#activating combat mode

[amazingabellini]

𝗔𝗟𝗘𝗔 𝗜𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗔 𝗘𝗦𝗧

[pippiblobstocking]

Activating wombat mode

[sephirthoughts]

i had no idea i needed this so badly

ACTIVATING COMBAT MODE

CONFLICT RESOLVED

[electrivolt]

@rockheadcd asked : "Hee~eey! Thunderfang!" Oh, it's him again. He looks excited—where exactly does he get this energy from? Roark bounds back up into Volkner's personal space, clapping hands on his shoulders in friendly camaraderie before stepping back and giving him some room. Of course, he's not too surprised to have found him nearby WILDVOLT—this time around, it doesn't look like the AC has taken any significant damage, but it's obvious which parts have less scuffed paint than other survivors. "I saw you on the briefing call with Dafeng, so I guess we get to sortie together, huh!"

Well. At least one of them is excited for this. "Been real curious about how you pilot, so I think it'll be plenty of fun! Hehe—" It's corporate work, it should not be this exciting....

Honestly, Volkner was busier checking over the data provided alongside the briefing to look at the people present at said briefing. He's already had plenty of sorties under Balam before, saving some time by reading what they sent over and get ready to deploy isn't hurting anyone, right? Not like the liaison would complain— if the job gets done and it doesn't horribly backfire then he has nothing to worry about.

Of course, that means that Volkner was not looking at the other listed participants in the briefing, or listening enough to clock in the part about another mercenary being involved in this sortie. His head snaps up when hearing his callsign being yelled by an unfortunately familiar voice, and lips are pressed into a thin line to keep his grimacing to himself when he finds, in fact, the far too happy pilot approaching. It takes a little more self restrain than he'd like to not react strongly when he's walking far closer than Volkner is comfortable with, and that's still not quite enough to stop him from tensing up when he's touched so suddenly. And then he stares at him, processing. Wait, is he really—

"... You are the other mercenary?" There's even a hint of disbelief in his voice— yes, he was preparing himself to have to deal with someone else dragged along this sortie, but... Volkner just sighs to himself, frowning. Guess there's no getting around him this time around, huh. And he can't even just mute comms and go off by himself, great.

"Just... focus on the mission. We're not here for fun." Needless to say, he's looking forward to this much less than he was on the briefing. Instead of giving him more leeway to talk his ear off, Volkner turns around to open his AC's core, watching it a lot more intently now that he has to actively ignore someone, climbing in maybe a little faster than usual. "Get into your AC and get ready, I'm not going to wait for you." And that's all the warning he gives before closing the core, letting systems boot up and the neural link activate, very much intending to keep his word no matter how much a second AC may be needed for this sortie. The sooner this sortie is done, the sooner he can get away, right—

[despair-tea]

this was just an observation my friend made a while ago but it got me thinkin' a little bit. Personally, I got over my aversion to sports by fencing in college. Coz it turns out I didn't hate sports. In fact, I think training and learning the rules and pushing myself to improve is super fun! That's the same stuff I like about video games. And despite being a life-long poindexter, all that physical activity felt GOOD, and it was nice to connect with folks.

What I hated about sports as a kiddo was the shame. I hated people acting like I ought to know this or that (despite being a know-nothing child). I hated being excluded and looked down upon for not being good. I despised the way the adults around me treated kids wrt sports. Also I couldn't see and had asthma and neither of these problems got treated until I was on my way out of high school (getting my first inhaler was one of the main reasons I was able to fence at all, in fact).

combat sports are great to me because they're all about that individual journey. I didn't have to worry about letting a team down who might yell at me later for my performance. It's just me and my own heart and my love for the game - THAT'S sports.

[amber-gimlet]

actually the worst is still holding strong opinions about Limbus company game design even while trying to wash my hands of it.

[baekuras]

y'all I'm note sure Bellara is doing great

[prayerith]

all i can think about is crisis core music in ff7 rebirth

[iamnotlookingidonotseeit]

absorbing all my wants from media and becoming a patchwork of influenced tastes

[flowerwiththemachinegun]

When are horny hours? 24 hours a day? Never closes?

Horny hours close for people????? Maybe that's what happens when you get a max level fucking.

[dinosus]

John Price is a domestic menace who is so in love with you it’s borderline ridiculous.

Price is up at the crack of dawn, even when he’s home. Military habits die hard. But instead of rushing off to train, he takes his time watching you sleep. He adores how peaceful you look, face buried in the pillow, hair messy.

“Too bloody gorgeous for your own good, love.”

He always makes coffee first thing in the morning. Your coffee is made with care, perfect sugar-to-milk ratio. His? Jet fuel. The man drinks pure black coffee like a lunatic.

If you wake up early, he pulls you into his lap, letting you sit between his legs as he rests his chin on your shoulder, sipping coffee together in comfortable silence. This man cannot cook for shit. You let him try once, and the kitchen almost caught fire. His ‘specialty’? Scrambled eggs that somehow taste like regret.

If you’re cooking, he’s always hovering. Arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder, murmuring- “What’s on the menu today, sweetheart?”

You have to swat him away because he steals food off the pan.

“John, I swear—STOP PICKING AT IT.”

“I’m just taste-testing, love.” (No, he’s eating half of it.) Price is a touch-starved bastard. He constantly has a hand on you—your thigh, your back, your waist. He hates sleeping alone. If he’s home, you are glued to him.

Post-mission cuddles? He holds onto you like you’re his lifeline.

Comes home, sighs deeply, collapses onto you. He buries his face into your neck, muttering “Missed you so damn much.”

He physically cannot sleep unless you’re in his arms. If he has nightmares? You always wake up to comfort him. He tries to brush it off, but you cup his face, run your fingers through his hair.

“You’re home, John. You’re safe.”

And just like that, the tension leaves his body. This man walks on the side of the road closest to traffic. Always. Hand on your lower back when walking through crowds. If anyone even looks at you wrong? That stern Captain Price glare™ is activated.

One time, some guy at the grocery store got too close to you— Price instantly went into overprotective husband mode.

“The fuck you lookin’ at, mate?”

You had to drag him away before he decked the poor man. Don't let this man near laundry. “John, you can’t just throw your combat gear in with our clothes.” “...They all get clean, don’t they?” Absolutely not. One time, you found a grenade pin in the washing machine.

“JOHN WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!”

“…Souvenir?”

You ban him from doing laundry after that.

When he gets rare days off, he’s the laziest bastard alive. He’s in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, sprawled on the couch. If you try to get up? Nope. He pulls you back down.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’, sweetheart? You’re stayin’ right here.”

Movie nights? You lay on his chest, and he rubs lazy circles into your back. He snores. Loudly. But if you ever tease him about it, he denies it. “I don’t snore, love.” “John, I have video evidence.” “…Fabricated.” (i made part two, check it out :D !)

[prokopetz]

With DND 5e being set up to cause DM burnout, can you give examples of tabletop systems that facilitate easy DMing? I love running a tabletop game but don't have the time to deal with 5e or homebrew anymore.

(With reference to this post here.)

This is an area where you're going to get a lot of bad advice, because there's no such thing as a tabletop RPG that's "easy to GM" in the abstract. Some systems make greater or lesser demands of the GM's time and skill, but the reason that Dungeons & Dragons has a massive GM burnout problem is a bit more subtle than that – indeed, D&D's GM burnout problem is considerably worse than that of many games whose procedures of play place much greater demands on the GM!

It boils down to the fact that games are opinionated. Even a very simple set of rules contains a vast number of baked-in assumptions about how the game ought to be played; in the case of tabletop RPGs, those baked-in assumptions include assumptions about what kinds of stories the game ought to be used to tell. The players of any given group, of course, also have assumptions – some explicit, many unexamined – about how the game's story ought to go. It's rare that these two sets of assumptions will perfectly agree.

Fortunately, perfect agreement isn't necessary, because tabletop RPGs aren't computer games, and it's always possible to tweak the outputs of the rules on the fly to better suit the desired narrative experience. In conventional one-GM-many-players games like D&D, this responsibility for monitoring and adjusting the outputs of the rules so that they're compatible with the narrative space the group wishes to explore falls principally on the GM.

Now, here's where the trouble starts: the larger the disconnect between the story the rules want to produce and the narrative space the group wants to explore, the more work the GM in a conventional one-GM-many-players context needs to do in order to close that gap. If the disconnect is large enough, the GM ends up spending practically all of their time babysitting the outputs of the rules, at the expense of literally every other facet of their responsibilities.

(Conversely, if that gap is large and isn't successfully closed, you can end up with a situation where engaging with the rules and engaging with the narrative become mutually exclusive activities. This is where we get daft ideas like "combat" and "roleplaying" being opposites – which is nonsense, of course, but it's persuasive nonsense if you've never experienced a game where the rules agree with you about what kind of story you should be telling.)

And here's where the problem with Dungeons & Dragons in particular arises. The rules of D&D aren't especially more opinionated than those of your average tabletop RPG; however, the game has developed a culture of play that's allergic to actually acknowledging this. There are several legs to this, including:

a text which makes claims about the game's supported modes of play that are far broader than what the rules in fact support;

a body of received wisdom about GMing best practices which consists mostly of advice on how to close the gap between the rules' assumptions and the players' expectations (but refuses to admit that this is what it's doing);

a player culture which has become increasingly hostile to players learning or knowing the rules, and positions any expectation that players should learn the rules as a form of "gatekeeping"; and

a propensity to treat a very high level of GMing skill as an entry-level expectation.

Taken together, all this produces a situation where, when the rules and the group disagree about how the game's story ought to go, the players don't experience it as a problem with the rules: they experience it as a problem with the GM. A lot of GMs even buy into this perception themselves, which is how you end up with GM advice forums overflowing with people telling novice GMs that they're morally bad people for being unprepared to tackle very advanced GMing challenges right from the jump.

(At this point, one may wonder: why on Earth would a game develop this sort of culture of play in the first place? Who benefits? Well, what we're looking at in practice is a culture of play which treats novice and casual GMs as a disposal resource whose purpose is to maximise the number of people playing Dungeons & Dragons. Follow the money!)

So, after all of that, the short answer is that there isn't a specific magic-bullet solution to avoiding D&D's GM burnout problem – or, at least, not one that operates at the level of the rules, because there's no particular thing that D&D as a system is doing "wrong" that produces this outcome; the problem operates almost entirely at the play culture level.

In practice, two things need to happen:

Placing a greater expectation on the players to learn and understand the game's rules; and

Selecting a system where the gap between the story the rules want to produce and the narrative space the group wants to explore is small.

It's that second one that's the real trick. In order to minimise that gap, we need to know what kind of narrative space your group wants to explore, and that might not be something you have a good answer to if you don't have good lines of communication with your players.

(As an aside, there's a good chance that we're going to see dipsticks cropping up in the notes insisting that their favourite system short-circuits this problem by being perfectly universal and having no baked-in narrative assumptions. These people are lying to you, and lending credence to the idea that there's any such thing as a universal RPG is a big part of how we got into this mess in the first place!)

[electrivolt]

"It's really not that big of a deal..." At least to Volkner, it doesn't look like it— most people in this line of business have at least a decent enough grasp on data to get by, if anything to avoid making data collection contracts even more of a pain by wasting time on someone's chat log. It is generally better to avoid risking serious injury or your life on that, after all.

While Roark is quiet thinking, Volkner turns his attention back to the screen. There's certainly more files than he expected, and he briefly wonders just how much money did Roark lose on just selling at whatever price he could find— considering what good data usually goes for, pocket change must be more literal than he expected... he really needs to fix this, the thought alone is irking him, at the very least. Well, his job will at least be easier if he starts by separating it by affiliation, different companies using different encoding and all...

"Yeah, I've seen programs like that, they tend to make things easier if you got someone on the other end—" admittedly, Volkner was not paying enough attention to put together where this was going to go, enough to stop and look up and at Roark again, blinking. "What?" He hopes he doesn't sound annoyed or worse, angry— the thought just caught him that much by surprise, huh? "... I'll... think about it while I work on this." It's all that really comes to mind in the moment good enough to say out loud.

( of all the people to ask to be an operator... )

Still, as absurd as it may have sounded, it's a question that weighs on his mind long into the night spent awake watching strings of numbers and letters across the screen. Volkner is hardly known for caring about others, let alone for being a social pilot, not being able to recall a single time he's ever really requested anyone as an operator— and Roark wants him to fulfill the job, however temporary it may be? He's hardly qualified for half of it, he just figured out how to keep himself alive without outside information and some decoding skills! He'd come to regret it very quickly after one or two sorties... which maybe would drive Volkner's point home and get him to leave him alone. Maybe that'll turn out to be a blessing in disguise, after all.

( he does have a debt to repay, though, whether roark is willing to accept it or not... )

Damn it, this would be a good way to start working towards repayment while he's bedridden for who knows how long, and if anything that would at least help him pay it all back sooner... no matter his own feelings regarding the offer, when he looks at it logically, it does make sense, doesn't it? ... And he has to admit it, he can think of many mercs who would be a lot worse to assist and speak to than Roark. If anything, he can at least be sure that Roark wouldn't be poking at him in all the wrong ways for being stuck in this pathetic state when he should be out there, in his own AC, free to come and go, not held back by anything.

( he doesn't really want to admit that begrudgingly, he is at least a little concerned for him. roark has been putting so much more care and concern into him than volkner ever expected, and now he has questions. he can't really stop thinking about it, whether he likes it or not. )

This really shouldn't be so complicated.

The next day comes around, Volkner having at least managed to scoot the laptop over just enough to have the space to sleep, and eventually, Roark comes around again, just as he expected.

"Hey— still need to work on some of the data, but I got things running to generally decode anything you come back with, I can work on starting to sell some of the stuff later while everything runs." The easy stuff ( for him, at least— ) is out of the way first, and then Volkner half sighs, half groans. He can't really leave him hanging forever, despite his own reservations and admittedly, his pride getting in the way at least a little. "... And I thought about it. I guess... I guess I can at least give your request a try and be your operator for a while— but don't expect me to be keeping track of everything around you, okay? I'm doing this to pay you back for your rescue efforts, nothing else." Volkner is very quick to add that last part after his half annoyed agreement— Roark is for some undecipherable reason attached enough to him to give him more reasons to try and get closer when Volkner never asked that in the first place. This is just temporary anyways, before they both know it Volkner will be back on his feet, and then he will leave. Just as it's always been, right?

Roark looks like a hopeful puppy when Volkner confirms he's capable—"Really?! You mean it? That's great to hear! I can't tell you how much data I used to sell off for pennies just because I couldn't get anything out of it..." Volkner sure was a smart guy, helpful, too! Well, helpful when bedridden with immobilizing injuries and all... that was besides the point right now, though. He's as happy as a clam, and if it weren't for the excessive bandages holding his shoulder in place, Roark would have smothered Volkner by now.

At the question though, Roark pauses, brows raised. "Something else? Um..."

( what could he do..? preferably, something that could benefit both of them, but really, he just wanted to give volkner the ability to just pay back for repairs before he has to even pick up sorties the day he's healed up enough to pilot again... )

Burgundy falls onto his laptop, the briefcase-like shell littered with additional covers for the various network and data ports that allow it to be able to talk to a variety of AC generations. Technically speaking, as long as there's some network for mercenaries to hop onto, it's possible to be able to host a connection to STONE EDGE, even from here. "There's an application on there that lets you pick up the data my AC is picking up while I'm out on the field. Telemetry data, comms, all that stuff. I usually have it running in the core so I can save off stuff I pick up out of sorties. But... I've never actually had anyone actually monitor this stuff." Right, the assumption was that someone else was comfortably far away from the AC looking at this data and giving information, and most importantly, deciphering data much faster than he could.

"Actually, you could get some funds being my operator for a little while. Do you want to take that up? Then all the data I pick up is fair game and you don't have to wait for me to come back to make some bank," Roark offers, "—and, you could have someone to talk to." Not that he's ever seen him socialize willingly, but anyway. "I'm probably gonna chill out for the night, so you have all the time you need to mess with what's here already. No need to rush on an answer, though. Operator work isn't the easiest unless you like staring at numbers."

[electrivolt]

// as my single activity of the day i'm dropping some tags in my endless fight with tumblr to not eat them and let me use them in posts without manually copypasting please don't look at me

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Pairing: Mafia Ateez OT8x Reader

Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, poly ateez, violence and weapons, mafia ateez, organized crime, parental death and grieving process, bullying, possessive and controlling behavior,

Summary: When Y/n Ricci is forced to marry Kim Hongjoong—leader of the notorious ATEEZ organization and one of eight men who cruelly abandoned her seven years ago—she finds herself trapped in their heavily guarded compound with the ghosts of her past. As she navigates the dangerous world of mafia politics and her own wounded heart, Y/n discovers that all eight powerful, irresistible men still harbor deep feelings for her, suggesting an unconventional solution to their shared dilemma. But before she can consider forgiving them, let alone loving them again, she must uncover the dark secret that tore them apart—a truth that could either heal their fractured bonds or destroy them all completely.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Authors note: I know everyone wanted Y/n to go full on badass mode, I had wrote her joining in like 3 different ways and it didn’t feel right just yet. She’ll get her badass moment I promise!

18+ only- No Minors

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Masterlist

 Chapter 7: Fight or Flight

The gunfire intensified, each shot a thunderclap in the night. Through the van's tinted windows, you could see muzzle flashes illuminating the compound like violent lightning. The drone feed on the monitor showed chaos—figures darting between buildings, taking cover, returning fire.

Your heart hammered against your ribcage. You recognized the tactical movements of the ATEEZ members even through the grainy night vision feed—Hongjoong's decisive leadership as he directed the others, Seonghwa's precise marksmanship, San's acrobatic maneuvers, Jongho's raw power as he engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a much larger opponent.

But they were outnumbered. Badly.

You could hear their labored breathing through the comms, the terse exchanges becoming more urgent with each passing minute.

"East exit compromised—" Yeosang's usually calm voice edged with tension.

"Two more hostiles on the roof—" San, followed by the sound of more gunfire.

"Mingi's hit!" Jongho's panicked report sent ice through your veins. "Not critical, but we need extraction."

"Working on it—" Hongjoong, his voice strained. "Seonghwa, cover the south approach. Yunho—"

"Almost there," Yunho responded, his voice coming through the comm.

The situation was deteriorating rapidly. You could see it in the frantic movements on the monitor, hear it in their increasingly desperate communications. This wasn't just a mission gone wrong—it was a trap. They had walked into an ambush, and now they were fighting their way out.

Fighting for their lives.

Something snapped inside you. Seven years of anger, of hurt, of carefully maintained distance—all of it fell away in the face of the primal fear that now gripped you. These weren't the men who had abandoned you. In this moment, they were simply the eight boys you had loved your entire life, and they were in danger.

Before you could second-guess yourself, you pressed the comm activation button.

"I swear to god," your voice rang out, steady despite your racing heart, "if any of you die before I can make your lives miserable, I will never forgive you."

A beat of stunned silence followed, then—

"Y/n?" Hongjoong's surprised voice.

"Yes, I'm breaking the 'minimal chatter' rule," you continued, a hint of your usual defiance returning. "Deal with it. Now get your asses back here in one piece."

Through the comm, you could hear what sounded like a soft chuckle from Seonghwa, a grunt of agreement from Jongho. On the monitor, you saw renewed purpose in their movements, a second wind as they pressed forward with more coordination.

"On our way, princess," San replied, his voice tight with exertion but with a hint of his usual playfulness. "Just taking care of a few party crashers first."

"Taking too long," you countered, watching anxiously as Mingi limped behind cover, clutching his side. "Move faster."

"Bossy as ever," Yeosang remarked, but you could hear the ghost of a smile in his voice.

"God, it's so hot when you threaten us," Wooyoung's voice came through with an exaggerated moan that was so ridiculous, so perfectly Wooyoung, that a genuine laugh escaped you despite the gravity of the situation.

Even in the midst of gunfire and danger, he could still make you laugh. Some things never changed.

On the monitor, you could see them making progress, fighting their way toward the extraction point where the vehicles waited. But they were moving too slowly, and more hostile figures were appearing on the perimeter of the compound.

Panic coursed through your veins. Seven years ago, you had lost them to circumstances you didn't understand. Now you might lose them permanently, right before your eyes.

The thought was unbearable.

"First person that makes it back to me gets a kiss," you blurted out, desperation making you reckless.

The effect was immediate and electric. You heard several sharp intakes of breath, followed by what sounded like a renewed burst of energy in their movements.

"Oh, you're ON," San declared, his figure on the monitor suddenly moving with doubled speed.

"That's not fair!" Wooyoung protested. "Some of us are farther away! I'll shoot anyone who gets to the car before me, I swear to god!"

"Shut up and move," Hongjoong ordered, but even his voice had a new edge of determination.

Through the drone feed, you watched in amazement as their retreat transformed from desperate to almost supernaturally efficient. Seonghwa provided perfect cover fire as Hongjoong helped Mingi toward the exit. Jongho single-handedly cleared a path through three armed men. San and Yeosang worked in perfect tandem, one creating distractions while the other neutralized threats.

And Wooyoung—Wooyoung was moving like a man possessed, vaulting over obstacles and dodging bullets with an almost comical determination.

"I have visual on the vehicles," Hongjoong reported. "Yunho, status?"

"Area secure," Yunho responded from somewhere outside your van. "Ready for extraction."

"Incoming in three, two—"

The world outside erupted in a final, furious exchange of gunfire. You held your breath, tears welling in your eyes as you watched the monitor, counting figures, praying that all seven dots would make it to the extraction point.

One by one, they appeared on the edge of the compound—Hongjoong supporting Mingi, Seonghwa providing rear cover, Jongho and Yeosang flanking them protectively. San emerged next, dragging a limping Wooyoung who seemed to be simultaneously cursing his injury and demanding to be let go so he could win the race.

Your hands trembled as you watched them sprint the final distance toward the vehicles. They were going to make it. They had to make it.

A final burst of gunfire, a shout of warning—

The door of your van burst open so suddenly you jumped, reaching instinctively for the knife concealed at your ankle.

Yunho's face appeared, his expression intense as he slid into the driver's seat. "Everyone's accounted for. We're moving. Now."

The engine roared to life as the others piled into the second and third vans. Within seconds, all three vehicles were peeling away from the compound, tires screeching on asphalt as they accelerated into the night.

Through the rear window, you could see muzzle flashes as the Russo men continued firing after you, but the bullets fell short as the distance increased.

"Status report," Hongjoong's voice came through the comm, authoritative despite his heavy breathing.

"Vehicle One clear," Yunho responded beside you. "Y/n’s safe."

"Vehicle Two operational," Seonghwa reported. "Mingi needs medical but it's not critical. Flesh wound to the lower abdomen."

"Vehicle Three functioning," San added. "Wooyoung took a graze to the leg. He's being dramatic about it."

"I am NOT being dramatic!" Wooyoung protested in the background. "I was THIS CLOSE to winning that kiss before I got shot! This is TRAGIC!"

Despite the lingering danger, a wave of relief washed over you so powerful it made you dizzy. They were alive. All eight of them had made it out.

"Everyone maintain evasive driving patterns until we're clear of the hot zone," Hongjoong instructed. "No direct route back to the compound until we're sure we're not followed."

"Copy that," Yunho acknowledged, making a sharp turn down a side street.

For several minutes, the three vans wove through the city in a carefully coordinated dance—separating, rejoining, taking unpredictable routes to shake any potential pursuit. Your eyes remained fixed on the side mirror, watching for signs of followers, but the streets behind you remained clear.

"I think we're good," Yunho said finally, both to you and through the comm.

"Agreed," Hongjoong responded. "Converge on route Alpha and proceed to base."

As the immediate danger passed, an awkward silence filled your vehicle. You were acutely aware of what you'd said in the heat of the moment—the offer of a kiss, the naked concern in your voice. Seven years of carefully maintained anger and distance, undone in an instant by fear.

"Thank you," Yunho said quietly, his eyes on the road ahead. "What you did back there... it made a difference."

You stared out the window, unwilling to meet his gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about."

A small smile touched his lips. "Of course not."

The comm crackled to life again. "So," Wooyoung's voice, deliberately casual. "About that kiss..."

"You didn't win," San interjected immediately. "I definitely reached the extraction point before you."

"You did not! I was ahead until I got SHOT, which is CHEATING—"

"No one's getting a kiss," Hongjoong cut in firmly. "It was said in the heat of the moment. Drop it."

"Actually," came Yeosang's measured voice, "I believe I was technically the first to reach the extraction point. By approximately 2.3 seconds."

"That's a lie!" Wooyoung exclaimed. "Yunho, you were monitoring! Who got there first?"

Yunho glanced at you, amusement dancing in his eyes despite the gravity of the situation you'd just escaped. "No comment."

"This is OUTRAGEOUS!" Wooyoung continued, his theatrical indignation drawing reluctant smiles from everyone. "I demand a rematch! Once my leg heals. Which might be never, by the way. I'm probably dying."

"It's a graze," Seonghwa said dryly. "You'll live."

"You don't know that! I could be bleeding internally! I could be—"

"Going to shut up for the rest of the ride?" Jongho suggested.

"Unlikely," Mingi chimed in, his voice strained but amused. "He's going to milk this for all it's worth."

"You know," San observed, "for someone who almost got killed, Wooyoung seems remarkably energetic."

"It's the promise of a kiss," Yunho said, giving you a quick, teasing glance. "Powerful motivation."

You felt your cheeks warm, but kept your expression neutral. "No one's getting a kiss," you stated firmly, echoing Hongjoong's earlier declaration. "I was just trying to get you all to move faster."

"And it worked," Yeosang pointed out. "Quite effectively."

"Whatever," you muttered, sinking lower in your seat.

The banter continued as the three vehicles made their way back to the compound, the familiar pattern of teasing and comebacks so reminiscent of earlier days that it made your chest ache with a complicated mixture of nostalgia and grief.

For those few minutes during the crisis, you had forgotten to be angry. You had forgotten the abandonment, the cruel words, the seven years of silence. All that had mattered was making sure they survived.

Now, as the adrenaline ebbed, the walls began to rebuild themselves—but slower, less certain than before.

Because the truth was undeniable: when you thought you might lose them, nothing else had mattered. Not your pride, not your hurt, not your carefully cultivated hatred.

"We're home," Yunho announced softly as the compound came into view, the gates opening automatically to admit the three vehicles.

Home. The word echoed in your mind, uncomfortable in its resonance.

This wasn't home. It couldn't be. Home was safe, and nothing about your feelings for these eight men was safe.

But as you stepped out of the van into the compound's courtyard, watching as they emerged from the other vehicles—battered, exhausted, but alive—you couldn't deny the relief that flooded through you.

You couldn't deny that, at least for tonight, you were glad to be here with them.

And that was dangerous territory indeed.

* * *

The compound buzzed with tense energy as everyone dispersed to assess injuries and debrief. Seonghwa had immediately whisked Mingi away to the medical room to tend to his wound, with Jongho following to assist. San was half-carrying, half-dragging a still-complaining Wooyoung, who seemed determined to make his minor injury sound like he was at death's door. Hongjoong and Yeosang had disappeared into the command center to analyze what had gone wrong.

That left you standing in the foyer with Yunho, the adrenaline of the night still coursing through your veins.

"You should get some rest," he said, studying your face with concern. "That was a lot to take in for your first mission."

"I'm fine," you insisted, though the slight tremor in your hands betrayed you. The reality of how close you'd come to losing them—all of them—was still sinking in. "What about the others? Mingi and Wooyoung..."

"They'll be okay," Yunho assured you. "Mingi's wound looks worse than it is—the bullet grazed his side. And Wooyoung..." A small smile touched his lips. "Well, you heard him. He's milking it for all it's worth, but it's barely a scratch."

You nodded, relief washing over you. Then you noticed the dark stain on Yunho's sleeve, partially hidden by the black fabric of his tactical gear.

"You're hurt," you said, reaching for his arm.

He tried to pull away. "It's nothing. Just caught some glass when one of the windows shattered."

But you had already taken hold of his arm, pushing up the sleeve to reveal a nasty gash along his forearm. "This isn't nothing. It needs to be cleaned and bandaged."

"I can take care of it later," he said dismissively. "After we debrief."

Your eyes narrowed. "The debrief can wait ten minutes. Where are the medical supplies?"

Yunho seemed about to argue, then sighed in resignation. "Second floor, third door on the right. There's a fully stocked medical cabinet."

Without waiting for further discussion, you headed for the stairs, knowing he would follow. He did, his footsteps quiet behind you as you made your way to the designated room.

The medical room was smaller than you expected but immaculately organized—more like a professional clinic than a home first aid station. Several cabinets lined the walls, filled with medications, bandages, and various medical instruments. A padded examination table stood in the center, with bright surgical lights overhead.

"Sit," you commanded, pointing to the table.

A ghost of a smile played across Yunho's face at your authoritative tone, but he complied, perching on the edge of the table while you searched the cabinets for what you needed.

"Top cabinet on the left," he guided. "Antiseptic, gauze, suture kits if needed."

You gathered the supplies and returned to his side, setting everything on a small rolling tray. With careful hands, you helped him remove his tactical jacket, revealing a fitted black t-shirt beneath. The wound looked even worse now—a jagged cut that ran from his elbow nearly to his wrist.

"This might need stitches," you said, frowning as you examined it.

"Probably not," he replied. "Pressure and butterfly bandages should do it."

You gave him a skeptical look but began cleaning the wound with gentle, methodical movements. The silence between you was charged but not uncomfortable—a familiar intimacy from years ago when you'd patched up skinned knees and minor injuries for each other.

"You were good out there," Yunho said softly. "On the comms. You probably saved us."

You kept your eyes focused on your task. "I doubt that."

"I don't," he insisted. "We were scattered, losing cohesion. Your voice..." He paused, searching for the right words. "It centered us. Reminded us what we were fighting to get back to."

Your hands stilled momentarily, his words stirring emotions you weren't ready to examine. "I just didn't want to be stuck in a gunfight alone," you deflected.

Yunho chuckled. "Right. And that kiss offer was just strategic motivation?"

Heat crept into your cheeks. "It worked, didn't it?"

"Spectacularly," he agreed, his tone lighter now. "I've never seen Wooyoung move so fast in my life. I think he broke some kind of land speed record before he got hit."

A small laugh escaped you despite your efforts to maintain your composure. "He's ridiculous."

"He's Wooyoung," Yunho said simply, as if that explained everything. And in a way, it did.

You finished cleaning the wound and began applying butterfly bandages, closing the edges of the cut with careful precision. Yunho watched you work, his eyes never leaving your face.

"You learned a lot in seven years," he observed quietly.

"I had to," you replied, a hint of the old bitterness creeping into your voice.

"Y/n..." he began, but you shook your head.

"Don't," you said firmly. "Not now."

He respected your wishes, falling silent as you finished bandaging his arm. When you were done, you stepped back to examine your work.

"It should hold," you said. "But keep it clean and change the dressing tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a hint of teasing. "Thank you."

You began packing up the medical supplies, aware of his eyes still on you, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air between you. The night's events had shifted something—weakened the walls you'd built so carefully. The fear you'd felt when they were in danger, the relief when they returned safely—it had all been too raw, too real to dismiss.

"Yunho," you said suddenly, turning to face him. "About what I said on the comms..."

He slid off the table, standing to his full height. "It's okay. Hongjoong was right. It was said in the heat of the moment. No one expects you to—"

You didn't let him finish. Acting on impulse, on the lingering adrenaline and the memory of how close you'd come to losing him—to losing all of them—you stepped forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him down to your level.

Your lips met his in a kiss that was nothing like the innocent one you'd shared at fifteen. This was fierce, urgent, a release of tension and fear and something deeper that you weren't ready to name. Your hands moved to his face, holding him to you as the kiss deepened, became more desperate.

Yunho froze for only a heartbeat before responding with equal fervor, his uninjured arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer. Time seemed to stop, the world narrowing to just this—his lips on yours, his heartbeat against your palm, the solidity of him, alive and whole.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, you kept your hands on his face, forcing him to meet your gaze.

"You got to me first," you said, your voice husky. "You got the kiss."

His eyes, dark and intense, searched yours. "Y/n—"

The sound of approaching footsteps in the hallway made you step back quickly, putting distance between you just as the door opened.

Hongjoong stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable as his gaze flicked between you and Yunho. If he noticed the heightened color in your cheeks or Yunho's slightly disheveled appearance, he gave no indication.

"Yunho, we need you in the command center," he said, his tone professionally neutral. "The drone footage picked up something interesting."

"I'll be right there," Yunho replied, his voice remarkably steady.

Hongjoong nodded once, then looked at you. "You should get some rest, little one. It's been a long night."

Without waiting for your response, he turned and left, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

An awkward silence fell between you and Yunho, the moment broken, reality rushing back in. What had you been thinking? One kiss wouldn't erase seven years of hurt. One moment of weakness wouldn't change anything.

"I should go," Yunho said quietly. "They're waiting."

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

He moved to the door but paused before leaving, turning back to look at you. "For what it's worth," he said, his voice low and sincere, "I've thought about that kiss by the bonfire every day for the past seven years."

Before you could respond, he was gone, leaving you alone with the medical supplies and the lingering warmth of his lips on yours.

You sank onto the examination table, your fingers touching your mouth in a daze. What had you done? More importantly, why had it felt so right, so natural, to kiss him? As if no time had passed at all. As if they hadn't broken your heart and left you to pick up the pieces alone.

One kiss wouldn't change anything, you told yourself firmly. It was just adrenaline, just relief that they had all made it back alive.

But as you made your way back to your room, you couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted. The walls you'd built were cracking, and you weren't sure you had the strength—or even the desire—to repair them.

Sleep, when it finally came, was filled with dreams of bonfires and lake days, of eight boys who became men while you weren't looking, and of a kiss that tasted like both the past and the future.

Next>>

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[akanemnon]

So I saw this panel earlier, Akanemnon. And I gotta say, Frisk may be a cute nugget, but when it comes down to it, they can be dangerous.

I mean, Frisk really just yellow-souled outta nowhere and FINGER-GUNNED a flower. Eat your heart out, Clover.

...hang on, why WAS Frisk able to use the Yellow Soul like that? Can they just...turn their soul color to a different color at will to get its' abilities? And if that's the case, could Kris do it too? (I don't think Chara could tho.)

They actually didn't do it out of nowhere! There have only been two full encounters in Twin Runes; one with Lesslo and the other with the Hydrangea. And in both Frisk sneakily does this

Now the yellow and purple soul mode are the most obvious because they use them to actively engage in combat. Meanwhile blue and green are more passive. One is to (in the words of Samurai Jack) jump good and the other is to stand their ground.

Now THIS is actually based on something we've seen Kris/their soul do automatically in the Spamton NEO fight. So why is Frisk a natural at it as well?

Well, you probably already have guessed it, but the answer is...

No spoilers.