of your mouth. He heard you gag on him but even as his grip eased up, you continued your pursuit of deepthroating him.

His breathing was shallow as he felt your hot mouth all over him. Between the sounds of your wet mouth taking him in and the occasional gag as you choked on his length, Billy was in heaven.

But having you this close as you fucked him with your mouth whilst still fully clothed was killing him. He needed to feel you. He wanted to feel your juices on his fingers and running down those perfect fucking thighs as he fingerfucked you. He wanted to hear you moan, feel you moan on his cock as he made you feel as good as you were making him feel.

He wanted all of you, needed all of you.  

Trying his damnedest not to shut his eyes as your mouth brought him closer to the edge, he reached beneath you to work on your own zipper but when that proved to be impossible, a frustrated growl tore out of his lips. “Undo your pants.” He hissed through bared teeth.

You hummed against his dick which nearly sent him into the other land of traffic. “No,” you purred, “I want to make you feel good.”

With one hand on the wheel and the other now gliding up and down your back as you fucked him with your mouth, Billy couldn’t help but buck into your mouth as you began to massage his balls. He was going to bust and soon if he wasn’t careful.

You were too fucking good and he was too fucking in love with you not to get lost in the way you made him feel.

“Touch yourself, at least,” he breathed out, desperate to see that pretty cunt. “Please, baby.”

Not granting him the satisfaction, you simply dug your nails into his thighs and moaned onto his cock and the sensation of it alone was almost enough to make him come down your throat. It seemed to slither around his cock, making him twitch and buck into your mouth.

But it was the second you moaned out his name as you swirled your wet mouth along the head of his dick one final time, swallowing back his precum with a contented hum, that Billy blew his loud inside of your mouth.

For a good five seconds, he didn’t care if he crashed the goddamn car as he watched you swallow his seed. He was bucking into your mouth, his breathing was ragged, as you guzzled him back and, as you finally released his cock with a pop, Billy almost lost it.

With a devilish grin, you simply wiped a finger along the edge of your lips and leaned back into your seat with a satisfied glimmer in your eyes. You knew you’d be in for it once he got his hands on you at the cabin, but for now, as you watched him lamely try and pull his jeans up his body to cover his slowly softening cock, you couldn’t help but laugh.

“What’s the matter, Billy?” You teased, fastening your seatbelt back up. “You look a little rattled.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he simpered, not bothering with the zipper or button of his jeans. Instead, he reached across the divide and grabbed for your hand as he ghosted his lips across your knuckles. “Just wait until we get to the cabin.”

With your suspicions confirmed, you couldn’t help but beam across at him as you drove further and further away from Woodsboro. That was definitely a threat and good god were you excited for its execution.

»»-------------¤-------------««

By the time you’d pulled into the Loomis family cabin, it was pitch black outside.

The moon was too high in the sky and only a sliver of its light poked through the tall pine trees that surrounded the small house but, even with the low light surrounding you, the shadows that danced along the lake was enough to bring out a small smile as you quietly made your way out of the car. You didn’t need full sun to see the beauty surrounding you and the smell of the fresh air mixed with the spice of pine made any ounce of nerves filter out of you.

You were happy.

Unreservedly so.

Glancing across the roof towards Billy, he seemed almost distracted as he looked around at the familiar surroundings. You couldn’t quite tell if he was feeling as happy as you were in those brief moments, but you couldn’t quite blame him for that. The cabin held a lot of memories within it, many of which you knew included his mother. Where you felt freed and excited, you could tell the weight of his current whereabouts was heavy on his shoulders.

“Hey,” you muttered, slicing into the quietude around you. Walking around the front of the car, those brown eyes found yours as you circled your arms around his middle. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he assured, but his voice was low and distant. All the same, however, his strong arms enveloped you as he kissed your hairline. “Lost in a memory, I guess.”

You nodded into the crook of his neck but said nothing. He needed time to decompress, to familiarize himself with a house he hadn’t been in since his mother left. So, you’d give him that time.

For what must have been minutes, the two of you simply stood at the helm of porch holding onto one another. It wasn’t until Billy placed another quick kiss to your forehead that you felt his arms slowly fall only to grasp your hand in his own. “Come on,” he hummed. His grip on your hand was firm as he walked up the steps leading to the wrap around porch and as he stuck the key inside of the lock and opened the front door, the smell of cedar surrounded you.

The cabin was gorgeous. Wooden slats covered every square inch of the small house and a small fireplace sat at the front of the house with a worn-in couch and chair facing it. It was obvious nobody had come to visit for quite some time judging by the dust lining most of the countertops and shelving units, but you didn’t care.

To you, it was perfect.

Your own little oasis with the boy you loved without any sort of outside interruption.

You released his hand to take a brief look around the small living space but you could feel his eyes on you with every step you took. You knew he was looking to get even with you after your little stunt in the car, but you also knew that he hadn’t quite been expecting the swell of emotions to hit him upon driving up to the cabin. So, you continued to wander around the cabin to both grant him the space he may or may not have needed and, simply, to snoop around.

There were family pictures lining the tables and one in particular made you smile as you caught sight of a young Billy swinging from a tire swing. With a quiet laugh, you picked the frame up and surveyed it with a fond smile on your lips. “Cute,” you remarked, looking across to catch his stare. “A little model, eh?”

Billy watched you carefully place the frame down on the table before continuing on with your self-guided tour. No matter how hard he tried, regardless of the bittersweet memories swirling around inside of his brain, he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Not that he ever really could, but there was an ease rolling off of you tonight, coming off of you in waves, that drew him in.

“I’ve been thinking about this all week, you know that?” He remarked, leaning against the back of the couch as he watched you pick up another picture frame. “Just me and you. Out here alone in the woods for an entire weekend.”

“Sounds like a scary movie when you put it that way,” you goaded with a wink. “Or a really niche porno.”

“Why not a bit of both?” His molasses coloured eyes glimmered mischievously as you walked up to him and stepped between his legs. The second you were close, he pulled you flush against his chest and kissed the tip of your nose as he pushed your hair back and away from your face. “Both could be fun.”

You grinned. “I’m down for anything,” you shrugged. “So long as you promise to take me on an actual date tomorrow. We’re not just fucking like bunnies inside of the cabin all weekend.”

“Heaven forbid,” he leaned in and gave you a slow, torturous kiss.

“I’m serious, Billy,” you moaned.

Pulling away from your mouth, Billy nudged his nose against yours and nodded. “The entire population in Bumfuck, California will know you’re my girl by the end of the weekend,” he avowed, skimming his hands down to your ass to give it a firm squeeze. “I promise.”

“Oh, yeah?” You hummed, kissing him again.

His calloused hands slipped beneath your shirt and scraped up your side. “Yeah.” Digging his hips into yours, he gave you one last kiss before nodding towards the bedroom. “Take your clothes off.”

You giggled as he slapped your ass to steer you down the narrow hallway. “And if I don’t?”

“I’ll rip them off of you,” he simply said, “so either they remain in one piece or I ruin your outfit.”

You glanced down at your jeans and tank before frowning. You looked cute tonight and you’d be damned if the bastard ripped them. So, being the good girl you were, you held his stare and slowly slinked out of your clothes. His eyes seemed so much darker as he watched you strip and the small smirk he wore slowly fell into a hungry thin line as you then perched yourself on the edge of the bed, completely nude.

“You just going to stand there looking pretty or are you going to do something about this?” You slipped your fingers between your thighs and ran your fingers along your swollen clit. A low moan slipped out of your lips at the sensation. “I’m already so wet for you, Billy.”

Slowly, Billy stepped towards you and undid his belt. Leaning down, he kissed you, hard, and steered you backwards on the bed beneath you until your head reached the soft pillows. You could feel his cock straining against his jeans but rather than grant himself any sort of reprieve, you watched him gently grasp your hands and raise them above your head only to wrap his belt around your wrists.

In the blink of an eye, you were tied to the bedposts.

“Is this payback for the car blowie?” You laughed, looking up at your restrained wrists. “If it is, I can’t say I’m mad about it.”

“You wanted something between a horror movie and a niche porno, remember?” He hummed against your skin, placing sloppy kisses along the vein that ran along your neck as he pinched your nipple. “God, you’re fucking perfect. You know that?”

He bit down on your collarbone, kissing his way down your chest until his warm mouth wrapped around your nipple. You could feel his teeth slither along your breast as his tongue lapped expertly on the sensitive bud. You hissed, arching into his mouth as your wrists, on instinct, fought for freedom. “Hardly.”

His eyes met yours as he slowly released your nipple. You were in nothing, of course, but he was still fully clothed, and you hated him for it. You hungrily eyed the bulge in his jeans as he propped himself up on his arm, letting his other hand glide up your chest and neck until it cupped your cheek. His nose brushed against yours, nudging it up to allow his lips to hover just over yours. Close enough that you could almost taste them, but much too far away to satisfy the hunger you had for the man.

“I love you,” he whispered, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek as his warm, brown eyes swallowed you up. “You know that, right?”

“Yes,” you swallowed hard and tilted your head up just enough to finally catch his lips. But, just as quickly as it happened, the man pulled away and let his hand begin to roam down your body. His mouth was at your ear now, nibbling at your earlobe as his hot breath slithered against your neck. You shivered. “I love you, too.”

His voice was gruff in your ear. “I’d kill for you,” his hand continued its journey down your throat, brushing past your nipple, down the length of your stomach until reaching the small smattering of hair along your mound. He was careful to keep his hands from dipping any lower, tormenting you as best to his ability, which just about killed you, if you were being honest. “You know that?”

Bucking your hips up, you nearly growled at the lack of attention you were receiving. You were soaked and touch-starved for him. His fingers, his mouth, the erection currently poking into your thigh, anything. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” you managed a quiet laugh. “But I appreciate it.”

His teeth bit down on your neck again. “But, I would. I’d do anything for you, sweetheart.”

His hand slipped further down to your sopping cunt and as he slowly slipped his fingers through your wet folds, the moan he got in return nearly killed him. “Billy,” you whispered desperately. It felt as though you were going to die if you didn’t feel him inside of you. “Please.”

His lips hovered over yours and on instinct, you caught his bottom lip between your teeth and bucked your hips against his hand. He snarled as you bit down on his lip but as the metallic taste of blood met his tongue, it was as though Billy was transcending. His pace on your clit quickened but it was still too slow for you and he knew it. He was torturing you, killing you, and he was enjoying every second of it. Struggling against the belt, your struggle was all for naught as it didn’t so much as move an inch.

“You’d love me, no matter what, right?” He asked, slipping one of his fingers inside of you as he kissed his way down to your chest. Lapping at your nipple, Billy was gentle at first before biting down hard enough to draw blood. Tit for Tat.

“Yes,” you moaned. Your entire body was on fire as his fingers brought you closer to the edge. “But I’d love you even more if you fucked me. You’re killing me, Loomis.”

Licking up the small trail of blood off of your tits, Billy hummed against your nipple and added another finger inside of your pussy. He’d fuck you soon but right now, he needed to feel your entire body light up the way it always had when he drove you into that fit of madness. You were a woman unhinged in the bedroom, he knew as much, and he knew exactly how to get that animal inside of you out.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he admired, reaching his hand up to coat your tit in your own slick. When it was sufficiently wet, he licked your juices off of your breast and growled. God, you tasted so fucking good. “You’re my girl, Y/N, you’re always going to be my girl, right?”

You looked up at him as those words fell from his lips. His brown hair hung down his forehead, his neck red from the strain of having to watch you writhe beneath him without doing a damned thing about it. But what struck you was the look of vulnerability in those brown eyes. That longing, far-away look as his eyes searched yours.

He wanted nothing more than to hear you say that you wanted him. Needed him. Just as much as he needed you.

“Always,” the answer tumbled out of your lips before you so much as thought twice. “I’m your girl, Billy.”

His mouth caught yours in a bruising kiss. Finally, his pace quickened inside of you as met your throbbing core with his dept fingers. With his thumb circling your clit, he dipped two fingers inside of you and grinned against your mouth as you let out a low, desperate moan.

It happened so fast after that. One moment, you were the one tied up on the bed and the next, he’d released you, stripped himself naked, and managed to flip you over so that you were the one on top of him, straddling his waist. Pulling away from you mouth, Billy’s eyes darkened as he saw that familiar glimmer in your eyes. That animalistic side of you was out in full force now.

“Get up here.” He demanded.

You smirked and leaned across him so that your lips hovered over his. “Why would I want to do that?”

He leaned up, the veins in his neck swelled against his neck as he caught your bottom lip between his teeth. “Get. Up. Here.”

Releasing your lip, Billy watched you smirk and crawl up the remainder of his body until your pussy was less than an inch away from his mouth. Grabbing onto the metal of the headboard you’d just been tied up to, you gasped as Billy’s tongue slid into your folds. Finding your clit instantly, you moaned and allowed your eyes to fall shut as you reached down to play with your hardened nipples.

Fuck, what Billy could do with his mouth should have been illegal.

He sucked and lapped at your clit as you rocked back and forth against his mouth. His fingers dug into your hips, so much so that you knew there would be bruises in the morning but, blinded by the pleasure between your thighs, you couldn’t care less.  

The moans that were coming out of you were raw and guttural and, as you played with your own tits, envisioning his hands being the ones to squeeze and nip on the swollen buds of your nipples, you saw stars.

“Fuck,” you moaned out, “Billy, baby, fuck.”

He pulled your hips further down so that you were sitting on his face. Not just hovering but sitting on that perfect mouth of his as he held you in place. You knew it must have been hard for him to breathe but he was adamant and as his tongue continued its assault on your throbbing cunt, you came devastatingly hard and incredibly loud.

Stars danced behind your eyes as you continued to ride out your orgasm. When you couldn’t take another second of Billy’s skilled tongue, you climbed off of him only to feel his large hands take hold of your hips again.

Swinging you around so that you were on your back and he was the one hovering over you, Billy wasted no time in slipping his rock-hard erection into your soaking pussy.

He was thrusting hard and the sounds of your juices squelching with every thrust of his cock would have been off-putting if it hadn’t been for the raw, primal need coursing off of the pair of you in waves. He was kissing your lips and biting them and suckling your neck as he continued to rail into you with all of passion in the world. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen him this riled up and you had to admit it was inherently sexy seeing him so affected by you.

Not surprising in the least, it didn’t take him long to come. You’d riled him up to the point of no return in the car and, as you felt him come inside of you, you all but laughed when he dramatically crashed on the bed beside you.

Sweat glistened over every inch of body and the sheen of your juices was still on his lips as he kissed you. This kiss was slow, methodical. Sweet. And you felt yourself fall even harder for the man as he broke the kiss and gently brushed your hair away from your now damp forehead.

Wrapping one arm around your chest, Billy held you against him as he propped himself against the headboard. You were both naked and sweating and while a shower was something you both definitely needed, neither of you found yourselves all too willing to move out of the other’s embrace.

“Is it hard being back here?” You asked, listening to his heart beating in his chest.

“For a second, maybe,” he admitted, soothing your hair down. “Not now.”

“What’s changed?” You asked with a small smile. “The sex was that good, huh?”

A quiet chuckle shook his chest as he kissed the top of your head. “I think horror meets niche porn is my new favourite genre.”

Kissing his naked chest, you grinned into his body. “Same.”

[quandaryqueen]

arkhamverse riddler: mr-‘i don’t have friends’-riddler realising the nb!reader he’s been aimlessly hanging out with has accidentally become his best friend. platonic romance of sorts. based around the quote, ‘i don’t have friends, i just have one’.

Will they or won't they?

Arkhamverse Edward Nygma X Reader

... friends? That's a flexible word. But what else would he call this relationship?

Hmmm, I thinking that the specific Arkhamverse Eddie I'll be writing for in this fic is Origins ☺️

CW Smoking

Friends... It's certainly a versatile word. Sure you can use it in its default meaning, but sometimes you can also use the word to... Hmm, what's the right way to describe it? Lighten something? He doesn't quite have the right word to describe it, here's an example though:

When you're referring to a person to whom you have an unlabeled relationship with, well since there was no label to title them as, you resort to calling them as a friend. Or perhaps you refer people you know as friends... Acquaintance is a word, but some morons like to think they're friends with all the people they know and want to take advantage of.

His current case however... There's you. Well, you are his friend, he supposes.

He can talk to you without finding your additional input unnecessary. He can hear you without finding your voice irritating. He can actually take orders from you without feeling a sense of his ego being stomped on, that's certainly new. The most surprising, he actually listens to you. He cares about what you think.

"Oh look! I have succeeded! Hey Y/N come take a look at this!"

You make things so bearable and do you how hard that is? He's never been so comfortable with a person. Given it took time, he certainly that in one way or another you'd fuck him up and over if he gives you three months to give your act up and show your real colours. Because face it, no one would ever love Edward Nashton as he is.

Heh, who in their right mind and self-preservation would actually bear to stand him?

In amidst the winter evening he lights himself a cigarette. He was outside the precinct as you can imagine, it was cold and he was stubborn enough not to at least wear a scarf on his way out. He just wanted to get out of the god forsaken place.

It was just one of those days where everything was going wrong despite his best attempts. Sure he gets them done, but he was particularly irked that they weren't done in a way that he sees perfect. It doesn't help that you were there telling him that it's okay, as if that would help. Being 'okay' isn't enough, he wanted them perfect! For fuck's sake, he is Edward Nashton!

"It's in the middle of the fucken winter, why are you out here?"

Speak of the devil. You can't just leave him alone for one second, can you?

He didn't acknowledge you when you took a spot next to him, as he simply huffed out the smoke from his drag.

"You're going to catch a cold if you don't layer on. Here." You drape a jacket over his shoulder and he's yet to even glance at your direction. "What's the matter? Something bothering you?"

Not even a reaction pulled from him. He continued focusing on his nicotine consumption. Rolling your eyes, you can only sigh in exasperation. Edward Nashton, everyone, the man who likes running his mouth off, miraculously shutting the fuck up for once. Tonight must be a blue moon.

"I know it's winter, but you don't have to give me the cold shoulder."

You know, it's funny. How you keep tagging around him. You look so damn cute (derogatory) just following him around like a lost puppy, running after him whenever he storms out and plopping yourself next to him until he gets better. It is endearing in hindsight, but he definitely feels irritated at the current moment.

"Hmmp. Freeze then." You stood from your seat and dusted snow particles from your bottoms, but before you can turn your heels Edward calls your name. "What?" You raise your brow at him.

He curls his finger at you, gesturing for you to come closer. Sighing for the umpteenth time, you decided to indulge. Putting your hand on your legs, you raise your brows at him.

"Alright, what is it?"

His green eyes bore within yours. You always looks so damn cute, especially when you're being trusting. Did you know he can just wrap his hand around your neck and wring the life out of you? How naïve of you.

"Well?" You tip your head forward.

In his sick need to see you suffer from his doing, blew the smoke on your face. Having been caught off-guard, you cough out when you breathed in the smoke. This brought him some sadistic delight that he watches you wave the remnant of smoke in the air.

"Rude," you coughed. "So you found that funny, huh?"

"It was. You looked so dumbfounded. Wish I could've taken a picture." Oh finally, he speaks for the first time. It was about time.

"Fuck off." Kicking snow at his direction, he laughs and dodges it. "You sicko."

... Huh. He'd normally simmer in rage when people called him names. How come you were different? Hell, he was even proud to be called sicko after what he had done to you.

"Well you wouldn't shut up, I had to come up with something." Taking his last drag, he puts the embers out before flicking it on the nearest bin.

"You could have just told me to shut it." You sighed, watching him exhale the smoke.

Even after what he did, you were once again taking a seat next to him. How are you sure that he won't do something like that again?

Suddenly he remembers the jacket you draped over his shoulder. It was his, you must've picked it up from his desk... Can't say that he needs his jacket when you're already warming his heart.

You know, he is a man who barely shuts the fuck up, and yet he can't vocalise the way he feels about you. He doesn't really knows how he feels about you, as a man deprived of human compassion. Is this friendship? Love? Quite frankly he doesn't know... But he knows that he doesn't want this relationship, this feeling to end.

[bay-did-nothing-wrong]

Hey I wonder. What would happen if the Turtles’s crush was dating someone for a long time but here’s the twist: that person was working for the Foot and was using that person to get close to the Turtles. And the Turtles’ crush doesn’t know about it, of course. It may be a little angst but I’m trying to get ideas for my fanfics and I would like to read from your version.

Oh, this sounds super interesting. Lemme see what I can do.

Genre: Angst, some fluff near the end

Word Count: 3665

Note: I wasn't really going anywhere with these, I pretty much let the story lead me and its not EXACTLY what the ask was but I feel its close enough. I hope you like! And as per usual, Raph's is longer ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Also, do tag me on your fic if you ever get around to doing it.

The Spy (GN!Reader finds out their boyfriend is a Foot Clan spy and the turts have to deal with that)

Leonardo

Mood Song: Fun. - All The Pretty Girls

God, you felt so stupid!

How could you fall for the oldest trick in the book?!

That sweet boy you met in a coffee shop by accident once and who you instantly fell for was a spy for the Foot. Because of course he was! Good things just don't happen to you, at least not without a caveat.

"Hey." there's a voice you usually love to listen to but which you now dreaded the sound of.

"Hi." it felt inappropriate, your response, after everything that had just happened this type of casual tone felt forced.

"How are you feeling?" his steps were so quiet that you hadn't realised when he'd walked through the room and sat on his bed next to you.

How were you feeling?

Well, apart from betrayed, stupid, and just absolutely devastated, you felt a crushing amount of guilt.

You just shrugged, eyes still pointing at the soft blanket he'd covered you with.

You'd led the Foot Clan to the turtles.

What was wrong with you?! How could you not see the writing on the wall? How that man just seemed to mold into whatever you liked? How he adopted all the mannerisms, quirks, interest and personality of a certain someone? How he failed to tell you anything too specific about himself as he let you tell him everything about yourself?

How could you not see that he was trying to replace Leo, so you could let your guard down?

You should have spotted the red flags immediately, the moment he started talking about Japanese Warfare and History, or the weird amount of blue he was wearing, or the fact that he was into martial arts, or that he was homeschooled and had three brothers. Any one of these would have been a total coincidence on their own but all of them in total should have flagged up and you were an absolute moron for not realising it.

Or was it because you didn't want to realise it.

After all, that was one way to be with Leo, even if it wasn't really him, just a discount version of him.

A tough, cool texture brushed at the bottom of your chin, pushing it upwards, and there was Leonardo. Those clear, crystalline eyes with that razors-sharp focus stuck to your own gaze.

"It's not your fault."

Of course he knew what you were thinking. He was your best friend, after all. Isn't that what started this mess in the first place?

But he was wrong. It didn't ofter happen, but it was bound to happen eventually.

He was wrong.

It was entirely your fault.

It was fully your fault that you fell for that man's tricks, and not only that but you encouraged him to do them more. It was fully your fault that you let him into your life willingly, because in hindsight you supposed this man was in for the long run - he was a spy after all - but you were so willing to buy into this fantasy, that you could have your cake and eat it too, that you just rushed head-empty into a relationship with him.

It was fully your fault that you became careless the moment you became a couple and now, look at where you ended up.

And instead of doing the decent-person thing and trying to apologise to the Hamato clan, trying to make it up to them, comforting them - here you are, being taken care of by Leo, like you were the fucking victim.

And what were you supposed to say to make things better anyway? 'Sorry I nearly led the enemy to your doorstep and risked your and your family's murder. Good thing your brother has security cameras and tracking devices all over the city or this would have gotten out of hand!'

"(Y/N), none of us blame you for this!" he rarely ever raised his voice at you, but you felt he realised he was not getting through to you, "You could not have known he was a spy."

But you could have.

You could have known there was only one person that caring, yet strick; emotional, yet stoic; someone who was capable of so much but showed very little of it. Brave, and, generous, and kind, and still somehow so humble.

You should have known.

"I think..." you only realised you were sobbing once your throat betrayed you, hiccuping, shrinking, burning, just as your eyes were, but you muscled it down - that's the least you could do, "I think I should go."

Subtle worry and anger disturbed the oceans in his eyes, the shift was minute but it was there.

It almost seemed like he was sad in that moment, but realistically what would he be sad over? And why was he being so coveting in that very moment? Had this been one of his brother, he would've ripped them a new asshole, he would've handed their assets to them! Rightly so, but still.

"You're not safe out there. You're not going anywhere."

Well, you couldn't stay there either, the guilt was going to eat you alive, you had to go. You had to leave. You had to keep running from your problems lest they'd catch up to you and tear you to shreds.

"I'll stay over with a friend. Don't worry."

You tried to fake a smile at the end of that, and thank God you couldn't see yourself, as it probably looked like a grimace.

You grabbed your bag, jacket and keys from the floor, jumped off it so quickly you saw stars and bolted out of the Lair.

Or tried.

Something grabbed onto your wrist before you could leave the room and pulled you back into a solid surface. Thick, powerful arms wrapped around your midriff and shoulders.

"You're not going anywhere." and that was a command, "You're staying here. With me."

What's gotten into him? He was never usually that forward with physical touch and he'd rather show what he meant than say it.

And show, he did.

You could feel warmth coming from somewhere near your neck and instinctively lowered your head to give more space.

"Do you know how terrified I was that something could happen to you?" soft, warm, slightly damp lips touched ever so softly that sensitive skin of your neck, "That every next second we couldn't get a hold of you was torture?" his warm breath hit you in small waves, heating you up on the inside, hoping to expell the freezing cold fear and panic from the day, "I was scared I'd never see you again."

And you were terrified something would happen to him.

Through the solid plates of his plastron, into your back you felt his heartbeat. It was off the charts for him. It felt like the stomping of an army, the banging of battle drums, like the ground was under a destructive storm, looking to raise all life with the ground until there was only silence.

And yet you've never felt more safe.

"Tell me something."

That wasn't an order. That was a plea. One that, even if you didn't feel immense crushing guilt, you would fulfil, because you owed him so much.

"Did you ever..." he seemed to not want the answer, or worse still, be scared of it, "Did you and him..."

"No. I couldn't. It didn't feel right."

But this did.

His warm, protective arms around you, so close to you, for the first time in forever.

"Good."

Til this day you didn't know how he found the heart to forgive you, but you were glad he did.

Raphael

Mood Song: Galss Animals - Heat Waves

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap

Rhythmic, soft steps hit the concrete in front of you, creating a quick pace for your heartbeat to compete with.

Everyone who knew Raph knew he had a temper. They knew he could be grumpy, yelly sometimes, other times he even just burst out of nowhere. Most of his social circle have seen him hit, crush, break, smash, scream, and fight with whatever the source of his distress was. What they didn't know is that that was the better option.

The worry was when he turned silent. Because his silent anger was far more catatonic.

Pompei, you'd called it once - a silent, deadly force of nature, just sitting, stewing, brewing under the surface, waiting for a moment to bleed out crushing, drowning, burning all within its reach.

And there you were, at the lip of the vulcano, waiting for the fire to come.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

He was usually so silent in his steps.

Deadly silent.

But in his pacing, his anger only intensified, overriding all his training, all his years of practice.

Your heart was about to burst out.

Of course, you didn't want to be on the receiving end of Raphael yelling, no one did. The problem here is, you deserved it. You deserved far more. You deserved to have him cut you off completely. But you weren't gonna tell him that.

"What..." you could hear the strain, the dam desperately trying to hold back an incoming flood, "... we're you thinking?"

And that was a good, tough question.

What you were thinking is that you could replace him.

What you were thinking was that a random guy who'd waltzed into your life less than a year ago, could take the place of someone you'd known for years, who you trusted with your life, and who had trusted you with his.

Trust that you evicerated with your reckless, shameless actions.

How do you respond to that?

"I don't know." that was a lie too.

Like you'd lied that things weren't serious between the two of you, when you'd been so emotionally-invested in that relationship. You also lied about many of the things he told you about himself, so the boys wouldn't think he was suspicious.

And of course that was one of your largest mistakes. Had you told any one of the Hamato clan who this man told you he was, they'd have clocked him immediately.

But then there was the shame you felt.

What? We're you gonna tell Raph that that guy was virtually the best replacement for him you could find? Well, while you're at it, why don't you tell him that knowing him for years, having had all sorts of memories with him, having all of that emotional infrastructure between you, him having saved you more than once, had led to the birth and growth of your feelings for him.

"Bullshit." he hissed, seething.

He knew you too well.

What now?

You could just get off the bench and get the fuck outta there...

No, that won't do - he's much faster than you, and you'd only make yourself look worse.

"I wasn't thinking, okay?" you hardly mustered a whisper, hoping that the statement would just diffuse into the air, like smoke form an open fire.

"No shit." he'd stopped pacing.

You were exclusively looking at the floor, so you only saw his feet facing your way.

He was looking at you.

Fuck!

"What'd ya lie about?"

What?

The question startled you so much, you instinctively looked up at him to gauge his reaction.

"What?"

"Ya heard me. What did you lie about?"

Shit, he was over-enunciating. That'd only happened once before and that was a shit show in its own right. Not like this one though.

So he knew?

Well, yeah, of course he knew, idiot. He knows you!

Your own anger at yourself was rising, and when added to shame and guilt, lit a couldron of bile and sulfur somewhere deep within your soul, and fuck me, did it burn.

"A lot."

In hindsight, he knew that too.

Of course he did.

"That's why ya tell yer friends this shit, (Y/N)!"

"Well, I don't want you as my friend!"

Fuck!

Here you are making things worse!

"What?"

Jesus, the hurt, the genuine pain on his face, could have, and should have killed you on the spot.

"So, what , you didn't want me as yer friend so you tried to get my family killed?!"

Here come the magmatic floods of Pompei. You might as well say what you have to say before the fire hits you.

"Of course not!"

"Then what!?"

"I lied because-"

"Because what?!"

"Because he's not you!"

Sniff. Sniff.

When had you started crying?

And why the fuck was he so quiet?

"What?" his voice was so much calmer than what it had been just seconds prior.

Sure, you hadn't worded it great, but he seemed genuinely shocked.

But how? He knew you. He knew when you were lying. How had he not noticed when you'd made up reasons to stay and be with him? Or when you'd tried to force an 'Eww' when Mikey said you were like an old married couple sometimes? Or when the topic of relationships would come up and all you'd say is 'I've got my eye on someome'.

Out with it already. He hates you anyway, what's there to lose. You at least owe him that.

"He showed up one day at work, and..." fuck this was embarrassing, "just walked in with the kinda confidence I'd only seen once before. He was like..." hopefully, he'll see this as your confession; hopefully, he'll realise just how powerful of a presence he is; hopefully the next person that comes round here won't betray his trust like you had, "... so charming. And strong. And gentle. And he would listen to me ramble about the NCAA..." deep breaths, he's listening, you don't wanna fuck this up anymore than you'd already done, "and in him, I saw... You?" it sounded like a question, because you couldn't whether you were an idiot or just sounded like one.

"Me?"

"Yeah, you." sniff, sniff, "I though, well, what a way to keep my friendship with Raph but be with him too. All win, no risk." there was a forced chuckle at the end of that and you weren't certain as to why it came out but you felt it may make things worse. Like you weren't taking this seriously.

"What are ya talkin about?" his pitch and tone were escalation back up.

"You know what I'm talking about, Raph!"

"You calling me a liar?!"

"What? No!"

"Then tell me!"

"I'm in love with you, asshole!"

Silence again.

Tap. Tap.

A warm hand softly touched your cheek, as if to prompt you to look at him. But you couldn't.

"(Y/N)?"

Well, you couldn't just not look at him, when he said your name so tenderly.

It wasn't until your eyes settled on his the floodgates truly opened.

But not the ones you thought of.

His eyes were glassy, almost teary, round with shock and curiosity, his brows were lifted as if trying to shield him of potential deceit.

"What?"

Oh, my God! How many times did you need to spell it out to him?!

You knew he wasn't stupid - sure, brash, and reckless, and impatient, but not stupid - so him failing to accept your obvious affection for him wasn't so much an intellectual issue as it was his severe lack of self-esteem, forcing him to doubt your words.

"I'm in love with you. And I have been for years now." somehow even after years of yearning, the flavour of imminent rejection tasted oddly bitter-sweet, "That's why, when he posed as diet-you, I didn't want to believe something was wrong because that was as close to you as I could get. That's why I lied, so that you wouldn't spot any potential red flags and take away my only means of, in a backwards way, being with you." the tension was so high, that you felt the need to insert a joke in there, just to maintain your own sanity. "And, by the way, he was such a shitty kisser that we never even made it to bed."

Well, that half a joke. You never did have sex with him. You tried. But couldn't. Because as much as he posed and acted, as much as he postured and tried to impress you, you couldn't forget that he was not Raphael, and never would be.

That same warm hand that was stationed in your cheek moved down to your neck and before you knew it, hot rough lips landed on yours.

Your breathing quickened, your eyes widened and all you could see was Raphael with his eyes closed, so close to you, that you could count his freckles. But you had no interest in doing that at the moment.

As his mouth pressed onto yours, hand holding you steady, your arms did the natural thing and snaked over his shoulders and the lip of his shell, but not before letting your hands feel up his strong arms, shoulders and neck - the rough textured skin there, every singular scale, the raw power under, with his muscles and tendons pulling and flexing to encompass you perfectly.

It felt right.

At a point you had to pull back but it'd felt like forever until you could get your breath back.

"Nothing like the real thing."

Donatello

Mood song: Imagine dragons - West Coast

"I don't understand."

Neither did you.

How had you fallen for such a shitty impersonation? And why? It made no sense to you.

Or at least that's what you told Donatello.

In your head, it made perfect sense.

You couldn't have what you wanted so you settled for whatever was available. And wouldn't you know it, the Foot Clan had just sent a spy to you who was trying to fish out the Hamato family.

And you, the moron, fell for it.

"You're so much smarter than this."

But were you really?

If it's so easy to fool you, were you really that smart?

And here he was, Donatello, the most intelligent man you've ever met, and will possibly ever meet, trying to make some sort of sense from your illogical actions.

And he was only doing that because acknowledging that they were illogical would mean that they were emotional. That would hurt.

You didn't know what he was thinking but you had your suspicions.

He probably thought that he used some sort of hypnosis on you to take your guard down, and get information on them.

But the fact is you let him in willingly.

You had to tell him, no matter how ashamed you were, no matter how embarrassing admitting this out loud would be. You owed him the truth, if not for nearly getting his family killed, then for all the years before that.

"There's nothing to understand, Don." you shook your head in disbelief and disappointment in yourself, because you were all too willing let the impostor into your head and heart, "He acted like he cared for me so I could lead him to you. And I fell for it." there were the facts. The inevitable truth that you had fallen for the biggest scam there is and this one nearly killed the closest thing to a family you've ever had.

As those big shiny golden eyes stared at you unblinking, you realised he was refusing to accept your explanation.

Surely there was something else! Some other answer, he did something to you, he forced you to comply with him, something!

"But... Why?"

You were seriously getting frustrated with his questioning. It was not a complicated thing to understand. It was tough to deal with emotionally, sure, but the facts were simple.

"Why what, Don?! Why did I let myself fall for his nonsense? Why did he turn out to be a liar? Why the Foot would send a spy to pick at the weak link? Isn't it obvious?!"

His eyes were near empty. There was none of his usual curiosity, none of the drive, none of his characteristic tiredness. They were just empty.

"No."

No, he wasn't calm. He was detached. He simply was not there.

"Hair of the dog that bit you."

His brow pulled together, and that seemed to have brought him back momentarily.

"What?"

"Oh, my god, Donnie!" the floodgates had opened, his pushing - strategic or not - seems to have worked, "It's you! You're the reason I fell for his bullshit! I was trying to get you out of my head!" your throat burned from the rapid shift in volume and pitch but that was the last of your worries.

Replacing one addiction with another, some fucking adult you are.

Your breath was chasing you through the emotional tornado you were in, but it seemed to come just short of catching up.

"I was desperate to get my mind off you. And at some point you showed up and..." you didn't think you could make it any clearer.

"You mean... you... like me?"

That's what he picked up on?! Not your complete disregard for logic, not the irresponsible way in which you handled your relationship, not even the fact that this whole thing could have devastating consequences? This?!

"Yes? Obviously, Donnie?! Everyone knew!"

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I thought there's no way you didn't know! Like you're the smartest person I know, there's no way you didn't notice my blatant flirting and when nothing happened, I took that as my que to stop."

You were screaming at that point, and what your words were saying was devastating - it wasn't his fault that any of this happened, like you were trying to imply.

You hated yourself in that moment. You were the embodiment of everything you hated in people, and that added more frustration to the already hit swirling pot of bile in your tummy.

"Well, we both misjudged then."

Thick arms wrapped around you, your head fell onto the rough plates of his chest and you could feel your pulse synching up to his.

"Never again."

tagsgsgsgsgs:

@shadow-ninjas @exovapor @memes-in-a-half-shell @turtle-babe83 @tmntspidergirl @the-second-circle-of-shell @mikeyshulagirl @mysticboombox @angelicdavinci

[pippytmi]

1, 4, 14?

The one hope Kara has for her roommate is that Lena Luthor will not be a smoker.

Alex had told her not to have high expectations; after all, this roommate arrangement was all organized through Winn, and Alex has always stated that she doesn’t trust this man’s self-preservation tactics. (“Once, during an earthquake drill, he started to climb up the building. Kara, what kind of a moron does that?”)

But Kara isn’t as cynical as her sister…or quite as mean. So she trusts that Winn’s people skills are better than his survival skills, and resolves not to write off Lena by virtue of association alone. It’s expensive enough to live in National City; when Winn had promised a roommate that “probably won’t be tempted to murder anyone anytime soon,” that had honestly been a good enough draw. (That had, of course, been sandwiched in a perfectly normal explanation about Lena being the best student in their shared pre-med classes—Winn maintains that anyone pursuing med school that rigorously will be too tired to consider recreational murder on the side.)

So Kara takes her tentatively-moderate-expectations—along with a box of donuts as a gift—and makes her way to apartment 9b. This is technically her first time ever being a real roommate; her only other experience was sharing a wall with Alex during their teenage years, and occasionally during their college years when they weren’t driving each other crazy. So maybe, because she’s never had to deal with boundaries or tact with her sister, she kind of…abandons all formalities and just uses her brand new key to open the front door.

(In hindsight, she really should have knocked first.)

“Golly!” Almost immediately, Kara is jumping right back out into the hallway, and the box of donuts is falling to a tragic death on the carpet. Oh no. Oh gosh. This is more embarrassing than trying to climb up the library during an earthquake drill—

She is still sitting on the floor, dumbstruck, with maple glaze smearing on her jeans when the door opens again. Lena Luthor pokes her head out, and she is simultaneously everything Kara expected and everything she didn’t. Per Winn’s description, Lena is indeed “classically beautiful,” and she has one of those faces: slightly closed off, hesitant to emote much. And when she has clothes on, she truly does have the fashion sense of an aspiring college professor, albeit with a touch more lipstick than Kara would expect.

“Okay, maybe I’m crazy,” Lena says slowly, “but did I hear you say that out loud?”

Kara immediately lifts her head up to squint at the direction of the strange voice. Lena has very pretty green eyes, but they are exceptionally confused at the moment. “What?” she says, echoing that same perplexment in her own voice.

“I could’ve sworn you said ‘golly,’ like some kind of peasant in a Christmas Carol or something,” Lena says, as if that’s a totally normal route of conversation to take after being caught naked. She leans halfway out the door, looking down at Kara with that attractive, baffled expression on her face, and all Kara has taken from this encounter so far is that her new roommate is hot.

“I...did say that,” Kara says after a beat. “But in my defense, I was completely surprised.” As one might be walking in on anybody naked, she thinks, but doesn’t actually say out loud.

“Right.” And then Lena frowns, slightly, in a manner that makes her lipsticked mouth twist down a corner. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were coming by today. I could have sworn your text mentioned your move in day being the third.”

Kara stretches her leg out and pretends the sole of her shoe isn’t caked in chocolate icing. “Today is the third,” she points out, and then hastily adds, “And um—I’m sorry. I should have knocked. I just didn’t know you were…”

“Showering,” Lena finishes, at the same time Kara says,

“...a nudist.”

Lena stares. And then she blinks, and then she stares some more. “What?” This time, that careful kind of confusion entirely drops, and now she’s looking at Kara like she has grown two heads. “How do you automatically jump to that?”

“Because you’re naked in the middle of the day?!” It’s pretty self-explanatory in her opinion, but Kara still gets up off the floor in order to better face her new roommate (and because it feels strangely like she is the one being judged right now). “Everyone knows that showering is a night or a morning time thing—walking around naked any other time is weird.”

“Wow,” Lena says, and she actually crosses her arms, further cementing the whole Kara-is-the-one-being-judged thing. “I can’t believe you think nudists are weird. That’s pretty ironic coming from Tiny Tim.”

“Hey, I never said I thought nudists were weird. Just, their hobbies are. Is being naked a hobby?” Kara considers delving into that discussion, but Lena is squinting at her (and Lena has a very piercing squint), so she drops the subject. “Anyway, it’s fine if you’re a nudist. I can just…start wearing sunglasses inside, or something.”

“Because my naked body is that blinding?” Lena scowls. “I don’t go out in the sun much, alright, so sue me for being pale—”

“That’s not what I meant!” Kara blurts, helpless, and she knows in that instant she’s gone entirely red in the face. “I, uh. I didn’t mean to sound judge-y. Really, I don’t care what you do in your spare time. Unless…can I ask if you smoke?”

And it is with that sheepish question that Lena’s affrontive attitude slowly begins to fade. “No,” she says, in a manner that is faintly amused. “But I’m glad that’s your priority. Seriously? Are you really just going to say you’d be fine if I spent every single waking moment in our apartment naked?”

Kara shrugs, still flushed up to the tips of her ears, and makes a valiant effort not to think about that when Lena almost-smiles she can see the indent of a possible dimple on her cheek. “Well, if that’s what you want,” Kara says. “I won’t…stare or anything, I promise.”

“That’s comforting, but I’m not a nudist.” Lena smiles, and yep—dimple—Kara is pretty much done for.

“Okay.”

“No, I mean it.” And then that smile drops as Lena suddenly reconsiders something. “Also, why do you assume it’s weird to be naked in the afternoon?”

Kara gestures vaguely with her hands to where her watch would be. “Because,” she says, “it’s weird to shower in the afternoon.”

“But what if I had been naked for another reason besides showering?” Lena apparently has the ability to raise her whole eyebrow, and it’s unfair how mesmerizing that is.

“Like…non-nudist reasons?” Kara asks, and Lena’s smile comes back in a mischievous form.

“Yes, exactly.”

“Uh,” Kara says ineloquently, and suddenly her mind is coming up with far too many scenarios that she really shouldn’t. “That would be fine. Too. I mean, I can wear earplugs with the sunglasses. Or I can just wait out here too, until you’re…done. The carpet here is pretty comfortable. Is it the same in the apartment? ‘Cause if so, I mean, the landlord really outdid himself. I’ve had carpets that aren’t half as fluffy in hotel rooms that charged way more than—”

Lena cracks the door wider, and then her gaze drifts over towards where Kara’s housewarming donut gift has landed. “Have I broken you?” she asks. “Or are you always this awkward around naked women?”

“I’m—what?” Kara sputters. “I’m completely normal around naked women. Sometimes I am also a naked women.”

“Right,” Lena says, “when you shower in the morning. Or night.”

Kara frowns. “Yes,” she says, “and that's completely normal. And not weird.”

“Noted.” Lena pulls open the door the rest of the way, then throws a dangerous sort of smirk over her shoulder. “You are Kara Danvers, right? I’d hate to have to re-do the apartment tour, so if you’ve just come to break in, I have to warn you: I’m saving for med school, so I pretty much own nothing of value.”

“Yeah, no, I’m...Kara,” Kara says, slightly bewildered, but she gathers her bag and her donut box trash and follows Lena inside; she’ll have to deal with the mess outside later. “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself. I just forgot, with the whole…”

“It’s alright.” Lena scrunches her nose up apologetically, suddenly quite sheepish; if Kara had to pick a word, she’d call the tic adorable. “I didn’t exactly introduce myself either. Well, at least in the traditional sense.” She leads Kara into the kitchen, where there is a bottle of wine sitting on the table. “Can I make it up to you with a drink?”

And Kara doesn’t know how, exactly, she’s going to live like this—going to live with the knowledge that her new roommate apparently showers in the afternoon, and drinks a whole bottle of wine alone, and makes sexual references to people she’s known for all of twenty minutes. In other words:

“Yeah,” Kara says, nudging her glasses up her nose and delighting in the curve of Lena’s ensuing smile. “I could go for a drink.”