#he has six non-leg limbs

[tblsomedoodles]

Donnieverse Part 4

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This would have been out ages ago but it's like 14 pages so it took forever!

also, someone hand me a broom. Seer wasn't supposed to take over the end like that. I need to shoo him away so Webs can get a chance to have his time lol.

#tmnt #rottmnt #donnieverse #my doodles #rise donatello #all of them #rise leonardo #future webs leo is hard to draw sometimes #he has six non-leg limbs #each of them are drawn differently #and one's a stupid robo arm #i've also seem to have forgotten how to draw torsos #so guess who's has some drawing studies to do in the future #this dude! #also the fact that this comic is officially 42 pages makes nerd me happy

[eoieopda]

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 rein 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. I won’t do that again.” 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, rather — 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, settles in somewhere 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 thousands 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. No 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 a 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

#stray kids #skz #lee know #lee know x reader #minho x reader #minho fic #minho smut #minho angst #lee know fic #lee know smut #lee know angst #lee minho #lino #stray kids fic #skz fic #stray kids smut #stray kids angst #skz smut #skz angst #stray kids series #skz series #jade writes #re: force quit #kvanity

[artemis32]

Subjugation I

Yandere Erasermic x reader

****

I've developed a thing for duo's

Also, warning, it's illuded to the the reader is / was a student, so if you're not into that, don't read it :)) reader is 18+ (around 19 to like 20-ish) so don’t get your panties in a twist

word count - 6.5k

****

tw - violence and abuse (against reader), implied sa, kidnapping mentions, age gap (reader was their student), mentions of starvation (let me know if I missed anything - broader warnings in the tags)

****

Part II

bnha masterlist

****

****

Six months, two weeks, four days, fifteen hours, and thirty-two minutes.

"Hmm. I was thinking we could order out for dinner. I'm not really in the mood to cook. What do you think Shota?"

Mr Aizawa - Shota, he insists - hums.

"Sure."

You were positioned awkwardly on the couch, laying on it upside down with your legs thrown over the back, staring up at the ceiling. Boredom ate away at the corners of your mind.

Every few seconds you’d tap your foot to the rhythm of a non-existent song, then your limbs would fall limp as you recalled your boredom. The cycle had been on repeat for the past hour and a half.

The conversation between the two men paused for a moment, and you grit your teeth in annoyance as you prepared for what was about to come.

“Say sweetheart, any special requests for dinner?”

You stare up at the ceiling with a deadpan expression on your face. 

“Not hungry,” you respond in a flat tone.

The silence that follows has you mentally groaning. 

Please not today. Please leave me alone.

“Ah... sweets, that wasn’t my question. Come on now, there must be something you’re craving. Oh! What about that Thai place you used to go to? We haven’t had that in a while.”

I wonder why.

The words lay on the tip of your tongue, but you bite them back. Now isn’t the time to kick up a fuss. Not when you’d been behaving so well lately. 

The words make you gag.

“Hizashi asked you a question.”

Your skin prickled. You hadn’t realised that they were still waiting for an answer.

Out of the two of them, Aizawa definitely instilled more of a fear in you than Yamada ever had. You tried not to dwell on why exactly that was the case.

Heaving a heavy sigh, you hummed. 

“Fine. Whatever.”

A beat of silence passed before Present Mic started speaking again, attempting to ease the sudden oppressive atmosphere.

“If you’re bored, you’re welcome to join me. Cleaning isn’t the most entertaining thing in the world, but it passes the time. Or you could help Sho with his work - what do you think Shota?”

You sit up, stretching your arms high above your head, joints popping from the lack of movement.

“I’d rather eat glass than help either of you.”

The words are said so nonchalantly that it stuns them. 

Mic laughs nervously. “Come on now, there’s no need to be so hostile, I’m just trying to help you.”

His words almost make you laugh. Help you? How ridiculous. To think that either of them were aiming to help you. They were denser than you thought.

“No thanks,” you bite the words out harshly.

You stand and make your way around the couch, past the dining room table where Aizawa is seated grading papers, towards the hallway that leads off to your - the - bedroom.

They may have labelled it as the bedroom that the three of you shared when you behaved “as a reward”, but it wasn’t your bedroom. This wasn’t your home.

You weren’t happy here, and you would never be.

Mic seems to deflate at your harsh tone, watching you pass by with a pout.

“Why do you hate us so much? You never used to be this hostile. Is it because we don’t let you watch TV - is it because we don’t take you outside anymore? You know that that’s your punishment for the last time you...” 

He trails off, not needing to say anything more for you to understand what he meant.

You feel your restraint wearing thin, mentally begging him to shut up.

“Maybe if you behave, we can go to the backyard - or maybe the beach or something this weekend? Of course, you’ll have to be extra convincing.”

His suggestive words are what make you snap, bile rising up your throat.

“As if I’d ever want to go anywhere with either of you... You- you disgusting perverts!”

You regret it instantly, slapping your palm over your mouth as soon as the last syllable glides off of your tongue, but it's too late. The words had slipped out before you could stop to think about them, and you immediately know you’ve made a mistake.

Aizawa lunges out of his seat, straight at you, but you’re already moving, sprinting down the hallway towards the bedroom.

Your feet slip on the hardwood floors, and you almost shoot straight past the doorway to the bedroom, grabbing the door frame at the last second. You pull yourself into the room and whirl to slam the door behind you.

Aizawa slams against it, pushing you further into the room as you throw your entire body weight against the door, trying desperately to shut it.

“Apologise now and maybe I won’t thrash you.”

The words are said calmly. He’s barely out of breath, far too calm. You’re breathing rapidly, though that’s more because you’re frightened, and less because you’re physically drained.

“No, I meant every word,” you spit the words like venom. “Go fuck yourself. You’re disgusting and you know it!”

His words lend to your righteous anger, giving you the last bit of adrenaline you need to shove the door closed.

You say a small prayer of thanks to whatever lead you to run into the bedroom instead of the bathroom across the hall amidst your panicked sprint down the passage. 

The bedroom was the only room in the house with a lock on the inside of the door, and the sound of the lock clicking into place seems to echo throughout the room, a final bell, ringing like a clock striking midnight.

You jump back slightly as Aizawa slams his hand onto the door. It seems to shake on it’s hinges for a moment.

“When you come out here, you’d better be ready to beg on your knees, or I might kill you. You remember what happened the last time. You remember the promise I made to you.”

The solid door between the two of you seems to give you an inflated sense of safety, and you let loose, consequences be damned.

“Beg you? Don’t make me laugh. I’m not coming out anytime soon, so you’d better get comfortable Mr Aizawa.”

His name, his title, it all comes out so mockingly. 

Your heart continues to beat wildly in your chest, even though the danger has long since passed. You flop down onto the bed, a small smile on your face.

When you left the room, whenever that may be, you knew that one of them would be waiting for you. You also knew you were likely in for the beating of your life for how you had spoken to them. But in that moment, you got a sick sense of satisfaction out of their reaction to your words.

****

Months ago, when they had first kidnapped you - rescued you - you had been vicious with your hands, even more so with your words.

You would bite, scratch, slap, punch, kick, spit at them whenever they tried to get anywhere near you. They’d been patient with you, saying that they understood that you needed time to adjust, to accept your new life.

What a fucking joke.

When you realised that your physical resistance had no impact on them - of course it didn’t, they were two fully grown men, two seasoned pro-heroes - you had switched to verbal assault instead.

And you had been delighted to find that it seemed to cut them far deeper than any one of your weak kicks ever could. 

So you went with it, calling them every vile name you could think of, spewing insults as if your life depended on it. 

In a sense, it probably did.

One day, around two and a half months after you’d arrived at the Aizawa-Yamada residence, you learnt about exactly how far their patience for your venomous words went.

You’d been tired, having slept on the floor in the bathroom after being caught in an escape attempt the evening before. You’d been hungry, your meal privileges being revoked as an extra punishment for trying to fight them after they caught you. But most of all, you’d been mentally drained and scared, just like anyone else in your situation would have been.

Yamada had come to the bathroom to drag you to the dining room table, back to his usual cheery mood.

Any other day, you would have been able to grin and bear, but after months of being so constantly on your guard, you were sick and tired of entertaining his disgustingly joyous moods.

He had gently coaxed you into a seat, serving you a plate nearly overflowing with food. He fed you what he assumed to be motivating words, encouraging you to eat.

Aizawa sat across from you, eyeing you with a look you couldn’t describe.

For twenty minutes you sat there, staring down at the plate of food, watching the steam curl upwards in enchanting swirls.

The men across from you were having a whispered conversation, interrupted only when Yamada cleared his throat and addressed you.

“Honey, do you not like the food? I made all of your favourites...” he trailed off, unsure of what to say next.

You felt the weight of their stares on you, you felt months’ worth of pent-up emotion, you felt anger and resentment and sadness and fear, and you felt so tired.

You felt all of these things, and you felt nothing.

Slowly, you lifted your head, your stare boring into Yamada’s, then into Aizawa’s.

Shaking your head, you let out a soft, dry laugh. 

Nothing about this situation was funny.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” 

You’d never seen Yamada - Present Mic? - Hizashi? - look so concerned.

It made you sick.

“The two of you... You’re...”

They seemed to be waiting for you, anticipation thick in the air as they sat on the edge of their seats.

“We’re what?” Aizawa asked sharply.

“Perverts. Disgusting, horrible, depraved perverts.”

The words were whispered under your breath, barely audible, but they heard it nonetheless.

They stiffened, and the tension in the room skyrocketed until you could barely breathe. 

Everything seemed muted at that moment, almost as if it had been dulled. You felt as though you were having an out of body experience, and you knew that you’d messed up.

But even though you felt dread slowly crawling up your spine, settling over your mind, you found a sick sense of satisfaction in deathlike stillness you’d managed to pull over the room.

Aizawa was the first to react, huffing out a quiet laugh. It rumbled in his chest, growing a bit louder as he leaned back in his seat.

He let out a heavy sigh, as if he’d been holding it in for years, before standing up and making his way behind you.

You tensed as you felt his hands on your shoulders, kneading the tense muscles, urging you to relax.

He moved your hair to the side, leaning down with his mouth next to your ear. His proximity gave you goosebumps, and they rippled across your flesh as his breathe ghosted over your neck.

“How long have you been saving that one sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. It sounds mocking, and he says it with a sneer.

Your racing thoughts are interrupted as you feel his fingers lace through your hair. He does it softly, intimately, and for a single moment it feels like a lover’s caress, and you think, foolishly, that he’s trying to comfort you.

The picture-perfect moment is ruined as he pulls your head back and slams it into the table.

Ringing fills your ears, and your vision is fuzzy, but all you can think about is the fact that Yamada had moved the plate of food out of the way mere seconds before your face had connected with the tabletop. 

You weren’t sure if that made you feel better or not.

Aizawa yanked you back up by your hair, getting close to inspect the damage he had inflicted on you. 

“Perverts huh? Let me give you a piece of advice sweetheart. You say something like that again, you’ll have a hell of a lot more to worry about than just a night without dinner. I swear to you, I’ll beat you black and blue.”

His words scare you. His actions scare you more.

Fingers still laced through your hair, he drags you to the bathroom and throws you in before crouching down in front of you as you lay sprawled on the floor.

“And in the future, if you really think we’re so perverted, maybe we should prove it to you. Hell, maybe we should do it anyway - give you a real reason to be scared of us.”

He stays there, staring, waiting for an answer. 

Your cheeks feel wet. 

When did you start crying?

You nod your head slowly, cautiously. 

“I’m sorry... I won’t say it again, I- I promise.” Lies.

Aizawa nods before standing up. He towers above you, making you feel smaller and more vulnerable than you had in a long time. 

“I think after you ruined dinner like that, you deserve another night on the floor. Hopefully tomorrow you’ll have a better attitude.”

He slams the door shut, leaving you dazed and shaking, your face bruised and bloody. 

****

You’d been especially timid for months after that incident, toning down all your escape attempts and physical assaults and verbal abuse. You were still cold and harsh, you still spat and kicked and spewed venomous words, but you knew when to hold back. You saw the tell-tale signs of their patience wearing thin and you’d back off for a while, or at least until they’d calmed down.

It was a never-ending cycle, something that could be likened to a game or a dance, and it was exhausting.

But through all that, you never once uttered that word again. 

And true to his word, neither Aizawa or Yamada had touched you, though they’d both made plenty of sexual innuendos and snide remarks, even going as far as to talk about exactly how good they could make you feel.

It all made you so sick, but you never said anything, never made a remark like you had that day.

****

Six months, two weeks, five days, three hours, and sixteen minutes.

The room was stiflingly hot when you woke up.

You didn’t remember falling asleep but buzzing off of so much adrenaline must have tired you out more than you’d thought.

Sitting up with a groan, you rubbed your eyes and surveyed the room.

Everything was the same as it had been when you'd dozed off. The dresser you'd shoved in front of the door hadn't moved an inch.

You stumbled slightly when you stood, dizzy from laying down for so long. Once your head had settled, you made your way to the ensuite bathroom.

Again, you said a small prayer of thanks, grateful that you at least had the privilege of a bathroom during this stalemate.

That's exactly what it was, you realised.

You didn't intend on leaving anytime soon, you'd been truthful when you told Aizawa that. But you also knew that they wouldn't back down, and that you were in for a lashing if you were to leave your newfound safe haven.

A small part of you was terrified.

Because you knew that you would eventually have to leave the safety of these four walls. And you knew what awaited you when you did. But you pushed those thoughts to the very back of your mind, shoving it into the box of things that you swore not to think about if you could avoid it.

On the bright side, you had a bathroom, fresh water, and there were various snacks hidden throughout the room, courtesy of Yamada and his bottomless pit of a stomach.

You made it to the bathroom without stumbling again and went about taking care of your business. 

Ten minutes later, you realised you had zoned out, staring up at the bathroom window. The sight of it brought back some unwanted memories.

****

You had only attempted to escape twice since being taken, a number you thought the two men should be thankful for. You may have been cold and rude, but at least you didn’t give them many problems.

That was probably part of the reason they’d kept you around.

The first time you had tried to run away had been planned out in painstaking detail, and you’d accounted for almost every possibility. That probably also lent to the anger you’d felt at being caught, and the words that had followed.

It was also the reason that every window and vent in the house was barred up. It made you feel like more of a prisoner than you already were.

The two men had left for work that morning, as they usually did, and Yamada had showered you with promises of a lavish dinner and gifts when he returned. You had to swallow back the bile that you felt rising up your throat.

Part of your plan - probably the biggest deciding factor - had been patience. You had to wait, and wait, and wait, and wait. You never knew if they would decide to call off work and spend the day here instead. 

You wouldn’t want them to catch you midway through an escape.

After what felt like hours of waiting, but was truthfully only an hour and a half, you made your move. The anxiety coursing through your veins made every noise ten times louder, and it felt as though time was slipping through your fingers as you hurriedly unscrewed the heavy metal grille covering the bathroom vent. 

As much as you would have loved to climb out the window, you weren’t fond of the thought of falling twelve stories down, no matter how desperate you were to get away.

The next best option was the vents, and you had spent days learning the layout of the apartment, trying to come up with a mental map of what the rest of the floor of the building would look like.

It had been exhausting, but you couldn’t leave any written trace of what you were planning - not when the two pro-heroes picked up on every shift in your mood, every slight change in routine.

Keeping up the pretence of going about your daily routine that morning had been difficult too. You had to fight the urge to stare off into space, thinking over your plan again - but more than that, you had to fight the urge to look at the lifted floorboards where you had stashed the few tools you needed to open and close the vent without suspicion.

There had been a moment, right before Aizawa had left, that you’d felt your anxieties rise. In that split second, it felt almost as if he were looking through you, rather than at you, with a look on his face that you couldn’t quite describe.

But he’d left without saying anything - no warning words, no cautious looks, nothing.

Honestly, their lack of suspicion was likely the main reason you got caught - it made you too confident, cocky even.

It had taken you an hour to destroy the apartment, fifteen minutes to open up the vent, five minutes to clamour into the narrow passageway with the few tools you’d decided to keep with you, and nearly twenty-five minutes to close the vent again. Evidently, it wasn’t as easy to close it when you were inside the vent. 

But you’d done it all, and it hadn’t even taken two hours. 

You felt somewhat proud in that moment.

That same pride had been what got you caught.

Stumbling through the ventilation system, you’d realised how far off the mark you were with your mental layout of the building. It felt as though you were crawling around in circles.

You lost track of time. That had been the final nail in your metaphorical coffin.

The two men had returned home, talking about some or other recent hero rescue. They fell silent as they entered the apartment and saw the destruction you’d wrought. 

Originally, you had hoped that they would think you had been abducted, or that they would think that you tore the place apart in an attempt to find a tool to escape.

Wishful thinking on your part.

They immediately closed the front door, set their things down, and walked to the room you tended to lock yourself in when they returned.

You never found out exactly what their reaction had been to the scene they stumbled upon in that room, and deep down you knew you didn’t want to.

The damages to all their possessions hadn’t angered them as much as your refusal to come out.

“We know you’re in the vents sweetie. Please just come out. We can talk about this - you’ve been so well behaved, we’re willing to be lenient with you. If you come out now, we won’t even punish you, you just have to help tidy up.”

You probably should have taken Mic up on that offer, but you were too stubborn, too sure of yourself.

Anytime they got anywhere near you, you’d quietly crawl away. You spent hours like that, shimmying through the vents, dodging them, blocking out their words.

Yamada was kind, trying to reason with you, cutting deals with you.

Aizawa remained quiet for the first few hours, helping Yamada look, but never saying anything.

He had reached his limit when Yamada silently whispered to him.

“This isn’t working - it’s getting late, she must be tired and hungry, can you help speed things up?”

Then the threats had started.

Threats of punishments, violent, invasive, perverse punishments.

It continued for hours.

You’d like to think that if you had become a hero, they would have applauded your grit in a situation like this. They didn’t seem to appreciate it though.

It probably would have continued on for a while, until they had to sleep, or leave for work, or until you found an exit. It would have continued, had Aizawa not shattered your hope of escape in one fell swoop. With a few words, all of your time, patience and determination crumbled.

“If you’re looking for an exit, you’ll be up there forever. We take up this whole floor, and the vent doesn’t go down.”

This apartment takes up the whole floor? That’s not possible...

He continued talking, oblivious to your sudden panic. 

You don’t remember a lot of what he said, but you got the general idea that though the apartment wasn’t big, the entire floor belonged to them, and they had made sure that the vents wouldn’t lead out or down in any direction.

Dazed and absorbed in your thoughts, you didn’t realise they had found you until you were being dragged out by your ankle.

The lights were harsh after hours of sitting in the dark, and the look of Aizawa’s face had scared you half to death. Yamada had swooped in to save you, saying that as punishment, you’d be sentenced to sleeping the in bathroom until further notice.

Aizawa had added that you wouldn’t be getting any meals until you proved that you were actually sorry.

Of course, that situation had ended quite violently a few days later.

****

Your second and final escape attempt had been... messy, for lack of a better word.

It wasn’t something you had planned for weeks in advance. You hadn’t even been thinking about escape at all.

But the opportunity had presented itself so neatly, so perfectly timed. 

And they hadn’t suspected anything. It had been so long since your previous attempt, nearly five months.

You had remained in the same apartment, and you had seemingly learnt your lesson. They both often applauded your wonderful change in attitude, saying how nice it was that you acted so sweetly for them now. As if they hadn’t threatened to beat you to a pulp, or worse.

It had been a Wednesday evening, and both men were tired after a long day of work. Yamada had decided that it was a good night to order in - neither he nor Aizawa wanted to cook, and even if they trusted you with knives, you had made it clear that you would never cook for them. 

If you did, you would probably end up feeding them glass.

You hadn’t said much, agreeing with whatever they wanted as you focused on the TV. 

There was some old Spanish movie playing. You hadn’t been paying attention.

Yamada sat next to you, trying and failing to get you to lay against him.

Like a real couple should.

Aizawa sat on your other side, watching the movie with half-hearted interest, listening to Yamada ramble on about when dinner would arrive.

Fifteen minutes later, you decided that you needed the bathroom.

When you stood up, Yamada rose as well, claiming he wanted to grab a bottle of wine and a few glasses for when the food arrived. 

The two of you had just barely moved, hardly a step away from the couch, when the doorbell rang.

That in itself wasn’t unusual. The bell rang all the time.

Only this time, the delivery guy announced that someone had let him up - he was waiting right outside the door to hand off the delivery.

Adrenaline was a strange thing. It heightened your senses, it warped time and made it feel as though you were wadding through honey.

The two men looked at one another, Hizashi beside you, Shota on the couch. Then they looked at you.

You all stood there for a moment, a split second. They seemed to be warning you, urging you make the right decision, even though you all knew exactly what you were about to do.

Without saying anything, you turned on your heel and started sprinting towards the front door.

Yamada’s heavy footfalls behind you told you that he was close - too close.

You would have thrown yourself to the side, out of his way. Or maybe you would have tried to run a bit faster. Hell, you might even have stopped, if common sense had caught up to you sooner.

But the intercom crackled to life once more, the delivery guy calling out once more, and your mind was made up.

The front door was in your sights. A few more steps and you would have been able to brush your fingers against the stained hardwood.

Yamada’s arm coiled around your waist and he yanked you back, hard.

The air was knocked out of your lungs as you both fell to the ground with a heavy thump.

You opened your mouth to scream, to cry out. He would have heard you. The door was close enough, he would have heard you.

Yamada seemed to sense what you wanted to do, slapping his palm over your mouth as soon as you took a breath.

You laid there struggling as Aizawa walked past, his eyes flashing as he made his way to the door.

The hand on your face felt bruising, gripping your jaw harder when your tears made your cheeks slippery. You lay there for a few more minutes, trying to wrestle yourself out of Yamada’s iron grip.

Aizawa closed the door and made his way back you. When he crouched down in front of you, your body went limp. 

Your only chance had slipped through your fingers. Again.

Luck was clearly not on your side.

They stopped pretending to trust you after that.

A few weeks after that, you moved. 

The city centre was no place for such a happy family to be living, or at least that’s what they claimed. So you moved into a house, large and sturdy, in the middle of nowhere.

It was hidden away from the public eye, hidden by trees and acres of land and hundreds of road and trails that led nowhere.

Perfect for them. A nightmare for you.

They still barred the windows, shut the doors tight with too many locks. 

A part of you told you that you weren’t that far from civilisation. After all, they still had to frequently travel to the city for work. 

But the rational part of your brain, the one that had twisted and grown to learn all of their less than likable traits knew that they would move as far as they had to if it meant keeping you hidden. Even if that meant a three- or four-hour commute to the city, even if it meant living in some backwater town that seemed barely inhabitable.

****

Since your last escape attempt, it had been somewhat peaceful. But so, so boring.

And since your last tantrum, as they had taken to calling any show of defiance - whether that was an attempt at escape or something else - it had been six months, three weeks, four hours, and forty-two minutes.

It felt almost pathetic to keep such a stringent record of the time between “punishments”, but it kept you sane.

You reckoned that it had been just over a year since they had kidnapped you, but time became difficult in the days after your two escape attempts, so you’d taken to counting the days, hours, minutes after the punishments instead.

Now, it had been about half a week since you’d angered them. Pushing their buttons, making Aizawa specifically lose his temper so quickly, it felt cathartic.

Yamada stopped by the room every few hours, telling you he left food right outside the door, slipping bits of paper through the gap between the door and the floor, sitting for hours at a time just to talk to you about his day - trying to make you feel bad, if you were to wager a guess.

He even went as far as to beg a few times. You’d hear him crying, whispering through hiccups, asking you to please just end this. He was a good actor; you’d give him that much.

The snacks hidden throughout the room had run out on your second day cooped up in the room, but you hadn’t allowed yourself the time to panic about it. Thinking about leaving the safety of these four walls made you sick.

Though perhaps if you looked sickly enough, Aizawa might take it easy on you.

You shudder to think about what twisted sort of beating you’d receive after this. You were hoping, praying for a solution, holding out for something - for anything. You just weren’t sure what exactly that anything was.

****

Six months.

Three weeks.

Two days.

Fourteen hours.

Fifty-two minutes.

It had been almost a week. You were hungry, but more than that - you were so tired. Paranoia had started creeping in, and you couldn’t sleep. Every time you dozed off, you’d wake up in a panic. The slightest sounds set you off.

You knew that you’d have to leave the room soon, even if it were only to grab something from the kitchen. You knew that they took turns staying home, waiting for you to leave the room.

Moving the heavy dresser was easy enough. Moving it quietly took years off of your life.

Now all there was to do was wait.

Thankfully, Aizawa tended to keep books on his bedside table - many of which you had read over the past few days to pass the time. His tastes didn’t exactly suit your own, but it wasn’t as if you had anything better to do.

You’d read about four or so of his books, rearranged all of the furniture in the room, hell, you’d been bored enough to clean - both the bedroom and the attached bathroom - you’d even gone through their closet, hosting what you’d deemed a fashion show.

So far you felt as though you’d done a decent job of keeping your boredom at bay, but you were running out of things to do. And your idle mind led to your hunger becoming more apparent.

Four hours later, a gentle knock on the door pulled your attention away from the book you were reading - some or another thriller novel.

“Hey sweetie, I’m leaving your lunch out here...”

Hizashi’s words trailed off as he spoke softly under his breath. You didn’t catch the rest of his sentence.

“Okay, well... I- Both Shota and I hope you decide to come out soon.”

To be completely honest, you were very surprised that they hadn’t forced their way in yet. How they would achieve that, you weren’t sure, but you knew that if they really wanted to, they could have.

Not that it mattered - while the anxiety of waiting had been slowly taking over your mind, it had been a nice break, a change of pace to have them out of your personal space for such an extended period of time.

You loitered near the door for a while, watching the minutes tick by on the bright digital clock next to Hizashi’s side of the bed.

After nearly an hour and a half, you stood and reached for the door handle with a quivering hand. For some reason, you felt a growing sense of apprehension.

It’s fine. Just be quick about it - no need to psych yourself out. 

Just open the door, grab the food, and get back into the room. There ain’t nothing to it.

After one last quick, deep breath, you unlocked the door. The click of the lock seemed so loud - too loud.

Regardless, you tell yourself that there’s no point in backing out now, not when the door was already unlocked.

Grab the food, shut the door.

Grab the food, shut the door.

The handle moves smoothly as you pull in downwards, cracking the door open an inch. You spy out into the hallway, hardly daring to breathe.

Grab the food, shut the door.

The hinges on the door seem to screech out in the silence - you tell yourself that the adrenaline is making it sounder louder than it actually is.

Grab the food, shut the door.

You’re straining your ears, trying to hear through the sound of the roaring in your head.

Grab the food, shut the door.

It’s right there. A large bowl of soup - maybe miso? There’s another bowl next to it, slightly smaller, filled with rice.

The sight of food so nearby makes your mouth water.

Grab the food, shut the door.

You look around cautiously, left, down the long passageway, towards the dining room and the kitchen, and then right, towards the office shared between the two men and the spare bedroom.

Nothing.

Rather than letting out a sigh of relief, you quickly lean forward and grab both bowls, jumping back into the room and slamming the door behind you.

Setting the bowls down on the dresser takes far longer than you’d like, but before you can linger on the stupidity of slamming the door, you twist the lock into place and slump against the door.

You had split some of the soup - miso, you’ve now confirmed - and the floor was slippery with the remnants of it. Just as you were about to move away from the door, intent on cleaning up the mess, there was a knock at the door.

“Sweetheart? Did you take the food? Are you okay in there?”

Yamada. It’s just Yamada.

Your heart is racing as you choke out a response.

“Um, yeah, I- I’m fine.”

Too close.

You ignored whatever he said next, going about cleaning up the mess you’d made. While you were crouched down on the floor, you thought about how exactly you’d have to ration the food you’d been given. You weren’t eager to have a repeat of the experience you’d just had.

****

Despite your plan to ration out the food you’d painstakingly acquired, you’d eaten it all within a few hours. 

You originally stuck to your plan, eating only a few tablespoons from each bowl. But the aroma rising from each bowl, so tantalisingly close, had almost felt like torture. 

And so, three hours later, despite your seemingly unwavering will, both bowls were empty and you were happy.

The problem of getting food again whenever you needed it would have to wait for another time, you decided.

After a scalding hot shower and a bit of pampering, you got into bed with a smile on your face for the first time since you had locked yourself up in this room. You felt so much better after eating, even your paranoia had eased up a bit.

Tomorrow, you’d think about what to do. Perhaps it was time for you to try and get out again. Or maybe you’d come up with some sob story speech for the two men. Or maybe you would stay holed up in this room for another week or two.

Regardless, you fell asleep content and warm, feeling almost happy.

****

When you awoke hours later, your head felt heavy, limbs weighed down, tongue heavy in your mouth.

The sounds around you were muffled, as if the world had been plunged under water. 

You heard two voices.

What happened? Where am I?

The voices grew closer, though you still couldn’t make out their words.

It was as if a switch had been flipped in that moment. One second you were dazed - confused and slightly uncertain, but comfortable, and the next it felt as though there was ice flowing through your veins.

They had drugged the food.

They had drugged the fucking food.

You felt so stupid. Why had you not for one second considered the fact that they may have drugged the food they’d been leaving outside your door?

Maybe you could pretend that you were still sleeping. But how long would that last? What would you do once they realised that you were awake? 

In fact, you didn’t even know how long you’d been unconscious for, or where you were. You knew nothing and you felt the tidal wave of growing anxiety beginning to wash over you.

Above all of your questions and concerns, you felt like a scared child. You had always known that they would eventually get you out of your safe zone, but right now, you had no idea what they planned on doing to you.

Not knowing made the fear even worse.

You almost threw up when you felt a hand resting gently on your arm, squeezing softly to get your attention.

“Don’t worry honey, we won’t punish you just yet. The anxiety of waiting, of not knowing - that’s all part of the fun, isn’t it?”

#yandere #dark content #female reader #bnha #mha #eraserhead #present mic #yandere erasermic #yandere erasermic x reader #yandere aizawa x reader #yandere hizashi yamada #yandere hizashi x reader #yandere aizawa shouta

[cloudyswritings]

Hollow knight bugs and real world species: P2

Hornet: So we know that Hornet is the daughter of the pale king and Herrah, making her some sort of biological monstrosity. But what bug is she based on? My best bet would be a horned orb weaver, specifically either a long-horned orb-weaver or Gasteracantha versicolor based on coloration and her horns.

Zote: So the in game/logical answer is that zote is whatever type of generic beetle that team cherry concocted from stag, Hercules, and rhinoceros beetles. However I think that’s really boring, I personally subscribe to one of the single best crackfics in the fandom Camouflage of Great Renown and think zote is a nosk that left Hallownest and lost his memories before retuning and adopting his persona. It’d even explain how he’s actually really hard to damage(see coliseum) and how he keeps getting places before ghost does.

Midwife: So I’ve seen a lot of people headcanon that she’s a centipede of some sort, and it kinda makes sense? Like centipedes are actually really good at caring for their young and protect them until they’re able to hunt on their own, so I think it’s a plausible and likely theory. That’s said I’d like to present some alternative ideas. Midwife to me, looks a lot more like she has an earwigs body shape, based mostly on the width of her. That said her behavior matches up far better with a trapdoor spider and she lacks antennas. Overall I’d say a trapdoor spider is more likely as an alternative reading of her species.

Lord fool: So here’s the thing with lord fool, there’s a lot of evidence he’s a higher being of some sort. Most of it comes down to the way the fools, while infected, seem less damaged by the radiance and seem to keep a large portion of their mind intact. Plus his position-dead on his throne- seems earily similar to a certain pale wyrm. Interestingly however it seems like his mask is actually just a mask, because we can see the top of his head and it looks to just be soft carapace. He’s also got six limbs so we know he isn’t an arachnid, or crustacean. My best guess would be either a deathwatch beetle(the texture on them looks like a good match) or a more likely a green junebeetle. Him being a junebeetle also matches nicely with how the fools are regarded as invasive, or not belonging in Haloownest. My last theory is that the bug the colosseum is built in may be the Lord fools old shell, aka wyrm.

Bretta: She looks a lot like a hair soft-shelled beetle to me, but her colors are all wrong. Based on that I’d say she’s actually a female scarab of some sort(sorry y’all my beetle knowledge isn’t up to par just yet!!)

The Hunter: So I’m really and truly unconvinced that the hunter is a bug, or crustacean, or arachnid of any kind. Bro visibly has a spine of some sort and the only beings with hands remotely similar to his that we see are THK, The shade lord, and the collector. That said we do still know he has an exoskeleton. I’ll admit I’m kinda stumped, I’d love to hear what y’all think. Verdict: inconclusive.

Baldurs: So I’m pretty convinced that these fellas are a pill millipede of some sort, they have the right number of legs and do curl up for defense. Additionally they spit infection, which I imagine when non infected would be some sort of toxin— something millipedes are well known for.

Mosskin: So this covers the mosskin as a whole, I’ll probably make a post for them specifically eventually. They’re obviously creatures that are in a symbiotic relationship with plants(because Unn). The only ones I feel super comfortable giving a specific species atm are the moss chargers who I feel are a species of velvet worm, mostly due to Unn being a big old slug and them living in a more tropical region. These velvet worms essentially copied the homework of the leaf sheep sea slug—which steals its ability to photosynthesize from the algae it eats.

That’s it for now!!

#hollow knight #Unn #hk hornet #speculative biology #brain fried #ummm #enjoy ig #zote the mighty #a knight of great renown

[xaeyrnofnbe]

ok uhhhhh bitb headcanons. i’m sharing them. here they are

rolan’s hair is naturally pretty curly, but he straightens the crap out of it and uses all sorts of hair gel to get it to lie flat.

kian has dark brown hair, he just bleaches it

rolan has hazel eyes. they look blue-grey sometimes but sometimes they’re greenish with hints of brown or yellowish.

rolan and rachel actually got along really well- they didn’t really hang out, but she usually stuck around during d&d games and the two of them would chat a surprising amount afterward. as it turns out, they have a lot of similar tastes and interests. (it’s bugs. they both think bugs are really neat. for no reason in particular)

rand is gay

so is rolan

kian’s gender identity is very difficult to pinpoint. on paper, he’s a man. but he’s very fluid and non-conforming. (i think the only reason i’m not a believer in trans (masc or fem) kian is bc my dad did rock n roll back in the day and he was also Like That. and he’s the only cishet person in my household. somehow)

barc is goobleck (this ones barely even a headcanon. i just think it would be funny)

oh and for slightly more actual-story-events-related hcs,

when the human exterior is first shed, the reason the bugs (or rolan’s bug arm) are white is because it’s like molting—the fresh exoskeleton is soft at first, thats how it fits under the human skin. as time goes on, (the timeframe is probably like. a half hour to an hour? maybe?) the shell darkens and hardens to a sickly, patchy greyish-brown with patterns and markings of red

that michael jackson impersonator survived the whole ordeal

the bugs are kinda like a horrific mashup of a mantis and a wasp but with WEIRD anatomy. like they look somewhere between a bug and a vertebrate but mostly very alien. they have an exoskeleton but seem somehow muscular.

they’re also covered in fine, spaced-out hairs. oh and lots of spikes and pointy bits.

oh and more about the bugs, i have a really specific idea in my brain for how they move around. like, they move around on all six limbs when they’re running (or scurrying, if that paints a better picture) but can rear up on their back four legs to stand more imposingly (their full height is like... 8 feet) or to fight using their sharp mantis-like forelegs.

#jrwi bitb spoilers #jrwi bitb #jrwi blood in the bayou #just roll with it #things i said

[razieltwelve]

Body Language and Gestures For Non-Humanoid Characters

Body language and gestures can play an important role in characterisation. We can see this via some of the characters from The Unconventional Heroes Series.

Gerald, for example, is often depicted as nervous, anxious, and fearful. This isn’t done solely through words but also through his body language and gestures. Conversely, Avraniel’s body language and gestures suggest a character who is confident to the point of being brash, a person who prefers actions over words and who will gladly wade knee-deep through the blood of her enemies.

But not all characters are the same. In particular, although many characters are humanoid (e.g., humans, dwarves, and elves) not all characters share the basic body structure of two arms, two legs, one head, and so on. What about those characters, how should you handle their body language and gestures?

The most important thing is to acknowledge that they are not humanoid. As a result, not all of their body language and gestures will be the same. They may be unable to act in certain ways that a humanoid character might while being able to act in ways that a humanoid character cannot. Their physiology may also be bound to certain psychological traits that you need to consider as well.

We’ll use Spot, who is a dragon, as an example.

A dragon has six limbs, consisting of two arms, two legs, and two wings. A dragon also has a tail and tends to walk on all fours although walking on their legs is possible. In Spot’s case, his arms (which tend to operate more as legs) end in claws that grow more and more dextrous over time until they can eventually be used like hands. All of his limbs end in wickedly sharp claws, and his teeth are far larger and sharper than any humanoid character’s teeth.

Due to the shape of his body, Spot cannot use the same sort of body language and gestures as other characters like Timmy or Gerald. Instead, for Spot to feel like a real character, he needs to use body language and gestures that take advantage of his physiology. What sort of body language and gestures might these include? Here are a few of them:

As a dragon, Spot will often draw himself up into a threat display. This involves rearing up and flaring his wings to make himself seem as large as possible. It may also involve baring his teeth and allowing flame to kindle in his jaws. The human equivalent might be to stand straight and loom over someone, but that just wouldn’t feel right for a dragon to do when a dragon can do so much more.

Spot will often use his head to nudge, poke, and otherwise interact with people and objects. This is due to his lack of dexterity with his claws. Since he is a dragon, his head is heavily armoured to the point it can be used as a battering ram. As a result, it’s perfectly acceptable for him to use it in a way a human never would. When he’s curious, he might gently nudge Katie with his head to get her to explain something. But when he’s mad, he can easily send a bandit flying by ramming them with his head.

Spot has been seen wagging his tail in a manner similar to a dog when he is happy. This is not something all dragons do. Instead, it is a result of Spot having a tail and growing up around a dog (Chomp). Due to the current stubbiness of his tail, he also can’t use it in the more intricate fashion of an adult dragon.

Rather than walk, Spot is often described as loping, stalking, or otherwise moving in a more predatory fashion, even when he isn’t actually threatening anyone. As a dragon, that’s just how Spot moves. It is instinctive, and it is a reminder to everyone else of what he is.

Although Spot uses telepathy to communicate speech, he also relies on a range of other sounds to communicate. He will trill, croon, rumble, and so on – sounds that humans cannot easily make. He makes these sounds because he isn’t human. They are the sounds a dragon would make, and him not making them would be strange.

As you can see, Spot’s body language and gestures belong to a dragon because he is a dragon. It would be extremely unusual for him to have exactly the same body language and gestures as the humanoid characters. Indeed, a running gag is for him to adjust his movements to avoid accidentally damaging things in places designed with humanoids in mind (e.g., it’s easy for him to accidentally knock things over if he isn’t careful about his wings).

Of course, Spot isn’t the only non-humanoid character around. Sam is a protoplasmic horror from another dimension who has near-limitless control over his own biology. He most commonly appears as a floating sphere of eyes, tentacles, and teeth. Apart from using a form of eldritch telepathy to communicate with Timmy (who is one of the few people who can withstand it), he relies on shape changes, colour changes, and tentacle movements to convey his thoughts and feelings. This is an even more extreme case than Spot since Sam’s physiology can change dramatically in a way that Spot’s can’t. However, the important thing is that his very much non-humanoid shape is accompanied by body language and gestures that suit it. This makes him more believable as a character and makes it easier for readers to picture him in their minds.

Body language and gestures are important parts of characterisation. However, for non-humanoid characters, you should always remember that their body language and gestures may not be the same as for humanoid characters. Taking these differences into accounts can help make them more memorable and unique.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

I also write original fiction, which you can find on Amazon here or on Audible here. I’ve also just released a new story, Attempted Rescuing!

#writing technique #writing #writing advice #writing tips #improving your writing #body language and gestures #characterisation

[bearmemesreviews]

FotW: SDMI - Revenge of the Man Crab

Last time we talked about a not-so-dead "Ghost Truck", but we don't have to deal with any false advertising today, it's Man Crab time!

Who doesn't love crabs, they're walk funny and their eyes function like light switches! And with their giant claws and spiky shells they also make great monsters, so every series, especially if it takes place in space or underwater (which are the same thing btw) needs a Crustacean Man scuttling about.

Backstory: The gang find themselves a new mystery while attending a Volleyball Tournament being sponsored by a brand new Sport's Beverage called "Trickell's Trickquid". It's apparently a "non-fat liquid diet, no calorie gluten-free moisture supplement." This is all nonsense pseudo-nutritionist jargon for "Water but not". Considering how worse the dieting industry got, this is actually a bit too safe of a satire for what that BS Machine produces.

The titular Man Crab has been terrorizing the sports event, kidnapping both worker and player alike with its burrowing skills. Able to pop up from the beach's sand like a land-shark, the crab man proceeds to snatch up people in broad daylight during a match, popping up again to further destroy the nearby bleachers and stands.

The gang soon find themselves at odds with the adults, as it's a running plotpoint that the mayor - and by extension the Sheriff - wishes to capitalize on the weekly "supernatural" threats with merchandising and tours. Peter Trickell, the owner of Trickquid, also brushes off concern to not impede his profits. The group's main suspect is a recurring character named Skipper Shelton, a clam-restaurateur whose nose was taken by a wild clam (Resisting SpongeBob Reference). He's crabby because his restaurant had to be moved for the event, which happens any time the beach is rented out.

Later, for their butting in the crab man kidnaps Daphne and escapes with her in tow when Fred's trap fails. Leading Fred to spiral as he's a bit of a dumb jock who can't understand his feelings for Daph - the sport he's obsessed with being trapmaking by the way.

They eventually find a cove's entrance leading to underground caverns right beneath the beach, revealing an entire system of bridges and pathways that the Man Crab's been using to travel up and out of the sand with.

Design: The Man Crab is a straightforward Human-Crustacean hybrid with a red shell, mustard yellow mandibles and underbelly, and black tips on its claws and extremities. Its arms are asymmetrical, with the right ending in a gigantic and gnarly crab claw. Its left harm is more humanoid, with actual fingers on its hand, and its digitigrade legs are fairly short with two toes each.

Because of this, we don't see it walk in a way similar to a human, instead it has two additional pairs of limbs jutting out from its sides that are more accurate to a crab's real legs. Whenever the Man Crab needs to move, it grows out these extra limbs and walks with them like a spider.

Its head is interesting as its entire body is muscular but meant to resemble a crab lying on its back in silhouette. It even has a cute, segmented belly that resembles a "six-pack". Its head is humanoid, but it's almost trapezoidal in shape, with mandibles peeking out from under its chin. Its eyes sit on stalks sprouting from the top of its dome-shaped head. It has cute little vampire teeth in its human-like mouth, the whole head is position in an awkward area that almost feels like it's extending outwards from the shell like a turtle.

It's such a cool design, especially when it scuttles around, and I love both its silhouette and body plan. My favorite aspect is the muscle-like flesh making up it's lips and the connecting tissues between each crevice in its shell.

Reveal: After finding the Man Crab's lair the gang eventually find Daphne and the other kidnapped teens locked up in a giant cage. It's after freeing them that the Crab Man chooses to chase after the Mystery Gang to put a permanent stop to their meddling, eventually following them out of the caverns and back towards where the first trap was planted. The second times the charm, and it actually captures the Big Crab and secures it inside of a big cooking pot. The pot turns out to be too small and gruesomely tears apart the creature's legs, revealing the thing to be a robot.

And who was piloting it?

Yeah, this guy. No, we don't get the gang interacting with him at all before they hand him over to the sheriff. His name is Shinji Bud Shelton, no relation apparently, and he's the real inventor of Trickell's Trickquid - which was originally called Bud's Bloosh, and Velma only figured out his identity thanks to an old photograph taken of him and Trickell in a newspaper.

Bud wanted revenge for having his idea stolen by Trickell, and probably for also being forced to work as a salesman/mascot(somehow). When asked why he didn't just sue, he states that this whole Man Crab Revenge scheme was just cheaper than getting a lawyer.

Yes, it feels really slapped together, and the Scooby-pedia points out several technical errors such as his name being "Bud Coleman" in the credits so I think it was a rush-job. In fact, Trickell never shows up during the rest of the episode and we move on from Bud's capture to focus on a new clue regarding the overarching mystery. Genuinely, I think if he just wanted revenge for being forced to dress up like a giant water bottle for below minimum wage, I'd buy it more.

6/5 - Yeah, I'm going there. Genuinely one of the best designs in the show and one of the few I'm mad are not the real deal. Don't even care about the lackluster motive, love his legs and cute crabby head.

Not accepting any counterarguments, Crab Army attack!

🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀🦀

#bmoreviews #bmoreviewsmysteryinc #mystery incorporated #scooby doo mystery incorporated #man crab

[reaper-unrestricted]

Oh my god I completely blanked that Jamison has a prosthetic arm and leg.

I ONLY REALIZED HES GOT PROSTHETIC WHEN LOOKING AT ART OF HIM IM FUCKING DEAD.

IVE EITHER, LUCKILY NOT NEEDED TO DRAW THOSE AREAS SHOWN IN MY ART, OR IVE BLATANTLY DRAWN HIM WITH NON PROSTHETIC-Y, FLESHY LIMBS.

I AM ASHAMED.

KILL ME NOW. BURY ME SIX FEET UNDER. DEATH UNTO THYSELF.

HOW DO YOU FUCK UP THIS BAD, REYES?? HES LITERALLY YOUR FAVORITE PERSON!!

#i genuinely feel like shit over this

[maddyontv]

"I said at that moment that I think I need to take this dog."

Local Yukon, OK veterinarian makes a big rescue and room for more in her home.

On Dec. 16 of 2022 Dr. Catie Hennessey agreed to see an early morning emergency walk-in at her veterinary clinic. Unbeknownst to her, the barely year old Australian shepherd mix would come to be a whole lot more. Ralphie found himself in luck when a client brought him in after discovering him on the side of the road. Soon he was being hoisted into the radiology room to determine the extent of his injuries. “I remember looking at the x-rays with my techs, he was being so cooperative despite what he’d probably gone through, I said at that moment that I think I need to take this dog.” Hennessey said. 

The x-rays had revealed that Ralphie had sustained a significant injury to his right rear leg. “He had a through and through gunshot wound that caused a comminuted fracture of his right proximal femur,” said Hennessey. A comminuted fracture results in the bone being broken into more than two pieces and often refers to a bone that has been shattered. Dr. Hennessey knew there would be no way to save the leg and Ralphie would need to undergo amputation to have the best quality of life he could moving forward. That Friday, Dr. Hennessey and Ralphie headed home where he rested by her side through the weekend getting ready for his big procedure that following Monday.

“The surgery went as well as possible, he was already non-weight bearing on the leg before it was amputated so he had no serious reaction to waking up and getting around without it.” Within six hours of his procedure he was up and moving around like nothing had changed. Ralphie was on the road to recovery and Dr. Hennessey was on her way to accepting that her temporary addition was going to become a permanent one. Ralphie was greeted Monday evening by his three brand-new siblings Indy, Smiley Joe, and Paisley. He was welcomed quickly and made himself at home even quicker. He spent the next week on kennel rest as he healed before being allowed to roam freely for the first time in his new home. 

“I’m so glad I took the risk, he’s been the perfect addition to my life and my other three are more than happy to have him around also.” said Hennessey. It’s been nearly four months since Ralphie became a part of what Hennessey calls ‘The Muttley Crew’ and it’s like he’s been there all along. Ralphie may have lost one limb but he gained four forever friends and is better off for it. 

#news #veterinarian medicine #veterinarian #vet #dog #dogs #feel good stories #rescue #Youtube

[drdigantpathak]

Do’s and don’ts after hernia surgery?

Today, we are going to gather and address a portion of the fear and questions that patients have at the hour of release after they go through a hernia surgery, and we will attempt to offer responses to those inquiries.

What diet should one follow after hernia surgery?

After hernia surgery in Jabalpur, what kind of diet is suggested for these patients? Are there any significant limitations in diet or would it be advisable for them to stay away from specific food to improve healing? Consequently, there are lots of dietary fantasies among patients concerning recuperation from surgery. Many individuals feel that they shouldn’t take certain types of pulses, they should not take non-vegetarian food there are chances of disease assuming that they take specific eating regimens. There are no major dietary limitation after hernia surgery. Thus, we inform all patients to take a very high vitamin and protein diet. Vegetarians are advised to take different sources of protein and supplements. There are no limitations to taking a non-vegetarian diet after hernia surgery. According to best laparoscopic surgeon in Jabalpur whatever you eat Make sure you take adequate protein, fiber, and a good amount of fluids.

How long of bed rest is required after hernia surgery?

It is a legend that after one major surgery, one must be under finished bed rest and shouldn't move up. Complete bed rest causes more damage than great to the patients. Hence, the benefit this has is that, when the patient beginnings walking, his breathing improves, the bloodstream from the leg begins streaming to the heart, and consequently, the possibility of any blood coagulation is created in the lower limbs. Thus, one piece of advice that always gives by hernia surgeon in Jabalpur to their patients is, "You don't require complete bed rest”. yet, all patients after a hernia surgery are it a laparoscopic hernia operation or open, ought to be encouraged to get out of bed as soon as possible and move around.

How to prevent my hernia from recurrence?

This fear of recurrent hernia is there in the mind of every patient who is going through a hernia operation on the ground that the main thing a patient is frightened of is having a hernia return once more or a repeat where he needs to go one more surgery and the tension along with it. consequently, a hernia operation in Jabalpur is done by a professional who advises the patients to avoid a chance of recurrence of the hernia. The first piece of advice is that, during the recovery phase, for the first five to six weeks, the patients should strictly follow our dietary advice, the exercises to limit and keeping away from significant burden lifting. They should ensure that they take a decent high-protein diet that aids in quicker tissue mending. Smokers should avoid smoking completely after a hernia surgery.

 In this way, these are the fundamental safeguards one needs to take to have a fruitful hernia fix over the long haul. Great eating regimen, sufficient liquid admission, great consideration during the six and half months, complete evasion of smoking and liquor, and staying away from unnecessary weight gain.

In Jabalpur, laparoscopic hernia surgery in Jabalpur is done by the best hernia surgeon in Jabalpur in which patients can feel little pain and patient can recover quickly.

#best hernia surgeon in jabalpur #gallbladder surgeon in jabalpur #laparoscopic surgeon in jabalpur #gallbladder surgery in jabalpur #laparoscopic hernia specialist in jabalpur #pathri specialist doctor in jabalpur #hernia specialist in jabalpur #gallbladder surgeons in jabalpur

[mhysa-leesi]

𝕄𝕣𝕤. 𝔸𝕝𝕝-𝔸𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕟

Pairing: Dark!Steve Rogers 𝒳 (femme) Reader ⭐.

Summary: “Steve Rogers deserves nothing less than an All-American Apple Pie Life, with his Miss America. And he’ll stop at nothing to have it.” 

Word Count: 3,472 

TW‼: Drugging, Kidnapping, Non-Con, Smut, Minor Stockholm Syndrome, Minor Misogynistic Themes, and 1940′s Housewife Themes. 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI‼

AN: This story contains adult and dark themes, please do not proceed if you are under the age of 18 or if ANY of these warnings upset you! I am not responsible for your media consumption–you and only you are. 𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓃𝓀 𝓎𝑜𝓊. 

AN Cont.:  If you or anyone you know has been a victim of sexual violence, please reach out for help. I do not condone ANY of the actions described in this story, this is merely a work of FICTION. 

Steve Rogers is a hero who’s sacrificed so much for the greater good of the world. He’s been fighting his entire life, a constant cycle of getting knocked down, just to get back up and do it all again the next day. A constant blur of black and blue, of broken bones, and bloodied knuckles. Steve didn’t complain too often, he enjoyed waking up every morning and saving the world. He was grateful for the life he led, a life of justice and liberty. So, why did he feel so unfulfilled? Unaccomplished? Incomplete?

Steve would catch himself daydreaming during briefings, dreaming of his childhood. He dreamt about Coney Island, about the smell of popcorn, and the sticky feel of melting popsicles on his fingers. He was stuck in the past and he knew it, maybe he truly was “The Man Out of Time”. He’d journal his thoughts, sketching his memories in charcoal and faded colors. Mostly he’d sketch faces of his past, but there has only been one face as of late that lived within the thick pages. (Y/N). The newest Avenger, his Miss America.

He found himself fantasizing about her with every gentle curve of his pencil, imagining it was his hands running over her hips and not his graphite. The front of his jeans tightened as he shaded her breasts, and he wondered if they were as soft and supple as he made them look on paper. He captured her eyes, adding that sparkle and depth that seemed to become her. Her hair, the unruly hairs, and the ones always perfectly in place. He colored her skin, his heart skipping as he imagined running his lips over the skin of her thighs. Her star-spangled leotard left little to the imagination, so Steve found other things to imagine. The sound of her moans and whimpers, how she’d look as he took her apart one lick and thrust at a time, and how she’d look with him dripping from in-between her legs.

Steve groaned as he threw down his pencil, running his graphite-stained hands over his face in frustration before closing his sketchbook with a soft thump. He needed a distraction--and a cold shower…

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

Today was Lila, Clint’s daughter’s birthday, and all of the Avengers were invited to the festivities. Steve sat next to Bucky, both of them donning bright pink party hats with the words “Happy Birthday” on them in glitter swirls. Bucky was telling Steve about a girl he had recently met at some café or something--truth be told Steve wasn’t listening to his best friend. His attention was elsewhere, across the room, to be exact.

You were in a green tonal dress that perfectly complemented your skin tone, with puff sleeves and floral print. Steve was entranced as he watched you bounce baby Nathaniel on your hip. And he watched as the baby babbled and yanked your hair, making you laugh and wince as you handed him back to his mother. He knew at that moment what he had been missing, what he had been deprived of--what he had deserved after all this time. A family, a white-picket fence… You.

It all suddenly made sense as if he had just completed a puzzle he’d been working on since he woke up from the ice. That was what he wanted--no… It was what he needed, what he deserved. All of his life he had made sacrifice after sacrifice, the world owed him this one thing, and he’d have it. No matter the cost.

You were perfect. A nice girl with a strong head on your shoulders and a good heart, who better to start a life with? There was no question, you’d be his wife, the mother of his children. You’d see it in time, but he couldn’t wait for you. He was a man out of time, after all…

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

It had been almost a month since his revelation, but it was all due in good time. He had made the arrangements, he had been meticulous in his planning. He made sure to get every single detail right, his and your future depended on his perfection. The trap had been set, now he just needed to go hunting for his prey.

You were just coming back from training with Natasha, your skin sheen with sweat and kissed with soft purple bruises from sparring with the Widow. You were laughing at something she had said, giving Steve a small wave before making your way to the communal fridge. He patiently watched as you grabbed your water bottle, your name written in sharpie with stickers on the front. He fidgeted as you took three big gulps, smacking your lips as water dribbled down your chin and onto your chest.

Steve watched as you made your way to your bedroom, he smiled as he noticed a slight stumble in your steps. The drug took faster than he had expected. He waited until he heard the click of the closing door, but it never came. Like a silent shadow, he crept down the hall to the threshold of your room. You were splayed out on the edge of your bed, legs dangling, and your hair a mess.

He couldn’t help himself. He nudged your arm for a response and nothing; you were out cold. A dangerous smirk crossed his face as he knelt down above you, his shadow consuming you in every delicious way possible. He touched your cheek, tracing down to your jaw, and up to your lips. They were so soft, so plump, and oh, so kissable. He tasted you then, molding his lips to yours in a one-sided dance. Steve shivered as he explored your unconscious body, he groped, squeezed, and tasted your salty skin.

He stopped himself. He only had three hours to move you, six tops if his hunch about you skipping breakfast that morning was right. So, he picked up your unconscious body and began the next steps to his plan…

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

When you awoke your limbs were stiff and mind foggy. You stretched away the stiffness and rolled onto your side, blindly reaching for your bottle of water. When your hand failed to meet your nightstand, you froze. What the hell? Confused, you reached out again; telling yourself you just misjudged the distance. But when your hand once again met an empty space, you sat up with a start. You looked around the unfamiliar bedroom. The walls were striped, the floor a godawful floral carpet, and the bed had a wooden frame and a blue blanket tucked into the corners. You blinked, thinking that this room would magically melt into your bedroom at the Tower, and when it remained the same, you blinked again for good measure. You stood on shaky legs and looked around the room once more, disbelief clouding your better judgment. The bedroom looked straight out of a 1940’s catalog.

When the lock on the bedroom door jiggled, you whirled around with your fists raised to meet your captor. You were prepared to see a HYDRA Agent or some other villain with a vendetta against you. What you weren’t prepared for was Steve Rogers. He stood dressed in his old military uniform, his hair neatly combed, and his face clean-shaven.

“Steve? What’s going on?” you asked.

“What do you mean?”

What do I mean? “This,” you gesture wildly with your hands in disbelief, “Where are we?”

“Home,” he said calmly.

“Whose home?”

“Ours, honey,”

You narrowed your eyes at the man before you. This couldn’t be your Steve Rogers, this wasn’t your Captain or friend. This was… someone else. You took a tentative step forward, searching for an eerie glow to his blue eyes, for an explanation for his weird behavior. This had to be mind-control, some elaborate HYDRA plot to disarm the Avengers. This wasn’t Steve, right?

“Steve,” you said carefully, “this isn’t our home. We live at the Tower, remember? With Nat, Sam, and Bucky?”

Steve’s frown deepened as you continued to speak to him like an incompetent child, “No. This is our new home, (Y/N). I made it just for us.”

You nodded along as you slowly crept forward toward the door. He shyly stuffed his hands in his pockets as he continued speaking, confessing. When you were close enough, you bolted past him. But you weren’t faster than Steve Rogers. He caught you by the ponytail and threw you back into the bedroom on the floor, kicking the door shut behind him. You scrambled to your feet and into a defensive position as Steve made another grab for you. You twisted and threw a right hook to his jaw, the strength of your powered punch was enough to send him stumbling backward, but it wasn’t enough to win against him. The same serum that made him had made you, too. But you’d be a goddamn idiot to think that you were stronger than Steve Rogers.

You made another run for the exit, but you didn’t get very far as Steve caught you yet again by your ankle. You kicked, punched, scratched, and flailed as he overpowered you. The man straddled your wriggling form and placed his hands around your throat. Squeezing and squeezing until the oxygen caught in your throat and your limbs began to relax. Your arms and legs went lax as your vision began to dot and blacken. When you let out the last wisp of air from your lungs is when Steve released you. You wheezed and gasped like a fish out of the water as you struggled to breathe, to fill your lungs with oxygen once again. You massaged your throat and glared up at Steve who was straightening and dusting off his uniform.

“I’ll only tell you this once, (Y/N). If you disobey me, in any way shape, or form, you’ll be punished. Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warned, “Now, get cleaned up. Dinner is almost ready.”

He opened the closet and pulled out a baby blue dress with silver embroidered star details around the off-shoulder neckline, and set it on the bed before you. You sat on the floor, just silently glaring and snarling as he knelt down in front of you with a small velvet box and diamond ring in hand. He grabbed your left hand and went to place it on your ring finger, but before he could slide the diamond on your finger, you wrenched your hand away and cracked him across the cheek. The slap seemed to echo throughout the room as his jaw ticked in silent anger. Before you could react, Steve pulled his hand back and returned the slap. The impact sent your head whipping sharply to the side, and caused your eyes to water with prickling, unshed tears. Your cheek stung when you touched it.

“I told you, (Y/N),” he sighed, “You made me do that.”

“I didn’t make you do shit, Rogers,” you spit.

You flinched as he pointed an angry and threatening finger in your face, “Language.”

He left you then after reminding you of dinner. Alone in the bedroom, you scowled at the dress that seemed to mock you. You threw it onto the floor and stomped out of the room, fueled by anger and hatred.

You found him in the kitchen, knife in hand as he carved a glazed turkey. His smile dropped as he took in your dress-less form. You were still in your gym clothes from earlier. Steve’s nostrils flared as he set the knife down, he stared at the turkey before turning his gaze to you.

“You’re not wearing the dress,”

“No,” you said flatly.

“And why not?”

You scoffed at him, “Why do you think, Steve?”

He moved his head to the side as he grumbled something under his breath. His knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. You smirked triumphantly, you didn’t know why, but getting under his skin was satisfying. You weren’t going to make this easy for him, and you sure as hell wouldn’t be wearing that damn dress.

As if he had read your mind, he looked back at you with an ominous smile. He rounded the counter and stood in front of you, his large frame so much bigger than yours. In any other scenario, it would’ve been intimidating--having your Captain looming over you so threateningly. But right now, at this moment, you couldn’t care less. You wanted to piss him off, to knock him down off his pedestal. You’d be damned if you bent to his sick will.

Your eyes darted behind Steve to the counter where the knife waited for you. Before he could track your movements, you made a dive for it. Rolling over the island as you quickly readied the knife. You slashed and stabbed at Steve, growling in frustration as he effortlessly blocked and dodged all of your attacks. In one quick and fluid movement, Steve grabbed and twisted your wrist; forcing you to drop the knife. Your heart breaking with the loud clatter as it hits the floor.

Steve dragged you to the table by the back of your neck and slammed your cheek down onto the wood. Empty wine glasses and plates clattered with the impact. You grunted and kicked out your legs blindly, settling for a shin kick--anything. Steve slammed your head against the table once more as you continued to fight against him. He did it again, and again, and again until your vision blurred and your blood splattered against the polished wood. You weakly clawed at the plates and silverware around you, desperately trying to cling onto something. When your fingers wrapped around on a fork, you didn’t hesitate. You stabbed Steve’s thigh and summoned all of your remaining strength to throw him into the wall.

You fell back as you panted for breath, arming yourself with another piece of random cutlery. You threw a steak knife, missing him by just an inch. Steve growled as he dragged you by your kicking legs, hauling you up, just to slam you down onto the table once more. He held your face down as he growled in your ear.

“You have a lot of fight in you, (Y/N). Breaking you is going to be so much fun, honey,”

Slam.

“I’ll beat that spark out of you, if you make me, (Y/N). So why don’t you just be a good girl for me, hmm?”

Steve took hold of your neck once more as he guided you up the stairs and into the bedroom. He shoved you down onto the bed, and you landed on your stomach with a bounce. Your head was throbbing with an uncomfortable fog that settled over your thoughts. You murmured weakly in protest as Steve began to undress you. You felt the blood from your head drip down to your ear and down your neck.

Panic set your heart in motion as you felt him tug your leggings down your legs. Your brain and body kicked into a desperate overdrive as you writhed beneath him. You tried to shove him away, you summoned all of your super strength and thrashed, but you were simply no match for him--you were utterly powerless and at his mercy. His hands explored your thighs, dipping between them and squeezing that soft, supple inner skin. You scrambled to your knees, inadvertently pressing and grinding your ass to his front. He groaned as he moved his hands to your hips, angling them up as he ground down onto you with a silent promise of what was to come.

His hand dipped down and he held his prize within his hand. He groped and you grunted as you clawed blindly at his forearms, grabbing his wrists as he yanked down your cotton panties past your knees. You screamed as he shoved his fingers inside you, forcing his knuckles past your folds. You kicked and cursed him, hoping your struggle would be enough for him to let you go. You screamed louder than you had ever screamed before, so loud your head ached and lungs burned. With an annoyed grunt, Steve wrapped his thick arm around your neck in a chokehold to shut you up. You babbled breathlessly as you slapped at his arm.

“Steve,” you choked, “Please…”

He gave you one last strong warning squeeze before letting you fall flat on your back, coughing and gasping for breath.

“All you had to do was be good for me, (Y/N). I told you, bad girls get punished,”

He withdrew as he undid his fly. You swallowed thickly, wincing as your throat burned from his assault. You grabbed at his wrists, but he just batted your weak hands away as he held you down with one hand. The other gripping his thick, swollen length. You saw the muscles of his stomach tighten as he parted your legs. His grip on the back of your knees was bruising as he held them apart, lining himself up to your entrance. You tried once more to shimmy away, but he had you where he wanted you; vulnerable and open to him. He bent over you, his eyes black with lust, as he invited himself inside of you. He pushed himself inside, agonizingly slow, inch by inch, just relishing in the grip of you. You were too dry, too unwelcoming, but it didn’t matter to him. You were perfect, warm, and tight. He moaned then, as he forced himself deeper into you, pushing and pushing until his pelvis touched yours.

“Steve, please,” you sobbed, “please, stop…”

He shushed your pleas as his face scrunched in pleasure with every shallow thrust. You gritted your teeth to keep yourself silent, you wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. But he didn’t seem to notice as he tilted your hips up, finding his own slow, steady rhythm as he fucked into you. He cupped your face and forced his lips onto yours, his tongue swiping and exploring your mouth. You slapped at his head, but he never relented, never pulled back from his searing kiss. He moaned into your mouth as his hips skipped a beat. You took that opportunity, the falter of his hips, to bite down on his tongue. Then, did he finally relent.

He pulled away from you, his hips stilling inside of you. He carefully touched his tender tongue, scowling as he pulled away bloodied fingers. Steve drew back his hand and slapped you across the face. The smack of flesh striking flesh echoed throughout the room. You sneered at him and he frowned in disappointment before cracking you once more. You yelped as he held you down by your neck. Steve had found a new rhythm, and it was relentless. His tempo was fast, and he made sure to never miss a beat as he hammered into your abused cunt. He put pressure on your throat, but not enough to send you into a pool of cold unconsciousness. No… he wanted you awake for this, lucid, and remembering.

His groans and moans grew louder, duetting with the lewd notes of your squelching pussy and his skin slapping against yours. The repulsive symphony he had conducted finally reached its ungodly climax. You sobbed as you felt his warmth flood within you, as he shamelessly emptied himself deep inside of you. He sat back on his haunches, gently pulling himself from your wet grip. Your body instantly curled in on itself, shielding you from the man before you. The man you had once admired. You lay there, just shaking, whether it was from shock or anger, you didn’t know.

You felt as he dropped the baby blue dress with the silver embroidered stars next to you. You sniffled as you looked at the dress in defeat, silently dressing in the blue cotton. When you were dressed, Steve helped you to your feet, holding you against his chest as he gently swayed you. He caressed your head, embracing you gently as if he hadn’t just used your body, as if he was your sweet and loving husband, as if this was normal.

“Dinner is probably cold by now,” he sighed, “It’s okay, though. You can try again tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” your voice was smaller now, weaker, afraid.

He hummed, “It’s a wife’s duty to cook and care for her husband, (Y/N). I think I’d like meatloaf for dinner, and apple pie for dessert. What do you think, honey?”

You hesitated, you wanted to spit at him, to curse, to smack, punch, and kick, but your body was frozen against his. When you didn’t reply, his grip on you tightened threateningly, making you flinch.

“Yes, that sounds good, Steve,” you whispered. He kissed your head as he gently swayed you, his warm release slowly dripping down your shaking legs.

#dark!steve smut #dark!steve x reader #dark!steve rogers #dark!steve x you #dark!captain america #dark steve x reader #dark steve x you #dark steve rogers #dark steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers x you #steve rogers #steve rodgers x reader #steve rogers fic #steve rodgers imagine #steve rogers x female reader #captain america #captain america fanfiction #captain america x female reader #captain america fic #captain america x you #captain america smut #steve rogers smut #dark!mcu #dark!marvel #mcu fanfiction #mcu fic #mcu #marvel #marvel fanfiction

[nyehilismwriting]

Would you consider putting together short physical descriptions of the main ship crew including non ROs? For drawing reference 🙏🥺

yep! I've actually been working on these for the directory for the next update so I'll drop 'em here too - they aren't all that comprehensive but they should give a general idea. I'll add some stuff from my notes as well.

leanna: A dark-skinned woman of lean build, Leanna has thick, tightly curled black hair that she frequently ties back, black eyes, and an open, friendly face; she smiles easily, and carries the lines of a working life around her eyes.

[notes: pierced ears, usually wears dark, earthy colours. practical clothing.]

ki-ha: Ki-Ha is a stocky man, with the kind of solid weight that comes from both muscle and fat; he's got deep brown eyes, short black hair going grey at the temples, and his hands are littered with burn scars. You've glimpsed tattoos on his hands, though you're not sure how far up they go.

[notes: the tattoos do go all the way up both arms but the operative hasn't seen them yet. also i have the word 'beefy' in my notes about 3 times <3]

rhaxa: Standing at around eight feet tall, with their serpentine neck and razor-sharp teeth, Rhaxa is what you might describe as 'intimidating'. They have six limbs: one pair of enormous, mantis-like claws, a set of roughly humanoid arms, ending in four-fingered hands with sharp claws, and digitigrade legs. Their wings consist of a membrane suspended from a prehensile cartilaginous structure, used not for flight but for movement and balance, and their tail is roughly half the length of their body again. Their skin is black, with the scales along their neck and limbs carrying a blue-green iridescence, and their eyes are vivid orange, with keyhole pupils. Rhaxa uses they/them, he/him, and xe/xem pronouns.

[notes: there's a post here with more info about the bugs' physiology]

skylar: Skylar has the same dark skin and black hair as his sister, though he keeps his cropped short; at nineteen, he's still young, bright-eyed and cheerful.

[notes: resemblance to leanna most prominent when smiling. no piercings, but he does have a couple of tattoos, including an albatross head on one shoulder]

joia: Joia is around eight years old, with the kind of fragile, bony look of a child growing slightly faster than her body can keep up; she's mixed race, with brown skin and black hair, currently worn in braids, and dark brown eyes.

#not including nash and rohan's bc they're available ingame already #these are the ones being added in the next update #imxa's will get added. hrngrr Later #riessene #ro descriptions #tagging this in the vain hope that tumblr search will ever let me see it again

[afterartist]

Have a headcannon dump of a LU!centaur Au that’s been cycling in my brain for a week, I’m quite possibly going to write a fic/do more art,

You’re free to leave ideas or suggestions for this Au as well

(Wild doodle to go with at the end)

•–•Au Basics:

-this is heavily based off the @linkeduniverse Au by @jojo56830

Basically it’s the same but every character (even side characters but they’re not important) are Centaurian, this is finicky and involves things like Cervitaurs, mermaids and whatnot,

This is hevily based on living conditions and most races are born with natural legs, ie; hylians are born with two hylian legs, and their secondary legs will grow in around the age of four depending on the food and lifestyle they’ve had until then, the secondary traits are usually set in by the age of six where they will no longer have their original legs.

—-

Now the headcannons (this is just the links cause idk much about the Zelda’s so I have to do more research)

—-

•–Time•

- The old man is a Stag, no I will not take criticism on this

Time started off his journey a young deer cervitaur, barely grown into his fawn limbs before coming into contact with Fi,

Deer are often seen as prey animals and weak, but we all know Time is seen as the leader for a reason,

My man got mad strong horns and has kicked, impaled and stomped on more Moblins then any sane person should, while deers are often seen as weak you would have to be blind, deaf, three years old and an idiot to think Time any less then the powerful stag that would lay his life down for his family

-

•–Sky•

-Loftwing… kind of a no brainer for this one

Oh yeah, our sleepy king has butt wings and you can’t stop me,

Sky was literally found in a Loftwing nest and the majority of Skyloft secretly think he’s a Hylian Centaur instead of the other way around,

Learning to fly was the literal worst, his wings took a few more years to fully develop so he got to flying later then most, the fact that his wings sit at an awkward place on the base between his hylian torso and his Skywing back doesn’t help that fact

Yes he’s still perfected the art of flying while asleep, not even other Loftwing hybrids know how he does it

-

•–Twilight •

-He’s… hes a Wolf… it’s… it’s twilight… literally what else would he be?

He was actually a wolf hybrid before his adventure started and is honestly not sure how it took so long for the chain to even start to theorise his connections with Wolfie,

Wind guessed they were long lost brothers,

Fun fact, Twi is allergic to fur, it took him embracingly long to realise, ‘Oh, I thought the air was just meant to hurt’

Legend likes to call him a husky and watch as Twi goes on a rant about how they are completely different, this went on for months before time brought a stop to it

-

•-Legend•

-Pegasus… is this because I love the Pegasus boots? You’ll never know

The only reason sky knows how to preen his wings is because legend literally sat on him one day and showed him

In the ‘Not quite horse centaurs’ club with Wild

His tail was unfortunately docked in his third adventure, Wind used his ‘ Customary Pirate Rope tying skills’ to fashion him a fake tail out of foe hair (yes it’s pink) and braided him a new tail,

Legend won’t admit but that was the day he started trusting the rest of the chain

Likes to cuff Wars over the head with his wings, he quickly found out Wars’ wings hurt a lot more to get hit by then his

-

•–Warriors•

-DragonDragonDRAGONDRA-

His scales are literally brighter then the chains future (admittedly not hard to be)

Learned the hard way that his claws are sharp and for completely non related reasons has a wooden backscratcher he won’t tell anyone about

Runs hotter then the others Links, thus why he always wears his scarf, Legend jokes he’s as cold blooded as his blood,

legend regrets.

Has an unhealthy obsession with shiny things, his time in the army has helped him restrain from stealing freshly polished swords and amour but four swears they had a freshly cleaned dagger right next to them and now it’s gone-

-

•–Four•

-Minish?? More like biggish (that was bad I’ll see myself out-)

Still Has four legs like a mouse instead of the two that minish usually have, but has the fluffiest tail in existence

Actually wasn’t sure what Minish were before meeting them so was super confused for the first few years after developing

When Wind was confused on how to use their pronouns (they/them) correctly they told him to just picture four mice in a Trenchcoat (it helped Wind a lot)

Paints their claws/nails, each foot is one of the four colours, the blue nails are for some reason always somehow chipped, Warriors ends up lending them some of his nail Polish which is sturdier

-

•–Hyrule•

-obsessing over the idea that Rules’ Hyrule is basically Australia so Rule is a kangaroo

Kangaroos are evil deer, Rule is the exception

Kangaroos are terrifying and could be hit by a truck and walk it off, lest to say Time had a mini breakdown after watching Hyrule get punched into a tree by a Hinox, stand up, then carry on with his life without so much as a scratch

They still suck at cooking

If you say ‘shrimp on a campfire’ he will ring your throat until you meet Nayru face to face,

‘I may not know how to cook but I know they’re called prawns.’

-

•–Wind•

-Salt water croc for my salty pirate

Changed from lobster because I personally hate lobsters

Has claws and knows how to use them, preferably on the back of legend’s legs but has learned hooves hurt to take to the face

Has 3rd eyelid to be able to see underwater, so he likes to sleep like that sometimes and creep out whoever is on watch

Wild has attempted to eat him at least twice, both times Twi had to stop the because Wind was also curious

Sky only has two legs? Boo loser, Wind has 4 and a big tail that could snap your spine (it took wind several years to learn how not to trip over and he still can’t walk for long periods of time)

-

•–Wild-

-Lynel… Time is not surprised

In the ‘Not quite horse centaurs’ club with Legend

Honestly thought he was a horse until Flora mentioned ‘no Link, horse’s don’t grow horns out of their head’

Isn’t sure if he’s a gold Lynel or just blond (they’re just blond)

Also has a hint of orange in his blue eyes, eyes that glow red on bloodmoons

Unlike their hair they actually like to style their tail a lot, went they went to Gerudo town he was taught how to braid and bun it but can’t do it on his own so let’s Wind do it when he’s bored

Has small horns that Time had to teach him how to take care of, cause who knew horns need maintenance

Literally no one knows how his glider is able to hold him up… or how he climbs literally anything with ease even with his equestrian limbs

Was also one of the first to use Four’s pronouns correctly as they themselves use all pronouns (likes he/they the most tho)

—- Quick sketch of Wild cause I love them with all my heart

Anyway, it’s just a poorly thought out Au and I’ll probably work on it more but have this info dump for a second as I try to figure out what I’m doing with my life,

If y’all have any suggestions have at it,

I just hope my ideas aren’t as jumbled as I think they are

#linked universe #linked universe au #centaur au #linked universe time #linked universe sky #linked universe twilight #linked universe legend #linked universe warriors #linked universe four #linked universe hyrule #linked universe wind #linked universe wild #linked universe drabble #linked universe fanart #headcanon #linked universe headcanons #incorrect quotes #my art #art #fanart #fanfic #linked universe fanfic #botw lynel #lynel #linked universe chain #legend of zelda #legend of zelda au #loz #loz fanart #not me hyperfocusing on a new obsession

[fruitcoops]

I was wondering if I could request something? Maybe Sirius' first night at the Dumais' place and Dumo can straight away tell that somethings wrong. Sirius makes polite conversation and it all looks so painful until he retires for the night and Dumo passes by his room and he hears Sirius crying maybe? Because of what his mother said, and maybe because he has trouble adjusting to new situations? Just an idea that popped into my head :) Only if you want to write it <3 Thank you

Yes, I can! I love writing Dumo, but for some reason I don't do it that often--his and Sirius' dynamic is just so wholesome and wonderful. SW credit goes to @lumosinlove!

TW for implied child abuse and broken glass (no injury)

The first thing Pascal Dumais noticed about Sirius Black was how quiet he was. At only eighteen years old, Sirius was taller than most of the other Lions, with broad shoulders and gangly limbs. Yet he moved almost silently, padding along the wood floors in his socks and speaking only when spoken to. It was…honestly, a bit unsettling.

Dumo had expected a rambunctious teenage boy, still high on the thrill of being drafted to the NHL—instead, he found himself the guardian-slash-landlord of a ghost. Sirius unloaded his meager belongings with little fuss and accepted no help, his pale eyes never lingering on either of them for too long.

Celeste poked her head into the living room in the early afternoon when they returned from the grocery store; Sirius was sitting ramrod straight in the smallest chair they had with a thick book in his hands. She knocked gently on the doorframe, and he jumped. “Sirius, would you like some lunch?”

“I don’t want to be any trouble,” he said in that unusually soft voice.

“It’s no trouble,” she assured him.

“I can make myself a sandwich if you have other things to do. Really, I’m alright.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

Sirius blinked, as if he hadn’t expected her to ask, then glanced at the clock on the wall. “I had breakfast at seven and a granola bar on the plane.”

“Sirius, it’s almost two.”

“Is it?”

“Come with me for a moment, oui?” She ushered him into the kitchen; Dumo wasn’t sure he would ever get used to seeing someone so physically imposing walk so small.

“Papa?” Someone tugged on the hem of his shirt and he snapped out of his daze, leaning down to lift Adele into his arms with a smile.

“Bonjour, mon chou! Did you have fun outside?” She nodded, wiggling a little in her excitement, and put her hands on either side of his face. Dumo’s stomach sank. “Why are your hands wet?”

“I washed them!”

“Why?”

“Because we played with chalk!”

Both the boys were at day camp, and Katie was down for her afternoon nap. Dumo wracked his brain. “Who were you playing with?”

“Sirius!” she giggled, then held the front of her shirt out. Wasn’t she wearing a different one this morning?“An’ he said chalk stains, so he lifted me up so I could wash my hands and helped me get my new shirt on when it got stuck and let me braid his hair! Can we keep him? Please, Papa, I wanna keep him forever!”

Dumo kissed her forehead as a wave of emotion tickled the back of his throat. Less than six hours in their home, and Sirius was already connecting with his children. “Oui, we can. Did you say thank you?”

Adele bit her lower lip. “I don’t remember.”

“Sirius?” Dumo called. The clanking in the kitchen stopped. “Can you come here for a moment?”

There was a beat of silence before he appeared in the doorway, looking paler than before as he walked over to them. This boy needs to eat more, the parental part of Dumo’s brain thought instantly. Slate-grey eyes flickered between them. “She—she had chalk on her shirt. I’m sorry, I should have asked.”

“It’s alright. What do you say?” Dumo asked, turning to Adele.

She turned a beaming smile on Sirius. “Thank you!”

His whole face softened in the blink of an eye and he smiled back, giving her a light fist bump. “Pas de problem, petit papillon.”

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

Sirius opened up a bit over lunch; Adele perched herself right in his lap with her peanut butter sandwich to his clear astonishment, but his smiles came easier after that and Dumo treasured each one. He was already grateful that Sirius did not seem like the type of asshole player that Dumo remembered from his high school years.

Marc and Louis returned to the house just as they finished, and though Sirius offered to help wash the dishes—the boy was a blessing, really—they shooed him off to play with the kids for a while. It would do them all some good to get out in the sun.

“Quiet, isn’t he?” Celeste remarked as they stood side-by-side at the sink. Her tone was casual, but Dumo saw the worry in her eyes.

He hummed in agreement. “He’s probably just nervous, mon amour. They can take a while to warm up.”

“Pascal, I don’t think—”

The sound of shattering glass echoed from the other room. The house held its breath. “Is everyone alright?” Dumo called, drying his hands on the nearest towel as his pulse picked up. “What happened?”

Hushed whispers floated out, followed by the pitter-patter of little feet. He hurried down the hall with Celeste hot on his heels. “I’m so sorry,” Sirius said as they entered the room. He was kneeling on the wood floor, gathering fragments of a small water glass in one palm. “It was my fault. I hit it with my elbow.”

Celeste frowned. “Boys? Adele? I know you were here.”

Dumo didn’t miss Sirius’ hard swallow, nor the sudden nervousness—no, that was fear—on his face as the three kids crept out from around the corner, looking guiltier than anything. Adele stepped forward, but Sirius stood in a smooth, instinctive motion, keeping her behind him. “It was my fault,” he repeated. Dumo’s heart sank.

“Adele, is that true?”

She looked up toward Sirius, who kept his broad hand ever so slightly in front of her shoulder. Celeste raised an eyebrow. “Adele Marie, tell the truth.”

“No,” she said.

“Come here, please.” Dumo watched Sirius’ breaths go shallow as Celeste beckoned to Adele, but confusion took its place when she crouched to her level. “Thank you. What Sirius did was very nice, but we don’t let other people take the fall for our mistakes in this house, Adele. We accept responsibility. Who broke the cup?”

“I was chasing Marc and we both bumped into the table,” Adele confessed, toying with the hem of her butterfly-patterned shirt. “It was an accident, I promise.”

“Did anyone get hit by the glass?” Dumo asked. All three shook their heads. “Sirius?”

He cleared his throat. “No, Mr. Dumais.”

“Marc, Adele, I want you to find the broom and dustpan so your mother and I can clean this up. Thank you for being honest. Sirius, there’s a trash can in the kitchen, but be careful of the sharp edges. And please, call me Pascal or Dumo.”

But he didn’t stop thinking about the visible alarm on Sirius’ face when Celeste brought Adele forward all afternoon. Something was not right.

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

If it wasn’t for the baby, Dumo would not have heard it.

Katie woke around midnight with a quiet whine, which devolved into whimpering, and finally into full-out sobbing for over half an hour. He carried her downstairs so she wouldn’t wake the others and gently rocked her, humming lullabies under his breath until his throat was dry and her tears abated. “There’s my good girl,” he murmured, drying her pudgy cheeks with his sleeve.

The last bits of sleep faded away as he set her down in her crib again, and he sighed. The season didn’t start for more than a month, but he had been looking forward to a few consecutive nights of solid rest before then.

May as well check on the others, he thought, wandering down the hallway in his thickest socks and bathrobe to stave off the nighttime chill. Marc and Louis were each out cold; he took the open book splayed across Marc’s bed and set it on his dresser, turning the lamp off as he left. Adele was curled into a tight ball around no less than four of her precious stuffed animals and he tucked the blankets back over her shoulder.

Dumo’s feet carried him down the stairs before his brain fully caught up, and he paused—Sirius had been in their house for a single day, and already he had the urge to look out for him. The thought should have made him feel silly, but instead he felt…peaceful. He felt right. There was a lost and near-silent boy in his home, who protected his kids within hours of knowing them. Of course Dumo was going to make sure he was alright.

Summer wind rushed past the wide windows as he headed toward the basement. It was warmer there, and he took a moment to mentally pat himself on the back for remodeling two years prior. Hopefully, Sirius would be comfortable.

A soft sound broke through his thoughts. Dumo stopped on the last step.

There was a harsh breath, then a sniffle, as if the person inside was trying and failing to keep their tears in past the point of no return. He heard a few shaky, weak inhales, then a choked noise that cut off abruptly with a gulp.

Dumo closed his eyes to hold back tears of his own and knocked lightly on the bedroom door.

Everything went silent with a rustle.

“Sirius?” he whispered, raising his voice just enough to be heard through the door. “Are you awake?”

There was no answer.

“Can I come in?” he ventured.

An unsteady voice answered. “Ouais.”

The door creaked a little as he opened it and stepped into the dark room. Sirius was nothing more than a clump of shadows on the far side of the bed, squished tight against the wall with all his blankets wrapped around him. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Je vais bien.”

“Can I sit?” Dumo fully expected Sirius to tell him ‘no’, to make an excuse, to pull some arrogant teenager nonsense.

Instead, he tucked his legs up and made room near the foot of the bed with another sniffle. “Did I wake you?”

“Non. Katie was crying, and I thought I’d check on everyone.” He settled down and scooted until his back was against the wall as well—Sirius was still hiding in a cocoon of his duvet, but his hand came up to wipe his face. “Do you want to talk?”

“About what?”

“You seem upset. I know the homesickness is hard for the first few days, but—”

“No.” The vehemence of Sirius’ answer shocked him into silence. “No. I’m not homesick. I just—so much has happened, and I—it’s—this is everything I wanted, right here, and—”

He broke off with a wounded noise that broke Dumo’s poor heart right down the middle. He moved closer until their shoulders touched; to his surprise, Sirius leaned on him and shivered. “How can I help you?” Dumo asked quietly.

“Your family…” Sirius shook his head and drew the covers tighter. “You have a beautiful family. You should be proud of them.”

“I am, every day.”

“Your kids love you so much.” It was barely more than a whisper.

Dumo sighed through his nose. “I know.”

“No, you don’t, they—you’re their hero. And not because of hockey.”

That was Dumo’s dream, laid out right in front of him. If someone he hardly knew could see that, then it must be true. The impact was greater than he ever could have imagined; his lungs felt tight. “Thank you. Is it alright if I ask you something?”

Sirius stiffened slightly.

“You’re not in trouble, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I’m just…worried.”

He felt Sirius shift. “This is about the glass.” It wasn’t a question.

“Oui.” Dumo searched for the words and scrounged up any sliver of tact he could find. “Sirius, do you—what happens when you break a glass at your house?”

Sirius’ breath rushed from his lungs in a near-silent sob. Dumo gathered him close in his arms and held him, letting tears dampen his shoulder as he murmured soft reassurances in French. “I’m sorry,” Sirius croaked, though he did not move away. “I’m sorry for—for intruding, and for ruining your shirt—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Dumo gave him a light squeeze of comfort and felt him go a bit boneless. “And you are not intruding. We love having you here with us.”

“Really?”

He sounded so unsure. So young. Dumo wished he could take away whatever horrible things had been said to ever make someone so kind feel so small. “Yes. Adele, especially.”

“She’s so…colorful.” Fondness dripped from every word.

“She is,” Dumo agreed. “She came running up to me, and went ‘papa, papa, can we keep him?’”

Sirius laughed a little at his imitation and straightened up, drying his eyes on his hoodie sleeve. They sat quietly for a while until the shaking stopped and his death grip on the comforter loosened. “Thank you, Mr. Dumais.”

“Call me Pascal, or Dumo if you like. ‘Mr. Dumais’ makes me sound like a grandfather.” They laughed together, then fell silent once more. “And you’re welcome. Any time you need help, you can come to me. I might not be your father, but—”

“You’re better,” Sirius interrupted, wiping his nose. His shadow turned to face Dumo in the dark, and though he couldn’t see his face, he could picture the earnest expression. “In every way. Please don’t tell anyone about this, though.”

“It never even crossed my mind,” Dumo answered honestly. “I should let you sleep now. We have some busy weeks ahead of us, eh?”

“Bonne nuit, M—Dumo.” The name carried new weight and he let it sink in as Sirius laid back down and kicked his blankets back into place. Something told him this was the beginning of a very interesting story.

“Bonne nuit, Sirius. Welcome to our home.”

#fanfic #my fic #sweater weather #lumosinlove #sirius black #pascal dumais #celeste dumais #dumais kids

[sourstars]

love? (they say it’s everything)

It’s been so long since he’s passed but every year you do the same routine; pay respects to the boy you knew once upon a time and hope that the pain will ease, but when you stumble across a stranger in the middle of your apartment, you begin to learn that maybe you aren't the only one forever grieving.

navi + masterlist

→ sources: one / two / three / four / five / six!

→ requested by: anonymous / "hi 😊 congrats on your milestone love ❤️ for the event, could I please request dabi + red roses? thank you 💕💕"

→ suggested listening: everybody dies & getting older by billie eilish

→ a.n: had a random burst of motivation so i speed wrote this during the whole night before i had to head to the hospital, hope you enjoy!! / ty to @laichi, @bleedinqhearts, @chimielie, and everyone else who listened to me ramble or beta for this!! i love ya'll mwah

→ word count: 1.9K

→ warnings: angst (??) and slight fluff, mentions of grief and emotional pain, depictions of injuries (non specific)

→ trope(s): strangers to almost lovers/friends (?), slice of life

tag list: @frogtanii @sincerelykore @simpfortetsu @http-worm @x-ia-n @miyarins @crapimahuman @tejxswini @10x12 @aiiwa please click this to join the tag list! (and fully read the form.)

You’ve always thought that love and loss were beastly things; creatures untamable in their quest to claim everything, but you’ve learned that perhaps just because things are yours for a moment, doesn’t mean one day they won’t be gone.

It started at the ripe age of nine — when the urge for world domination truly takes over — and your best friend was no stranger to the insatiability of youth and its temptations, but you suppose Touya has always been funny like that — always rushing to be first in the grand scheme of winners, and on the night your friendship turned sour, it sunk in.

You wouldn’t understand, he’d tell you, Losing is the worst thing in the world.

But I do, you’d argue, I’d know it in every nook and cranny.

But being nine is quite a jump from being twenty-two, so even as you walk the streets with leftover flowers from work, you’re silent as your heart locks itself away, every step a brick that builds the wall to keep out the rest of the world, because what lack of safety is worth enough to yearn, to banter, to barter for it?

The truth of it is a hard pill to swallow; whatever answer you give, you are wrong. So when your heart speaks the only half truth it knows, telling you keep distance, it will hurt less, it causes you to scurry from the gazes of the bystanders who walk by with their loved ones, ignoring how they prattle on about stories and pain like the easy secrets to life lie in between the syllables, because there’s just something about your sadness you can’t quite shake.

There’s something about the grief that digs and digs and digs — something about how it wants to take root; to make a home in any place you would be willing to allow it, but there is little resistance to muster as you clamber up to your apartment, cradling the flowers to your chest, the petals tickling your cheeks.

It’s quiet in your apartment, like it’s always been, but tonight it takes shape in the way you find your window open and a mess upon your apartment floor; medical supplies and things alike scattered across the wood, but it paled in comparison to the man you’d locked eyes with as he stood facing you, limbs frozen in the middle of attempting to wrap his arm in gauze, and time could’ve stretched on forever, but you’d never find anything as crazy as this.

So, like any sane person would, you say:

“Do...” you press your lips together for a moment, “Do you need help with that?”

(You find the way he tries to pretend he’s got it, using one hand and a leg to leverage the supplies, charming, but in favor of keeping the peace, you don’t tell him that.)

An hour later, you’d learned, after slight bickering and a couple of threats you were sure were empty handed, that he was named Dabi.

In truth, he wasn’t entirely bad company. Sure, he’d raided your fridge before you’d arrived and wouldn’t stop fidgeting and glancing around, but you were confident enough to say that he could be tolerable, if not downright enjoyable, but who were you to presume such things? Impaired judgment had always been your best friend, if not your partner in crime.

“You don’t have to be so gentle with me, you know,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes, “‘S not like ‘m gonna break.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell by all of the blood an—”

“Shut it.”

“Besides…” you continue, softly working on his shoulder with a warm rag, wiping away any trace of red off of his skin, “Everyone could use a little softness, there’s never enough of it.”

He says nothing then, electing to merely scoff and jut his chin away from you when you try to peel off a stray, misplaced bandaid, but when the glimmer of something in his eyes doesn’t escape you, you see it; he’s got a heart in there, and while he’s a criminal and you’re a stranger, it’s nice to have found it.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.” you wag your finger accusingly, “But stay away from my snacks.”

“Whatever.”

He stays three nights.

Each leaves a mark bigger than the one before but on the second, in between mouths full of lunch and drinks that chase away the summer heat, you tell him that his name, in another culture, in another language, means dearly loved. He laughs for the first time, hands holding the space over his heart with shirt-filled palms and when you ask why, curious to the wry way his lips curl, he tells you it’s the irony, I suppose.

(You leave it alone after that, but you catch the way he traces the words into everything he touches.)

On the third, when the city is asleep and there is no life upon the streets except you both on your creaky fire escape, he spills a truth.

“It was hard.”

Dabi, as far as you’ve come to know him, as never spoken quietly, he doesn’t quite seem the type, but the crease in his brow is unmistakable so you listen as best you can, watching as he wrings his hands over and over through the little loops of his jeans, “I left my family when I was a kid, barely old enough to know how to do anything but think I knew everything — because you know, kids are like that, but one day, I… left everything behind. And it was hard.”

(Somehow the strain in his voice, if not his recent company, reminds you that, despite all things, he’s still human, and you find there’s something touching about that. Even the strongest walls must have a soft spot, you suppose. How else do they let people in if not for the softness, if not from trust?

You take it as a sign to say something, anything at all.)

“Do you miss it?” you lean your head back as you talk, letting it rest against the bricks of the building as you bring your knees up, “Your old life? Do you ever miss the way some things were, or what they could’ve been?”

He sighs at this, but you hear his admission all the same. I used to, but I don’t, now.

“I get it,” you mumble. Your mouth falls into a soft frown, eyes low while you fiddle with the laces of your sneakers, twisting and twisting and twisting, “I didn’t lose as much, but I lost some—”

“It’s not the same. You wouldn’t understand,” he says, and when the frown on his lips tells you he truly believes that, you’re sure that’s, indeed, the saddest thing you’ve ever heard, “Losing is the worst thing in the world,”

But you respond, helpless to the memories retaking their place in your heart’s haunting, “But I do, because I know it in every nook and cranny.”

And when he looks at you for a moment, eyes trailing every angle and aspect of your face for far longer than you think you could ever have the time to count to, it clicks — he and you were the same, once; a pair of dirty shoes that have seen some of the world, and suddenly, the sadness in you has met its match; the boy who has never loved and the one who had loved too much.

(He looks familiar here, much like the boy you knew — both have the same look in their eye, the I wanted to change the world, but all I did was burn it down — but skeletons are skeletons for the sole purpose of staying in the closet so you tug that back for another day, torn between the ache and the relief at the fact that his ghost will never die.

Such is the way with grief; there is no better calling than to bring those who hear it into endlessness.)

“What do you think losing is? Or love — or even loss? What’s any of it?”

“Loss, I think, is still loss, in whatever manner it comes to be, but I think to love is to be on the verge of greatness. And to lose? Well, to if love is greatness, I think losing is the thing just shy of that,”

It takes a fraction of a second for the phrase but the millions of things you’ve done flash by in that time, and you force yourself to swallow, feeling the lump in your throat become the burden, and then you give a smile, full of cemented history and things could’ve been different, “I think loss is the love everyone is afraid to put down.”

He looks at you differently now, the twitch of his hand a dead giveaway — you’d like to believe you’ve become versed in all things Dabi, but you find there's something you want to hold onto after that, some type of signal that beckons you both with the call to rest.

(Because despite all of this trouble and suffering and madness, he is your friend or maybe more, but he matters to you and right now neither of you have the capacity to say it into the open air so hours later, you send him on his way, six pink and red and black roses in his hand for the mother he’d told you about, and a few more for the sister and brothers he’s complained of, but you know he loves them somewhere.

Somehow, something tells you he’ll be back again — no one ever truly leaves the place they change in, do they?)

You believe, even now, that you were meant to meet — in what form you aren’t too sure, but you knows this; the thing they don’t tell you about love is that it’s greedy, and like all things, despite each bite it gets, it starves just the same, so as you crawl back into your tiny little apartment, the rings of creaky metal reaching the street below, you can already picture the Dabi that traces the meaning of his name into his bandages, ghosts of where you hope your fingers have lain the foundation for healing, and you know he’s watching from the shadows, making sure you’re safe before he goes.

Maybe you didn't know him then and maybe you don't really know him now, but for a moment, you like to think you did — that you do, because what is grief if not the bridge between love meant for staying and love meant for going? What is love but flowers — but name meanings and strangers who bond over days and pain and exhaustion of the heart, pressing to find the answers the universe dares not to give?

(Love is everything. Everything, everything, everything.)

Dabi is a beacon for tightrope walkers; tied between carrying the ambition of change in his right hand but all of the memories of you and his history on his left — you know he’s found that things always feel so heavy when they are the things you come to love but grief is forever, you hope he realizes, but so are other things.

And as you count the minutes in which you think he’s walking across the city, you hope he begins to think love, in whatever form it shows up, might be one of them.

reblogs are appreciated!!

#🎐: pandora’s notes #dabi x self insert #dabi x y/n #dabi x gender neutral reader #dabi x gn reader #dabi x gn!reader #dabi x you #dabi x reader #dabi fanfic #dabi angst #dabi fluff #dabi fic #dabi imagine #touya todoroki x you #touya todoroki x reader #touya todoroki x gn!reader #touya todoroki x gn reader #touya todoroki x gender neutral reader #touya x reader #touya x y/n #touya x you #touya x gn!reader #touya x gender neutral reader #mha x gn!reader #mha x gender neutral reader #mha x y/n #mha x you #mha angst

[outofangband]

Hello!! About how long do you hc it took for Maedhros to recover after Angband? And do you hc that he spent all his recovery time with Fingolfin's camp, or do you think he moved back to the Fëanorian one after a while?

(for more information feel free to look through my Post Angband tag)

Hi anon! It depends on what you mean by recover! There were many different stages to his healing over a period of many years.

I’m actually writing some fics and posts that deal with more clinical and medical information now about the physical recovery so I’m excited for that too <3

There was a period of about a week in the very beginning where he had next to no lucidity or awareness of his surroundings, was delirious and moved between sleep and dream in a state of near constant distress. He switched between fighting the healers and periods of catatonia. 

His awareness of his surroundings grows but he has not abandoned any of the habits he has learned in Angband, or his strategies of survival. 

At some point his survival strategies, probably stop becoming mainly the habits that he learned within the fortress, and more of those that he used in the beginning to survive in an unfamiliar and hostile place, even though he is around familiar people 

It was probably about two weeks before he was able to leave bed without help and several more before he could walk with a cane for any distance. I talked a lot before about the extensive damage that enforced immobility caused, the healing from that was likely some of the most grueling.

It was over a year before he regained significant motor skills in his limbs and took extensive physical and occupational therapy that he would have to practice for many years after to maintain strength. 

More detail work, agility training, and fine motor skills he would start focusing on after perhaps six months though he made several attempts before. 

Maedhros spends a few months in Fingolfin’s camp before returning to his family’s.  At this point he is able to walk short distances without a cane or other mobility device but finds it both easier and more comfortable to use them. He has braces on his legs still and has not yet regained full strength but is not quite as gaunt as he had been. Most of the worst of the non scarred wounds he arrived with have been addressed and no longer require much maintenance. 

And of course this doesn't get into psychological and emotional recovery. It's harder to give a timeline for that unless it was from the point of view of others which obviously wouldn't paint a full or even very detailed picture of Maedhros's actual condition, only how he presents it.

For the first month especially he has significant doubts about his reality. These do not fully disappear for a long time and until the end of his life he will occasionally have moments of unreality or derealization where he has a dizzying spell of uncertainty. 

He does a lot of masking. Angband requires adaptation to a brutal environment (information about here) and as I have quoted “the personality formed in an environment of coercive control is not suited to adult life”. Maedhros learns that the skills he acquired in Angband are met with anything from pity and concern to anger, disdain, and suspicion outside of the fortress. He forces down and hides what he can, despite the at times physical panic he feels to act upon certain instincts that are ingrained in him (my fics Fealty and Appeasement go into some more blatant examples of this but there are a wide variety of subtler behaviors and habits too)

Let me know if you have more questions! This is obviously a favorite topic of mine

#Maedhros #The Silmarillion #Post Angband