Explanation if anyone cares:

Ripley and Teo: Siblings. Brother and sister, Ripley's older. Live together, do villain shit together, codependent as hell post-heartbreak. Ripley's the yapper, Teo's the more quiet one. Do not separate them.

Rhan and Teo: Exes, dated on and off. Rhan wasn't really as romantically into it as Teo was, and saw it more an excuse to hook up every now and then. It wasn't a very fulfilling relationship for either of them, so the breakup was relatively smooth all things considered.

Al and Teo: Lovers <3 Started as villain rivals, then made out in the tunnels, then Teo performed life saving surgery on Al, then gave Al a place to stay after she broke up with Judas. Now they're taking things slower. Kind of did their relationship shit out of order but hey! They got where they needed to be. Also Teo helped Al realize she was trans that's a big one.

Judas and Teo: Judas has no clue who Teo is, besides the vague idea of someone who picked Al up after they broke up. Teo knows too much about Judas from Al and may or not be planning on ruining his life. The haterisms are more one sided.

Al and Judas: Where do we even begin here. Al and Judas were peak toxic yaoi of their time. Judas, a person notoriously obsessed with control, got into a very close relationship with Al, a person notoriously prone to being manipulated. Their relationship had a very classic "you belong to me" "okay <3 yay <3" dynamic happening between those twinks. What was once endearing turned sour once Judas suspected Al was talking to other villains. It got to the point where he slit her throat, failed to kill her, got stabbed by Al, and Al still apologized to Judas. They kept dating after that! All it took was Teo finding the tracking device Judas put on Al's suit for Al to finally put her foot down and say "Yknow what? fuck this" and she left him.

Ripley and Judas: Ripley just hates the guy on principle. Judas' tendency to attempt to establish his authority everywhere he goes versus Ripley's natural hatred for anyone with authority.

Rhan and Judas: Coworkers. For some reason I have no idea what their actual dynamic is. Judas hired Rhan once for a job and then became the person he vented to when Judas and Al broke up. Rhan keeps blocking his number but for some reason Judas is under the impression they're friends.

Al and Rhan: They don't know eachother very well. Rhan knows Al is the person Teo's seeing after they broke up. Al knows that Rhan was the person Teo was seeing before they got together (and a little bit during. It was complicated.) Who is jealous of who? Don't worry about it.

Ripley and Rhan: Haters but for no real reason. They're both assholes with weird complexes and gay in the opposite directions from one another. If they were normal kids they would've played wolves together. But they're grown ass adult regenes and neither are willing to be friends.

Ripley Hawthorn. Ruin.

If anyone asks you, letting the Rat Council form full sentences was a huge mistake. In fact, both you and Rhan can attest to that. Those damned critters have been incessantly bothering the two of you about “putting your useless tinkering to good use for once” in that infuriating voice module that the Abelards recently installed to their translator. Seriously, whose bright idea was this? Weren’t the single word death threats enough as is?

With a grunt, you pour the contents of your bag onto the table, letting various mechanical bits and pieces clatter onto the surface. So it turns out that the Rat Council really, really wants someone to build them a flying vessel. Since the Abelards were completely unfazed by their chittering, they’ve been alternating between nagging you and Rhan into doing them the favor. For a brief time, there was a degree of solidarity in your shared suffering. But of course, that fragile truce soon fell apart when the two of you got into a petty argument about the apparent insanity of your perfectly coherent workflow. You grumble under your breath at the memory as you organize the parts into small piles. Your sorting criteria makes total sense to you, but Rhan called you deranged for it. As if they know any better than you.

And that’s what led to your latest project. Whoever makes the drone vessel that the Council likes the best, wins. Sure, there’s no prize to this other than freedom from the rats’ nagging, but your pride is on the line.

You somehow manage to have a few uninterrupted hours to yourself, but something that good doesn’t last very long. Just as you’re about to assemble the body, Marion makes their way into the common area, humming some tune that you don’t recognize. You throw a glance back when you hear dry marker squeak against the communal white board. That thing is already filled to the brim with notes, isn’t it? How are they trying to fit more onto it? Just as you turn your attention back to your project, they take notice of you and do the telepathic equivalent of poking you, signaling their intent to bother you. When you don’t make a move to retreat into the privacy of your own room, they take a seat across from you with a bag of… Are those teddy graham crackers?

"You’re building something,” they say, tossing a headless bear into their mouth.

During the time you’ve spent with Marion, you’ve noticed that instead of asking questions, they have a habit of making observational statements, then expecting you to elaborate on it. You suppose that it’s some sort of conversational tactic, but you don’t care enough to figure out what that’s about. What matters is making them work for the explanation they want.

“Duh,” you toss back, because that somehow never fails to get a twitch out of them. You suspect that it might be out of amusement rather than irritation, though.

“And those,” they point at the propeller blades, “look like propeller blades.”

“Wow, I’m impressed,” you drawl, words dripping with sarcasm. “Now just learn to tell the difference between bolts and screws, and you’ll be well on your way to qualify as my assistant.”

There it is. You sense signature bursts of their mirth at the back of your mind. By now, you’ve figured out that it feels like a sprinkle of popping candy against your tongue.

You continue putting together the smaller components of the drone without looking up, expecting them to keep making obvious remarks until you inevitably cave and let enough information slip for them to piece together the picture. That’s how it usually goes. Instead, they change the subject.

“Huh. That’s a recent development.”

“What is?” you ask, squinting past your reflection on the glass and down at the bustling crowd to try and spot who they’re talking about this time. They like pointing out random pedestrians that they somehow recognize as a recurring passerby. Is there one that got a haircut or something?

It’s only when they snort that you flit your gaze back to them and find that their eyes are trained on you and not anyone else. When you give them a questioning look, they tap an uplifted corner of their mouth. Your hand comes up to mirror their gesture, only to find that you’re… Shit, you’re smiling. That’s weird. You practically scrub the expression off, making room for your familiar frown to take its rightful place.

“I knew I shouldn’t have pointed it out,” they sigh, though their pretense of a pout doesn’t last long as their mouth soon widens into a grin. “And you wore it so well, too.”

Upon their comment, your scowl deepens on instinct. You click your tongue, tightening a screw a bit too hard as you internally swear to one day punch that smirk off their face. Your mistake doesn’t catch up to you until they burst out laughing. Shit, you projected that thought, didn’t you? And now it’s too late, because you’re picturing that one time that you did try to punch the smug out of them. Busted lips and bared teeth. Curved eyes of a cat that got its cream. Because they only press your buttons as much as they want to. Because they’ve somehow figured out the precise length of your fuse and never quite pisses you off enough for fists to fly—unless that’s exactly what they want from you.

There’s just no winning when you’re dealing with this fucker. It feels like you’re playing right into their hands no matter what you do, and it drives you crazy. The worst part? Your frustration is just another reward to them. That’s not how it’s supposed to go. Your anger is supposed to solve your problems, not enable them.

You know better than anyone how easy it is to just… get mad. Take the bait, then tear through it. Once they get a taste of your ire, most people know better than to provoke you twice. Sure, some persistent idiots keep coming back to you for some reason, but at least there’s satisfaction in aiming your anger at people that don’t want you to be mad.

Well, it turns out that some freaks enjoy making a sport out of your anger issues. How the hell are you supposed to deal with that?

The flirting threw you off at first, but at least it didn’t take long to figure out that they’re just fucking with you. There’s no weight behind their passing remarks, and that’s something you can deal with. Even if some of their nonsense lingers longer in your mind than it should. It’s just one more person among many others that’ll get a piece of your mind for messing with you.

… The problem is that neither your bark or nor bite have had any luck fending this one off. That leaves you here, at a standstill. Even your hands lost track of what they were doing while you were lost in thought.

With a groan, you let your tools go and bury a hand in your hair, glaring daggers at the culprit behind your distraction. Marion leaves you at a loss. Makes you think too much. Think about things like crushing the perpetual assurance on their face. Crushing your lips against theirs until their insufferable grin has been ground into gasps.

Fuck. Your eyes widen just as theirs do. In a pathetic attempt to damage control, you scramble to gather as much of your irritation as possible and shove that to their face. Thankfully, they take the hint and avert their gaze from you, pursing their lips in an attempt to hold back the laughter that leaks through telepathically anyways.

“Shut up, Lee.”

“But I didn’t even say anything?”

You throw your head back, dragging a hand across your face. Fine—it’s true that you’ve been getting thoughts about them. Thanks to the likes of Ortega and Chen, you’ve dealt with this side of yourself for long enough to be able to admit that much. So what?

“Well, what if I told you that I like your idea?”

They say it so casually, but their question makes you sit back straight in disbelief. “You what?”

“Your idea. I like it—”

“I heard you the first time,” you interject, desperately trying to reel your thoughts back in. Why? Why the hell would they like the idea when they’re just toying with you?

There it is again. The popping candy. Amused, are they? Satisfied to see you give in? That must be it. There’s no other explanation for what they claim.

“I’m not kissing you for your entertainment,” you snap, slouching against the table with crossed arms to take up more of the gap between you and Marion. Daring them to invade your personal space. And of course, they accept your challenge.

“But you want to,” they say, matter-of-fact. They learn forward until your faces are only inches apart. “Do you not?”

The glint of vibrant green reflected in their eyes almost distracts you, but you manage to catch onto the touch of uncertainty in their last question. It’s enough for you to feel compelled to reflect. Do you? Well, yes, if your gaze drifting down to their lips is any indication. But why?

It’s not a thought you ever gave ground to—the notion that you might have a type is stupid and ridiculous—but it’s true that you can’t help but see glimpses of Ortega in Marion. More specifically, there are echoes in the little details that you were once trained to catch onto. It’s the confidence they exude in the way they carry themself, even when they’re trying to be unassuming. It’s in how they scratch their neck to put on a show of shame when they feel no such thing. It was the intensity of their glare when they raised their voice at the Ricardo of this world that one time, standing between him and you.

As if making a fool out of you isn’t enough, they even see you as something that needs their pity—their protection. Just like he does. It makes your skin crawl and your stomach churn.

Just as that thought crosses your mind, the ever-present smile on Marion’s face collapses right before your eyes.

“Oh. So that’s how it is.”

You frown, tamping down the twinge of disappointment at the sudden distance between the two of you as they plaster their back against their seat.

“What?”

“I didn’t understand why you would want this, but I get it now.” They let out a hollow laugh.

“You’re not making any sense.” The waves of jealousy emanating from them do give you an idea of what they could be on about, but that doesn’t make this any less absurd.

“Look, Hawthorn. You don’t need to kill time with a stand-in. The real deal is practically drooling to get into your pants.”

“That’s—”

“I get that he’s not your Ricardo, but hey, if you want an outlet, it might as well be the guy that actually shares a face with him—”

“Holy shit, cut that out!” you shout, trying to pry the clinging jealousy off of your shields. “You’re making the entire room feel nasty!”

Raising your voice seems to do the trick for once, since the air tunes back to being breathable. You sigh, pressing against your clenched eyes.

“If you find the comparison that unbearable, then fine. You’re nothing like him. You always try too hard, while he makes things look effortless. You make yourself a nuisance just to get a fraction the attention he does by just existing. And if he had even half of your audacity, he’d literally be unstoppable, so don’t make me imagine that. There, happy?”

You open your eyes to find that no, they’re not happy. In fact, this is the closest you’ve ever seen them to looking upset. Crap. This isn’t as gratifying as you thought it’d be.

“Alright, alright, You want me to fuck off, I get it,” they mutter, brushing crumbs off their hands. Before they get the chance to get up from their seat, however, you jump out of your own and march over to their side of the table. They scrunch their nose as they blink up at you like a cat that just got squirted with a water spray.

Yeah. You know what? Fuck it.

Without warning, you grab them by the collar and pull them in closer, shoving your lips onto theirs. There’s no helping the widening smirk when you feel them gasp against you. Your other hand grips onto the back of their head, letting the whiff of mint in their quivering sigh carry the the moment onward and onward because you can’t stop until you’ve made your point.

The moment you separate to catch a breath, Marion tries to fit in a retort.

“Hawthorn, what the fuck—”

“There. Now you get to say you kissed me before Ricardo Ortega.” The insanity of what you’re saying doesn’t quite catch up to the pace you’re setting. Good. “Happy?”

You wait and you try not to think.

You try not to think about what you definitely didn't see. It was just the store front. Its not like you saw the glistening pink meat behind the counter, raw and bloody. Or the deep red marrow from the discarded bones. You're not prey anymore, your teeth were meant to sink deep into soft flesh of lesser things and the saliva that fills your mouth tastes like blood, a by product of your over-active, destructive imagination.

"Tegan?" Despite your closeness, Dina's voice sounds distant but its enough to bring you back to the here and now and a sharp sting makes you realize you were biting the inside of your cheek, hard enough to draw blood. Not your imagination after all. You swallow hard stealing a glance at Dina.

Her hair looks absurd.

The snort-laugh that erupts from you is enough to break the spell that had washed over you, the haze receding back into the well of memories, best left forgotten. The Nanosurge had been one of the strangest scars for you both, marked in ways no one else could see. And you wouldn't want them to see.

"Don't let me do your hair again, I don't think I'm good at it."

"What you don't think this could be my new look?" The shake of her head caused the lopsided ponytail to wobble.

"I guess its not worse than those ridiculous cowboy boots." You roll your eyes for dramatic effect, please to see her squint in annoyance

"Hey, don't knock the boots." Dina stands, helping you up as well as she pulls the hair tie from her hair and hands it back to you. You quickly put your hair up in a well-practiced ponytail.

Rhan Becker. Rhapsody.

Marion’s been acting weird.

Usually, whenever your conversations lapse into silence, it doesn’t take long for them to pick the lull right back up with a seemingly endless supply of chatter. They don’t expect you to keep up. You don’t bother to. Well, alright, sometimes you do try to pay attention. You think that their voice takes on a more cheerful lilt when you do. Maybe. They’re a hard person to read, even with your telepathy.

But recently, they’ve been letting those quiet moments linger, waiting for you to glance over at them to figure out why they paused. Stretching out the seconds with a tight hold on your gaze. Expectant. The spell breaks when they inevitably move on to talk about something else, but it’s been enough of a recurrence for you to take notice of it.

For instance, there was that one time when the two of you were on grocery duty. While they were reciting anecdotes on why you should never carry your cash in aluminum briefcases or duffel bags, you tossed in a pack of chocolate pudding alongside the usual gallon of milk into the cart. When the squeaking of hair-ridden wheels didn’t follow behind you, you turned around and tilted your head at them.

“What?” you asked, frowning at their gauging look.

“We don’t usually get that,” they said, pointing at the pudding.

“You don’t want it?”

“I mean, I do, but—”

“Yeah, I bet you do.”

You didn’t think much of their pause at the time, instead moving on from the dairy section to the snack aisle. You added packs of trail mix and peanut butter crackers to the growing pile, a corner of your lips quirking up at Marion’s pings of approval. Neither of these are to your taste, but you figured that, with some extra supply, maybe they’d stop leeching off of your own stash.

But that wasn’t the last you saw of the weird staring contests.

Your latest memory of one comes from the last time you went on a scouting mission with them (they’ve taken a liking to calling these missions “dates”, even though they’re entirely business in practice). You already had the blueprints for the event venue you planned on striking next, but Marion suggested that you get also get a lay of the land in person. Their idea was to request a tour of the place, since that’s a service they offer for soon-to-be-wed couples.

“Or we could just, you know. Sneak in during the after hours?” you shot back, because faking being fiancees sounded like one hell of a hassle and a recipe for disaster. Not to mention that you really didn’t need more material to fuel the completely unprompted thoughts you’ve been getting about them.

The disappointment that prickled your skin was definitely projected with intent, if their openly unimpressed expression was anything to go by. “That’s so boring of you.”

“It just makes more sense,” you retorted, sticking your hands in your pockets. “Less room for mistakes.”

“I can and will ad hominem you into agreeing to this.” When you tried to walk away from the conversation, they immediately trailed after you and hurled figurative tomatoes at you in an admittedly impressive impression of the Rat Council. “How could you be so uninspired? Stale, even? Next thing you know your brain will start growing mold with how little you put it to use!”

You put up a good fight—at least, that’s what you tell yourself—but you eventually folded and let them have their way. The worst part? From the impressions you’ve gathered, this whole mess didn’t have any underlying flirty motive to it. They genuinely just considered this a fun outing idea between…

Well, you’re not sure what they consider your relationship to be. In fact, you’re not even sure what you think of it either.

At least Marion had the decency to volunteer for the role of future bride before you even had to draw that line yourself. You got the sense that they were just going through the motions when they were dressing themself up, but they were much more spirited when it came to deciding on your characters and helping you pick out your clothes.

Upon your arrival, you tapped on your fake glass frames and looked around the building in feigned awe, letting the scanner map out a spatial diagram for later use while Marion kept the attendant distracted with animated gossiping. The visit, at least, turned out to be worth your time, since there were some notable discrepancies from the blueprints that you wouldn’t have caught onto otherwise.

Seeing this act to its end did unfortunately mean that you’d have to bear through the whole tour process, which entailed getting drowned in binders packed with decoration options. Despite the dreadfully long process, you somehow found yourself invested in this whole farce. There was a coherent vision coming together, and you weren’t about to just let it reach completion without your input. It also doesn’t help that enthusiasm is infectious, especially coming from another telepath. At some point, it became a matter of trying to figure out how much of Marion’s stated preferences were part of the character, and how much were their own.

At last, after making decisions after decisions, down to the fucking napkins, all that was left were the flowers.

The obvious choice was the hydrangea, and frankly the only good choice. But finding an in-character way to interject with your opinion was difficult when Marion was too busy talking the attendant’s ear off about daffodil symbolism.

“They’re Easter flowers and bloom on early spring, so they’re associated with new beginnings, you see. Oh, but I’m sure you already knew that! My point is, the classic yellow will carry the usual associations, but we add a twist. White daffodils are considered grave flowers, but mix them in with the yellow ones… and ta-da! You get a flowery representation of ‘till death do us part’! How poetic is that? Besides, they’re such pretty little things.”

Okay, sure, but that was also a whole lot of yellow that you very much didn’t want in your wedding, even if it was a fake one that was never actually happening.

“So?” Marion prompted, flipping back strands of their immaculately styled wig. Christ, you were still not used to the unrecognizable voice coming out of them. “What do you think, honey?”

You could have gotten this ordeal over with by going along with their choice, but a little disagreement would add a convincing touch to the cover.

“Sure, why not?”

It takes a moment for you to process your own words, which had taken a complete turn from the thoughts that led up to them. You blink at Marion. They blink back.

And there it was again, the drawn-out moment of silence, loaded with some kind of expectation for you to realize something. Was the whole daffodil thing supposed to be some kind of code? Or are they just surprised that you went along with their idea so easily? Well… they did sound invested in the whole thing. And you could admit that the mixed daffodils were a pretty interesting play on wedding vows.

Besides, it wasn’t like any of this mattered anyways.

Once the two of you returned to the base, the rest of the evening went about as expected.

And now here you are again, eyes locked onto theirs, entirely unsure when the moment will pass. You had settled down on the living room floor, just about to repaint your nails, when you caught them watching you intently from their spot at the couch. You still haven’t figured out what they want from you, but whatever this is has happened enough times that you’re starting to wonder if they want you to kiss them. Or something like that. That sounded less stupid before it became a coherent thought at the forefront of your mind.

“Okay. Before I get any weird ideas,” you begin, because you need to know. “Why the hell do you keep staring at me like that?”

“What weird ideas?” they ask back, raising a brow.

“Ignore that,” you frown. “I asked you a question first.”

They chew on their lips in thought, then point down. “Look at the nail polish you’re holding. What color is it?”

What kind of question is that? Of course it’s—

You squint in disgust at the neon yellow bottle in your hand. Wait, but didn’t you reach out for it just earlier, fully ready to paint your nails in this ungodly color? What the fuck?

“Rhan.” Marion climbs out of their seat, then takes the bottle from you. “I’ve been messing with your head.”

A part of you agrees that yes, yes they have, but then all at once, you realize that they mean what they say literally.

“You’ve been what?” you demand, rising to your feet with clenched fists.

“You never go off the list when we’re getting groceries,” they go on. It baffles you how carefully neutral they’re able to keep their expression. “But you got the pudding that one time. Remember?”

You do, actually, because you’ve been thinking about the way they looked at you back then. Does that mean—

“Is that why I tossed in those other things too?” you press, still trying to wrap your mind around the fact that those weren’t your decisions.

“Oh. No, nothing after the pudding was my idea, actually.” They have the audacity to look as confused as you do about that. “The rest was entirely just you.”

Your mouth opens and shuts, at a loss for words. Indignation begins to boil inside you, breath growing shallower with each exhale.

“Listen, in my defense, you were supposed to have figured it out by the time we got to the daffodils.”

The fucking daffodils.

“You hated them enough that I thought you’d realize something’s up when you said yes, but instead you somehow you found a way to—”

You interrupt them with a fist square to their jaw. The punch packed enough force to send them staggering a few steps backwards, though they don’t let out any noise of pain besides the faintest gasp. Your panting barely starts to settle down as you stare at the crescents that your nails left on your palm. The urge you acted on was intense enough that, for a second, you wonder if they were in your head again, but no—this sickening, familiar need to lash out at everything and anything that’s wronged you is nothing but your own.

“Why?” you rasp out. “Why the hell would you do something like this?”

You like to think that you’ve been trying to understand them better, even when they barely make any sense, but what are you supposed to make out of this?

What if they hadn’t told you?

… Why did they tell you?

Holding your head, you muster a glance back upwards, gaze landing on Marion’s still-widened eyes. Your attention shifts towards the hand hovering over their bruising cheek.

You have to admit, it’s a shame that you marred that pretty face. Or maybe it’s prettier now that it has a mark from you blossoming on it. Either way, there’s a guilty sore in your chest that wants to apologize. Ask if they’re alright. You won’t, though. Your anger pushes down on the ache and shoves it away to some corner, far out of reach.

In fact, that anger overstays its welcome, wrapping around your hands until they’re balled into fists again. It chokes you until your throat tightens, preparing you to shout at them—

Wait, no. This isn’t you. You notice it this time—thin, silky threads pulling from the well inside your heart. They would have easily slipped past your notice had they not been so tightly strung.

Desperation. You sense desperation in the next tug.

“Stop,” you growl, stomping towards Marion. Their head snaps up towards you as you grab their wrist. “You’re really trying to pull this shit again? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Somehow you’re back here. Back where you started. Stuck in a staring contest that you’re unwilling to back down from this time because you deserve some fucking answers, damn it!

In that split moment, their gaze flickers down to your snarling lips. Their mouth goes ajar, and for the briefest second, you think they’re actually going to do it. Unwittingly, you brace yourself.

“You weren’t supposed to sense that,” they mutter instead.

You hold your breath for a second longer, then scoff in disbelief.

“Seriously?”

“I guess he was right,” they go on, practically shoving you off the rail.

What?

“Once you realize there was a telepathic intrusion, you get better at recognizing them from then on… or something like that,” they explain, brushing off your grip from their wrist. “That’s what Chen told me about shields, anyways.”

You swear you feel a wave of nausea at the sudden turn this conversation has taken. “Are you trying to say that all this was—”

“Because your shields are awful? Yeah.”

The migraine hasn’t hit yet, but you can see it coming from a mile away.

“I figured I’d try to help. You were—you were supposed to realize it earlier, but you kept finding ways to use me as an excuse to make sense of things.” They shrug. “It was hard to just stand by and watch, really. So I had to give the answer away to you. At least it looks like it worked, though.”

“Alright. That’s a shitty explanation if I’ve ever heard one.” You scratch the back of your head in frustration. The problem is, you can’t come up with a better one yourself. “Whatever. I’ll take it. But that last time…” You let your hand drop back to your sides. Open, close. “That one felt personal.”

“Well…” They struggle to move on from that single word, their thoughts tripping over themselves before they finally settle on crossing their arms. “That’s on you for being weird.”

“Really? You took that long to come up with an answer, and that’s the best you’ve got?”

They tilt their head away from you. “I had that coming—why would you be sorry?”

“I never said I was.”

“But you were.”

“Or maybe you’re just projecting how sorry you feel for yourself, you asshole.”

It’s that immature response of all things that gets them to shut up. You sigh. If a low blow like that is what it takes to finally feel like you’re back on your own terms, then so be it.

Except there’s still one question that’s been nagging you this entire time, begging to be let out.

“Did you plant the kissing thoughts too, then?”

Marion narrows their eyes at you, mouth agape. “The what?”

Shit. You fucked up.

“Never mind,” you try, knowing that it’s too late for that.

“No, no. Go back. Don’t tell me kissing is the weird ideas you got?” And just like that, they’ve recovered their insufferable smile. “I thought you were finally picking up on the hints that something’s off.”

“You’re the one that kept staring at me like you were expecting me to do something!”

“Yeah, expecting you to realize that I was literally messing with your head?”

At this point, Marion has already dissolved into a giggling fit, while you’re busy searching for the nearest exit to dart towards. Just as you take a step back to make a run for it, they grab your arm and pull you in. You hold your breath, expecting them to seal the deal, but instead of prying your mouth open like you imagined they would, they only leave a light peck on the corner of your lips.

“There,” they say, trying to channel a tone of finality even as they keep glancing at your mouth. “That should get any leftover dumb ideas out of your head—”

They don’t get to finish their sentence before you shove them down to the couch and pick up their slack. To your surprise, they melt under you, holding your face and letting your breaths mix together. As you close your eyes and let their tongue roll over your piercing, it occurs to you that you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve shut them up today.