#save the politicians from certain disaster so maybe they like you… get bit in the ass for it

[akuzeisms]

   ⬐ @lastsurvivor ⬎

“i don’t like that look, what happened?” -Ripley

Her only answer was a roll of her eyes, huffing as she practically stomped her way through the ship. Leave it to the god-damned Citadel Council to stick their heads up their asses and forget the rest of the galaxy exists. She knew she should have expected this, but a part of her had hoped they’d have things figured out by now. Saving their lives had to count for something. Or, at least, she’d thought it would. Apparently, she was wrong.

“What happened,” she replied gruffly, “Is that as usual, the Council is ignorant and unhelpful. Despite the fact that I have saved all of their lives, stopped an invasion not once, but twice, of the galaxy—no, let me rephrase that, let’s make it three times, because we might as well count the god-damned suicide mission through the Omega-4 Relay as one of those. Now, let’s add the fact that I told them three years ago what was coming, and we have a whole slew of political bullshit that didn’t need to happen.” Jerking her head in the direction of the elevator, Kat gestured for Ellen to follow, the irritation clear in her posture, though none of it was directed at the woman.

“I fucking hate politicians.” And now she had to deal with Udina; the two of them had never seen eye to eye, and while Udina was doing his damnedest to make a difference right now… she wasn’t sure how far that was going to go, or how effective he was going to be. Not that Anderson had been able to do much; but at least Anderson had believed her at first. Udina had tried to throw her to the wolves, and she’d never forgiven him for that. She wasn’t about to now, not until he made some progress on getting them aid.

The elevator opened at the mess, and Kat gestured to the cook; he knew exactly what the gesture meant, and as he busied himself making something to eat, Kat dropped into a chair at one of the tables. “The Council threw us to the wolves. Doesn’t mean humanity’s completely fucked, but it’s damn well close. And in an ironic twist, Sparatus was actually helpful afterward instead of an ass like he usually is.” That had been an unexpected twist; him coming to her after the meeting with the Council was more than surprising.

“You know it’s ironic when the turians are the first lead you’ve got for humanity to get some kind of relief aid.” After the First Contact War, relations were amicable at best; turians and humans just… didn’t mix, a lot of the time. Different cultural values played a large role in that.

[dropsofletters]

getaway man [jww]

summary: blended into crime-filled nights, only to hide behind an office desk, no one knows what hides behind the mystery of jeon wonwoo, but maybe, someone from his past will be able to devise that there is more to him—this certain kind of love for justice that can only be compared to that of magic.

and it exists within him.

title: getaway man pairing: jeon wonwoo x reader genre: superhero!au; superman-esque!au ; spiderman-esque!au ; journalist!au ; early 2000’s!au ; brief 1990’s!au type: fluff ; angst ; drama ; crime ; noir ; humor if you squint word count: 12,850 warning: there are a few mentions of death and whatnot, just for the sake of the plot.  note: this is a kofi request. 

She wants the truth out as much as she desires to get out of this moving getaway car.

Lonesome strikes of moonlight fall on top of the sleek black car, washed over and over again just one day prior to this night, because her coworker is just like that. Perfect. Organized. With no spot for wandering, insecurities or guilt. Angels don’t hide in names like Aeri Song, building profit and success off words that mingle with lies. But, they’re heads of the world, natural leaders, the one driving the car that feels like it’s going a little too fast in the awfully rainy night.

Tugging at the collar of her nude turtleneck, she tries to concentrate on something else. The warmth of her boots, the heater and its wonders on making her hair feel a little bit too humid. The people rushing from side to side to get to their homes in a city that has looked abandoned for years. No one can save the pollution, the density of the heat even when it rains, the crimes that take up most of the newspapers in the entire city. And those who don’t cover those crimes are awful liars.

“I don’t think this is right.”

The boss of the boss, that’s not who Aeri Song is, but she’s important for The Noir Secret. Their magazine that has been selling less and less with the passage of time. Come to think of it, people care less about billionaires and their discoveries in the early 2000’s. Everything is so new, yet so unimportant—the world is starting to feel like it may end soon, coming with new technology and more things to worry about. The conventionality of disaster has tainted this generation thanks to the wrongdoings of those in the past.

Aeri is a contribution, rolling the plastic of the granola bar she had just eaten in between her palms before swiftly opening the window and throwing it to the street. “Well, we’re not journalists to wonder what’s right or what’s wrong. We’re here to write and make money. Much like writers, but with less words and more media.” Pushing her curled short, shoulder-length hair off her shoulders, Aeri licks her plump reddened lips, a bombshell in comparison to a lot of people around this town, before sighing. “Your idea is not bad, but it’s not profitable. If we wanted media suicide, we would write about the city’s contaminated waters and how the government fails to clean the streets, stop companies from throwing their waste into the waters before feeding them to us but…” Aeri shrugs her shoulders, looking over to her side and driving with just one hand. “We all have a pot and a stove at home, sweetheart. Heat it before you drink it, and that’s about it. Goodbye Salmonella, hello bigger paycheck.”

A seven-month long investigation had led her to discover just how poorly treated was nature around town. The lakes were overflowing with garbage, from plastics to bags, to anything in between. The streets were dustier than ever, resulting—in what accorded to her visits to public hospitals—in a higher rise of allergies, asthma cases in children and the develop of pneumonia. That, along with the fact that she has cameras filled with pictures of how dense and unclear the water the town drinks is, had led her to believe The Noir Secret would be up for a bang.

To blame politicians, make them shake in their perfectly wiped shoes and finally do something instead of eating with silver spoons.

“You’re not thinking about the bigger picture.” She utters, scratching her earlobe just as her other hand snugly wraps around the seatbelt. This ride home is going a little bit too fast. “Children are dying because of this. Everything they have done. What would you think if it was your family? It’s 2003. If we let this go on, we won’t live up to twenty more years—”

“My family is somewhere in Europe right now. Lost communication with them and I really wouldn’t mind it if my dad got one of those…things that you claim are happening.” Aeri answers, turning on a corner when she scoffs. “Stop printing out articles and putting them on my desk. It won’t happen. I don’t want a knife to my neck and your pretty words to go to waste on something we won’t be able to change.”

“This will kill us, as a population, in the long run—”

Aeri quirks a defined, slim brow. “So, work your ass off so you can get a house underground and run when a nuclear explosion happens.” The chuckle that leaves her lips is somewhat deep, utterly terrifying, much more when a light suddenly casts down on them, harsh and blinding, coming straight from Aeri’s side of the car. “What—?”

Some moments just go by a little too soon, enough to have her asking questions only when she feels the collision against the car. Aeri’s face rakes peace when the car comes hauling directly at them, and it’s such a paradoxical little thing. How her body shakes in place, eyes closed as she feels the car moving without Aeri turning the steering wheel or stepping on the pedal. She doesn’t hear shouts, but the brakes of the car. Pondering if Aeri had stopped the car, if a drunk driver was coming directly at them, if the world was blaming them for shutting their lips and gave them a taste of their own medicine.

Her head pounds by the time her eyes close again, and the first thing she gets to do is what she has been taught from the moment she was born. Wailing, with her heart beating in rapid motions, her hands coming forward to grasp the windows, cracking noises coming when her fingers wrap around the tainted material.

“A—Aeri…” She gasps out the name, trying to numb the pain with the comfort of knowing someone is there with her. Nonetheless, her eyes close again. Aeri is not in her position in the driver’s seat, a big hole in the window in front of the car letting know more than what she ever bargained for. “F…Fuck…”

Though, steps lighten her senses, a soft whine leaving her lips when she tries to extend her body away from the crashed car. Her chest hurts, but at least she can move. Enough for her to be halfway out of the window, with the shards poking holes through her shirt when she hears it.

Two gunshots not too far away. Blasting their light onto her face.

That’s one thing; one of the first actions we learn is crying, walking, grasping and running. The fourth one comes as a defense mechanism, and when she hears such noise, all she can think about is that she’s next. Not caring about the bruises that leave the shards on her skin, bruising her bottom lip in between her teeth, she gets away from the car, plopping down on the flooring when she sees it.

Not it, but her.

Slim hips fill dressy black pants, strands of professionally cut blonde hair covering the woman’s straight and protruding shoulders. When she turns around, the shotgun rests in directly in between her fingers, though she has a hard time making out the figure on the floor. Laying in between the shadows, she could have stayed perfectly still as the woman neared her, or she could find another route, like the almost-forgotten forest, smelling of burnt wood and iron.

Her hands bring her up from the floor when she hears a gunshot thrown her way, evaded by her defense mechanism, running until her lungs give out as tears stream down her face, walking through the forest in the desperate need of staying alive, but the memories come rushing back to her.

What had happened to Aeri Song?

###

One second can feel like a lifetime; the moment the doors close, as he’s one step away. The days his magazine decides to put his articles on the first few pages, only to realize they are down-casted by a picture. Underappreciated, quite like time for him, as he rushes with his office clothes barely hanging over the ridiculous clothing one of his friends had designed for him.

Inhuman strength and speed never solved his issues; the shyness that paralyzes him, the fear of not being enough—things of Jeon Wonwoo, whom he really is, but can’t let appear in moments as much. In those seconds when the world he deemed as helpless needs a glimmer of hope. The train doors close right behind him, speeding through the empty train station to get there on time at eleven at night.

He failed his mission.

It didn’t happen like in the comic books his best friend, and reading enthusiast, Diane said. Wonwoo didn’t fall into chemicals, didn’t have a grand moment of solitude where his powers decided to make an appearance. Throughout his life, he saw the same glimmering lights of the train, barely holding on, as the world around him destroyed itself and the people he cared about. And he did what he always could, what would be expected out of someone like him.

Fixing his glasses, turning a blind eye, and expecting for the ceiling to fall down on him. Blame the entirety of humanity, because he isn’t special.

One hand lifts the edge of the plaid jacket on his shoulder, curling onto himself when his eyes close. The train is empty, swinging softly with every rushed step it takes. He’s tired of running, but it’s what he is meant to do. What he aimed to reach when he realized just kind of powers that he had over him, only wishing to make a change.

Late, he had been. The lifeless corpse of a woman inside a car left the trail of what he had followed after but could not reach.

Wonwoo gives a step forward, sitting down on one of the seats with aching legs and a peak of the tight suit under his clothing reflecting on the window in front of him. There, just as he fixes the collar of his shirt and turns himself back into his normal persona, he sees her. Trembling, with her knees up her chest and her chin digging deep into the crevice in her bones, absolutely hopeless.

Faces that merge into memories of when the world was easier for Wonwoo—when every rationality that came from his being, was just a mere shrug of his shoulders. Five or four years younger, sporting a backpack over his shoulder and a smile on his face, with bigger glasses and better vision, and the need to be human. No one expected him to be perfect, to save the day, to be there.

She was in his journalism major, somewhere within the campus living like most didn’t. Stuck in thesis, in projects, trying to reach for more, to be the perfection he always missed to be. Wonwoo relished on blending into the background, while she ached to have a voice, to speak louder than the rest and be heard for those like him. Those who would have preferred to keep silent than to make noise, even if it costed them their freedom.

Fickle is the woman who should have been a hero instead of him, ripping cries out of her mouth, with her hair done a mess as it falls on her shoulders. He sees half of her face, reminiscent of the nights in which he’d sit on the library across from her, gorgeous coincidences that became less and less apparent in his life.

Scraped arms and the wound on her forehead that bleeds like a madman have him standing up, not because he deems himself a good hero. Not because he could have the power to heal all wounds, but because there is something over everything else that he is that makes him valuable as a person.

“You alright?”

Empathy, in the form of a man holding onto the train for dear life, doesn’t reach her in the most humane of touches. Almost as if she had forgotten there was carefulness in this world. She kneels even more, covering her body when her gaze lifts up; those irises of strength that have him lifting his own eyebrows. For, he’s not sure what happened to her.

A smile plays on her features, strong as strong can be, and he would almost envy her if he didn’t despise the power that was pushed upon him. “Alright is a word I can define perfectly well, but don’t know if it would fit me at this moment.” She whispers out, a sigh following her statement before she straightens her back, her hold on her limbs softening when her eyes switch to recognition. “Jeon Wonwoo?”

He hasn’t heard that name in a while. Not in that tone of absolute nostalgia. These days, people are more interested in the man in a tight black bodysuit, who climbs on buildings and rushes through ceilings to save the day. Super, until he isn’t.

“That would be me.” He says, quirking a finger towards her and asking for her name. Wonwoo knows it, but it’s never too late to try to be casual, right? “Not the first thing I thought I would ask you once we met again, but is that a bruise on your head?”

Her fingers reach for her forehead, patting the spot where it hurts the most, bathed in blood when a trembling grin appears on her features. “Hadn’t realized.”

“Strong as ever, I see.”

He takes a fabric from the depths of his jacket’s pocket, one he keeps there just in case, before giving it to her. In the matter of seconds, she’s patting it against her skin, a scoff leaving her lips. “You haven’t met a lot of people if you think I’m strong, Wonwoo.”

If only she knew. Wonwoo runs his fingers through his dense black hair, once pushed back to utter perfection but now falling on his forehead, a little bit longer than what he had in university.

“I’ve met plenty, but when thinking of strong-willed, I happen to remember a girl in the UNI’s library thinking she was going to change the world.”

Those words make her drop the smile on her face, settling the bloodied tissue down on her thigh when she says: “The world was a little too big for my hands.” The hopelessness of her tone has Wonwoo stopping, staring into her face in the hunt for something that could have broken her—that determination that had once taken over her.

“What happened to you?” He questions, only to have her shrugging.

“Was at the wrong place at the wrong time.” She whispers, licking her dry lips in the process, as if stopping a cry from appearing to join the tears that are now drying on her face. “That translates into nothing, I imagine.”

“It’s not nothing if you’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing if no one saw me.” Upon the opening of the train doors with a swish of invitation, she stands up. Much too close are their chests, where each heave from her sends a dagger through his heart, in the empathy of meeting a face that had once given so much to this world. Promised more than it deserved, really. “It was nice seeing you, Wonwoo. Maybe, in another time, I would have sat down to have late-night dinner with you.”

That, to her, is a goodbye. To Wonwoo, it’s a question mark—and more than strength, he likes challenges. A good question to answer in a puzzle that he wants to resolve. Which is why his elegant, yet worn-out brown office shoes tap against the flooring as he rushes after her, calling out her name even when this isn’t his stop.

“W—Wait up.”

“Sorry, Wonwoo. I have to get myself cleaned up and I don’t really have the time for chatter.”

“I—It doesn’t have to be now!” He exclaims, just as he stops at the entrance of the train station. That makes her stop, her back turned to him as her hands remain balled in fists. As if ready to fight what had once been taken away from her. Her brawn. “If you ever need to talk, I happen to be an excellent listener. And not much of a talker, either.”

He swears he sees her shoulders shaking in laughter, looking over her shoulder in a matter that would have taken his breath away had she not been utterly destroyed. Her beauty had always been elegant, quite the sight to look at, the kind of book people passed by but he somehow wanted to pick up in the classics section.

“What are you offering?”

He rummages through his pocket, finding his bent, used introduction card before sighing. “Well, my number and some coffee, if you fancy that. A friend to talk to, if you’re willing to.” Wonwoo extends his hand, warmth spreading on his digits when he places the card on her fingertips. It may have gone up to his ears, too.

“I’ll think about it.” The words barely come out of her mouth, paired with a stifled grin from her own before she’s turning around and leaving again. A memory of easier and better times, too.

With the doors closed and another train to take, Wonwoo leans that he hadn’t saved the world that night, but he had saved someone’s hour from turning ever more horrid.

###

Tall, sturdy buildings and unstoppable lives. Days after her accident, with aching limbs yet a racing mind, no one seemed to think twice about her presence. She was just another article-writer in a newspaper that needed to get her job right, not a person to be heard when she slipped inside her gray cubicle, with a skirt a little too tight and a button down that felt constricting. Unlike herself, her fingers hover the keyboard and what does she get?

Absolutely nothing.

“Fuck.” Cursing, she tosses her head forward, leaning her forehead against the cream white of the computer screen before sighing deeply. She needs to write the news, but what roams her head is how ignorant people seem to be about Aeri’s death. A funeral and some words later, and no one ever asked her what happened. Another name ticked off the list, for no apparent reason.

Blonde strands of hair and the steps following after her had given her the hindsight of what she needed to figure out. It wasn’t an accident, but Aeri Song was a very politically correct individual. Nothing that went out of her mouth was ever to be taken as an offense—unless it was her, of course—, but no one hated her. No enemies. No lovers. Nothing.

“Think I heard someone going through an existential crisis.” Looking up, she sees the new man in charge of Aeri’s position. Kang Hyungmin. He had done everything in his willpower to be her boss, but his lacking narrative and eye for problematic interviewees had taken him out to Aeri’s strengths. Nonetheless, he was the second-best option, and by the new suit on his body, he is feeling himself. A little bit over his forties, only a few glimmers of gray appear on his brown hair. “Where’s my article?”

From the moment they met at Aeri’s funeral, he had been eager to get her to work. She hoists herself up in her seat, coming face to face with the man in question. “Sorry, I, uh, I haven’t been feeling like myself lately…”

“I understand.” Hyungmin coos, though he leans on his elbows, face extremely close. She doesn’t know if his perfume smells good or extremely repugnant. Layer after layer combined with early morning sweat. Marvelous. “But I don’t need you to be yourself. I need you to be a journalist. Get the eyes out of people and put them back in their skulls, y’know? Some hard-hitting truth that leaves us in a good spot with investors but make us look…uh…reasonable?”

So, apparently, there is a profile for the spot. To be an absolute liar. “Listen, I will fetch something up, but I don’t need to write about Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt at this moment in time.” Swinging the printed notes that Hyungmin had given her earlier this morning in between her fingertips, she scoffs. “I’m a journalist, and I will tell my truth, just not under your terms.”

Hyungmin pulls away, crossing his arms across his chest as a mocking grin appears on his features. He blends well with the gray background of the office. “I know one true, sweet, little pea.” He swings his thumb in the air before pointing towards the entrance door. “That’s the door, and this is my column now. You either do as I say or you go through that door.”

“But—”

“I didn’t ask for opinions. I asked for truths, and I’m telling mine.” Hyungmin whispers, using the same tone as she did before turning around. “I’m sure you can fetch Brad and Jennifer’s article from Aeri’s office. She was actually a journalist and not some woman trying to have a voice so…maybe,” He stops, shrugging his shoulders. “Copy that. Couldn’t care less.”

She now regrets not swinging at him, but with clicking heels and still, trying to move in that tight skirt, Aeri’s office seems to get closer and closer, abandoned by the ever-ambitious and anti-feminist boss that wanted bigger, better and more spacious.

Her jaw tightens with each step she takes, blaring anger at everyone around her, with frowned eyebrows and mumbling lips. Opened and closed, the door welcomes her inside the office that remains intact. As though Aeri never had a family that cared about her, and now that she thinks about it, that may be the case. Skipped holidays and Decembers spent at the office, it wouldn’t surprise her if Aeri basked in solitude.

Cream and pastel, feminine over anything, the vanilla scent that overtook Aeri lingers with the last few cigarettes she smoked. Her fingertips trail over the edge of the desk, turning off the computer that no one dared touch, and she closes the curtains, shadows eating what was once alive. Though, once the darkness engulfs everything, her eyes connect to the drafts printed and laid on the desk.

She expects Brad and Jennifer. She expects to talk about the new café in town. The newest Nokia model. What she doesn’t expect is for her draft to be printed on paper.

What she had sent Aeri’s way.

DEATH VALLEY: How the government has turned our city into a trashcan, and what it has done to our children.

By Aeri Song. June 24th, 2003.

She doesn’t know if cussing a dead woman is right, but it’s what she feels like doing.

Seated on the chair that had once weighted the boss down, thus opened her wings to betray her own friends, she reads over the paper. Her months of investigation plastered in the exact same mannerisms—her tone, her voice, her will. Aeri planned to release it as her own, get the love or the hate that she needed. Attention, really, is the worst drug of humankind.

She had sent the first draft a little over a month ago, she recalls, and revises even further when she slips through her e-mail and sees it. There, copied and pasted as Aeri’s work, sent two weeks ago to a man named Changkyun.

Changkyun from The Time of Science.

That’s a magazine, as far as she’s concerned.

Were they planning to unite hands, for him to further emphasize what she had already written and prove it from a scientific viewpoint?

From: Aeri Song.

To: Changkyun Jo.

Greetings Changkyun,

You can find my newest article here. I’ve been working on it for a little bit over a year, doing research throughout town and I think you would be interested. I know you said we would be a great team together, and I can only imagine how well this would sell in the proper hands. Please, read over the first draft and may we talk about adding your viewpoint.

P.S. I hope that coffee you promised is still on the line.

Sincerely,

Aeri Song.

She recalls something, burning with anger, when she turns off the computer.

Jeon Wonwoo worked for The Time of Science. She had read some of his articles.

Her purse is the next thing she goes hunting for, breathing heavily with the printed, editorial versions of her work under Aeri’s name pressed to her chest. Once she reaches her cubicle, with the landline on one hand and her purse on the other, her fingers hook around the one number she had tried to avoid, afraid of what Wonwoo would think.

She’s not blind. She knows what Wonwoo thought of her when seeing her. The power of an ambitious woman destroyed under the devastation of the world she lived in, as if the weight of hardships had been enough to stop her. Back in her more youthful days, she would have said that was impossible, but with an article stolen and into the hands of one of Wonwoo’s colleagues, she can’t help but fear for good.

Fear the day he doesn’t pick up the call, for she needs to redeem herself. Find that north that will help others, in light of whom had been lost along the way, for Aeri Song may have been an absolute scumbag, dare she not say a complete bitch, but she had a purpose…and it was so shield her from the stardom of what was about to come. The success, the recognition and the new era of a journalism boom of truth and resilience.

If Jeon Wonwoo picks up, it may become easier.

###

The city looks even more disarranged in daylight, as he stands on top of the highest skyscraper, a man in his hand and hanging from his clothing.

“Want to tell me exactly what you were doing inside that car?”

A Honda Accord from 2003, the newest and second most relevant car of the year. So far, that is. He recognized it from the accident he was meant to stop, followed by none other than Jinyoung Lim. One of the secretaries of the aspiring senator, Mr. Lim, her brother. He had envisioned her in one of the events he attended as a journalist, creeped out by the mere egocentrism of the woman and the tick of her eye, the jut of her chin, as if looking above everyone. She wasn’t as important as her brother, but everything that he ever said was planned by her, organize by her meticulous mind and Diane smacks him on the head each time he says this, but that woman is wicked as wicked can be.

It came to no surprise that she had left a man in the car when she ran away, following after someone whom he would never recognize, with Aeri Song’s body laying halfway out of her own vehicle. The man, now whining, crying, fiddling and everything in between as Wonwoo holds him with one hand, not exactly eager to throw him down but for answers, had ran away from the moment he saw Wonwoo, not exactly in his normal attire, but in the kind that his best friend dares call spectacular.

That’s why this man, this asshole didn’t clean up after Aeri’s death.

And that’s why he hunted him down in his two-room apartment, dragged him all the way out, used his strength and rapidness to get to the skyscraper and now, he’s the ridiculous man with some spandex outfit—in midnight black, covering his face, contorting to his every worked muscle—that holds this chauffeur as a puppet.

“Man,” The youthful man says, holding onto his hand for dear life. “I swear I wasn’t there! I—Please, let go of me!”

Another screech. He may start to believe that this one is just a drop-out kindergarten student dressed like a man in his thirties. “I saw you there. You ran away when you saw me, remember?”

“I was just passing by!”

“You said you weren’t there.” Letting go of one finger does nothing to his hold, but a small smile can’t help but appear on his lips when the man in question screams even louder. Okay, so Wonwoo isn’t the bad guy…but he had been mistreated by bad guys his entire life. May as well have fun with it while looking for justice. “And now you’re passing by? Tell me the real story, Theo.”

“I—Oh God, please. I think I may pee my pants.”

Wonwoo checks down, quirking an eyebrow, unperceived by his mask. “I don’t see pee.”

“It may come out.”

“So, tell me quickly before you give a golden shower to everyone underneath you, you gross fuck.”

“I—I was…I was driving the car! I admit it. I…man, I don’t want to go to jail. My wife is about to have a baby, and I really, really want to hold him outside of jail.” He rolls around as he says this, held by Wonwoo’s strength as the man interlocks his hands around his forearm. “But it wasn’t my fault! I was…I was serving someone else.”

“Who was it?” Wonwoo asks. “You tell me, I let you go.”

“I can’t tell you!” He whines, his hat falling off his head and dropping to the ground, meter after meter, until it becomes nothing. That may scare him enough. “If I tell you, I’ll get killed.”

Resting his abdomen at the edge of the ceiling, using both hands to keep him upright, as if to give Theo some sort of hopefulness, he says through the wind. “If I drop you right now, you also die, Theo.”

“B—But you won’t!” Theo dares say, looking up at the man. “You’re the good guy,” A nervous chuckle follows after this. “They aren’t, you won’t drop me!”

“Good call, buddy.” Wonwoo says, letting go of one hand. “But there’s always a first time for everything…”

He’s lying. A pacifist, over everything, Wonwoo wouldn’t dare drop the guy…but hard times need harder solutions.

“No!”

“Tell me, then.”

“You’re awfully calm for the situation we’re in.”

“I’m not the one peeing myself.”

“Asshole!”

“If you pee out of your asshole, we may need to get you checked…”

“Jinyoung Lim! That bitch paid me a whole fucking lot to kill the two journalists! Come on, just let me go!”

“Pull you up or let you go?”

“Man, now we’re talking linguistics?!”

His second job can be fun sometimes.

As much as it can be devastating, he realizes when pulling Theo up, seeing the man go down the set of stairs like a madman with tears running down his eyes. Serves him right, and if he hears him speak about him, he may have to give him another visit. Though, just as he’s about to jump to another roof, with the wind burning at his lungs and his mind rushing, a question comes to mind.

Two journalists in a car. One of them was Aeri Song, part of The Noir Secret, and he can’t help but think of the beaten-up ex-classmate he met up with in the train. Too close, far too close for it to be a coincidence, but she had always been an electable member of the journalism society. Why would they go after them…after her?

Coincidences do happen, or maybe it’s called destiny, because when he gives two steps back to have an initiative rush for the jump from one roof to the other, his Nokia rings.

The secret to this is hiding it on his ankle. Diane’s advice.

“Hello?”

“Wonwoo?” The sound of her voice has him stopping, like whiplash, looking around in that damned mask before breathing out her name.

“…I didn’t think you’d call.” He breathes out, crossing one arm under his bent elbow before he hears her chuckle. Not heartedly like she did when she was in university, but trembling, almost scared.

“I didn’t think I would, either.” She confesses, only to have her sighing soon after. “I know something bad, Wonwoo…and I don’t know who else to say, but someone you know has to deal with it. And I need help.”

She never needed help, and that’s something he granted to her. The way she always made it seem like she’d find all the answers in everything that was ever put in her way. This time around, he feels the connection…the absolute need to help her, for he feels like the most untainted of journalists, perhaps not a friend but dear in a way, would have something happening to her.

“Coffee sounds nice to you?”

“I despise it.” She breathes out, a spat-out tone making a smile appear on his face. “…But you like it, don’t you?”

“Live for it.” Wonwoo conquers. “…Maybe, I could order you some tea.”

“I’m fine with water.”

“You’re fine with blandness, then.”

“Welcome to the new world we live in, Wonwoo. Everything is bland.”

“Thanks, eager to go into the next era.” A moment of silence completes them, only to have Wonwoo sighing. “Meet you at the ‘Steamin’ Latte’?”

“Sounds good for me.”

…If only she knew his way of arriving was by jumping through rooftops.

###

Voice monotone, mind conserved, she had never been the kind to scream out loud. There, as the city gets filled with cigarette smokers, car sporters, ambitious daydreamers with big cups of coffee that they leave splayed on the sidewalk, she feels like shouting. Perhaps, it’s the imminent fear of death and its flying egocentrism, or it’s something else. It’s the fact that she has never stopped being heard, and now, secrets gather at the roof of her mouth.

The Steamin’ Latte is not too far away from her office, perhaps two blocks away, with eccentric entrance doors in bright pink and brown walls to be alike of that kind of coffee. People chatter outside, clear in their misery, the stress that embargoes those who need to be better each day. And she would have joined them, had it not been for the sound of something—if we’re being rational here, a cat—bumping through the trash-bags in the alley at the left of the café.

She can already feel the allergies creeping up, but curiousness is something a journalist always has. The only thing she has to do is move one of those bags to the side with the sole of her shoe and then, that cat is liberated from its confines.

Though, just as she slips inside, she sees that it’s not the trash-bags exactly that had been stepped on. Someone is behind the trashcan, doing God-knows-what, strands of black hair peaking out like slices of night.

“Hey!” She says out loud, aware of how common crime is in this city. “Get out of there!”

Braveness comes to her and fits her like a ring, but it doesn’t exactly stay when she hears a very familiar voice. “A—Ah, give me a minute!” Then, she hears another smack against the iron of the trashcan, a wince coming from Wonwoo’s lips.

She gives one step forward. “Wonwoo?” A hum comes from him. “What are you doing there?”

“Ah, um…” A zipper closing can be heard. “My phone fell around here. I was looking for it.”

“Let me help you!”

“No need!” Wonwoo stands up at that moment, as per usual, the collar of his shirt is done a mess, but his slim features highlight by the smile on his features. Elongated nose, slim lips and of course, the glasses that he puts on once he connects his gaze with hers. “I—I…uh…give me a second?”

She crosses her arms across her chest, leaning in the nearest wall. “Are we playing a game of hide and seek?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Then?”

He waves his phone in the air. “Was looking for my phone.” Though, just as he’s slipping away from the trashcan, a blush rakes over his cheeks, tinting them crimson red. “Uh…I thought you’d get here after me.”

“This café is close to my workplace. I sneaked out just to come here.” Confession after confession, she quirks an eyebrow at him. “How did your phone get there?”

“You only ask the good questions, don’t you?” Wonwoo fixes the collar of his button down, slipped inside his pants messily, with the occasional dark blazer fitting his wide shoulders and yet, covering them from daylight.

With one hand on her waist, she chuckles. “I happen to be a good journalist.” Though, her journalist ways had been the cause of Aeri’s death. Betrayal masked by guilt, a cocktail of feelings she doesn’t dare decipher now. “So?”

“Slipped out my hold, that was all.”

“And you walk through an alleyway full of trash?”

“I never said I took good decisions.”

“Can notice it now.” Waving her finger towards the side, she says: “You owe me something to accompany my cup of water, so we better get inside before they finish those lemon cookies I like.”

Wonwoo extends one of his veiny hands. For someone who speaks about science in a magazine, hiding behind specs and a computer, he surely does work out. “Lead the way.” It takes her those words to look away from his hands. God, she had never looked at Wonwoo from up close.

Was he always good looking?

“Are they good?” He asks.

Step after step, she tries to recall what they were talking about, hands fisted deep in the pockets of her blazer. “What?”

“The cookies.”

She tilts her head to the side, her mind vacant until it clicks on her just as Wonwoo opens the door of the café for her, the air conditioner doing wonders to frighten her heated skin. Delightful, really. “Oh, amazing.” She says. “They melt in your mouth with each bite you take, but they’re not gooey in any way. Just the perfect acid taste with a sprinkle of sweetness. Similar to pie, but not quite there.”

Wonwoo runs his fingers through his unkempt hair, somehow never in place when she sees him, but each time she had captured a glimpse of him at the campus, he was always the most put-together man she had seen. “You sure know how to sell things.”

“You’d be surprised.” She says, a sigh ripping from her throat when she approaches one of the tables at the corner. “…I happen to have sold something against my knowledge.”

Wonwoo flickers through the menu like it’s a newspaper. An avid reader, that he is. “So, sue them.”

“Wish justice was that easy to accomplish.” Nimble and nervous fingers press onto the collar of her jacket, pulling it upwards, downwards, playing with it like a toy in a child’s hand. Shit, she should really try to hide her nervousness. “What do you know about the contamination of waters in the city, Wonwoo?”

Never had she inspected him from this close, where the crease of his brows makes him feel more pensive and his lips trail after his teeth when he gives it a bite, pondering and thinking. Wonwoo is, by no means, someone that she passed by in university…but he was always somewhat of a distraction. One of those bite-sized memories that help daydream at night, but never become much more than that.

“That it happens. Not only here but around the world. And that it has been the cause of a lot of sickness this past year.” He confesses, putting the menu down and taking the time to breathe in slowly. “What do you know about it?”

“I know it’s not only the waters.” She announces, unveiling the secret that Aeri died for. “I know they are been experimenting with the harvesting grounds around the city. That we have more contamination than ever. I know the prices of cigarettes have significantly gone lower in the last half of the year and that means, at least, forty-six percent of our population smokes.” Each and every word that leaves her lips scares her more. “But I know the prices for a hospital bed are…phew, to die for. Literally. We have cut out most of our population in need of help thanks to the problems presented and ignored by our rulers. That’s what I know.” She pauses, leaning back on her seat and crossing one leg over the other. “And I know that I know too much.”

Some silences are uncomfortable, some are the opposite, but this one stands in between. The fear of impotence lingers within the duo. Wonwoo interlocks his hands in front of him, each long digit, somewhat calloused and with sprinkles of red on his knuckles—God knows why—, perfectly uniting with the slot in between his other hand.

“You do.” He confesses. What she already knows, really. “Who did you give this information to?”

“I wanted to publish it. Greedy and ambitious old me thought it was a good idea to give it to my then boss.” The realization of the night in which she barely came out alive contracts her throat. “I don’t know if you’ve heard about her…but Aeri Song?”

“The woman in the car crash.” Wonwoo, as clever as ever, completes for her.

He may have read it in some newspaper. “Precisely.” Trying to battle back her anxiety, she keeps speaking. “I sent a first draft to Aeri and I was in the car with her—”

Wonwoo pauses for a moment, quirking a defined eyebrow. “The police and all newspapers say she was on her own.”

“I ran away.”

“Why?”

“Because when you’re getting followed and you happen to realize the car never stopped, you know it was planned. That, or a very drunk driver, but the woman in the car wasn’t drunk in the slightest.”

“A woman?” Fairly interested, with a glint in his eyes that can’t be recognized, Wonwoo whispers. “There was a woman in the car?”

“Yes, but that’s…I need to organize my thoughts.”

“Yeah, sorry.” Extending his hand over the table, the warmth of physical touch falls upon her palm, his thumb rubbing at the space between her pointer finger and thumb. A relaxing point, apparently. “You’re alright, I imagine?”

“Some scratches, but that’s…that’s the least of my worries.” She licks her lips. “There was a woman inside the car, but she was too untouched. Someone else must have driven the car. She followed after me and I ran away. That’s…that’s when we met at the train.”

“Knew something had happened to you.” Wonwoo says, his messy hair falling across his forehead with one swift motion.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you a thing, but when you’ve just gotten out of a car and you had to run away from someone with a gun, you just…you just can’t trust anybody.”

“I know.” The soberness of his statement has her swallowing deeply.

“But I need to trust you now, because Aeri was killed thanks to my article.”

Wonwoo pulls away at that moment, and she doesn’t know if she has scared him, but the truth is the truth. “What?”

“Aeri planned on releasing the article under her name and sent it over to someone in your magazine. Changkyun Jo. I imagine he must have given the information to someone else that clearly didn’t want it out.” Deep in thought, Wonwoo brings a hand up to his chin. Alright, she may be scaring him to death, but he’s the most intelligent person she knows— “And here we are. Aeri is dead. I have the article saved in my purse but I have a feeling there is something grand here, Wonwoo.”

Running his fingertips through his dark as night hair, he grabs the folder with the article inside once she pops it out of her purse. “And you want to keep quiet?”

Determination fills the shake of her head. “I want it out. I want those fuckers to pay for what they have done, and for my silence to be a benefit, not something they can choose out of me.”

Delicate motions of his eyes trail after every word when he hums. “This is very detailed. An ultimatum to the government.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you think they would want this out?”

A scoff leaves her perched lips. “A few years ago, Wonwoo, when we were preparing for this job, journalism was about honesty.”

“It’s about sales and business connections.” Those words have her stopping. Has Wonwoo changed to be someone that blends into this devastating world? His rosy lips and almost immaculate skin welcome the tiredness of his job. Dark bags and insecurity. “Changkyun is one of our researchers. His work has been published all around the continent. If someone knows science, it’s him.”

“Then he must know how important it is to have this information out—”

“He works for the government.” Wonwoo completes, a shrug to his shoulders. “It’s not that hard to miss that he must have given it to someone else.”

“Or…maybe he didn’t want it out?” Conspiracies fill her tone when she leans forward. “Wonwoo, someone died.”

“That’s the way people shut up the truth these days.” Wonwoo says, closing the folder with a final sigh. “I’ll take care of it. Just…they were aiming for you two. Aeri and you. They must know someone else was in that car and they must be looking for you.”

She scoffs. “So, let them look.” Carving a finger to her chest, determination paints her features. “If I have to die for the truth, Wonwoo, I will.”

“But I won’t let you.”

“I didn’t ask for your permission.” She uncurls her legs from their hold before clearing her throat, mimicking his actions of interlocked hands and determined eyes. “So, Jeon Wonwoo, if you have a plan, count me in.”

“Let…I don’t have a plan, y’know? Maybe, we can talk about this anonymously and let the bigger forces take care of it.” He stops, looking down when a beam of pink rises to his ears. “Wasn’t there a new hero in town?”

So the word says. This town has met hope believing in the heroes appearing around town, people in ridiculous costumes who claim to have superpowers. Stupid to believe in, either.

“I’m no damsel in distress.” She adds. “…So, you’re in?”

With swivels of wind playing around his face, his tranquility merging with his incredible and fastened train of thought, Wonwoo presses his thin lips together before mumbling:

“I must follow you ‘til the end of the world, don’t I?” He prompts. “…I’m a journalist and I vowed to tell the truth, so the truth I will tell.”

Somehow, even with all his mysteriousness, she believes him.

###  

Diane says he needs to think of a name. You know, the typical superhero name that people shout out when he’s in his super-suit (uh…spandex suit) and they ask for his help. So far, he has only investigated from up close, and used his faint knowledge of technology to connect to the radio of the police officer’s cars. That, and a lot of presumption about what could happen in this town.

Dare he says what all superheroes would shout at him for, but he likes his name. Jeon Wonwoo. It sounded professional, with the right amount of seriousness but with a bit of a casualty. It was given to him, for fuck’s sake, that should be enough to like it. It’s what everyone has called him, it’s his real persona. He wants to be able to divide the two—say that his introverted, quite reserved, a bit nerdy self that is in the office is completely different from his strong and hidden in the shadows alter-ego, but he knows something…

When he was younger, he wondered if there would ever be justice. Real, considerate, calm. In the form of someone who knew the difference between right and wrong. He never imagined the duty would come to him, that he would save one life and then, would come others.

Maybe, he should go for something like James Bond or Personal Investigator JJW because following Changkyun Jo around was definitely not how he thought he would be spending his Sunday night.

His body contorts when he climbs onto the rooftop of Changkyun’s mansion, somewhere in the nicest part of town. The wind knocks at his lungs when he grabs himself from the edge of the railing, turning his body upside-down to look through the glassed windows and into his office. If he falls from here, he wouldn’t break one or two bones, but his entire body instead, yet, he believes in his powers and his suit enough for him to dangle and look inside.

Changkyun is not there. Now, the issue is getting inside.

His eyes—the only thing uncovered in his mask—inspect around the office. Pristine and vintage, with orange walls, light wooden desks and a few coats thrown around here and there. A portrait of the like of Jackson Pollock rests in front of his desk, his chair—empty for now—turned to the windows. This man really believes an enemy wouldn’t shoot him through this window and get him through his chair, so Changkyun is confident he’s protected enough not to die.

Missed opportunities for Wonwoo in his magazine went straight to Changkyun’s lap, for he had more experience and, in retrospect, more to give. With his puffed-out chest, enormous grins, gray hairs and faint stubble, he made it seem like he was professional. A wife to his side and a lot of money in his bank account, as well as trips all over the globe…Wonwoo was the speck that covered the success of Jo Changkyun.

Speck, is that a good superhero name?

No. Diane would have his head.

Plastering his hands to the windowsill, he looks back into the city. Someone must be looking at the house from time to time. Changkyun was in a business trip to a congress of some type that Wonwoo barely paid attention to, but the house couldn’t be alone. Mrs. Jo had to be there, right?

How does he open a window without breaking the glass?

Glass? Superhero name?

God, he needs to concentrate!

He presses his thighs to the window, taking leverage to grab onto something else. The brick walls help him stay in place, looking down and yet, not paralyzing in fear. Heights are fun when you have enough strength to battle gravity but still, he fears pushing this window open. If they see him there and they have a gun, it’s game over for him.

Or well, not really, he’s very fast and could run away from a bullet on the rare occasion, but—

Oh, fuck it, he’s just going to try to push the window open!

His wide hands, gloved and sweaty, press into the window, ankles curling into windowsill to hold himself together before sliding in. Not that he had much space to do it any other way. No warning sirens or red rays appear once he’s inside, but he shrinks into the curtains, just in case there are cameras.

A brown eye peeping lets him know there are.

Shit.

Now, what to do?

He slides on the walls, careful not to appear in the cameras, shrinking when he’s in the line of sight, and avoiding them at all costs, before his eyes capture a glimpse of the coats, a smile appearing under the mask when he takes them in between his fingers and hangs them over the cameras, making sure they don’t move. Three cameras down, now he has to get to his desk.

The first thing he sees are receipts of money. A divorce paper that Changkyun hasn’t signed and, of course, a lot of articles written by himself. Most of which were interesting to him once but after his friend’s revelations, he’s not quite sure that he respects Changkyun in the sly level he once did.

But nothing shows anything of importance.

Maybe, if he checks Changkyun’s e-mail, he can see whom he had sent the article Aeri had “written”—stolen, actually—for review.

Or for gossiping and getting a woman killed.

Though, Wonwoo is not the best with a computer. Good for typing in it, but once the screen pops up in blue asking for a password, he’s frozen.

Alright, time to call someone. He has already done much of the work.

Slipping his fingers into his shoe, he gets his Nokia out before putting it up to his ear, knowing the number from the top of his head.

“Diane?” He asks once the other person picks up. Blasting music ends up in the other edge of the line, a chuckle following soon after.

“What’s up big boy? How’s the mission going?”

“Big boy is not going to happen for my superhero name.”

“Bulky boy?”

“I’m not a boy.” He whispers, only to move the mouse around the screen. “I have a question. I’m in the office, I want to get into the computer but it asks me for a password. How do I guess it?”

“The odds are fifty-fifty, honestly. Do you have the pen-drive I gave you for your birthday?”

Stopping, he checks around his suit, patting around until he finds it. Somewhere near his calf, too, uncomfortably digging into his skin. “You always tell me to bring it around. Why?”

“Put it inside the computer.”

It’s not the first time he follows after his roommate’s orders, so bending down, he puts it inside the CPU, sighing deeply.

“Done.” Readying himself to follow after orders, he hovers over the computer screen. “What do I do now?”

“Wait.” Diane smugly replies, only to have him scoffing.

“I can’t wait. Don’t you think I could get caught—?”

“Chill, Wonwoo. Really. How are you a superhero when seventy percent of your fight or flight reactions consist of panicking?” He can imagine her leaning back on her seat. “It’s a virus. I got it from one of the porn sites my ex-boyfriend visited. It will steal all your information and passwords, leaving you completely bare. The computer will turn off…” And just as she says this, the screen goes black. “And then, it will restart itself. Without a password, possibly with some porn pop-ups but you can close your eyes if you really feel uncomfortable, kiddo.”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes in the process, holding his mouse in place. “Ha-ha, very funny.”

“Speaking of. Someone came to visit you just now.” He hums into the speaker, entering the screen and closing the tabs that appeared, turning off the speakers just in case any moan came around as he rummages through his computer and e-mail. “So pretty. I was almost blinded by beauty. She’s around here, I’m brewing her some coffee. She said her name was—”

“She hates coffee.” Wonwoo replies before he could even think about it. “What’s she doing there?”

“Isn’t she supposed to?”

He gave her his address for when they needed to talk, but he thought she would call him first. “She can come over, but she doesn’t know I’m actually…you know, a superhero? She was the one that told me about this guy’s doing, but I pretend I’m helping her as a normal guy, not as someone who can climb walls and rooftops.”

“Ooh,” Diane coos. “I’ll ask her what she thinks of this hero in spandex just to check if she’s into you.”

“Diane, do not—”

“I did wonders with that suit. Your ass looks like it’s…this round, big, juicy peach and I can’t help but pat myself in the back for it.” Dropping her tone, Wonwoo can already feel his body cringing. Note to self? Change roommate. “I’ll get you the girl, don’t worry.”

“Di—”

She hangs up at that moment, just as he sees it at the edge of the website. An e-mail sent to Jinyoung Lim.

So, Jinyoung was the one that killed Aeri, but she must know now that she didn’t kill the other person in the car.

…Jinyoung must be looking for her.

That brings him up his feet, closing the tabs and leaving through the window, elongated steps rushing him through the dark-lit night, not caring that he has to take off his suit, but her wellbeing instead. At least, he knows she’s with Diane, but what about the rest of her days?

What will telling the truth bring to her life?

###

October, 1999.

The smell of a new book is almost addictive.

The campus’ library oozes the imagery she has of what will once be her home. Comfortable, tranquil, with the sly scent of wood mingling along pages of wisdom. The faint swoosh of words connects to the air but barely meet her ears as she keeps her back straightened in one of the red wooden seats, scribbling down notes for a test and dying in the process of trying out one of the new textbooks in the library’s collection. First in line and she got to use it first.

Though, people start to disappear through the curved doors of the library by the time eleven strikes around, just when her eyes start to close but her will electrifies her. Perhaps, her dreams reach for too many parts of her brain, taking up her doings to become the best of the best in the field she aspires to be in, but it’s the hope of knowing her future is in her hands that keeps her going.

Only when she hears someone pushing a book a little too harshly into its personal slit in the shelf three rows away from her table, does she realize she’s not really alone. Not at twelve fourteen at night, at least. Her fingers hook around her pencil, twisting it once or twice, letting her thoughts roam about who could be so potentially scared of failure to be here at this time…

Then, that entire bookshelf falls. Tremors of heavy books and wood shaking the ground underneath her. Widened eyes are not enough to show her surprise when she stands up from her seat, oddly scared of a domino effect in the shelves that could have caused one to land on her, but when she turns around, she sees him.

Black curtains 0f hair drape across his eyes, parted and the slightest bit fashionable, but what interests her are the pair of worrisome eyes behind big specs. The typical attire of a university student falls on him, an oversized black t-shirt and jeans accompanying him, but Jeon Wonwoo always makes it seem like he gets proper hours of sleep.

He doesn’t…because she does not, and he’s always here studying whenever she’s doing the exact same thing.

“Oh gosh,” She dares trip out a mumble, moving towards him with opened palms, ready to help him fetch up the books that had fallen to the ground. The librarian is a man in his eighties, so it will take him quite a while to get here. “You’re alright?”

“A—Ah…” He looks down at his hands, as if finding out the secret to life in his skin before returning his gaze up to her. She inspects his palms from up close, searching for scratches or wounds. “I’m alright. I just—”

An avid journalist, she asks the good questions. “How did you make it fall? That shelf’s heavy.”

From up close, Wonwoo looks like a promise. You kn0w, the kind the world needs. Someone who brings honesty and justice to the table, with sprinkles of truth and just the nicest amount of guilt. Because that feeling has been long lost these days, when people drive to their imminent doom—guilt.

To have that feeling creeping up on anyone is already a rare occurrence. The word ‘sorry’ has become a sign of weakness. People don’t realize that for them to build a future, a proper one let’s say, they have to accept their mistakes.

“I pushed the book a little too hard.” And almost to prove her right, Wonwoo pulls his calloused hands away. As far as she remembers, he does play a bit of guitar, doesn’t he? “…Sorry.”

“No. Jesus, no.” She shakes her head when a chuckle trips from her throat. “I’m more worried about you. You must be hitting the gym hard if you’re able to push shelves like that.”

“I’m okay.” Wonwoo says, scavenging to talk to the librarian, fuming in rage with a reddened face and tiny balled fists. “I—Uh, I’ll leave you to studying, okay? Thank you for checking…checking up on me.”

The nervousness of him brings a smile to her face, not that he notices it, with his back turned around and practically hunching over to spit out apologies to Mr. Kim.

He’s weird. So weird. But the nicest kind of that word.

###  

Her mind roams in places he would have never thought could be possible—not thirsty for the truth, but for reality. The worst kind; the one that people turn their eyes to just in fear of what could be their inherent doom. While Wonwoo pretends not to know a thing, and that Changkyun is innocent, he reunites with her in his apartment almost every day. Looking for clues, investigating the latest resources about health and ambience. They’re doing something, according to her. He’s protecting her, according to him.

Diane would roll her eyes at this moment and tell him that his superhero name is ‘Loverboy’ because apparently, to her, he’s just had this flammant crush thing since high school and not to say he’s denying it, but he’s also not confirming it. Last relationship he had was long-term, finished a little over a year ago, and while it would be delightful…he’s not sure if he’s ready to give that step quite yet.

Loverboy is not going to be his superhero name, but he may consider the crush connotation as he enters the kitchen with Diane by his side. The journalist let her head rest on his old coffee table, with her hands extended under the bent head, promising neck pain for the night. Her legs bend under her thighs, her work attire a little unkempt, lips parted in tiredness. She had been doing so much research, while he pretended innocence on not knowing a thing.

Just for the sake of keeping her safe.

“I want her for you.” Diane says, moving her braid over her shoulder to look him in the eyes. Almost his height, with golden skin and thickly brimmed glasses, it’s no wonder they met when they were kids and keep on being friends. “Honestly, Woo. If you’re not doing something, I’ll do it for you.”

He leans his weight against the doorframe that connects the kitchen and the living room, sipping on the warm chocolate he had prepared. With marshmallows, not to forget. “I don’t know if I’m ready.” He confesses, only to have Diane scoffing.

“Running away from love won’t do you any great, either.”

“Have you ever had a…a dream you’re too afraid of talking about, Di?” He asks, only to have his brown-haired best friend shaking her head.

“Or, well, relatively, yes.” Diane admits, shrugging her shoulders. “Kinky ones, but that’s not what you’re hinting at.”

“Why didn’t life make me a villain just so I could kill you?”

“Harsh. You love me, you can’t. So, what’s this dream?”

Wonwoo licks his lips, battling a smile as he inspects her features. For once, there is not a frown in between her eyebrows. “Her.” He confesses, as low as ever, with a glint in his eyes that he doesn’t realize. He never could. “…And if something happened to her, I would want it to be perfect. Not like this. Not when she’s on the run and I’m…I’m figuring the whole superhero thing out.”

“You’re losing your time, Woo.” Diane mumbles. “What if she dies today?”

Harshness tightens around his jaw. “That won’t happen.”

“Who are you to know?”

“I’ll protect her.”

Swinging her hips, Diane chuckles as she moves to her room. “Then, prove it.”

Soft steps near him to the woman on his coffee table, in no way perfect, but herself. So powerful, rigged, beautiful that he finds his breath stolen when his hand goes forward and caresses the bridge of her nose, up to her forehead only to move away the hairs that had fallen on said skin. That must tickle her, stirring awake some of her senses when she scrunches up her nose, Wonwoo’s name calling her out softly.

“Hey…” He mumbles, patting his fingertips to the warmth of her neck. “You’ll get a strain. Wake up.”

Like flowers opening up in spring, her eyes flutter awake. Irises connecting to his own, inspecting him for the briefest of seconds before patting around her mouth, as if afraid of salivating. Wonwoo can’t help but grin at this. “What time is it?” She asks.

“One fifteen.” He replies, as soft as ever. “I have some hot choco, but I think I’ll have to lend you my bed instead.”

Embarrassment seems to creep up on her and before he could apologize for the—innocent, yet wrongly sounding—implications of his words for two colleagues and friends, she stands up. “Actually, could you take me home? I don’t think I want to catch the train at this time. May be dangerous.”

“Not ‘may’. Will. Definitely.” Wonwoo replies, letting the two cups of chocolate rest on the coffee table she had been taking a place on before grabbing the keys to Diane’s motorcycle. “Di, I’ll use your motorcycle for thirty minutes. I’ll be back!”

“Okay!” He hears her shout from afar, but his gaze is too concentrated on the woman before him. Her professional attire, the dressy pants and elongated jacket, the few bits of makeup left on her face, trying to be erased by sleep. All unapproachable beauty.

“Let’s go?” He asks.

“Only if you let me take a nap on your back.”

He would have never said he’d be the kind to feel this hard. His heart almost plummets a hole in his chest when he’s rapidly driving through the dark streets of an abandoned, sleep-ridden city. The swoosh of air does nothing to ease the heat on his face, the warmth that spreads through him as her arms hook around his waist, snugly keeping her chest pressed to his back. Her cheek molds into his shoulder-blades, somehow fitting him as if made for him.

As if made for each other.

The stars do nothing to conceal the illusion behind his eyes. If things were different, or if she had not tried to snoop through matters more powerful than her will, he would have tried it out. Yet, he’s only proved right when he’s midway through the trip down to her apartment complex, when he hears gunshots passing by the motorcycle, hitting the pavement and continuing on with the roaring of an engine.

Only when he feels the lights casted on them does he know the bullets aim her way.

“W—What’s going on?!” She awakens quickly, scrunching her body behind him, trying to keep herself safe as little squeals leave her mouth. “Wonwoo, they’re following us!”

“I know. They’re looking for you.” And for him, perhaps. Not him, but his superhero persona. Not that whoever is following him knows that. His eyes concentrate around the street, picking up his speed until he sees a small street down the left. Darkened, forgotten, with no street-lights turned on.

“What are you going to do?”

“Just trust me.” He pivots the motorcycle into the street, not daring turning it off when his hand wraps around her waist and cages her to his side. “I need you to trust me, okay? And not scream. Hold onto me and let me do the job.”

“Wonwoo—” She presses her lips together when he lifts her up. Her legs immediately hook around his waist, but he has no time to think about the connection, voices mingling behind them as the engines roar closer. His hand extends to hold onto the walls of one of the homes, lifting them up with his legs and one hand. “W—What? We’re going to fall.” She whispers, only to have Wonwoo shaking his head.

“We won’t. Just follow my lead.”

He doesn’t know if it was the adrenaline that had him doing this without a suit, and definitely with someone at his hip, but his calves don’t burn by the time he reaches the rooftop, strengthening his hold around her and rushing down the rest of the roofs, long legs jumping easily and stealing one or two curses from her

“How…how can you do this?”

“I’ve been doing it for a while.” Wonwoo says over the wind, looking over his shoulder and seeing that the car lights are a bit far away. “Remember when I accidentally threw an entire bookshelf to the ground? Well, discovered my powers then.”

“Powers?” She questions. If he’s not mistaken, they’re not too far away from her home. He just has to check the rooftops a little too closely. “Uh, no. I’m not—Wonwoo, you don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

“Then, scientifically explain why I climbed to a rooftop with one hand and your weight on me and why we’re going faster than a goddamned car.”

She pauses at that moment, his eyes connecting to hers to notice that she has her arms wrapped around his neck. Well, at least she’s trusting him. “I can’t.”

“I can’t, either. But it’s what I have and I have decided to use it for good.”

“You’re…you’re that guy in a black superhero suit that goes around town?”

“Keeping it protected since three years ago.” Wonwoo replies, unhooking his hold around her when he reaches her home. Or, the roof, really. He sits her down at that moment, relishing on the freedom of not having to control his heart. He crosses his arms across his chest, as if shielding himself. “…And I need to keep you safe now.”

“They were looking for me?” She asks, only to have Wonwoo humming.

He turns around to look at the night sky. “You investigated something important, that’s just it. Secretive and important. Jinyoung, the senator’s sister, is behind a lot of these things and…even the senator, who knows? I’m sure politicians don’t care about this. Changkyun just works for them, and he sent the article Aeri had written over to them. They wanted the proof to be destroyed, so they went after you two. Aeri died, you didn’t.” Too much information, even for him, he closes his eyes tightly. If things could only be different.

“…They’re…They can’t do that.”

“But they will.” Wonwoo sharply replies, turning around. “This city is corrupt, and I can’t wait here and see how they get you. I thought I could protect you, keep you away from this—”

Her face tightens, standing up to be face to face with him. “I can protect myself, Wonwoo.”

“Not from people like this. Not from groups of people who can easily access your information. You can’t trust anybody, as simple as that.” He recognizes, running his fingers through his messy hair before sighing. “I think you should leave. I—We can pretend your death or something. We just….we just need to get you away before they kill you. I wouldn’t forgive myself if that happened.”

“And what about my life?” She wonders out loud. “What about my dreams, my truth, what I aspired to be? Does it go down the drain?”

Fiddling his fingertips, he shakes his head. “I wish it could be different.” He admits. “I wish I could…I could just give you the world you always desired for yourself, but I am trying to change this. Little by little, until this city goes back to what it was supposed to be.”

Her eyes inspect all over his features, as if insulting him or scrutinizing him. The night fits her beautifully, even in her dilemma, before she closes her eyes and breathes out her nose. “I’ll leave. But only because there’s just one person I’d trust to better this place…” She stops. “And that’s you. You…apparent superhero. God, you really need to get a doctor’s appointment. I’m sure there is something wrong cell-wise.”

Wonwoo chuckles at that, moving forwards without much of a thought, wrapping his arms around her and cradling her to his neck. “I’ll get it checked.” He replies, only to breathe in her scent with closed eyes. “Thank you. For everything.”

If only things were different, maybe, they could have been each other’s.

###

When she dreamed of her resignation letter for The Noir Secret, she always imagined it would be thanks to a better job.

Bitterness overcomes her when she leans back in her office chair, well, at least her apartment’s office, every letter written mixing in her vision when she picks up the piece of paper and puts it up to her eyes. She has to fax it before they actually fire her for not going—hence, she said she was sick, but still—. Yet, it feels insufficient, as if she needs something else to calm down her senses and think that she went with a bang.

Maybe, an article.

Her typewriter should be changed for a computer soon enough, but her eyes drown in feelings by the time she runs her fingertips on top of the keys. If only things were different, maybe, she wouldn’t have to run away. Yet, that’s why words exist, why her fingers move with certainty, trying to plaster the biggest news in the city into paper, as if to answer her questions or ease her nerves.

Or because she wants to prove to herself that there is more in her life than what she’s letting go of.

###

Goodbyes should never be like this. At midnight, with his office clothes, as if ready to go to work once this is over. But with her, would it ever be over?

The buzzing of people is distant as they talk about life. Their memories together, the ones that could have been, the ones that they lived separately. Wonwoo relishes on the faint closeness, in the way she holds onto the sweater he gave her, and how she doesn’t put it on even when she’s shivering, instead hugging it to her chest. For the first time, he sees a tremor to her eyes, an air of insecurity, that only eases itself the more he talks about them, about his powers, about what could have been.

The world is a connection of all the bad with the good. These past few years, the bad has outshined the good, but he needs to balance it out. For that, he needs time, and time will heal all wounds for when they meet again.

At least, that’s what he convinces himself of thinking when he hears her flight being called for. Wonwoo stands up just at the same time she does, hands interlocked in front of his body while he studies her expression. Relaxation doesn’t overtake her, but there is some kind of peace within her. Something of the like of being given one more day to live.

It shouldn’t have been like this for her.

“Promise you’ll call me?” Wonwoo asks, a thread of hope following after him and connecting the two of them.

“Of course.” She nods, a scoff coming soon after. “Who else would I be talking to?”

“Maybe, some new friends?”

“None of them are quite as super as you.” She jokes around, a tight-lipped smile taking over her features when she moves one step forward. “None of them will ever be you, Jeon Wonwoo.”

He doesn’t know what to say, but maybe words weren’t needed, because they would have ruined what comes next. Soft and tender are her lips against him, not quite like a goodbye, but with a promise of seeing each other again in some time sooner than later. Her hand holds onto his interlocked ones, easing his nerves when she pulls away, eyes dizzied, twinkling in lights of dreams.

“Read my latest article.” She tells him, giving a few steps back just as he questions her.

“Why?!”

“Just do!” Chuckles leave her lips by the time she goes away, and Wonwoo has to put a hand to his chest to calm it down.

Since when had he felt this way?

Luckily for him, they sold the newspaper outside the airport, money practically slipping from his fingertips with the need of knowing what was on the front page. Thus, his eyes widen when he sees a picture of his silhouette on top of one of the rooftops in the city, with his suit on and his chin perched up. An entire front page just for his persona, reading.

PENUMBRA: Who is ‘Penumbra’, the getaway man that has been protecting our abandoned city?

Huh, so that’s his superhero name now, isn’t it?

He’s not angry about it.

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “Trapped” Part 5

Almost one year ago, someone tried to kill The Joker in a speeding car and Y/N pushed him out of the way, getting hit instead. With a fractured skull and broken bones, she was out of business for 6 months; when she finally recovered, The Queen of Gotham wasn’t the same anymore. Trapped inside her own mind and exhibiting severe cognitive impairment, Y/N’s life switched upside down without any hope of ever returning to normal.

Part 1    Part 2    Part 3    Part 4

4 Months Pregnant

“I need customized stickers that say Baby On Board for my purple Lamborghini and the other cars I drive,” The Joker growls at his own idea whilst sharing it with the person fulfilling his wacko trades: Franco Rossi, the leader of best underground supply chain in Gotham.

“When would you like them ready Mister J? After Y/N gives birth?”

“Nope! Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?...” Franco hesitantly inquiries about the sudden emergency since he can’t understand why The King of Gotham demands them so fast.

The Joker hates explaining yet certain people are obtuse thus they necessitate enlightenment.

“Y/N’s pregnant: when she gets in a car, the baby is also. Baby on board! Hello??” the father-to-be loses his temper.

Who can argue with The Joker’s logic? Nobody. It sort of makes sense anyway.

“Of course, Mister J. I’ll have them ready. If you drop by after 6pm, I’ll have your guns ready too.”

“Perfect!” the Joker hangs up among the ruckus coming from the office near the kitchen: sounds of shattered objects and yelling alert Richard aka Panda you’re at it again. He nonchalantly passes by in order to deliver the items to The Clown.  

“Your drinks Mister J,” he gives one cup with Starbucks caramel latte to his boss and the other is placed on the table. Why does your boyfriend require 2 identical containers? It won’t take long to solve the mystery.

“Are the lids glued?”

Strange question but there’s a purpose in it.

“Yes sir. How is she doing?”

“She’s hormonal: breaking things makes her feel better which reminds me we have to hoard porcelain objects for her to wreck. NO glass!”

“Sure, I’ll tell the crew,” Richard leaves the kitchen while texting Frost. “Hulk needs more to smash,” he types the code name they gave you in the last weeks although The King knows about it: J’s the one that came up with it.

“Hey Pumpkin,” you are greeted as soon as you pop up from the office. “How’d it go?” he scrolls down on his phone and takes a sip of hot liquid.

“Ugghh!” a frustrated Y/N swings the yellow teddy bear The Joker stole for her on their first date, hitting his hand in the process. The drink flies near the fridge and splatters on the floor with minimal damage: only a tiny puddle instead of a disaster, that’s why the lids are glued.

Safety measure for The Queen’s unpredictability.

J grabs his reserve cup of coffee, paying attention now hence he dodges your renewed attack and keeps his coffee intact.

That’s why his drinks have the lids glued, in case you catch him off guard the second time it will result in negligible destruction.

It happened before.

“I don’t think so Princess,” The Joker strong grip on the container calms you a bit because you won’t be able to win this round. “Are you hungry?”

“No,” you pout and sit in his lap.

“I bet the baby is,” the secret weapon is unleashed: J discovered such a gem by accident and it works like a charm. How can Y/N say “no” if the baby is involved? She can’t.

A plate filled with a bunch of your favorite breakfast food is placed in front of you and strangely enough you’re instantly hungry.

“Extra bacon,” he purrs. “Plus chocolate dip and honey mustard for your pickled cherries. I added peanut butter olives as a bonus.”

In your defense, you’ve been having weird cravings lately.

You place the toy on the chair nearby and start eating, ogling a Joker texting back and forth with his business partners. He chews the morsel you just offered and shivers: waffle dipped in clam juice is disgusting. Maybe he should look at the food you shove in his mouth.

“Gross,” J washes the terrible taste with coffee and gets a kiss for encouragement, yet he’s aware of the connotations. Another kiss confirms it.

Let’s put it this way: besides the hormonal episodes and food demands, The Queen has had a fresh type of craving recently - The Joker kind.

More than usually.

That’s why he has to clear it up.

“I’m flattered for being the center of attention; we gotta keep in mind that contrary to the popular belief, I don’t have unlimited stamina, Pumpkin.”

You nod in agreement and unbutton his pants, then unzip them also.

“Y/N, pay attention!” J insists since you don’t give a damn about his woes. “Think about it as a two way street: The Joker Street and I Want To Break Things Street. Are you with me so far?” he double checks.

Why is he yapping so much??! I guess you should make an effort to comprehend: he’s even doodling patterns on his phone to emphasize the speech.

“When you get hormonal, Princess, let’s try and walk on the I Want To Break Things Street instead of The Joker Street, hm? The Joker Street is sometimes closed for repairs until further announcement.”

OK, OK, this is a lecture. Something about a Joker Street, he seems upset he doesn’t have one…?... Right?...

If you were him, you would be pissed Gotham didn’t name a street in your honor when you’re so important for the town.

Another peck on his neck, then your lips go down his collar bone.

“You’re not paying attention, are you?” J mutters when it’s clear his shirt won’t remain on his body for too long.

“I am,” you defend yourself.

“Oh yeah? What did I say then?”

“Ummm…” you try to piece together words among estrogen taking over. “No Joker Street?...”

“Bingo, that’s it Princess! No Joker Street, correct! Choose the other street, yes?”

This time he kisses you, excited his idea was well received when in fact, both parties are referring to unrelated concepts.

“Wait,” J dodges your touch, “Richard is calling.”

Because he’s on the phone ignoring Y/N, she is ensuring a nice surprise for later; concentrating to the maximum to avoid misspelling, the following message is sent to Franco Rossi from her cell:

“Make a landmark sign that says Joker Street.”

The King’s conversation is prolonged more than anticipated until he discerns you’re not wiggling: you feel asleep, softly snoring on his shoulder and he definitely can’t afford to wake you up.

The doctors said your body is trying to cope with the pregnancy the best way it can: if you doze off at random hours it means you ran out of fuel and you should rest. After cheating death and surviving the accident, the future mother is at high risk of serious complications which is why each day could lead to unforeseen problems.

The Joker rises from the chair holding you in his arms and after a few steps he realizes it’s difficult to walk: thanks to his unbuttoned and unzipped pants, they keep sliding lower and lower. There’s no way he will make it upstairs so maybe the sofa in the living room is the best option. He almost trips thus he begins to drag his feet on the carpet, the pants at knee level now.

“I’m reduced to a piece of meat,” J grumbles, finally making it to the couch and placing Y/N on it so she can have her power nap.

*************

6:02pm

You accompanied The King to a meeting with Seraphim, the best hacker/strategist J uses: they’ve been plotting for a while concerning D.A. Kevin Winchester. The politician is becoming a huge pain in the butt for Gotham’s underworld and something must be done; either annihilation or blackmail, it truly doesn’t matter since he’s bad for business. Due to a total lack of interest in the subject, you are exploring the surroundings quite angry The Joker dragged you here.

Luckily there’s stuff to do.

Bam! you punch the fragile glass sculpture and it splinters into a million pieces on the lavish marble floor.

Seraphim jumps at the noise, immediately recognizing his beloved possession:

“That’s…,” he gulps, appalled. “That’s a Vitriol!”

Yup, the one and only Degas Vitriol, the latest sensation taking the art universe by storm.

“She’s hormonal,” J sneers. “She breaks shit!”

“That’s valued at 150,000 dollars!” the hacker breaths in much needed oxygen regarding the atrocity unfolding at his hideout.

“So??!!” your boyfriend sucks on his teeth, irritated. “Serves you right for buying that asshole’s artsy fartsy crap!”

The Joker actually has 4 Vitriol masterpieces at the mansion yet you were strictly forbidden to destroy them, alas he gave you the office for your rampages.

You continue your exploration as they talk about God knows what until you perceive an alarming detail: Seraphim is literally screaming having a gun pointed at J.

You sneak behind him then in a split second you strike the pistol out of his hand and your fist lands on his temple with such brutality it knocks him out unconscious.

“What the hell are you doing, Y/N???” The Clown hisses at your erratic behavior.

“Hm?”

“What are you doing??!!!” he repeats, annoyed.

“S-saving  you…,” you stutter, confused on why J is mad. “He was yelling and…mmm, had a gun,” you wince in pain because your knuckles hurt from the impact.

“The guy’s half deaf and sometimes he raises his voice without noticing, or did you forget??!! Now I have to wait until he comes to his senses and that’s a waste of my time, Y/N!!! Seraphim wasn’t threatening me, he was showing me his newest collectible!!! I suppose someone with half a brain can’t acknowledge the mess they’ve created!!!”

A lot of accusations thrown your way still… the last sentence brings tears in your eyes.

“I…” you bite your lower lip. “…I don’t have half of brain…”

“Wanna bet??” The Joker bites more instead of leveling with your logic: you though he was in danger and took action. If it was a real emergency, yes, you would have been the hero; it’s not and apparently he can’t appreciate your fast intervention in these circumstances.

“Y-you’re stupid…” you whisper, frustrated. “You don’t understand anything…”

Here it is -- the cataclysmic event of the century: someone called The Joker stupid. He’s beyond outraged with nothing better to utter besides a very childish:

“You’re stupid!”

Y/N turns around and stomps out of the house leaving a trail of destruction outside: she slaps the bottled water out of The Shark’s hand, kicks Panda’s shin and snatches Frost’s donut basically inhaling the sweet treat.

“I want to go h-home!!” you shout and enter the first vehicle you see, slamming the door so hard the window on the passenger side cracks.

“Jesus…” Jonny mumbles and being the sensible man that he is you are offered the whole box of pastries he purchased for his family. He can acquire more, but there’s no way in hell he wants to endure Y/N in the state she’s in.

Gotta keep Hulk calm somehow…

**************

3 Hours Afterwards

You sulk when The Joker strolls in the master bathroom frantically searching the cabinets.

“Did you see my shaver?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“Did you see my shaver?”

“I…I wouldn’t know. I only have half a brain,” the surprisingly eloquent phrase queues J his woman is holding a grudge for his earlier statement. Why wouldn’t she? He was a complete jerk.

At least you didn’t catch on to the obvious: The King of Gotham doesn’t own a shaver; hair just grows on his head.  

He glimpses at Y/N soaking in the bathtub with a kid’s book in her left hand and the right hand fingers sunk into a bowl filled with ice placed at the edge of the Jacuzzi. The Joker leans over and switches your book since it’s upside down.

You huff at the unwanted help and stare at the pictures expecting he’ll look for his shaver and disappear.

You’re not that fortunate today.

“Imagine my surprise when I drove the main alley and detected a sign that says The Joker Street,” he brings up the topic.

Franco Rossi was super-efficient …sadly you ordered the item before J ran his mouth at the hacker’s place, otherwise you wouldn’t care he wants a street with his name.

“You said no… no Joker Street,” you stammer. “Now you have one,” the bitter tone makes him roll his eyes: Y/N’s brain got what it could from his monologue, he should have known better than to make it complicated.

“Excellent…” The King starts rubbing your tummy, “… precisely what I was aiming for. I’m washing the baby, not you!” he underlines when you move farther from him.

You scrunch your face displeased but let him do it because it’s for the baby.

“I know what you’re doing,” Y/N gives him a cold gaze. “U-using the baby… I’m not stupid!”

Busted, The Joker thinks. The schemer in him won’t accept defeat though.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“Yes you did!”

“You said it first!!!” he reckons, antagonized. “Therefore two stupid people put together gotta make up for a smart one!!’

“I… I don’t wanna make out…” you frown at his suggestion.

The Joker sighs, deciding not to correct the trajectory of your judgement; it sure sounds like an opportunity.

“Why not?”

“I’m tired and…and I h-hate you,” your heavy eyelids close.

“Both viable reasons, even if I have to admit you striking Seraphim like that got me quite worked up. He’s no small fry! I had to wait for one hour for him to recover; you got a mean punch, woman! The more I reflect on it, the hornier I get. Which reminds me, Pumpkin: guess what?... … … I’m hormonal too.”

No answer, Pumpkin’s out.

“Of course nobody gives a damn if I’m hormonal!” he complaints while grabbing you from the bathtub. You cling to him for a few moments prior to drifting back into your dreams.

“Thanks for getting me all wet,” J snarls at the cruel reality of having his favorite Prada suit ruined.

“You…you’re welcome…” his Queen replies in her sleep, somehow her mind clutching to reality amidst pure relaxation.

This is what two hormonal individuals are reduced to: one’s dozing off, the other is suffering in silence, although being the proud owner of the tiniest road in Gotham compensates for the mishap.

It’s a two way street.

 Also read: Masterlist

You can also follow me on Ao3 and Wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho. 

[bts-love-sweat-tears]

Chrysalis (Follower Celebration Fic #2)

Title: Chrysalis

Pairing:  Yoongi x reader, feat. Jinyoung

Type: pure, unadulterated angst (though interpret the ending as you will 😉 ) , tattoo artists!au

Word Count: 1,597

Rating: PG-13            

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, emotional abuse, controlling relationship/marriage (not Yoongo, guys, who do you take me for? )

A/N:  For anon- Yoongi angst. I don’t write much angst so I hope it lives up to your expectations. I debated typing “suga-coat” so you can thank me in advance for stopping myself. I just finished watching A Prayer Before Dawn and the intense tattoos featured in that movie got me thinking. I was also thinking a lot earlier of the ill-fated love of Tristan & Isolde. Does anyone else remember the movie adaptation?

There’s not a lot of dialogue in this, but it’s basically a long flashback while the person is getting their tattoo. <3

I’ve seen some amazing BTS tattoo edits-do yourself a favor and search that!

You bit down on your lip, trying to stop yourself from crying out. Yoongi’s hand was steady at your side, and irrationally, you didn’t want him of all people, to judge you. This was the first real thing you were doing for yourself, and you weren’t going to ruin the badass, empowered mood you were in with tears. As the only child of one of the country’s leading politicians, you always had to be prim and proper. Even your marriage was arranged…though not publicly, of course. To the public, you and Jinyoung were madly in love, one of the few high school sweethearts to beat the odds. The reality was that every single touch was choreographed, and the total lack of spontaneity left little room for real affection to flourish.

Your life was completely constrained by your parents’ agenda, so getting a tattoo was the first real thing you were doing for yourself. Since you would need to hide it, it was going on your ribcage, under where your arm rested, usually protected by multiple layers of clothes. By the time Jinyoung ever, saw it, it would be far too late for him to do anything about it. But right now, Jinyoung was the furthest thing from your mind. Instead, the smooth, steady movements of the tattoo artist helped to cut the physical and emotional pain, reminding you that this was worth it.

As much as this entire world was a mystery to you, so was Yoongi. At first, his full sleeves and gruff demeanor scared you off, but part of you liked his no-nonsense approach to social interactions. So many people tried to charm you, hoping to curry favor with your parents, that  having someone who didn’t sugar-coat anything made you trust him all the more. Since the first day you had ventured in, tentative and out of place, he had made you feel seen. And not as an extension of anyone else, just as a person with their own autonomy.  He was quiet, too, and you were always at peace when you were with him, the constant anxiety buzzing in your head muted.

The tattoo you were doing was self designed, a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. Many tattoo artists would have rolled their eyes at the cliché design, but he listened to you and made something completely unique. As the design evolved, so did your intentions. You had come in hoping to spite your parents, but by the final time the final consultation rolled around, you had come to view it as something positive, for yourself. Maybe you were being superstitious, but seeing the butterfly that graced the back of his own hand had seemed like a good omen when you made that first appointment.

During these consultations, Yoongi had slowly opened up, even smiling slightly during the last visit. You had his number saved in your phone from the various meetings, and he had even sent you a preliminary design that he’d been working on late one night when inspiration hit.  You wondered if he were so diligent with all of his clients, but before you could reply, Jinyoung had placed his hand over your own, effectively stopping you. You’d been out on one of your mandated monthly dinner dates (all very public- the paparazzi were there well before the two of you even arrived), and while he didn’t confront you directly, you could sense the disapproval radiating off of him. He wanted all of your attention. You knew he would be livid when he found out, so you turned over your phone and turned on your charm.

Recently, his irritation had been growing as Yoongi took up more and more of your headspace. So far, you were fairly certain that Jinyoung didn’t know where you’d been slipping off to every free moment. You still had some secrets after all, and if he cared enough to ask, you would tell him that you were off at some charity lunch or gala, depending on the time of day. But so far, he couldn’t even be bothered to ask. You couldn’t decide if his indifference irritated you or worked in your favor. Your infatuation with the gruff tattoo artist had only been growing stronger, and you found it harder and harder to stay away. It had started innocently enough, with you bringing coffee to the second consultation after noticing the dark circles marring Yoongi’s otherwise gorgeous face. Who were you kidding? Even with the circles you thought he was perfect, but you smitten.The gummy smile you got in return  had left you high for days.

The “really-bad-sunburn-feeling” brought you back to the present. College friends had mentioned their own experience as painful, but surprisingly you weren’t in that much pain. You felt it, sure, but maybe it was the trust you had in the man at your side. The pain was subsiding, and you felt something ghost gently over your skin. You craned your neck, to see Yoongi’s lips at your ribcage-and then they were gone. He gently wiped the spot again to clean it. He was nothing if not professional. He wrapped his arm around your shoulder, helping you to sit up, as your own arms were occupied with holding the blanket for modesty. You were sure your face was bright red, but you didn’t find it threatening or unpleasant at all. Yoongi looked concerned, misinterpreting. He left, returning quickly with a small cup of water. He didn’t talk much, but instead sat across from you, hands in your own.

After some time, you got up, and Yoongi bandaged you up, ever gentle. Your parents would gasp at the impropriety of his hands so close to your bare chest, but you felt more comfortable with him than anyone else. He had kissed you-you hadn’t imagined it, no matter how fleeting. But the next appointment would soon be here, so you quickly put on the flowy shirt you had chosen specifically for today’s outfit, wincing as your movements pulled at the skin.

Moments later, when you stepped outside into the late afternoon sun, a familiar figure was leaning too casually against a car far too shiny for this neighborhood. Jinyoung had found you. Maybe someday, you would blossom into someone stronger, but until then, both you and Yoongi would have to wait.

The last few years had been rough. One of your parents had passed away tragically while traveling, and the other had retired from public life, too waylaid by the disaster to continue. Sensing little to gain from your family name, and after three years of a farcical marriage, Jinyoung had divorced you. The tumult had left you bruised, but you had made it through. Sometimes you thought of yourself as the butterfly adorning your ribs-how painful it must have been, thinking that it was dying a caterpillar, only to emerge more beautiful and free than it had ever been. Jinyoung had ruled your marriage with an iron-fist, and though he had never hurt you physically, he had certainly clipped your emotional wings, using the threat of shutting down “your friend’s little establishment” should you not comply with his whim du jour. So it had actually been a relief when he had decided it was over for the both of you. One of your first decisions post-divorce was to go back to the shop, but when you returned to the tidy storefront, accumulated dust and neglect told you that it had been closed for awhile. You knew it had been irrational to hope that he would still be there, waiting, tattooing as he always had, but the naive part of you had felt such a connection that it felt impossible that the two of you wouldn’t find each other. Maybe he had left the city completely, or gone to travel the world. You’d noticed the guide books on his shelves, but when you asked him about them, he’d dismissed them as paperback dreams. You had tried calling, texting, and social media stalking, though it was like he had fallen off the face of the earth. Even when you knew him, though, his quiet dedication didn’t lend well to social media use. The business account you found had been inactive for quite awhile. But the old tattoos he had posted gave you an idea.

Your parents’ former detractors would have likely smeared your name, telling the embellished story of a fall from grace: a former golden child becoming a tattoo artist. But remembering the freedom you felt when choosing to decorate your body as you saw fit was a feeling you wanted to share with others. They may think you were fallen, but really you were rising.

So you did apprenticeships, building your portfolio and working under other well-known artists in your city. The community was relatively small, but you never did find Yoongi. Maybe he had left the city entirely. You mourned his loss,

Finally, years later, you were opening up your own parlour, hoping to make it a place where everyone could feel safe baring their skins, and sometimes their souls. You had given up on ever finding Yoongi, the man who had given you a tiny set of wings when everyone else had been grounding you. With every tattoo you had done up until this point, you remembered him, and thanked him. It was opening day at your parlour, and the chime at the door alerted you to your first customer, and you felt your wings grow a little stronger.

[hithelleth]

Salvation S1

Why do I keep getting into shows that are likely to be cancelled!? Oh, right, because I’m a masochist. So, I’ve finished Salvation and it was so good! I’ve been internally squeeing for days, so I’ll try to get things out of my system now so I can then maybe focus on other fannish (and non-fannish) things.

(This turned out long, so I put it under the cut and tried to make it more easily readable with some bolding. My apologies to those on mobile.) 

I’ve always had a thing for doomsday premises, so this was right up my alley with an impending extinction level event that must remain secret from the general populace to avoid panic while the big shots try to prevent it.

Except that unlike a number of cheesy movies where the world comes together to save humanity and/or help each other after the disaster, Salvation creators tackled it from the other end: the whole season is set before the disaster strikes and nobody is willing to cooperate.

I found the approach refreshing and really liked it. Probably because I’m what I call a pessimistic idealist. I mean, don’t get me wrong, obviously, if such a scenario happens in real life, I do hope (or want to) that humanity would come together to save itself/the Earth. But the pessimist in me thinks there is just as much chance for us to kill each other before the Earth/space/whatever gets to us.

Although, of course, with the current political atmosphere where the orange menace and the little dumpling (you know who I mean, they don’t deserve to be named) are throwing threats with nuclear war weapons around, the cold-war-era-like hostilities in the show gave me chills.

So, there’s political power play galore while the tech wiz and co. are trying to find the way to save the world while being obstructed on every step by politicians. I liked the suspense it all brought out, and how it made the show fast paced (but didn’t take anything from complexity). I also liked all the shadiness and there was a lot of it around, as basically everyone does at least something not quite right (even if with the best of intentions).

I liked that the focus of the show is sort-of evenly spread between science and politics as well as different age groups, as in the characters in their early to mid-twenties and those around/in their forties, which I’m more into the older I get (seriously, it’s one of the biggest reality checks as to age when I realise that the character/actor(ess) is only a few years older than me, or worse, younger!)

And while I’m at that… I have a new OT3!!!! Come on, you knew this was coming, I’m that weird person who can find more or less likely OT3s anywhere and I proudly own it.

But damn it, I wasn’t looking for it! Then again I never do, you know how it goes: I don’t choose my ships, they chose me. Those three fuckers! Why am I doing this to myself? Why? *high pitched pterodactyl screeching*

I’m talking about Harris/Grace/Darius (in all variations), just to be clear. Seriously, I have no idea how it happened, but around episode 5 or 6, I was like, “well maybe instead of squabbling and ‘slight’ signs of jealousy, you could, you know, work together?” and then one thought led to another and I was like, “yeah, I could ship it, provided Harris wasn’t evil…” (I mean, he was a very, very bad boy once or twice, but turned out not to be evil) and the rest is history. *insert more swearing* Yeah, episode 8 didn’t help at all. And then of course they did work together so well towards the end of the season. *sighs*

Anyway, look, I’m not asking for much, just a S2 where they can occasionally (well, the more often the better, but I’ll take what I get) share screen time and be the badass power world/country-saving trio they are. My imagination can do the rest. ;)

But of course, IAD was promoted to a regular on Hawaii 5-O, so I’m not sure what that would mean – although Salvation is a summer show, so I guess coordination could be possible – and the ratings seem to be shit and I don’t want to get my hopes up despite the articles floating around saying not all is lost for S2. *fingers crossed*

Which brings me to a bit of ranting about a plot hole or two and a few general observations and possible S2 speculations.

a) You want me to believe that the US Secretary of Defence can just simply drive around on his own, NBD, and nobody bats an eye? FFS, even in my itty bitty country where the cabinet members really aren’t in much danger of imminent assassination, they have drivers and security details, especially the Defence Minister. It did come very handy for the plot that Harris could just drive around like it’s nobody business, though.

b) How did they get the selected 160 on site so fast? Magic? Because they couldn’t have picked them solely from Tanz personnel, since that would be mostly scientists, and they did pick historians, artists, etc…  And those would be from all around the country, I’d say. (It’s shitty enough that they would be all only Americans, like the rest of the world has no smart people to offer. Also, for genetic diversity it would be better if people were from other countries, too.)

Unless they brought them into Tanz as they picked them, before the nuclear alarm. But didn’t they finish the selection process just a day or a couple before (my memory is a bit foggy, I’ll have to rewatch)?

And nobody seemed surprised at the sight of the space-ship, so I guess they were told the actual truth or at least the Mars colonisation version beforehand? I think the second is more likely.

But, never mind, that is not even my biggest problem with the 160 and I can easily let it pass, because time on TV can work in mysterious ways (plus, maybe they cut the scenes that were supposed to clear it up.)

c) No, my biggest problem is that if 160 people are the minimum viable population, I assume those people must be able to procreate (and have healthy and diverse enough genes.) 

And so there were mostly young people in their twenties (mostly women) and thirties in the Salvation bunker. So far so good.

Of course if we only look to the continuation of human species, choosing young people makes sense.

(I’m not going into the fact that if all those youth are the best and the brightest, there would be other issues with picking people who must have been child prodigies and could therefore lack the social skills that are just as important for humanity as science – but I guess the humanities studies part of the group can compensate for what others lack in that field.) 

It also makes perfect sense that some people would be chosen for qualities other than reproductive abilities, which is where Harris and Grace come in.

I mean, men don’t have that sort of a problem, but with Zoe about to start college, Grace must be at least in her early 40s (although Jennifer is younger) since she doesn’t strike me as a teen mom, and a woman of her age has a hard time having a healthy child even in the most optimal, peaceful conditions and with the best medical treatment available, so I think it’s safe to say Grace having any more kids, especially in a couple of years, is out of the question. But that’s okay.

My problem is with Darius being disqualified on grounds of carrying the Huntington’s gene. Sure, it served as a fantastic testimony of his character that he would work on the Mars project and then this saving the mankind thing knowing that he can’t go/save himself. That’s great, what a good person!

But since other people were picked for their leadership/wisdom/merit, then why not Darius?

Did the writers forget that contraception is a thing? You know, to prevent ‘accidentally’ spreading his bad genes around? And pre-natal screening also exists (okay, IDK if they can find out about the Huntington’s gene that way, but still) – and there are doctors (I assume a few actual MDs have been picked) around to do it and in case of a positive result an abortion is an option? (But god forbid we’d even think of the A-word on a national network in the US, of course.) Or you know, just have the guy have a vasectomy, the easiest sure-fire solution. (Yeah, now I’m being mean.)

My point in short: there is no logical reason (I know, looking for logic on TV; I never learn) for Darius not to be among the 160 apart from the writers’ need for characterisation through drama.

Anyway, I think that if we get S2, it might turn out the nukes were false alarm or something, because Santiago Cabrera is first-billed and I expect they wouldn’t kill him off, so this disqualification issue will be moot.

So, if we get S2:

d) The usurping VP (why TF does he have to be named Monroe Bennett? *wry smile* *cue reminiscing of a certain other show*) escaped and will be wreaking havoc, I assume.

e) I’d really like if Amanda somehow survived (I mean, it’s TV, anything is survivable on TV, a little chest/shoulder wound should be nothing), because I liked her.

f) I had to google the actor who played Grace’s dad (he was awesome!) because he looked familiar and look, he also played the substitute pressie who needed to be bullied into doing the right thing in TLS.

g) With the EM drive being magnetic (duh), I think Liam’s idea has something to do with trying to use the EM drive to pull the asteroid in off the impact course. I vote for partial success, because otherwise the show’s premise would go out of the window and they might as well just end it.

And I think that’s all I’ve got (for now).

I think I’ll go find some pretties to queue up for next week. Although, I’ve already been in the tags a little and as far as I could see, nobody ships my OT3 (I’m not surprised at all), so I might need to do some giffing myself. And maybe write fic. But after I finish my current fic exchange assignment, which I should be doing instead of writing this, but oh well. Maybe now I’ll be able to concentrate better.

Tagging @street-of-mercy, because you got me into this mess! ;) (You don’t have to respond or anything, but in case you’re interested in my thoughts and questionable shipping choices, here you go. :D) 

[theliterateape]

The Inevitability of the House Winning (If the House is the Earth and We're Just Playing Penny Slots)

By Don Hall

A casino is a place where people buy slices of hope.

They put their ten dollars in the Game King and for that split second before they hit the button, there is this momentary flash of hope that this time the slots will line up and they’ll get a payout. It doesn’t much matter that they’ve pushed that spin button a thousand times and only been rewarded a handful and that the house has absorbed far more money than any jackpot could achieve. It is this sense of hope that fuels the entire industry.

The smart players know that when it comes to slots, they only get two choices that have anything to do with the outcome: how much they bet and how fast they play. The smart ones still feel that bit of hope but understand that the numbers are generated randomly and that they ultimately have no control whatsoever on the results. But they still hope. Each time. Despite that knowledge.

Climate activist Naomi Klein argued recently during an interview with The Intercept, “So many environmental responses have just been minor tweaks to an economy based on endless consumption — take your electric car to the drive-through for an Impossible Burger and a Coke with a paper straw. Of course it’s better than the alternative. But it’s nowhere close to the depth of change required if we hope to actually pull our planet back from the brink.”

On the flip side, in The New Yorker, Jonathan Franzen posits a different approach. “If you care about the planet, and about the people and animals who live on it, there are two ways to think about this. You can keep on hoping that catastrophe is preventable, and feel ever more frustrated or enraged by the world’s inaction. Or you can accept that disaster is coming, and begin to rethink what it means to have hope.”

I’m a true blue optimist but I’m not blind or stupid, and am inclined to see the latter of his choices as a bit more realistic. Betting on oligarchs and activists to battle it out leaves us with only two choices: who we vote for and how much time we can spend on promoting our candidates while still holding jobs, paying bills, and getting a meal every now and then. Yet we still have that flash of hope every time we vote.

Let’s face facts. This has been an alarm bell crisis since Jimmy Carter was president. We royally fucked it up and there’s simply no realistic way to even slow it down. We want desperately to believe we can move the needle back, that we can save the environment, we want to hope.

The U.N.'s latest report put together by over ninety authors and editors from over forty countries is probably the most dire warning yet about the inevitability of climate change.

The report says that, unless the world immediately begins reducing the burning of coal and oil and gas that drive up global temperatures, the world will suffer tremendous consequences. In a mere twenty-two years from now, global food supplies will be threatened by increasing droughts and heat waves.

Below sea-level nations could be flooded by a rising sea, triggering huge caravans of refugees. Storms and wildfires will grow in intensity, costing billions in damages and lives lost.

It’s in the reality of the necessary immediate change that dooms us. As Klein points out, thus far our attempts to curb the deleterious effect eight billion humans are having on the planet have been largely cosmetic rather than substantive. This isn’t the fault of our politicians and leaders (or Baby Boomers or Generation Z or White People or Men) as much as it is in our inability to radically change our day-to-day plugging ten dollars into the machine and hitting spin.

Tell an ordinary person that investing into clean energy will cost this much or that much and he’ll be able to see it in the abstract and either agree or disagree but it has no personal stake in it. That abstract perspective is easy. Tell the same guy he has to get rid of his automobile and walk to work or no longer eat in a fast food joint and he’s gonna push back pretty hard and the abstract becomes concrete.

The True Believers proselytize that unless we all pitch in and change our entire structure of being and consuming, the planet will become a living hell but they’re preaching some sort of eternal life for the planet that it’s too late to hope for.

I have respect for the eco-warriors and four million activists who marched last week. They see a problem that is catastrophic and are doing something to change that. Politics is about power and the fight for that power is participatory rather than spectator-driven. It is, however, theater. So is religion. Unfortunately, all the theater in the world isn’t going to change certain indelible and undeniable facts.

The science says that we would need curb carbon emissions by 70 percent to keep the carbon dioxide level stable right now. Seventy percent just to keep the water level where it’s at, to stem the tide just a bit. Seventy percent immediately.

The odds of the entire planet of eight billion people and the industries built up around consumption ceasing the use of carbon emission producing technology by 70 percent in the next year are astronomical. Impossible odds. Only under global marshal law is this going to happen in a world where discomfort and inconvenience is considered the ultimate evil.

There’s an older guy in the casino about four times a week. He comes in and does the same thing every time: he plops down in front of the same two identical machines, plugs $100 into each and plays. When he runs out, he puts another couple hundred in and continues. He then proceeds to complain that the games are stealing his money and gets free packs of cigarettes. Einstein said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. By that definition, this guy is batshit.

By that definition, so are we all.

We know we aren’t going to reduce carbon emissions by 70 percent. Ever. The magnitude of that ever coming to pass is like getting the entire globe to simply cease using the internet ever again. Christ, it’s taken decades to get enough of us to agree that gay marriage is no threat to straights and that marijuana should be legal. Reducing carbon emissions by 70 percent immediately is as fictional as the idea of original sin and heaven in the clouds.

We know it and yet we keep barking and marching and lobbying for substantive change while driving to the marches, using paper to print the pamphlets while drinking out of plastic bottles filled with water stolen by Nestlé and grabbing a Hot Pocket or packaged bowl of yogurt. We keep having babies to add to that eight billion mark thinking that more people isn’t the actual cause of the global decay.

The casino game that pays out the best is the one that provides the player the maximum amount of choices on how to play: blackjack. The player controls the bet, the choice to Hit or Stand, the observation of the cards on the dealer’s side, side bets, surrenders, insurance. It’s a slower game than a slot machine and gives some control over the outcome to the player. Blackjack is the Plan B for the degenerate gambler.

Blackjack players look down at slot players because they know that playing slots is basically just giving your money away for a slice of that hope with the inevitable end of going broke anyway. The house still wins over time but Blackjack still gets a higher payout than even poker.

When it comes to the impending disaster of climate, it might be prudent for us to acknowledge that we’ve screwed the pooch on this and go to a Plan B. Prepare for the coming deluge and drought. Expand our choices and gain just a smidge of control over the outcome. Focus the theater of activism on increased birth control and stem the tide of constant expansion of the global tribe. Preach the mantra of expanding FEMA to Homeland Security funding. Train the military in disaster relief measures. We aren’t going to roll this thing back but we can prepare for massive starvation, horrifying earthquakes, floods and fires, and maybe invest a whole in industrial sunscreen.

Trust me, no one is going to give two shits if we roll back carbon emissions by 20 percent or 40 percent when their kids are starving to death in 135˚ heat and the only fresh water is the slowly evaporating Great Lakes region.

And for a bit of context…

[theonewithglee-blog]

SEBASTIAN SMYTHE is TWENTY-SIX years old and a BARISTA AT CENTRAL PERK. He lives with TINA COHEN-CHANG. He is currently SINGLE, and his endgame is KURTBASTIAN.

Sebastian is based primarily on Rachel Green, and partly Joey Tribbiani.

“Well, maybe I don’t need your money. …Wait, I said maybe.”

You’d think that Sebastian would be glad to have grown up the way he did. And to a point, he does consider himself lucky to have gotten anything he wanted on a silver platter when he was growing up. Leonard, a surgeon, and his blogger of a housewife Sandra were perfectionists. They got their perfect son, but they didn’t pay much attention to him. Still, they wanted Sebastian to present himself a certain way and the three of them acted like a perfectly functioning little family unit whenever they were in public. Sebastian smiled his charming little smile through it, but it was interesting to him, even at such a young age, that even though his parents wanted him to act like he was flawlessly cared for, they were almost never there for him. He was mostly raised by nannies. That meant he never really learned how to form healthy, strong bonds with people, but what did he care? He was a little boy who had everything, and all he had to do in return was smile and wave. Plus, regardless of what they had going on, he was going to receive money from his parents when he grew up, and he could continue on with his perfect lifestyle without their love and support. What did it matter, anyway? He got on just fine without being coddled. Maybe forming connections was just a sham.

Well, apparently it was a big deal in the business world — forming connections, that is. It was all about networking; that was what Sebastian’s father would tell him. He had just graduated college with a degree in psychology and no idea where to go with it (going to college was more of a formality than anything) when he was officially introduced to Kitty Wilde, the girl he was expected to marry. She came from a family of politicians or something. She didn’t care for the whole thing either, and she and Sebastian definitely did not get along enough for him to see himself married to her. Then there was the fact that Sebastian was gay and didn’t exactly attempt to hide his conquests with men. And, you know, there was the little detail that he didn’t want to get married, especially to someone he didn’t even know or care for. But his father promised him it would be worth it for everybody, and Sebastian wouldn’t even have to stay with her for more than a few years, maybe a decade, tops.

All of this still wasn’t enough to get Sebastian to actually go through with it when the wedding rolled around. He left his poor bride-to-be at the altar. Was it the most childish thing in the world? Maybe. But it’s not like he had any other options. He had been too afraid to put his foot down, because his father intimidated him that much. And there was the fact that he had no plan in life other than inheriting his parents’ money, and he wasn’t going to get it if he didn’t do what they said. So it had seemed like the right choice, all the way up until he was supposed to be at the end if the aisle, and that’s when he booked it. He ran right into a coffee shop, tux and all, and came across his friend from high school, Tina Cohen-Chang. She listened to Sebastian’s predicament and agreed to let him stay with her until he could figure things out. Sebastian is eternally grateful, especially since he’s still living there. But whatever, he’s a great roommate.

Needless to say, Sebastian was immediately cut off financially after the disaster of a wedding (or lack thereof). He had grown up on Daddy’s money and hadn’t the slightest clue what he was doing when it came to being an adult when all was said and done. He wasn’t used to accepting help, due to his upbringing regarding fending for himself and being better than everyone, but now he had no choice but to listen to Tina and co. When he had to get a job for the first time in his life, he went the only route he could think of with no work experience whatsoever and became a barista at Central Perk, thanks to Sam Evans’ kindness giving him a chance to be a decent human being. Sebastian thinks (hopes) he’ll be able to put his psychology degree to use someday, or maybe he’ll try to start over and do something else entirely. The fact is that he has very little knowledge about being a legitimate grownup and is pretty much figuring it out as he goes. At the moment, he’s just trying to get used to not having an endless supply of anything he could ever want. And honestly? It sucks. A lot.

There’s also the fact that that inability to form strong bonds followed him well beyond childhood. Sebastian has always found it difficult to keep relationships. First there was figuring out he was gay in his early teens, then there was the fact that he was about as spoiled as they came, and on top of all of that, he lacked the affection most children were lucky to have had from their parents. So he was sort of a little shit and had a lot of trouble making friends, let alone falling in love and getting someone to love him in return. High school began his habit of sleeping around that never really went away. He’s much better at leaving men satisfied with one night stands than forming any sort of commitment. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it, though. Truthfully, he just doesn’t know how those things work. It sounds cliché but Sebastian’s upbringing has simply rendered him damn near useless when it comes to giving people what they need. He knows he’ll have to grow out of his “I don’t do boyfriends” philosophy eventually. But then he sees sorry pitiful unions like the one between Clarington and his bride-to-be and it reminds him how fake it can all be. For now, Sebastian’s way of life saves people the trouble of him accidentally screwing them over.

I’ll be there for you…

KURT HUMMEL → Kurt is like this strange, kind of arrogant guy Sebastian doesn’t quite understand. He knows him from high school. Well, kind of. He’s a somewhat familiar face from high school. Sebastian is pretty sure he used to hang around Tina back then, but he could be wrong. Anyway, now he knows that Kurt’s a fancy professor or something at NYU, and that’s about the extent of it. Sebastian doesn’t make it a point to think about people he doesn’t know too much, but Kurt seems to be an exception for some reason. Even though Sebastian doesn’t really get what the guy is about, he’s found that he doesn’t just want to try to get Kurt into bed and call it a day. Which isn’t a usual occurrence.

KITTY WILDE → Sebastian feels bad. Honestly. Like, sure, he had his reasons, and it’s not like Kitty was in love with him or anything, but he knows how much of a dick move it was to leave her there in front of all those people. He was hoping he would just never have to see her again, but it turns out they have a lot of mutual connections so of course he still sees her around. He would love to just forget anything ever happened, but that would involve apologizing, and he just hasn’t been able to bring himself to do that yet. And until the day comes, he’ll keep doing everything in his power to avoid Kitty and the inevitable confrontation.

TINA COHEN-CHANG → Tina was a good friend from Sebastian’s high school days and is one of the few people he still voluntarily associates with from back then. ...Okay, maybe that’s because it was just happenstance. She was there when Sebastian came running in with nowhere to go, and therefore gave him a place to stay. And he’s really thankful for that, even though he has this whole thing about swallowing his pride and admitting that. He knows that Tina is aware he’s grateful. The fact is he’d be shit out of luck without her and he owes her big time.

RACHEL BERRY → Rachel isn’t someone Sebastian expected himself to become close with, but there are certain parts of her that balance Sebastian out. She’s patient with him, for one thing, which is more than Sebastian can say for a lot of people in the city. She can’t quite relate to Sebastian’s being cast off into the world for the first time in his life, but she somehow just gets it. She’s the one who taught him how to balance a checkbook. It’s the little things like that that Sebastian greatly appreciates.

SAM EVANS → Sam was kind of top dog at Central Perk when Sebastian strolled in desperately needing a job. And, okay, Sebastian could have been a little bit nicer all around. But he isn’t exactly a nice guy. Still, it’s been explained to him that you can’t just walk around acting like you’re better than the people you’re trying to get a job from, even if you are better than them. Sebastian’s just lucky Sam is a good guy because he wouldn’t have a job otherwise. He’s since learned to do what he’s told and respect those above him, and he’s managed an apology to Sam for acting the way he did. Give him a break, he’s learning.

…‘cause you’re there for me too.

✔ Sebastian is currently OPEN.