#battery acid suffering

[asbestieos]

telling my parents im moving out in a month + coming out to them tonight, wish me. luck?

#. #.. #… #…. #….. #best case scenario they support me yaaay #worst case scenario my dad slaps me #we’ll see we’ll see #battery acid suffering

[toytulini]

that stupid post makes me so unreasonably annoyed like it has to be a bit right. are all of you really this susceptible to Candy In Soda??????

#toy txt post #bout to make a new pinned post telling ppl to drink battery acid spaghetti its fine it wont harm you #im just so baffled. if you can already stomach the cheap energy drink. the candy really should not be making it that much worse for you? #and if it is i feel like maybe you just shouldnt be having that much cheap energy drink in the first place? #yall out here acting like it makes you explode i do not GET IT???? #wuh wuh im a chemist and the pH ~ it can lead to ~mouth irritation~ are you all getting the sour candy suffer sores from a single glass of #this? have you never eaten way too many sour skittles in a single sitting before? im just baffled #like you dont have to but im just. why is your reaction this strongly dont do this about smth that is really Fine???????????????? #is it being tried exclusively by sheltered health nuts highly susceptible to strong flavors and acid reflux???? #what is going ON

[sadgirlautumn]

Losing my mind I hate stomach pain so much!!!!!!!

#I feel like I drank battery acid and it’s rotting my intestines #sorry for the description but I feel horrible #autumn rambles #also I have ulcerative colitis so I’m not sick I’m just suffering from chronic illness ugh

[cybernuggies]

Forget I'm iron defic. anemic and stop taking my iron pills until I have a full day of heart palpitations and go oh fuck I forgot that's real

Take the iron pills and remember why I stopped taking them. Permanent tummy ache. FULL of gas. Sulfur burps. Nausea. Can't poop except for when I almost shit my pants. Heartburn BUT you can't take antacids bc they interfere with iron absorption!

Evil!!!!

#die or suffer aufhdbdhdh #the liquid form is marginally better but tastes like blood and battery acid #but i cant get hold of it rn #anemia #dear blood; please make more platelets by yourself please please please

[afeelgoodblog]

The Best News of Last Week

⚡ - Charging Towards a More Electrifying Future

1. The Kissimmee River has been brought back to life—and wildlife is thriving

The Kissimmee River in Florida was straightened in the 1960s, causing a sharp decline in wildlife and ecological problems. But in the 1990s, a $1 billion restoration project was initiated to restore the river's natural state.

Today, nearly half of the river has been restored, wetlands have been reestablished and rehydrated, and wildlife has returned, including rare and threatened species. Already the biological impact of the project has become clear. As the wetlands have come back, so have the birds.

2. Plastic wrap made from seaweed withstands heat and is compostable

A cling film made from an invasive seaweed can withstand high temperatures yet is still easily compostable. The material could eventually become a sustainable choice for food packaging.

Scientists started with a brown seaweed called sargassum. Sargassum contains long, chain-like molecules similar to those that make up conventional plastic, which made it a good raw material. The researchers mixed it with some acids and salts to get a solution full of these molecules, then blended in chemicals that thickened it and made it more flexible and pliable.

3. An Eagle Who Adopted a Rock Becomes a Real Dad to Orphaned Eaglet

Murphy, a bald eagle that had been showing fatherly instincts, has been sharing an enclosure with an eaglet that survived a fall from a tree during a storm in Ste. Genevieve. Murphy, his rock gone by then, took his role as foster parent seriously. He soon began responding to the chick’s peeps, and protecting it.

And when, as a test, the keepers placed two plates of food in front of the birds — one containing food cut into pieces that the chick could eat by itself, and another with a whole fish that only Murphy could handle — the older bird tore up the fish and fed it to the eaglet.

4. World's largest battery maker announces major breakthrough in energy density

In one of the most significant battery breakthroughs in recent years, the world’s largest battery manufacturer CATL has announced a new “condensed” battery with 500 Wh/kg which it says will go into mass production this year.

“The launch of condensed batteries will usher in an era of universal electrification of sea, land and air transportation, open up more possibilities of the development of the industry, and promote the achieving of the global carbon neutrality goals at an earlier date,” the company said in a presentation at Auto Shanghai on Thursday.

This could be huge. Electric jets and cargo ships become very possible at this point.

5. Cat with '100% fatal' feline coronavirus saved by human Covid-19 medicine

A beloved household cat has made an “astonishing” recovery from a usually fatal illness, thanks to a drug made to treat Covid-19 in humans – and a quick-thinking vet.

Anya​, the 7-year-old birman cat, was suffering from feline infectious peritonitis (FIP), a “100% fatal” viral infection caused by feline coronavirus. That was, until Auckland vet Dr Habin Choi​ intervened, giving Anya an antiviral used to treat Covid-19 called molnupiravir.

6. Kelp forests capture nearly 5 million tonnes of CO2 annually

Kelp forests provide an estimated value of $500 billion to the world and capture 4.5 million tonnes of carbon dioxide from seawater each year. Most of kelp’s economic benefits come from creating habitat for fish and by sequestering nitrogen and phosphorus.

7. Medical Marijuana Improved Parkinson’s Disease Symptoms in 87% of Patients

Medical cannabis (MC) has recently garnered interest as a potential treatment for neurologic diseases, including Parkinson's disease (PD). 87% of patients were noted to exhibit an improvement in any PD symptom after starting medical cannabis. Symptoms with the highest incidence of improvement included cramping/dystonia, pain, spasticity, lack of appetite, dyskinesia, and tremor.

----

That's it for this week :)

This newsletter will always be free. If you liked this post you can support me with a small kofi donation:

Buy me a coffee ❤️

Also don’t forget to reblog

#best news of last week

[eoieopda]

FORCE QUIT // EPISODE I: SCRAPS

you didn't have "anti-capitalist revolution" on this year's bingo card, but you never turn down a good time.

pairing: lee felix x reader | series masterlist (1/4) | next episode series summary: it's 2077, and life's a fucking nightmare. corporate titans ate the state and shat it back out, leaving citizens of the new republic to fall in line, or fall to their knees. a reckoning is coming — where will you fall? au: series — dystopian, cyberpunk; episode — childhood friends to strangers to something ➢insp. by: cyberpunk 2077 + the true lives of the fabulous killjoys genre: smut + angst + some fluff word count: 15.4k rating: 18+— minors do not have my consent to interact. series warnings: violence (hand-to-hand, firearms, explosives), depictions of injuries (blood/bruising/burns), some characters have cybernetic modifications, class conflict + poverty, surprise - corporations are bad!, unethical medical/tech experimentation, self-indulgent references to non-skz idols, reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns. episode warnings: above + trainer!felix, edgerunner!reader, pov switches, time skips, reference to food insecurity + reader living check to check, reader has cybernetic retinal mods + one in her hand, reader experiences temporary vision loss after being knocked out, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v penetration. a/n: each episode features a different member x reader pairing, but the plot is linear, so you'd need to read them (in order) to get the full picture! you can sign up for the taglist to be notified of the next uploads. thank you to my beloved @sailoryooons for beta'ing this and @jihopesjoint for being my emotional support internet wife even though she doesn't stan skz. ily both endlessly!

You don’t deal in absolutes, but you know two things for sure: vending-machine burritos are a crime against humanity; and Han Jisung is a dirty, rotten bastard.

The firm stance you’ve taken on the latter may or may not have something to do with the former, but you can’t draw that conclusion now — not with the abuse your taste buds are currently suffering, anyway.

“Who the fuck —” 

You cut yourself off to spit a mouthful at the ground. Notably, the remnants of that half-chewed abomination look just as awful on the way out as they did on the way in.

 “— Replaced this queso with battery acid?”

Chipmunk cheeks stuffed to bursting, Jisung blinks back at you. He says nothing — suddenly too polite to speak with his mouth full — and shrugs, unbothered. That’s when the realization hits you like a boot to the skull. Drenched in disbelief, your muttering comes out in slow-motion: 

“You spent the last of our cash on these.”

He swallows, though you don’t know how he could bring himself to do it. That act alone makes the rage you’re simmering in bubble over. 

You repeat yourself through gritted teeth, pausing emphatically between every word, “The — last — of — our — cash!”

“My bad?” He eventually offers. Tongue flicking out, he tries to gather the unidentified sauce that clings to the corner of his mouth. He fails. “Not sure what else I was supposed to find with that little money in this part of town, but go off, I guess.”

You bite your lips together to hold back the guttural yell you’re seconds from releasing. At your sides, your empty hands clench tightly. Instead of snapping — with your words or your fists — you close your eyes, inhaling slowly through your nose. Deep breaths won’t do you any fucking good in this smog, but your brain tends to work a little bit better without visual interference.

I can go another twenty-four hours, you think. Maybe.

It’s been a while since you’ve last eaten and even longer since your last job. This isn’t out of the ordinary; gaps are to be expected when you live on the fringe, jumping from thread to thread. Still, it isn’t like Changbin to leave you hanging the way he has been lately. It sure as shit isn’t like him to dodge your calls, either.

So, you figure, if you make an unsolicited visit to his office — the stock room of a bar you know better than to frequent — he won’t have a choice. He’ll have to look you in the eye and explain the dry spell, personally. He owes you at least that much.

With your plan finalized, you hold out your left hand to Jisung. In the few moments you’d taken your eyes off him, he’d apparently gone from sitting on the hood of your car to reclining fully with his own eyes closed. Basking like a little lizard in the sunlight, it’s a miracle the hot metal hasn’t burned a hole in his shirt.

“Come on.” You nudge his bent knee with your knuckles to no avail.

As Jisung is wont to do, he pouts. “But it’s so nice out — and your car still reeks, by the way.”

The absolute, rakish audacity.

If you didn’t love him, you’d probably kill him. 

Strike that. 

Love is irrelevant. You wouldn’t kill him unless and until there was a price on his head. After all, your mother taught you better than to do the things you’re good at for free.

“Do we want to talk about whose fault that is?” You ask with a roll of your eyes. The affection’s still there; you know he sees it. “If I recall correctly — and I think I do, having been the only sober person present — you were the one who got blasted and barfed on everything I love in this world.”

“I got blasted and barfed exclusively on the floor of your car.”

It’s your turn to shrug. “Exactly. End of list.”

Groaning, Jisung rolls his eyes as far back as they’ll go, but he still takes your hand. He always does, always has. With your help, he scoots his ass down the hood and lands with both boots — precisely where your ejected burrito bite did, not five minutes earlier. You can’t stop the satisfied grin from spreading when he whines again, this time louder and with twice as much despair.

After playfully shoving your passenger towards his door, you unlock your own. You don’t dump yourself into the seat, however; not yet. A wall of horrible heat is waiting for you the second the door opens, and you know better than to run into it, headlong.

Jisung is less patient. He’s also more regretful, face twisting in self-imposed anguish when he drops down onto the sun-scorched leather seat. And, to your delight, the hits keep coming. You watch with a smile when the consequences of last weekend’s actions hit his nostrils. The look he gives you falls somewhere between humbled, apologetic, and absolutely dead inside.

“Not one of my finer moments, I’ll admit it.” He acknowledges with a wave of his hand. Resigned, he sighs, “I’ll scrub the shit out of the floor mats the next time we can afford a wash.”

Satisfied, you finally climb behind the wheel. Pushing through the slightly-muted sting of the seat against the backs of your bare thighs, you put your foot on the brake and lift your right hand to press your thumb to the ignition port. The roar of the engine covers the way your breath hitches, but Jisung doesn’t have to hear it to notice the grimace that accompanies it.

“Still sore?” He asks. 

To his credit, he looks genuinely concerned as he reaches across the center console and takes your hand in his. It’s gentle, the way he tilts your palm up, but the movement burns in every single one of your tendons. This time, you know you have a captive audience, so you don’t flinch. 

Despite the trouble it’s giving you, you have to admit that the new enhancement looks beautiful in the sunlight. In the center of your palm, two rectangular, silver brackets refract iridescence. Their shine contrasts sharply with the matte, midnight black cybernetic plating that now covers the majority of your palm, spreading to the first knuckle of your fingers but coating the length of your thumb in its entirety. 

More than beautiful, it’s deadly — and it aches like a motherfucker.

“I read a study about these ballistic co-processors last night while you were knocked out,” he hums. 

Classic Jisung. 

He has no medical or academic background whatsoever but wastes his time reading crank doctors’ research for fun. And, of course, he makes sure to mention it — casually and apropos of mostly nothing — in order to impress.

Gingerly, he runs his finger along the edge of the cyberware, mumbling, “It usually takes five days from installation for the musculoskeletal inflammation to chill.”

Your fingers twitch of their own volition, which prompts him to look up at you curiously. 

“Yeah, well…” You grunt.

Less carefully than you should, you pull your hand from his, tap the gear shift, and throw the car into reverse. Peeling out of the lot, you scoff without even bothering to look his way:

“It’s been ten.”

When the War came and went, it took the old way of life with it on its way out. You might’ve been late to the party by fifty or so years, but you’ve got the gist now. It goes something like this:

Korea, as it was once known, crumpled like a beer can in the face of a corporate uprising and was quickly kicked curbside with the trash. In its place came the New Republic — in all its stolen, neon glory — promising technological revolution, profit in excess. Although the world’s eyes were trained on the peninsula then, not everyone stuck around to watch democracy die in real time. 

Not up close, anyway.

Some people had enough cash to run but not enough to make staying worthwhile. With their tails between their legs and their life savings in hand, they left before the capitalist rot could set in fully; chose willful blindness and headed for countries where corporations rule from the shadows rather than broad daylight.

Most people, however, didn’t leave. People like your grandparents, who hadn’t looked up long enough to notice things going to hell in a hurry. And if they did — well, maybe they saw things for what they were: shitty, same as anywhere else. 

Five decades later, that fact hasn’t changed much.

Regardless of why a person opts to stay in the New Republic, their options for survival are effectively limited to two. Simply put, a person can sell their soul to the very corporations that strangled the state, or they can starve.

Nobody ever chooses the latter.

You can safely assume everything you need to know about a person based on where their next steps take them.

For example, those who crave both chic, penthouse apartments and blood-soaked streets are most likely to fall in line with WraithCo.. The name suggests that it’s a criminal enterprise run by fucking ghouls because that’s essentially what it is. More than that, it’s the arms manufacturer monopoly that out-manned and out-gunned the national military without breaking a sweat. 

The high-powered, highly-paid WraithCo. executives find joy in three things and three things only: designer suits; missiles that explode into clouds of fiberglass upon impact; and testing said missiles out on non-violent nomad encampments outside city limits.

Fucking ghouls.

Despite being the most openly violent of the major players, you find WraithCo. to be the most boring. They lack nuance, don’t bother with a false front or a positive PR spin — it’s all a little too predictable. Thanotech, on the other hand, is subtle; the perfect  cover for those who like to convince themselves they’re doing more good than harm.

In furtherance of that delusion, Thanotech replaced all public hospitals with state-of-the-art, for-profit rejuvenation centers. Worse, their lobbyists ensured that medical licensure was limited to employees of those centers, outlawing the provision and receipt of medical care outside of authorized Thanotech facilities. 

In short, those who can’t afford Thanotech’s astronomical rates — specifically, poor fucks like you — are left to fend for themselves in back alley clinics; to pray that they don’t wind up worse-off than they started, that the police don’t sniff them out, and that their new modifications aren’t just garbage-tier knock-offs.

Of course, some people give more of a shit about these designer mods than the patients who may or may not wind up with them. In that case, the last of the three titans has them covered.

It’s no fucking surprise that the Ulsan Corporation is the crown-jewel of the New Republic — it’s primarily responsible for killing the old one. As the world’s premier technology and cybernetics conglomerate, Ulsan is also primarily responsible for the research, development, and distribution of cybernetic enhancements.

Like the one your body is currently acclimating to.

No such thing as ethical consumption under capitalism, right?

Ulsan may be less obvious with its bastardry than its counterparts, but as far as you can tell, it’s not good guy behavior to eat an established state and shit it back out. Even if you can’t tie any specific, ongoing atrocities back to them, you have no qualms about adding the desperate state of the union to their indictment.

You can blame them for the desperate measures they’ve necessitated, although you won’t give them an ounce of credit for the spark of resistance they so recklessly lit.

Despite it all, there are still people out there who refuse to accept things for what they are. They find an alternative to the comply or die ultimatum — run along the razor’s edge, taking what they can get, whenever they can get it.

Like Changbin, one of Seoul’s best-connected fixers.

Like you, a gun for hire. 

Like Jisung, sitting in your passenger seat as you drive across town, who’s just happy to be included.

Generally speaking, piss and vinegar don’t mix well with club security.

If you were anyone else, rolling up to The Crypt like you own the place would be ill-advised. More than that, it would be asking to get your teeth kicked in faster than you could say, “I’m on the list.”

Thankfully, as it often does, your reputation precedes you. Nobody in the block-long line bats an eye when you cut right to the front, a fact that has Jisung smirking in a way that might otherwise get him killed. Still, the bouncer shoots you a look that says you’re more trouble than you’re worth; and you agree.

Before your friend can change the muscle’s mind, you grab Jisung by the wrist and tug him through the front entrance. You don’t let go when the door shuts behind you, although it’s more for convenience than concern for his safety. He has a tendency to wander, and you don’t have the patience.

“Haven’t been here in a while,” he muses as you drag him towards the main bar, head turning to look in every direction except the one you’re moving in.

You don’t slow down.

Winding your way through the drunks at the counter, you inch closer to the large booths along the far wall. Inside, draped nonchalantly over the plush benches, sit the big guns — mercenaries with far more sway than you, far fatter wallets. They’re living the high life you’ve always dreamed of, and they don’t even notice you staring as you pass.

“Oh, shit!” Jisung waves overhead to one of them, reminding you without trying that he — unlike you — has other friends.“S.Coups, where have the fuck have you been, man?”

You still don’t slow down.

Not when you reach the stairwell at the far side of the main floor. Not when you shuffle down the steps to the employees only section. Not even when the security camera overhead silently demands that you do.

There’s only one locked door amongst the few; you fly to it like a homing pigeon and beat against the metal with your free hand. It isn’t until the burning ache sets in that you realize you chose your right.

“Goddamn it.” You growl down at it, as if your hand will apologize for hurting. Turning your vitriol towards the door, you kick it hard, steel-toed boot forcing out a thud. “Changbin, open this shit up!”

Jisung glares as he scolds you, “Manners, maybe?”

You roll your eyes, but his expectant expression doesn’t budge.

“Fucking — fine, okay? Fine.” Hands thrown up in defeat, you take a deep breath. Your next words come out saccharine, accompanied by fluttering lashes that can’t even be seen. “Changbin, darling, could you please open this shit up?”

The two of you wait in dead silence for several seconds before Jisung’s hands fly up to your hair, unprompted. Your surprised yelp doesn’t faze him. He grabs the bobby-pin from where you’ve stashed it under your ponytail, drops to his knees, and starts to work.

You snort, “Well, damn. Look at you!”

Truly, you’re impressed. Jisung normally leaves the dirty work to you, yet here he is — breaking and entering.

They grow up so fast.

He tries not to look proud of himself, but his cheeks blush a shade of sakura and rat him right out. Though you’re sure he’d love to, he can’t even lift a hand to wave you off before the lock clicks. With a quick twist of the knob, he pushes the door open.

Changbin’s office looks close to normal, with a few notable exceptions. For starters, he’s not in it. The man you’re dealing with never sees the light of day if he can help it.

Jisung pipes up first: “Okay, what the fuck?”

The office chair Changbin normally occupies is spun to the side, as if his ass left it in a hurry. Even odder than that is the small, green light which indicates that he didn’t shut off his computer before leaving it unattended. It’s not a decision someone like Changbin — neurotic and paranoid to a borderline clinical degree — makes on his own.

That, you know outright, is a problem.

Cautiously, you slip past Jisung and walk on eggshells towards Changbin’s desk. You know it’s stupid, that no one would bother rigging the floor tiles to blow under the weight of your boots, but you can’t ignore the way your gut twists with every step. That dread only gets worse, the closer you get.

To the right of his primary screen, there’s a half-eaten vending-machine burrito that’s so covered with ants, you almost mistake them for pepper flakes. That sight makes bile rise in your throat, in and of itself, but it’s the untouched cup of coffee that sends a tingle of panic down your spine. Around the base of the glass, hardly visible on the sheet of paper underneath, is a water ring. 

That coffee — at one point, however long ago — was iced.

Changbin would kill you for it if he were here, but he isn’t, so you drop down into his chair. You pause as soon as your ass settles onto the leather, still not convinced that one wrong move won’t set off some sort of trap. The breath you’ve been holding leaks out slowly when your actions go without consequences.

A quick glance up at Jisung confirms that he looks exactly as spooked as you feel. You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows hard. 

He knows the answer before he asks, but that doesn’t stop him. It comes out scratchy, riddled with hesitation that says he doesn’t really want to hear the response. “He hasn’t been here in days, has he?”

You shake your head, just barely, then turn to the desk. Bottom lip pinched between worried teeth, you scan the surface for anything you missed on your first pass.

Give me a hint, you motherfucker. All I need is a breadcrumb.

It’s the absence of something that grabs your attention. Eyes narrowing, you lean forward in your seat to get as close as possible to his monitors.

“Does that…?” You start to ask but your voice trails off before you finish; thoughts moving too quickly to inventory before the next one arrives.

Though black, the screens in front of you aren’t lifeless. If anything, they’re still backlit, glitching subtly in a way they shouldn’t — not if the system had been locked, powered off, or otherwise put to sleep. You don’t have to be a netrunner to know that someone is running an opp, fucking up the computer’s processing and leaving it brain dead.

It’s so small that you almost miss the minimized window at the bottom left-hand corner of his secondary monitor, screen otherwise barren. Hesitantly, you reach out your hand and press a trembling finger to it.

Jisung is hovering so closely over your shoulder that you can practically taste that burrito on his breath. You elbow him once in the chest, hard.

He coughs, pointing to the screen as he sputters, “What the hell are those?”

“Numbers, Jisung.” You deadpan. “They’re called numbers.”

Ignoring the way he grumbles in response, you grab your mobile from your pocket. It springs to life at your sudden touch and broadcasts a holographic home screen in the air just centimeters above the glass. Just as fast, it tracks the movement of your eyes flicking through the list of applications. With the faintest shudder, the GPS navigation consumes the screen.

You repeat what you hope are coordinates:

35.2029, 128.6001.

As the map loads, you and Jisung exchange glances that are underscored by tense swallows. He knows it, and so do you: 

No matter where that pin ends up dropping, you have no choice but to go.

It takes three hours to drive from Seoul to Changwon. Although it’s not a route you’ve taken in years, or one you ever expected to take again, you still know it like the back of your hand. You can still navigate every turn — every crater and curve — with your eyes closed, even now. 

Despite that fact, your decision to race to the southeast this time has nothing to do with sentimentality for the hometown you left five years ago. 

This is just for Changbin, you repeat like a mantra, pressing harder on the accelerator. 

With every stoplight and thought you race through, the background grows blurrier but the big picture gets clearer. Changbin himself has nothing to do with it; and you’re not as selfless as your inner monologue keeps claiming. You correct yourself:

This is for me and my empty bank account.

Really — who could blame you?

You need steady contracts in order to eat. Without Changbin, those get fewer and farther between. It’s the transitive property, or whatever; basic math. You might starve without him, and that is the one thing in this life that you’re unwilling to do.

In the passenger seat, Jisung stirs. When he speaks, his voice isn’t weighted down with exhaustion in the way it usually is, halfway through a car trip. For some reason, it makes your stomach turn to consider that — for what is probably the first time ever — he isn’t sleeping through a drive.

“He left in a hurry,” he quietly notes.

Out of the corner of your eye, you glance at him and confirm the presence of that worried crease between his eyebrows. It’s not accompanied by the usual, furiously-bouncing knee. That makes your stomach turn, too. Clearly, he’s vaulted over mere anxiety and landed somewhere close to shutting down.

You nod. “He did.”

It spooks him when you take your right hand off the steering wheel and give his elbow a brief squeeze. You’re not the affectionate type; you both know this. It always makes your rare touches more ominous than comforting.

“Do you think he was running to something, or running away from something?”

Leave it to Jisung to say the quiet part out loud. 

Normally, you have an answer for his constant questions; and if you don’t, you resort to lying or guessing. This time, however, you don’t bother with either of those tactics because it doesn’t matter. Whatever the correct answer is, it’ll still feel wrong because Changbin doesn’t run.

Period.

Full stop.

So, the conclusion your brain keeps trying to come to is that he didn’t — he wouldn’t — if it came down to choice. The only reason Changbin would’ve disappeared like this, suddenly and wordlessly, is if he was taken.

Pulse hammering loudly in your ears, you don’t hear Jisung announce that your destination is only a few hundred meters down the road. Without his emphatic pointing out the windshield ahead, you simply would’ve continued racing forward, taking the speed limit as a suggestion to be ignored. Thankfully, your lead foot switches to the brake with enough time to make your turn. Tires hit dirt; your car fishtails as it transitions from the road to the worn-out path to your right.

“The fuck is this place?” You mutter, more to yourself than to Jisung.

It’s obsolete, you know that much. 

Something akin to an industrial park, but one that clearly hasn’t been used since before the War. There are electrical towers dotting a perimeter around the space, none of which are operational; the grid system was replaced by wind power, then by solar energy no fewer than fifty years ago. The driveway below is so cracked that patches of weeds have overtaken most of what remained of the pavement. All the rest is weathered, reduced to broken bits of cement and dirt.

Your car slows to a stop halfway down the parkway, surrounded on both sides by empty storage units with doors either broken or missing entirely. Hair raising on the back of your neck, you park but don’t kill the engine. Slowly, you rest your right hand over top of the holster strapped to your thigh and open your car door with your left.

The sun set a few hours into your drive. Its absence hasn’t done a damn thing to break the thick heat waiting for you outside. Humid air settles on your skin and leaves a sheen of sweat behind like a handprint, sticky.

“These were the coordinates,” Jisung affirms with a sigh. He stays seated inside the vehicle, leaving you to wonder why. He’s either too panicked to move, or correct in assuming you’d tell him to sit his unarmed ass back down before you made him.

You don’t respond. 

Instead, your eyes continue to scan the property for signs of — well, anything. Movement, a heat signature, whatever might register on your optical mods. There’s nothing, save for the stray tumbleweed somersaulting across the empty lot. You narrow your eyes to zoom in, heart pounding with anticipation.

You almost scream when you see it, but you swallow the urge. Fear won’t do you any good, but the semi-automatic strapped to your thigh might. It’s in your palm before you can blink, cocked and aimed at the figure ahead. At the bottom of your field of vision, your ammo count glows in translucent, block letters.

So, the ballistic co-processor is worth the pain.

Their posture is casual, legs dangling from the metal catwalk they sit on. Their elbows rest against the railing in front of them, as if they’re leaning on a counter in a bar and not spying on you from a scaffold four meters overhead. The way they’re watching in silence is unsettling enough; the wooden tal obscuring their face is fucking nightmare fuel, if you’ve ever seen it.

Head tilted curiously to the side, the stranger stares down at you through small eye holes, wooden mouth frozen in a hand-carved smile. Whoever they are, they’re immersed in the bit. They exaggerate every slow movement for their audience of two.

Good for them, you scoff to yourself.

Gloved hands come up to pantomime “don’t shoot” mere seconds before they grab hold of the railing in front of them. Just as quickly, they swing themselves underneath with a kick of their legs until they’re falling, falling, falling towards the ground below. They land easily on their feet without so much as a grunt. All the while, dust swirls in pirouettes around their ankles, spot-lit by your car’s headlamps.

“What — what the fuck?” Jisung squeaks. 

You don’t answer, but that doesn’t stop him from repeating his question, over and over.

Hands still raised, the stranger slowly closes the distance between you. Their fingers wiggle slightly in some demented version of a wave; they’re taunting you. The unhealed part of you wants to shoot those fingers off, one by one. 

You’ve never been fond of clowns.

“If you like having kneecaps without bullets in them, I suggest you stay still, chingu,” you scoff, now more annoyed than alarmed.

To your surprise, they listen. Their feet still, side by side; and their hands stay where you can see them. That is, until they curl all of their fingers into their palm, except for their right index finger. With it, they point silently over your shoulder.

As soon as you can whip your neck around, a gloved fist collides with your temple. The last thing you see before your vision goes black is a second, wooden smile looming over you.

A hushed tone manages to nudge you awake.

“You really can’t keep doing this. Seriously, your people skills are awful.”

The whole world’s blurry, and you can’t make out the source of the sound, but you’re coherent enough to know it when a second voice chimes in. It’s much less gentle than the first, higher in pitch and twice as exasperated. It snaps, “She was armed.”

“I had it under control,” the first voice huffs. 

The two seem to be too lost in their argument to notice your eyelids fluttering or your fingers twitching. Your wrists aren’t bound, you realize, but that fact doesn’t help you much in your current state. Back resting heavily against the thin nylon cloth of a cot, it’d take more energy than you have to spare in order to get to your feet. Worse, your eyes don’t seem interested in cooperating.

They should be by now. 

They’re open, you’re conscious, and —

Motherfucker.

The more awake you become, the more the ache in your temple reverberates down your jaw. You know without looking that the right side of your face is bruised to hell and back. Scraped up, too, if you had to guess; you hit the gravel like a bag of bricks.

They must’ve done it on purpose, hitting you exactly where they needed to in order to scramble your visual input. The most you get is shapes, black and white static. It wasn’t the hardest knock you’d ever taken to the head — not by a long shot — but it was perfectly targeted and timed. 

Clearly, they’re no amateurs.

One such shadow kneels down next to you. Gentle fingers tuck a strand of hair behind your ear while their other hand tilts your drooping head to the side. 

They tut, “Just look at what you did to her face.”

“From what I’ve heard, she’s been through worse,” the second voice scoffs. You watch the shadow’s shoulders as they shrug, wishing you could focus on their face well enough to bash it in.

The retort comes quickly, but it doesn’t come in Korean. 

“That doesn’t mean you can’t do better.”

The hands that gently cradle your face pull away, leaving you cold. The action itself isn’t as jarring as the sudden use of English, though — especially the accent it’s spoken with. You may not be fluent, but you can sense what’s missing: the consonant on the end of that last word.

You sense something else, too, but you’re still too disoriented to follow that thought from start to finish. It’s on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach.

Who — ?

The bastard that broke your brain must notice your face scrunching in confusion because their next words seem to be aimed at you. Clipped and unapologetic, they mutter, “Should be fine within the hour. Already been out for —” 

They suck in a breath through their teeth. You can’t tell if they’re stalling in order to toy with you, or if they’re genuinely doing the math. 

“— Seven hours or so, now.”

Fuck!

One of the two snorts out a laugh; it’s the only reason you piece it together that you spoke out loud. Emboldened by the confirmed functionality of your voice, you speak again without thinking it through first. 

You don’t care where you are or who you’re with. You only have one question:

“Is Changbin still alive? Because if he is, I’ll kill him myself.”

The man kneeling next to your cot chuckles, soft and low, but he doesn’t acknowledge your question beyond that. Instead, he addresses his hamfisted friend. “Can you please get her some water?”

“Am I a waiter now, Yongbok-ah?” The other snips, though his tone is devoid of any real heat. If his face wasn’t blurred out of existence, you’d likely find a sneer on it. “Should I roll some gimbap for her, too?”

“Actually, you should,” counters this Yongbok. His response is buried so deeply under his breath that his back talk may as well be a secret for your ears only. “Punched her clean into the next weekday — so, yeah. It’s the least you could do.”

It grows silent enough that you can hear every incredulous footstep as the waiter storms off.

The remainder says, “Sorry about him,” and for whatever little it’s worth, he sounds like he means it. You say nothing, simply marinating in your resentment. 

Meanwhile, he shifts from his knees in order to sit fully on the ground next to your cot. Elbows extended, he leans back onto his palms and sighs gently, “Minho’s not as bad as the first impressions he makes.”

You scoff so forcefully that you feel it in your sinuses. “This is the second. His first is the reason I can’t see who’s holding me hostage.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” The shape beside you sits up suddenly. He sputters, “You’re not a hostage, and this isn’t a kidnapping —”

“Then what the fuck is it?” You snap, “Huh, Yongbok?”

Blindly, you throw out a half-balled fist in a half-baked attempt to even the score. It misses by a mile, nearly knocking you off balance in the process. Your wrist is encircled by the same warm fingers you felt before, doubling over but exerting no force.

“We were scouting you. You know, like, soccer?” He chuckles sheepishly. “Changbin mentioned that you were a free agent, so to speak, and we thought you might wanna join the team.”

What the fuck?

“And — it wasn’t supposed to wind up like this.” His shadow’s hands gesture vaguely at the room you can’t see. “I did try to warn you. You just didn’t turn around in time.”

There are too many questions swirling around in your skull to choose from. One of them must break free and nudge your retinal chip back into place because something turns the lights back on. Glitching wildly, your vision flickers from low contrast to high definition. It doesn’t hurt, but the surprised gasp you choke out could easily be interpreted that way.

The man next to you is back on his knees in a second, both hands finding your shoulders to either comfort you or immobilize you — and you aren’t sure which. Against your better judgment, you ignore the reflex that tells you to fight or flee. Instead, you reach out and touch his cheekbone to confirm that the faint spots you see are freckles and not lingering sensory damage on your part.

He doesn’t even blink, much less say a word. There’s no jerk to get away, and there’s not a single question asked about what the fuck you’re doing — just tolerance. Far more than you’d be extending if the roles were reversed.

Freckles.

You aren’t embarrassed, but you drop your hand quickly and scowl at him until he does the same. Once again, he raises them as he leans back. Notably, he doesn’t wiggle his fingers like the first time you crossed paths.

That reminds me —

Abruptly, you draw your arm back to deck him in earnest. 

Just like the last time, he catches you before you can strike him; however, instead of capturing your wrist, it’s the entirety of your fist. His palm absorbs the shock, fingers closing around your hand. It’s the gentlest trap you’ve ever been ensnared in, which you hate.

Smart of you to prevent another attempt.

“Can I finish explaining myself?” He asks, voice soft. 

Bright doe eyes scan over your face cautiously as he contemplates letting your hand go. It’s disarming, sure, but you’d rather die than admit it. 

You give him absolutely nothing to work with, so he adds, “You can hit me when I’m done, if you still want to.”

All you give him in return is a glare, which he somehow correctly interprets as permission to keep going. The grip on your fist loosens, although it wasn’t constricting to begin with. Like nothing happened, you pull it away and cross your arms.

As if nonchalance has ever been your strong suit.

He stares at you, deep in thought, for longer than you know what to do with. Eyes sweeping over your features like he’ll be quizzed later, taking in every detail. It’s unsettling — what about you is even worth gawking at?

When he frowns, that spark of light in his eyes stays put. “You don’t remember me.” 

It’s not a question because he isn’t asking; he’s telling. And you have no goddamn clue what he means, no matter how loudly the voice in your head screams that you should. The familiarity buzzing through your brain can’t place him — not the button of his nose, not even those fucking freckles.

“I don’t know anyone named Yongbok,” you counter, frustration evident.

You wouldn’t be this harsh if you know how not to be. Part of you feels guilty when you see the hurt flicker across his face, but both emotions — his and yours — are gone as quickly as they appear. Consequently, the walls stay up, refusing to give. Despite you, the corner of his mouth hitches up in a lopsided version of a smile. 

That’s familiar, too.

“Never really went by it,” he chuckles. As he does, he tilts his head quizzically. 

Another bell rings, yet you can’t name the note.

Shyly, he takes his half-smile with him and looks anywhere else. The anticipation is spinning cartwheels in your stomach, tingling down the back of your neck, and you’re seconds away from trying to smack the trapped words right out of him. 

Who are you to me?

After a deep breath in and out, he glances back at you from the corner of his eye. His hesitation does nothing to prepare you for his response, which isn’t his name at all. It’s yours — a nickname, more specifically. One no one has used in damn near a decade.

“Been a while, Scraps. Hasn’t it?”

Felix has never seen anyone freeze the way you do when the realization finally hits. For a minute, he worries that Minho did more damage to your poor brain than either of them initially diagnosed; it wouldn’t be the first time. Minho’s never been known to be careful or tactful.

Your silence — and your total lack of physical response — doesn’t last, though. He nudges your kneecap with his knuckles just to make sure you can feel it. You blink rapidly, as if you’re just now remembering how.

He starts to ask, “Are you ok—?”, but your fist flies out, pops him right in the jaw, and he chokes on the rest of that question. Hands flying up to cover his face, he collapses back onto the floor with a groan. When the initial shock wears off, it dissolves into laughter that shakes his shoulders.

Honestly, what did he expect?

In a flash, you shove yourself off your cot. You’re on top of him before he can blink, pinning him down. You grip his shirt in one fist and raise the other. He braces himself for impact but doesn’t flinch, too taken aback by the fury you’re capable of communicating without a single word.

“You’re fucking with me,” you spit, breaking the silence.

Your glare is borderline feral — burning — and that makes him laugh even harder. 

“You haven’t changed a bit, you know that?”

To both of your surprise, you don’t hit him again; you don’t even try. You freeze, but unlike the last time, your eyes are shaking. Your raised arm is, too, like it’s taking all you have to keep whatever you’re feeling to yourself.

Classic Scraps.

You mutter, “You’re dead,” and it’s not a threat. 

Not even close, really. It’s a declaration, one accompanied by an expression that’s as close to vulnerable as he’s ever seen from you. All at once, you lower your arm; the rest of you slumps, too. Whispering, you repeat, “You’re dead.”

Something about your tone hurts worse than the burgeoning bruise near his mouth. It aches, even more so when he frowns. You deserve an explanation — an apology, too — but Felix doesn’t know where the fuck to start.

Maybe he should cash that reality check first.

“Is that what people are saying?” He asks.

He’s not sure what about that trips him up. It makes perfect sense that this is the conclusion people wound up jumping to. After all, he left without a word and never came back — didn’t leave a trace, either. 

Felix wasn’t the first teenager to slip through the cracks, so he’d figured that his would be another run-of-the-mill disappearance. Sure, people tend to notice when kids go missing; but that doesn’t stop the world from turning. Sooner or later, people stop looking, either too busy or too hopeless to keep holding a torch.

Eventually, they forget.

At least, that was the reality Felix had subscribed to — that, after a while, he’d slipped through the cracks of collective consciousness. It was easier to tell himself that he wasn’t missed. His guilt couldn’t keep him up at night if nobody remembered that he existed in the first place; especially when a decade slipped past in his absence.

But you did remember. 

You missed him.

You lift your knee so that you’re no longer straddling him and drop onto your back at his side.

It’s funny, he thinks as he stares up at the ceiling. The two of you spent years just like this, albeit on the hood of some junkyard sedan. Two pairs of wide eyes were always fixed on constellations, dreaming of something bigger than both of you. Of some future where you weren’t still stuck in the gutter.

“There was no trace of you anywhere.” You speak so softly that Felix is left to wonder whether you’re talking to him or yourself. “No records that you fled, no word from you, no hits on CCTV — nothing. The cops said there’d be a trail if…”

Your voice fades out before you can finish that thought, so Felix picks up where you left off: “If I was alive to leave one.”

There’s a long pause before you speak again. 

“This is where you disappeared to?”

He feels a shift beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the way you’ve tilted your head to gaze at him. By the time he does the same, the moment is gone, and you’re taking in the room around you. 

It’s not much, but it’s all he has: A small room in a decommissioned factory, smelling faintly of sawdust despite not containing any. The cot you just sprang from is where he’s spent most nights since he was fifteen. 

The floor underneath it — underneath you — is more dirt than concrete now, no matter how many times he’s scrubbed it; and the few iron shelves that hang along each wall are just as gross. So are the knickknacks he’s set on them, but he doesn’t mind.

The site itself is long forgotten. It’d be an eyesore if anyone ever looked, but no one bothers.

Even satellites have stopped paying it any attention, leaving it to fade into dirt and obscurity, not even a shadow of what it used to be. Once plush and inviting, the surrounding forest was leveled in a firefight that ended with ninety-percent of the nearby buildings getting blown to shit. 

The New Republic could’ve easily organized a relief team to dig through the shattered city. At any point in the last fifty years, they could’ve rebuilt what burned in that failed uprising, but they didn’t; and Felix knows they never will because that rubble has a function. Apart from burying one of the country’s most impoverished districts, it serves as a cautionary tale. A threat left behind to the masses: this is what happens when people pose risk to profits.

Still, flowers can grow within cracks in concrete. After all, his life with you started just a few kilometers away.

“Are we still in Changwon, or did you and that asshole drag me out of the province?” 

That edge of yours is ever present, and Felix is glad. It’s one of the million things he’s missed about you; a feature on the long list of reasons he wishes he could’ve called — messaged, sent a smoke signal, anything — to keep you around in whatever capacity he could.

But he didn’t. 

He couldn’t.

Felix feels the weight of a lost decade sitting heavy on his chest, so he does what he always does: he chooses light. Smiling brightly, he asks, “D’you remember that junkyard we used to run away to after curfew?”

You roll your eyes. You don’t have to say it out loud; he knows you do. The two of you spent more time there than you did in your own homes, lining glass bottles along the wooden fence posts and firing stones at them with a homemade slingshot.

“We’re a few kilometers up the road, actually.”

At this, you sit up so that no part of your body stays pressed against his. Dead silence settles in the space between you like a brick wall. You bristle, then you snap, “All that time you were dead, you were still within spitting distance?”

Felix opens his mouth to respond, but your rigid posture makes it clear that you have no desire to listen. He closes it again without saying a word. It’s what he deserves, isn’t it?

“Traded in your family, your home, your — Me.” You clear your throat to hide the fact that your voice breaks. It’s too late. “And for what, Felix? To haunt some abandoned building like a ghost?”

You clench your fists, like a grip tight enough might keep you together. That part of you hasn’t changed either, it seems. Neither has the extremely unsettling way you get quieter, the more upset you are. Just like that, he’s reminded of what you used to say: the more it hurts, the less it shows.

“I couldn’t pick you out of a fucking lineup despite all of that history,” you whisper, deflated. “And you were here the whole time.”

Talking won’t do him much good, so Felix opts to show you. Palms pressed to the ground, he pushes himself to his feet, and he doesn’t bother dusting off the back of his pants once he stands. It won’t make a difference, anyway, when the whole damn city is covered in it.

Once he steadies himself, he extends his hand to you, half-expecting you to slap it away. You don’t budge. You never do, he recalls fondly.

“One chance?” His eyes are pleading, even though you don’t look up to meet them. “It’s hard to explain, but it’ll make more sense if you see it.”

Without looking, you lift your arm and slap your hand into his. A small concession, but it’s enough to make his smile reappear. He’s practically beaming when he hauls you to your feet, and you grip his forearms to keep steady.

“Fine,” you concede with a huff. 

Then, you round on him with one pointed finger, jabbing him in the center of his chest with force. It’ll bruise, but he supposes that’s the whole point. 

“This better be worth all the fucking theatrics, or I swear to god —”

“You’ll make me swallow my own teeth?” He rolls his eyes with a low chuckle and tugs you along after him on his way to the door. “Yeah, yeah, yeah — Heard that threat a thousand times, Scraps, and you’ve never once made good on it.”

Just to emphasize his point, he looks over his shoulder at you and grins with all thirty-two of them.

All things considered, you take everything in stride. You don’t react much at all when you discover that the abandoned building is anything but; refuse to bat an eye when the two people you woke up to are revealed to be a tiny fraction of the whole.

You even keep your hand in his as he ushers you from room to room — through the clinic, the makeshift and woefully under-equipped armory, the Hub — and introduces you to whoever you come across. He might even go so far as to call you friendly, which is a first. Receiving any kind of warmth from you typically requires high-level security clearance. 

Or, at least, it used to. Felix has to remind himself more than once that, small echoes aside, there are parts of you he doesn’t know anymore. This could very well be one of them.

Halfway through the tour, you finally offer up more than a lukewarm greeting and your name. It’s just the two of you now; you don’t have to make yourself palatable anymore. Blunt as ever, you throw out, “This is a cult, right? You ran away from home to join a cult?”

There she is, he thinks.

Felix pulls a face in disapproval, which you either don’t catch or don’t care about. Instead, you turn your head in the opposite direction and let your gaze sweep over the loading dock you currently stand upon.

It’s the closest thing they’ve got to a sitting room, filled with the only comfortable furniture they could get their hands on — half-busted arm chairs, ratty old couches, tables held together with duct tape and a prayer. You drop suddenly onto one such couch, jerking him back until his ass winds up next to yours on a tattered cushion. 

Felix can’t tell if you pulled him down on purpose, or if you simply forgot that you were holding onto him. Either way, he doesn’t mind, but part of him hopes it was the former.

“It’s a collective,” he corrects you, lips flattening into a firm, straight line.

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it. If it’s a sex cult, just say so.”

He tries not to laugh — really, he does — because the last thing you need is an enabler, but your deadpan delivery has always hit him where he’s weakest. He tries again while swallowing a chuckle: “It’s the Black Screen, home to the most talented and ungovernable motherfuckers on the peninsula.��

You don’t look impressed. Felix doesn’t take it to heart.

“We’ve got a reconnaissance team, netrunners —” 

As if he’s doing a roll call, he points to nearby stragglers with every position he names. 

“— corporate defectors, combat vets, medics, ex-fixers —”

He nudges you with his elbow, wiggles his eyebrows and murmurs, “— Edge runners —” 

If that look in your eye is any indication, you still hate it when he does that.

“And a couple of wayward drunks who — well…” Felix pauses for a moment to think. It doesn’t help, so he shrugs, snickering, “I dunno how they got here, and they don’t contribute much, but they’re fun to have around!”

The corner of your mouth twitches, ever so slightly. He grins down at you, as if to say gotcha. 

“So, it is a sex cult,” you repeat flatly after a beat.

Felix can’t beat your bit, so he may as well join you in it. Bested, he sighs, “Yeah, pretty much.”

You hum in acceptance of his defeat, clearly amused by how easily he still gives in to you. 

With pursed lips, you continue to take in your surroundings. Your brow furrows while you process the information you’ve been bombarded with so far, but you don’t offer up any further questions or snide comments. Thankfully, the silence that falls over you both feels a lot less like lead than the previous one.

Felix’s gaze stays fixed on you, though you’re too busy looking elsewhere to notice. Maybe you couldn’t recognize him, but shit — he’d know you anywhere, anytime. You’ve gotten older, of course, finally grew into those features of yours. Still, there are hints of the kid he used to know hidden all over your face.

Original traits aside, the new additions — the tattoos, for starters — all read like you. In fact, Felix is fairly confident that he’d know who they belonged to, even if the other context was removed. After all, the cyberware installed into your hand can’t undermine the familiarity of it resting against his palm. 

And it sure as shit still hits like it used to.

He considers it a blessing, really, that so much of you survived the years that flew by without him. That the scrawny girl next door — ready and willing to fight God over a single slight — still rolls her eyes the same way, still speaks in that satoori his non-native tongue could never mimic.

“Maybe I’m missing something,” you announce suddenly. The unexpected sound of your voice startles Felix so much that he jumps, knocking his shoulder into yours in the process. You ignore his reaction and continue, “This just looks like someone is collecting people as a hobby. What are you all doing here?”

Oh.

Yeah, that’s a fair question.

“We’re… starting a fire,” Felix muses. 

You arch an eyebrow expectantly, although the rest of your face remains impassive. It’s less of a demand for him to continue than it is permission for him not to stop.

“And we’re going to burn it all down.” He hits you with a devilish grin, drops his voice low in a way that makes you shiver involuntarily. “The corpo-rats, the lies they sell — all of it.”

“Sounds like anarchy,” you say, tilting your head to the side. There’s a beat, then you grin to match his. “Sign me up.”

Felix stands at the far side of the dining area with his arms crossed and his head leaning back against the cinder blocks behind him. His legs are crossed at the ankles, knees aching from the sheer amount of time he’s been holding the wall up. 

As much as his body wants to sit, the rest of him is out of options. The only table that isn’t full is the one you’re occupying with Changbin and Jisung. After the day you’ve had, you deserve time alone with something familiar. He recognizes that he isn’t that. 

Not anymore — and not yet, either. 

He finds it hard to stray too far, though. You’ve always been able to fend for yourself — that black-and-blue jaw of his is proof enough — but it’s a role he can’t help falling into, looking out for you. Muscle memory.

Although Felix can’t quite make out anything that the three of you are saying, it’s clear as a damn bell when you slam your palms down on the table. Just as obvious is the split second in which your anger gives way — when the pain in your right hand finally registers in your brain.

“That one going to be a problem?”

Hyunjin, as usual, seems to appear out of thin air. He sidles up to Felix and takes up the spot next to him along the wall. All it takes is one quick glance to confirm it — he’s exhausted. Dark half-moons sit in the wells beneath his eyes like ink, silently informing Felix of yet another all-nighter; still keeping secrets as to where he goes at night when everyone else is sleeping.

But Hyunjin isn’t a mystery Felix will ever be able to solve, so he looks back in your direction and asks, “Who, Scraps?” Then, with a shake of his head, he sighs, “No. She’s a cherry bomb, but she’s reliable. Far more than most, actually.”

It’s odd, Felix thinks, that Hyunjin didn’t already know the answer to that question. As the reconnaissance leader of the Black Screen, there isn’t much Hyunjin isn’t aware of. Felix doesn’t comment on that piece, however. Instead, he does his best to interpret your reaction.

“If I had to guess, Changbin just told her about the fake kidnapping.”

And Hyunjin doesn’t do a damn thing to conceal his smirk. That was his plan, after all. 

Two weeks ago, Seo Changbin stumbled upon a lead by accident. While Felix isn’t privy to the details of what Changbin dug up, he knows it must’ve been significant. That’s the only explanation Felix can come up with as to how Changbin wound up at the rendezvous point. Nobody — not the corporate ghouls, their war dogs, or any other sorry soul  — finds the Black Screen unless they want to be found. 

Felix is privy to what happened next because it’s the only reason he wound up involved in this at all:

Whatever intel Changbin had was groundbreaking enough to score an invitation to the revolution, but he had more to offer the higher-ups than that. He dropped the name of someone who could be an asset, under the right circumstances. Someone who wouldn’t follow a breadcrumb trail for free but would tear the peninsula apart to find whoever owed them.

For what it’s worth, Felix disagreed with that characterization the second he heard it. Despite the mask you like to wear, you’re incapable of being self-centered. You’ve never been profit-driven, heartless, or attachment-avoidant. Just hellbent on survival for you and the people you feel responsible for, even as a kid. 

The only reason Felix hasn’t asked you about your motive outright is because he knows you’d lie. The truth is simple: Unless it was for someone you care deeply about, you wouldn’t waste gasoline on speeding back to a place you hate.

Hyunjin clears his throat, pulling Felix out of the daze he’d fallen into. Given the pointed look on his face, Hyunjin must be repeating himself when he says, “She got you bad, huh?”

Confusion forces Felix’s brow to furrow. 

“This?” He takes a wild guess and gestures to the bruise on his jaw before waving dismissively. “Nah, her form is terrible. Truly garbage-tier follow-through. I can teach her, though.”

Hyunjin pushes himself off the wall and moves to exit the dining area. As he passes by, he gives Felix a patronizing pat on his shoulder. “Not what I meant, Yongbokie.”

Felix frowns, unsure how to take what he’s being given. 

The fuck?

“Not even close,” Hyunjin calls over his shoulder. 

He shoots Felix a wink, and then he’s gone, disappearing out the door the same way he entered it — like a goddamn apparition.

“Wow. Recruited? That’s — wow.”

Jisung is doing a terrible job of pretending he isn’t blushing. He clears his throat to keep his voice even, but it’s useless. He’s not fooling anyone. 

“I didn’t realize we were so sought after.”

“You’re not,” Changbin responds bluntly. He gestures across the table to you but maintains his eyes on Jisung. “She is. You just happened to be present, and they couldn’t leave a witness behind.”

Jisung doesn’t bother to hide the way his face falls. When he opens his mouth to whine, you raise your hand and silently demand that he spare you the earache. It seems to work; he slumps dejectedly and leans with his elbows against the tabletop. You proceed to ignore him.

Affect flat, you stare straight ahead at the source of all your fucking problems. The half of you that wants to hug Changbin for being alive and well is significantly quieter than the half of you that wants to grab him by the nape of his neck and shove his face into his yukgaejang.

Bastard.

“I no longer give a shit how I ended up here,” you state coolly. Liar. “That ship has sailed, and to keep it a buck with you, Binnie —” 

He cringes at the nickname, which is exactly the reaction you sought. 

“— I’m not interested in stroking your ego for getting one over on me. It won’t happen again. What I’m still waiting on —” 

The only reason you leave that clause hanging in mid-air is to see the anticipation stir in his eyes. From where you’re sitting, it’s what he deserves: a little bit of unnecessary suspense. Really, it’s a form of reparations for the giant fucking inconvenience he’s been lately. His balance is way past due. 

Jisung, perpetually along for the ride, shovels shrimp chips into his mouth while his eyes dart back and forth between your face and Changbin’s.

You shoot Changbin a sly smile and grab his beer, tilting the can his way in lieu of a bow. His eyes narrow, visibly annoyed with your stalling, but he doesn’t audibly complain when you down the rest of his drink. Resigned, he accepts the empty can that you hand it back to him

At long last, you clear your throat.

“— is an explanation for why you’re here,” you finally sigh.

Changbin rolls his eyes so hard that they go all-white for a moment. Then, to your surprise, he glares across the table at Jisung. 

“You know, my life was way more pleasant before you dragged this one,” he huffs, gesturing to you with his chopsticks, “Into my bar.”

Just for a moment, Changbin sits with his annoyance. He’s entitled to some of it, you’ll concede. You’re not easy to love — you never have been — and you’re occasionally even harder to like. Despite that, he’s been known to look out for you in his own, mostly useless way; even in moments like this, when you’re being a fucking gash simply because you can. 

But the fact remains that you dragged your ass across a peninsula for him. He knows damn well that you accept payment in the form of secrets when cash is too hard to come by, so…. 

“Spill,” you demand.

That tough exterior of his collapses like wet cardboard, just like you knew it would. He glances around the room quickly to confirm that no one is listening in, then he pushes his empty bowl out of the way. With the threat of staining his white t-shirt neutralized, Changbin leans in and asks, “Do either of you know Jung Wooyoung?” 

Simultaneously, you and Jisung respond:

“The boxer?”

“The biter.”

Just the same, your friends turn to you with identical looks of bewilderment. You shrug, declining to elaborate because Changbin asked if you knew him, not how or how intimately. Truth be told, you’re not sure that he’s prepared for that answer.

“Anyways,” Changbin segues after clearing his throat. “He’s not up to either of those tasks these days.”

Genuinely curious, Jisung asks with a frown, “Did someone finally kill him?”

Fair question, you think.

With the way Wooyoung runs his mouth, it’s a wonder he’s lived as long as he has — assuming, of course, that he’s still alive. Beyond picking fights with people three times’ his size, his specialties include fixing matches and swiping other fighters’ significant others. If he’s not dead yet, you figure, it’s only a matter of time until the consequences of his antics come calling.

Changbin shakes his head, and the look on his face seems weirdly solemn, like the answer is even worse than that. It’s sobering; it knocks the smirk right off your face.

“He was short on cash, so he signed up for some clinical trial promising a million won for participants.”

Jisung, the resident non-doctor, sits up at this development. “Thanotech?”

You’re in the middle of rolling your eyes when Changbin intercepts, grimacing: “No, that’s the fucked up part. Well, one of the fucked up parts.”

Two pairs of expectant eyes lock on him.

“It’s Ulsan running the trial.”

You don’t pretend to be well-versed in any of the biomedical, cybernetic shit going on around you, but you do know that this particular corporation never leaks details of its research and development — not ever. Doing so would run the risk of a lesser titan swooping in to try and to dupe it. 

But that’s not the only revelation that smacks you upside the head.

“Ulsan pays for lab rats now?” You scoff, surprised by your own interest. “Here I was, thinking they used ex-employees for that shit.”

It sounds callous when you say it out loud, but it’s a universal assumption. Part of the New Republic’s mythology, so to speak.

In your lifetime, you’ve never come across a single person who used to work for the Ulsan Corporation — not one. Just the same, you’ve never heard about anyone leaving; no one you’ve ever met has. It’s beyond the realm of possibility that a corporation like that has no turnover, so where do people go when their turn is over?

The dumpster out back, some say. According to others, they wind up in a secret mass grave in the oil fields.

“When he came back, I didn’t know where he’d been or why; I just saw him wandering around like a fucking zombie.” Changbin shivers. “He’s empty now, all sucked dry.”

Jisung looks pointedly at you, shit-eatin grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Is that what happened when you —?”

An elbow to the center of his chest stops his question before he can finish asking it. He yelps instead, scooting his chair further down the table to get away from you, your sharp edges, and your even sharper glare.

“It freaked me the fuck out, and I didn’t have any answers, so I started poking around for something — anything — that might make sense of it.”

“So, that’s how you got pulled into the web.”

The voice from nowhere makes all three of you jump. You whip around to find yet another stranger. 

How many fucking people do I have to meet today? 

This particular wild card sits on top of the table directly behind yours with arms gently crossed over her chest; not closed off but cold, judging by the goosebumps making themselves known across her bare arms. Her boots rest on the chair in front of her, one chrome leg shining next to flesh-and-blood.

Whoever she is, she’s beaming. That fact confuses the shit out of you because you’re not often met with friendliness, especially from unknowns. Or maybe, you think, it’s a well-concealed effort to disarm you. Whatever it is, it’s working; the urge to snap at her for intruding is dead on arrival. 

You open your mouth to ask what she means, but you can’t get the words out before someone else interjects. 

Minho, that bastard, shouts from across the room, “Spider! Got a minute?”

Her eyes light up in a way that says she has several, so long as he’s the one asking. Without another word, she hops to her feet and pushes the chair that held them back under the table. As she heads his way, she sends you an apologetic smile, like she somehow owes you anything.

“I don’t know what they unraveled by pulling that thread,” Changbin sighs, nodding towards the pair exiting the room. “But this place has been buzzing since I got here.”

You need something to chew on that isn’t this, so you reach over and grab the bag of shrimp chips from Jisung’s unsuspecting hands. The frown he gives you is cartoonish, but as usual, he doesn’t put up a fight. Your version of an apology is holding a spare chip out to him, which he happily accepts.

After shoveling a handful into your mouth, you mumble, “So now what?”

“I don’t know about you, but if these guys —” Changbin gestures vaguely around the room with his index finger pointed. “— Give me a target to point at, I’ll pull the trigger.”

You snort, “That’s a lot of trust.” 

It doesn’t mean much, coming from you. Your metric is beyond fucked, and you know it. That word is foreign, though; so far out of your grasp that you can’t wrap your brain around it.

“Maybe it is,” Changbin mutters while he looks down at the empty can in his grip. 

For a moment, that’s all he says. All he does is stare into the black hole of its opening, as if there’s some answer lurking in the emptiness below it. He must not find it, though, because he crumples the aluminum like a piece of scrap paper. 

When he glances back up at you, you see the uncertainty in his eyes. It reads like fear, which manages to unsettle you.

“I just — I can’t see what I saw and do nothing.”

Your second month in the compound starts with a bang — no, a thud. 

With your body being forcibly ejected from your cot, crashing onto the ground, and your jaw clenching shut quickly with a click of gritted teeth.

“How many fucking times are we doing this?” You growl, less than half-awake. 

Already past today’s quota for rage, you form a fist and swing your arm back violently against the capsized cot; it scrapes along the cement floor and skitters further away from you. The sudden burst of movement doesn’t do anything to make you feel better, but it was worth a shot, you suppose.

Felix, whose sunshine smile is too goddamn bright for this hour, crouches down in front of you. He at least has the decency to look apologetic when he lilts, “Until you learn to wake up to an alarm, I fear.”

He pauses, eyes scanning for any genuine distress beyond your shitty mood.

“Does that hurt?” He frowns.

Bleary eyes follow his pointed finger to your elbow, now prickling with blood where you skinned it against the floor. It doesn’t; and you’re not even remotely concerned about it, so you swat his hand away without answering his question and shove yourself to your feet. Once standing, you wander over to your steamer trunk to grab something clean enough to wear. 

The shadowy one, Hyunjin, brought your shit to you a week ago —  thank god. He provided no explanation whatsoever for how he knew where you lived or how he managed to get inside your building, but you’re a beggar, not a chooser. You’d rather enable his burglary than keep wearing the same, re-washed clothes you came here with or borrowing from people you still don’t know well.

As you peel yesterday’s tank-top up and over your head, your gravelly voice flies out to Felix, who stands and moves to lean against the wall. “You at least going to feed me breakfast before you bore me with more target practice?”

That’s most of what your time together has been so far, anyway. The chain of command is sorting out details above your pay grade; and you condition yourself to jump as high as they may eventually ask you to.

Felix doesn’t answer you, which isn’t like him. You look at him out of the corner of your eye and find him staring up at the ceiling, like his life depends on it.

“What are you —?” 

Oh.

You glance down, cutting your question off midway through. He’s giving you and your semi-exposed body privacy, that’s what. 

Sensing blood in the water, you swim in to scoff, “You have no problem flipping my bed when I’m in it, but bras are where you draw the line? What kind of gentleman are you?”

Still averting his eyes, he rolls them. You do him the favor of tugging on a different, slightly wrinkled tank-top; but you don’t give him the courtesy of letting up.

“Where do you stand on ass, Felix?”

“Are you always this annoying, first thing in the morning?” 

Amusement slips through the cracks despite his efforts to conceal it. You slip out of the cotton shorts you slept in, dip your toes under the fabric pooled around your ankles, and flick them at him. He concedes his staring contest to the panels overhead in order to catch them.

Impressive reflexes.

“I’m this annoying at all hours of the day.” You grin impishly for just a second, then shrug. “You’re just less able to handle it, first thing in the morning.”

Bending back over your trunk, you dig through for something denim. You land on black, high-waisted shorts with a triumphant, “Aha!”, and make a big show of raising your trophy overhead. Once again, you glance at Felix to see if your attempt to get a rise out of him was successful. In a way, yes, it was — just not in the way you expected.

Based on the way his gaze lingers on your thighs and the curve of your ass, you don’t think Felix even noticed your theatrics. You don’t think he means to stare, either. As far as you can see, it’s the perfect opportunity to fuck with him further.

“Admiring the tattoos?” You arch an eyebrow and wait for him to blush out of panic at being caught. “I can recommend the artist, if you want to hit them up.”

To your surprise, you don’t rattle him. Dark eyes flick up from your body to your face, and they don’t seem ashamed of where they’ve been. Your plan backfires. More than that, it blows up right in your face, which is starting to heat up.

“The cantine closes in five minutes. Training starts in ten,” he states matter-of-factly, holding your gaze. “So, you can either eat, or you can keep pretending you’re not trying to flirt with me.”

Your mouth drops open, but you can’t even snap back at him before he chirps, “The choice is yours, Scraps,” with a playful smile.

With nothing more to say, Felix leans away from the wall. On his way out the door, he gives you a lazy, two-finger salute. Dumbstruck, you stand there, watching him leave; wondering where the hell your bumbling, sweetly shy friend from back home managed to disappear to. 

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” Felix waggles his finger at you. A smug smile toys at his lips when you let out a frustrated grunt. “That’s the problem.”

He takes a step away from you, raises his fists to mimic your posture, and throws a right jab out into the air ahead of him. When he draws it back, he pauses with his shoulders even.

“D’you see the issue with this?” He asks, loosening one fist so that he can gesture from shoulder to shoulder.

You roll your eyes. “Is it that nobody’s currently hitting you?”

Felix, to his credit, is completely unbothered by the attitude you keep giving him. He’s far more patient than he should be with you. You, however, do not take criticism well.

“You square yourself off instead of retriggering an attack,” he gently corrects you. “By not turning and leading with your shoulder —” He twists slightly backwards, so that his body is angled similarly to the way it was when he struck in the first place. “— you leave all this surface area open.”

Okay, fine. 

You’ll concede that this makes sense, but you will not admit to poor blocking. In fact, deflecting is what you’re best at, so that’s precisely what you do. 

“And how exactly am I supposed to block hits that aren’t coming?”

Felix relaxes his stance with confusion scribbled all over his face. You don’t wait for him to ask what you mean, plunging right into your notes for him:

“This sparring shit doesn’t feel real because you refuse to hit me. It’s been weeks, and there still aren’t any stakes. If you’re going to insist that I learn this — which, by the way, feels pointless when I’m already armed —”

You gesture down to your thigh, where your pistol is normally strapped. 

“— then you have to make me care.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, opting instead to quietly chew on the challenge you’ve raised. For a split second, you think you’ve finally grasped the straw that’ll break his back. He turns towards the door and walks away, seemingly giving up on trying to teach a rabid dog new tricks.

But Felix defies your expectations yet again, grabs your gear off the counter at the far side of the room, and heads back to you. As he walks, he pulls back the slide to fish out the round that waits in its chamber. Bullet still in hand, his focus shifts to the magazine, which he easily removes from the base of your pistol’s grip. After tucking your ammunition into the back pocket of his jeans for safekeeping, he holds your now-empty firearm and thigh strap out to you. 

“Gear up.”

Now, it’s your turn to be confused. You accept the items he pushes into your hands with both eyebrows raised.

“Are we giving up on hand-to-hand, then?”

“Absolutely not,” Felix snorts with a shake of his head. “I’m just going to prove the necessity.” When you don’t budge, he waves his hand to hurry you along. “C’mon, Scraps. Strap in.”

Eyeing him suspiciously, you slip the vertical strap over your belt loop and fasten it before doing the same to the horizontal piece around your thigh. Once it’s nestled snugly against your skin, you slide your weapon into its resting place. 

Holding your hands up, you fire off a saccharine smile like the brat you are. “All done,” you chirp.

The smirk that appears on his face makes your stomach flip for two reasons, the least of which is the anticipation of his next move.

“You want it to feel real, right?” His voice drops so low that you feel it deep in your abdomen. “Fine by me.”

Like before, Felix steps slightly backwards. With a nod of his head towards your firearm, he challenges you, “Draw.”

It’s unfamiliar, seeing him counter you like this. Growing up, he was content to go in whichever direction you nudged him in. The version of Felix you knew back then was passive, agreeable to fault. You may not know what the fuck he’s planning now, but he radiates newfound authority that you almost want to respect, so you listen.

“Fine,” you demur while your fingertips trail over the cool, metal grip. “Make your point and move onto something useful.”

The next sequence of events flashes by so quickly that your brain can hardly keep up. 

Just as soon as you pull the gun from its holster, Felix turns in his spot, channeling the momentum into a strong push off the ground. He’s in the air before you can even level the barrel; and in the blink of an eye, the side of his boot collides with your hand, forcefully ejecting the gun from your grip. The power behind his kick sends the weapon flying several meters away, where it clatters to the floor with a smack amidst the quiet.

Gasping more so out of surprise than pain, you recoil your stinging fist and clutch it to your chest. He reads your expression incorrectly, if his widened eyes are any indication. Immediately, Felix breaks his stance to step across the distance in between you.

Worried hands come to rest on your biceps, squeezing gently. He urgently asks, “You alright?”

You blink back at him, throughly stunned by how fucking fast his reflexes are, and he misinterprets that, too. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he sputters. His next words come out so frantically that they bleed together over the course of one breath. “I really didn’t want to hurt you; I just needed you to understand that your gun can’t always save you. Sometimes, you have to —”

“That was insane,” you blurt out.

Felix’s eyes widen, caught completely off-guard by your interruption. It’s understandable, you think. After all, it’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve given him over the past few weeks. 

He peeps, “Oh?”

You nod vigorously — and there’s that sweetly shy boy from down the block, blushing slightly under the weight of your attention. 

Somehow, seeing him this way feels like home; the one you knew before he disappeared, that you might actually admit to missing. Acting solely on instinct, you unfurl your right hand and seek out the warmth of his cheek, like it’ll flip a switch and turn the clock back.

It doesn’t. Of course, it doesn’t — but you can’t help feeling like this is fine, too.

Until you realize what the fuck you’re doing, and you see the starry-eyed look he’s giving you. Then, you do what you always do.

You dodge.

Patting his cheek patronizingly, you breeze, “I guess I’ll let you train me, then,” before turning to retrieve your gun.

“Oh, really now?” He laughs, like he’s already forgotten the way your mask just cracked. You can’t tell if you’re grateful for this, or disappointed. “Is violence all it takes to win you over?”

Disappointed. 

You wish he’d called your bluff again, like he did so long ago in that closet you’re currently calling a bedroom. Once wasn’t enough; you want to be caught out, to have someone refuse to let you get away with the bullshit you’re always trying to pull. For some proof that you’re not the bulldozer you pretend to be.

Felix raises an eyebrow as he tilts his head teasingly to the side. “Are you actually going to shut up and take instruction this time?”

Like that.

“Maybe.” You crouch down to grab your discarded pistol off the ground, lips pursed to keep the satisfied smile off your face. “Are you going to stop pulling punches?”

Three weeks of sparring tick by before you manage to clean his fucking clock.

It came as a surprise to both of you; not just that Felix slipped up in the first place, but that you were fast enough to capitalize on an opening he’s otherwise never created. You might’ve gasped even louder than he did when you managed to seize the opportunity — but that memory is fuzzy already. It doesn’t matter, anyway, not to him. Either way, the point stands: 

You actually learned from the shit he’s been trying to instill in you.

Having hobbled from the training room to his bedroom, Felix now sits on top of the old, metal counter that once served as a workbench. It’s not comfortable by any means, but he’d rather die than move from his current position. Between his knees, you stand close to him, holding a frozen sponge to his left eye with your right hand. 

Funnily enough, that particular hand is the reason he needs an ice pack in the first place.

For a while, the pair of you exist in comfortable quiet. It’s nice, he thinks, just being present. He would’ve been happy to carry on that way for as long as possible, but the shitty voice in the back of his brain keeps yelling that he’s letting more moments slip by than he has to spare. Wasting time that he should be making up.

He clears his throat to shake off the rust, prompting you to glance down from his forehead to his eyes. Your expression is hard to read, but there’s anxiety in there, somewhere. Felix worries that you’re worried; you’re searching for a sign that you’ve somehow injured him further.

“You’re a quick study — if and when you want to be.” His teasing sounds pathetic because his voice is barely more than a groan. Still, he smirks, “Those corporate mercenaries won’t stand a chance.”

With his good eye, Felix watches as your mask cracks a little further in the shape of a smile. 

For once, you simply nod in acknowledgement and let the compliment slip through your defenses without trying to deflect it. He wants to compliment you for that progress, too, but he’s hesitant to push his luck when he’s already flying half-blind by the seat of his pants. 

Then again, it might be worth the risk to push the envelope — even if you succeed in punching his goddamn lights out for good. He doubts that he’d complain, if that were the case. You’d be an incredible last sight to ever see, wouldn’t you?

His internal monologue pipes up again, demanding that he gamble.

Every single muscle he has aches after spending hours sparring with you, but that’s not at all what he’s talking about when he says, “You’re a knockout, Scraps.”

It’s a cop out, but it’s something. 

Just for a second, Felix wonders if you heard what he meant, and not just what he said. All his doubt disappears when that shy smile tugs even harder at the corners of your mouth.

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, chuckling quietly. “If you want to get technical, you didn’t even lose consciousness —” 

Carefully, you bring your free hand up to his forehead and brush flyaway strands of hair out of the way of the makeshift ice pack. By contrast, your fingertips are warm enough to simmer on his skin.

“— so you’ll have to try that joke again when you actually do.”

Although you could, you don’t take your hand back after unsticking his hair from the condensation on his skin. You lower it gently, let it rest on his shoulder, and leave Felix to wonder if it’s a choice, a convenience, or a reflex. 

This eats at him.

A long time ago, this little gesture wouldn’t be something he’d have to guess at. He used to just understand, never once needed to be told. So far out of practice, he’s no longer fluent in your body language — and he hates it.

Unwilling to leave anything else up to interpretation, Felix looks up at you with one, unobstructed eye. “Wasn’t joking,” he murmurs.

You freeze without meeting his eyes. 

If he didn’t know better, he might think your retinal mods had been knocked loose again. You don’t seem to see him, and that’s all he wants. All he gets is quiet, so he tries again: “And I’m not bullshitting you, either.”

It’s his low voice speaking your real name that finally draws you out of hiding. Surprised for just a moment, your expression softens when you notice the way he’s studying your reactions. You don’t speak at first, but your bottom lip is pinched between your teeth; a telltale sign that you’re trying to.

“Since this is apparently honesty hour,” you start with an exhale.

Felix braces himself for whatever evasive maneuver you’re going to throw next. 

Shockingly, you don’t throw out a joke to change the subject. You take the ice pack off his eye so he can see you properly, set it down next to his thigh on the counter, and scrub your hands sheepishly over your face.

“You freak me the fuck out.”

You laugh despite yourself, and then you pause just like that; like you’re waiting on him to laugh at you, too. When he doesn’t, you take it as your cue to keep going: “Am I insane, or does this feel easy?

“I think both things can be true.” You shoot him a look that could — and might — kill him. He holds his hands up in surrender, but he keeps his eyes locked on you. “And I know you’re not used to easy.”

Felix doesn’t know what he expects you to do next, but your next move isn’t one he would’ve guessed. In the end, it’s your still-chilled palms reaching up to meet him, and your fingers filling the empty spaces between his. Brow furrowed, you study the way you fit together, like the words you’re searching for are hidden somewhere in the gaps of your chain-linked knuckles.

“I’m not used to it because I avoid it,” you correct him, frowning. “Easy scares the shit out of me. It just feels like a trap, you know? Like, the second you stop looking out for it, the other shoe will drop and knock your unsuspecting ass to the dirt.”

Keeping his fingers interlaced with yours, he lowers your joined hands until they rest against the tops of his thighs. You watch them go; he watches you, and he can’t help thinking that he’s the reason you armored up in the first place. That him leaving was the blow to the head that taught you to wear a helmet.

“I’ve got good reflexes,” Felix whispers, squeezing your hand.

At this, your eyes flick upwards. A microscopic crease forms between your eyebrows, and he knows exactly what’s coming next, so he says it first: “Excluding today, obviously.”

When you smile, it hits him even harder than your right hook did.

“What are you saying, exactly?” You ask, head tilting to the side as you narrow your eyes.

“Fuck the shoe.”

The look on your face suggests that he can’t possibly be serious, but he’s never been more so. Maybe he can’t promise you easy in a world like this one; and he can’t keep that fucking shoe from dropping, but he swears he’ll catch it when it does.

Felix has to let go of your hands to hold you properly. You lean into his touch when he snakes his arms around your waist; and you rest your forehead against his, careful not to press into the bruise that borders his eyebrow.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he whispers. You hum in reply, confirming your willingness to trade. “Kiss me now, and we’ll batten down the hatches later.”

Felix may have called you a quick learner, but you have to wonder what his basis for comparison is. From your vantage point, it’s him that catches on in a heartbeat, like nothing unexperienced is truly new to him. 

Coincidentally, it’s also him that’s kneeling between your thighs, bearing the weight of your hinged knees over his shoulders and making you shake with his tongue alone.

“Fuck, fuck — nngh — fuck!” 

It’s all you can say because it’s the best you can do. 

Over and over, too drunk on the sensation of his mouth, you let profanity spill out of yours. He has you dripping in more ways than one, pooling on that godforsaken counter, and you can’t spare a single thought about the mess you’re making.

Every neuron fixates on him, the cotton-candy blue strands gripped tight between your fingers, and the way he devours you, like he’s making up for skipped meals.

“F-Felix,” you beg, breathless.

Looking up at you from under his lashes, he feigns innocence. It’s bullshit — he knows you’re on the brink of death, knows your whole damn body is buzzing — and his sweet smile doesn’t match his actions. You jolt, wailing, when another kitten lick trails over your clit.

“Hmm?” That low timbre of his vibrates through you when he pulls back, panting.

God, you’re spent already, but you can’t collapse until you know what he feels like, buried to the hilt in you. Something about that need makes you shiver; has your bottom lip quivering when you manage to squeak, “Please.”

Absolutely boneless, you slump against the wall behind you. With far more grace than you, Felix maneuvers his way out from under the tangle of your legs. He ensures that they fall gently back into place on the countertop.

“Gotta work on that stamina if you’re gonna help wage a war,” he teases.

The half-powered glare you shoot at him doesn’t stop him from leaning in and pressing a kiss to your forehead. It doesn’t keep his fingertips from tracing languid lines down the lengths of your bare thighs, either.

Your voice is fucked out and weightless, far softer than you’ve ever heard yourself sound. “Is that what this is? Conditioning?”

The hand not caressing your thigh comes up to cradle your jaw, like it’s something fragile. It’s the first time anyone’s touched you as if you’re breakable, worth protecting — and motherfucker, you’re one soft smile away from crying.

“No.” 

He states it much more firmly than he kisses you. So gentle that you can’t believe it’s real until you taste yourself on him, so warm that you dissolve like a sugar cube on his tongue. 

Fuck any other person that’s ever pressed their lips to yours and called it a kiss. They’re liars, all of them. One by one, their names disappear with every passing second in which you know better.

“Need you,” you moan into his mouth. 

Fistfuls of his shirt can’t bring him close enough. Even when his head dips down and his lips are at your throat, the ache wins out. You crave him anywhere — everywhere — all over you. 

“Going crazy —” You gasp when his teeth nip at your collarbone. “— waiting on you.”

Greedy hands drop to the button of his jeans, fumbling to no avail. Apparently, your dexterity flew out the window two orgasms ago. A frustrated whine jumps out after it, pushing your head back as it goes.

Felix’s low chuckle soothes you, but it’s nothing compared to the relief you feel when his hands nudge yours out of the way. That, too, is a drop in the bucket; bliss crashes in waves when there’s no denim left to separate you. His hands land on your hips, fingertips pressing into your flesh as he guides you further down his length. 

Never — not fucking ever — have you made a sound quite as pathetic as the one you bury into the crook of his neck. You can’t classify it, not as a moan or a whimper. It’s desperate — loud. It’s an air raid siren; every fucking barricade you’ve built over the years being blown to smithereens.

This is it, you think.

Fuck your bank account. 

Fuck staring at the sky and waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Fuck your contracts, your shithole apartment, and the million different ways you were set up to lose in this life.

This isn’t about you at all. It’s about you and him; all the space and time you’re dead set on reclaiming.

This is for us.

a/n: thank you so much for reading! i’ve been working on this since JUNE, and it’s a much bigger undertaking (creatively and….. mentally) than anything else i’ve done before, so i’m scared and also excited to start sharing it with y’all.

while likes are appreciated, comments/tags/reblogs with your thoughts are really what make my brain go brrrtt.

tagging: @saintriots, @mal-lunar-28, @dabiscrustyfeet

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#stray kids #skz #felix #felix x reader #felix smut #felix angst #felix fic #lf #stray kids fic #skz fic #stray kids smut #stray kids angst #skz smut #skz angst #stray kids series #skz series #jade writes #re: force quit #kvanity

[skeleton-mischief]

Error Sans

The harbinger of destruction, the pain of fulfilling your duty will never go away. Error, you were never meant to be happy

(headcanons below. TW: mentions suicidal ideation and attempts but very lightly touched upon)

- Official Height is 5'6

- He/They/It

- Despite everything, he follows Fate, a theist

- Cynical, erratic, sarcastic, cunning, confident, blunt, perceptive, loud, easily irritable, distrustful, detached, stubborn, theatrical, reserved, cocky, sassy, violent, and self interested

- Makes bracelets for those he tolerates (Blooper. Just Blooper)

- Has dolls for every Sans and Papyrus

- Plays with his dolls regularly, even making shows out of it

- Does not let anyone touch his dolls without permission

- Is fluent in Spanish because of Undernovela

- Hardly ever dresses up, he likes the clothes he has

- He can act childish when angered easily, but calms down overtime

- Hates Fresh, a very specific fear

- Has a mutual hate but respect for Ink

- Has only ever truly befriended Blooper

- Carries a lot of mixed emotions for the Multiverse

- Carries the burden of being the destroyer of timelines and universes. Yes, he has to destroy as many as possible, there is only so much space in the multiverse

- Is actually quite lonely, with very faint memories of his past

- Has dreams of other versions of him, but can never find them. They haunt him, whether because they're good or awful

- Does not like touch unless it's from someone very specific, and only then he can only handle small amounts of it

- Has beef with Red, the two trash talk each other

- Will steal chocolate from other universes, absolutely loves almost any of it except white chocolate

- Has a strange but strong liking for Outertale, it's better than the void

- Does not like small, cramped spaces or the emptiness of voids

- HARDLY ever shows vulnerability in front of others despite how emotionally unwell he is, if he does it's against his will or he's too emotionally distressed to hide it

- Emotional Constipation is his last name

- Erratic and violent fighting style, he's unpredictable and often is emotionally driven

- Curses but funnily has a habit of having his glitches censor it

- Is far from a pacifist, he's never spared someone from a timeline due to the suffering it could inflict on their mental state(Well...except Blooper)

- Glitches the more angry he gets until he just straight up crashes

- Can act like a man baby when arguing with Ink

- Knits and crochets, he's actually pretty good

- Wears sandals (sadly)

- Awkwardly supportive of Blooper

- Talks to himself or his dolls out of loneliness sometimes

- Will ramble about Undernovela because it's a special interest, no one can disrespect it

- Magic smells of battery acid, magic tastes of artificial blue raspberry with a tinge of apple

- Very direct, he is one of the least deceitful Sanses due to not bothering to hide his intentions. After all, he's THE destroyer of universes, timelines, etc

- He is awful at apologizing, but he puts in effort when he does it since he never apologizes unless he feels that they are deserving of it

- Let's others judge him even if he doesn't like it, since it feels like they're right

- Incapable of dying, even when he has tried a few times to kill himself

- His stringed features are glitched tears that stained him. They originally hurt, but not much anymore since he got used to it

- A God, capable of destroying any soul. It's why he can't "dust" Ink or Fresh, however, along with Nightmare or Dream

- Is only a fan of Outertale and OG Undertale

- Stargazes a lot, it's something he does when he needs to reflect or needs comfort

- Has red reading glasses that are taped together, but he still has them nonetheless and uses them occasionally

- He has smacked his own glasses on Blooper when Blooper was originally Blue. He later gave Blooper their own pair

- Has a fear of touch so he has to be the one to initiate it. Even then he can't tolerate it and glitches out. He gets shaken up and the most he can do is use his puppets or offering his pinky as a way to "hold hands" with Blooper

- Nearsighted canonically so he squints his eyes a lot

- He dreads Fresh's company as he's the only one that can snap him out of his serious nature out of distress of his presence

- He has actively ran away from Fresh

- He steals shit all the time and I mean all the fucking time. He can't create so he has to get shit to fill the void somehow!

- He stalks Vanilla and other timelines of UT

- If he was able to destroy every AU, then he'd finally be able to kill himself. Thus, he could finally rest. For now, he just has to think about what it would be like to die and to be dead

- He is chaotic neutral, so he will work with others if it benefits him somehow, though this happens to be rare

- Has memory issues at times and reminds himself with little notes around the antivoid with string

- Has thrown many tantrums before, even throwing Ink a few times because he was angry

- Ink and him when battling is filled with snarky banter despite neither being able to properly die, he just is more sarcastic than Ink

- Cats are the only animal he can touch and then rapidly pet and squish. He secretly loves them

- He will dress up in this pink scarf he got ahold of and he will play dress up when bored

- Magic is infused with his crocheted items and bracelets, which can have different intent depending on his emotions and even count as "marking" someone

- Hates scissors because of Ink

- One out of two to know Ink is soulless, he actively taunts him as well for it

- He actually associates the fear of touch, haphephobia, to be what he has. I hc that because all the touch he's experienced has been violent, he's developed his fear of it. He developed it if you will, and there would have to be a lot of patience before he lets someone close enough

- He actually loves certain puns and jokes, especially if he favors the person saying it at the time

- He prefers long distance combat since he can use his strings more effectively. He's not the most physically strong, but he has a few perks of summoning bones and teleporting/glitching in and out of one location

- When he sees something new, he just stares and prods at it

- If he gets too close to something with tech, it will start to glitch out and form static due to his magic despite the involuntary act

- He's the type of guy to turn around if someone points and says Fresh or Ink are present, actively falling for it just enough to let someone narrowly escspe

- He'll throw a fit if someone tries running away from him

- Sometimes he can reboot, and this leaves him vulnerable at the worst of times. He doesn't actually have a pattern for why it happens, but he goes ragdoll because of it

- He believes that what he's doing as the Destroyer is just, especially because he knows the consequences of why it would be important for him to stop the collision of universes

- He targets most AU's that are small, lack content due to its abandoned creator, or self destroying AU's because they're easier to eliminate without Ink actively noticing too much. He doesn't really go for active AU's unless Nightmare, Dream, or Ink fucked it up via fighting and destroying things. I actually have my own hc for Blooper and how he came to be in Error's possession, but that's for another time. Let's just say it wasn't a kidnapping, but rather a mercy

- His strings become thicker when crying, spilling out and causing him to glitch out without the inability to stop - even if it physically hurts him

- His voice often speeds up or reverberates, especially when stressed or excited

- He's very stubborn and has tried killing both Nightmare and Dream respectfully at some point or another, but he can be bribed with the right price

- He can hear creators and anons inside the void, whispers loud enough to echo in his skull especially when alone. A constant hum where he'd have to pay attention in order to understand all of them. When traveling to other universes or timelines, he can only faintly hear them and tune them out easier

- He doesn't realize that Fatal and Geno are past forms of him, but he recognizes it and in fact I hc that they hardly interact because they actively are constantly glitching in and out inside the anti void. It's a weird science, but it's like a constant blinking within the coding that caused the very slim chance of these skeletons to meet. Memory gaps are present to begin with because they never have the previous memories to begin with, at least...somewhat. Coding is a bitch after all, and one never can erase their past

- He is suspicious of anyone trying to get along with him, building trust between him and you is nearly impossible unless through bribery or a deal. In Blooper's case, it was a special exception

- If something doesn't go his way, he is an active bomb going off with how he's altering the world around him. He'll destroy anything within his vicinity and has even reached points where he alters his surroundings via glitching. I headcanon that with enough charged magic, he can cause massive glitching that starts to "eat" an AU or timeline, which makes the fighting more intense between the Gods

- If he likes someone, which would be practically never, he'll glare at them and side eye them without actively threatening their life. He'll and be more quiet, watching you

- He will use his strings to bend souls to his will, whether that was to make monsters fight, be restricted, or to dust the soul. He used to make some souls go into the anti void as a trophy to be hung above him with string, but not anymore. At some point he stopped being delusional about having to be the Destroyer, and just-....gave up trying to find pleasure with it. He's actually never really enjoyed destroying worlds, especially because he used to want to go back to his original one and knows that he's forever erasing something so special. He's just forced by Fate and desperation to actually do his job. In truth, he hÆt3s Fate

- He doesn't let others see him inside their timelines when he's traveling, stalking, etc. he's les social, but also just doesn't find himself to be a presence anyone wants to be around. He knows why he's there, and even if he doesn't destroy that world, it's easier to just hide

- He's on the aroace spectrum, and mainly just wants to be alone due to his own trauma. I think he would be aroace before, but that trauma just was an extra shove towards avoiding any romantic or sexual attraction/interests

- One thing that he feels extremely guilty for is what happened to Blooper, or originally a Swap Sans. In my hc, I actually think the reason he was left alone was because of a war happening, which caused him to try and keep him safe but ended up being gone for too long. Even when Blooper was losing it, causing havoc, he couldn't bring it in himself to hurt the one person he cared for intentionally even if he already did unintentionally. (DW though, things were resolved at some point)

- He loves Coraline or any odd little movie like that, because when Undernovela isn't playing he likes to watch them. Coraline just has cool dolls, symbolism, and overall fun animation to him. Don't let anyone find out however because he'll never trust you again

Closing Notes: heourghg....OURGH....groughg.....

Okay seriously though he's always been my bbg, my beloved, ohhhhhh my stars do I love him and want him to be okay he makes me so sick

#headcanon #undertale au #alternate universe #he is bbg #utmv au #utmv #error sans #error is so amazing #i want to squish him #i want to hold him #help him #ourgh #heourgh #sobbing #hes such a loser #he makes me sick #i feel feral #please please please #he deserves better

[sapphic-woes]

When You Met Her pt. 1

A/N: You're an omega sold and forced to work at a brothel to survive. Sevika is an alpha, leader of a specialized unit made just to save omegas like you. However, when she finally does find you, it's seven years too late. MINORS DNI

Word Count: 2k. AO3 Link

_____________

Your cheek is sticky. You lift your head only to have a hand gather your hair and slam you back down. Your brain rattles hard enough to see stars.

"Lick." The sneer of hot breath by your ear makes you sick. This is what you get for not being good. Not being obedient. The client holds you down, gleeful to have you obey. To watch you mop up a puddle of your own blood. You know resisting would only make this punishment worse, and you dread the thought of having to take another dose of shimmer.

Or worse, being forced into re-training. 

"Y-yes master." So you suck it up like the bitch you are. Let this alpha take away what little pride you have left. You stick out your tongue to wipe up the bloody mess off the floor. It's grimy with substances and dirt you don't want to think about. Metallic and bitter and oh-so gag worthy. 

The liquid that leaked out of your nose when the client backhanded you was still warm at least. You take a long drag, and can smell the arousal spreading from the alpha above you like battery acid. Sick bastard. You nearly puke.

You were like that–a pitiful omega licking up her own blood off the floor of an illegal whore house–when you met Sevika.

Smelled her, actually. Sharp jasmine. Rich, earthy spices. A tingle of cinnamon so sweet it made your mouth water. It's thick. It's powerful. It's distinctly alpha in a way that doesn't disgust you. 

Bullshit, the shimmer was finally making you insane.

No alpha smelled like that. Not perfectly safe and secure. Certainly not relaxing. Your ass was on a trip. The stupid fucking heat-inducer was making you hallucinate. The only smells from alphas in this brothel were nauseating lust and gut wrenching anger. The kind of rage that makes you shrink. The kind that makes you kneel.

The fury in her eyes has the same effect on the alpha on top of you.

The weight on your back is suddenly gone. You twist to look back, breath hitching in your throat. The alpha is being lifted up, choking as they struggle against the hand gripping their throat tight. They claw, kick, and beg, tugging as rich dark skin only flexes and squeezes tighter. 

She's huge. Terrifyingly huge. Muscles bigger than your own head cover her arms, healthy thighs making your throat anxiously bob. She's the type of alpha you hate to see enter the brothel, because they never care to control the strength of their hands, let alone the thrust of their hips. 

However, this one is different. She's not dressed in casual attire but a uniform. She has on a bulletproof vest, guns strapped to her side. She doesn't have the sick smell of arousal clinging to her skin. Her earpiece buzzes with noises, but she only grumbles shut the fuck up at whoever speaks, focusing on the alpha suffering under her grip.

"Your filthy piece of shit…" She growls. It's low and primal, possessive in a way that makes you shudder. You can't move, petrified by the raw waves of anger coming off of her. The pressure of her pheromones causes you to scramble, and you're in the corner of the private room in an instant. Instinctively you keel over. Your head nearly touches the ground as you cower, hands tightly wrapped around the back of your neck. 

"How dare you. You hurt her, humiliated her…" there's a heavy thud as your client is slammed onto their back, letting out a strangled grunt of pain. Smaller, yet chilling smacks emit through the room as Sevika begins to pound the alpha into the ground. You flinch with punch after punch, horrified by the blood splattering across her knuckles. You didn't understand who she was or why she was here, but that didn't matter.

All that mattered to you was that she smelled so angry, and you were an omega she could easily vent her anger onto.

"Touching. My fucking. My goddamn ma–" Another scent, more calming and less invasive, suddenly filled your nose. A woman not as large as the dark skinned alpha curses, wrestling to drag her comrade off your client. 

"Sevika! Shit–you're gonna kill them at this point!" You recognize that this new red haired woman smells distinctly of a beta. Somehow, she manages to pull Sevika off of your beat up client to glare up at her. Sevika towers right back.

"So?" Her voice is like iron. The entire room is heavy with the scent of Sevika's rage and the beta's defiant aggression. You can hardly breathe, huddling more into yourself. Omegas were more sensitive to scents than the other designations, making it hard to function under the presence of intense emotions. Your brain was a jumble of desperate thoughts, all keen on pleasing the both more dominant women in the room. 

"So the first thing you want her to see is you killing someone? She's terrified, Sev." Panic fills your stomach like bile. It threatens to spew out onto the floor. You're painfully aware of the shift in attention. Frightened when a harsh curse passes by the alpha's lips and slow footsteps come toward you. 

She's simmering with fury. It's less than before but still so overbearing. Your heart feels like it's going to break through your ribcage, you're struggling not to hyperventilate. You close your eyes and dig the heel of your palms hard against the back of your neck with bated breath. 

"Cool it." The beta mutters, voice full of concern. It's odd, given that you're just a whore. The alpha before you pauses. She's just a few feet away, but she takes a deep breath. 

"Right. Fuck." Her words are snarled, making you pathetically shrink into a tighter ball. Long and slow, she inhales and exhales. The alpha reins in her emotions inch by inch, until her natural scent wafts over you.

There it is again. Her intoxicating scent is back. You can breathe again. For a moment, you take in several gulps of oxygen. You refuse to unwind your body, but you do speak, voice weak and breaking as you beg. 

"I-I sorry. I'm sorry can–I'm. I'm useful. I'm g-good at it. Please, p-please don't ki–" Your babbling usually brought about scents of sadistic joy. Alphas loved to see omegas lower their heads, to see you belittle yourself without even asking you to. However, all you get is a low growl, and knees hit the ground.

Wait. Knees?

Alphas didn't kneel. They stood and cast haunting shadows over you. They ground the bottom of their heels into your head with a sneer. Yet when you dare to glance up, the woman is doing just that. She's level with you, taking deep breaths to keep herself calm. Hands on her thighs so you can see them clearly, gaze steady. You tear your own eyes away, because what the fuck else are you supposed to do, shoulders bunching up as she speaks. 

"Get up. You've…done nothing wrong." Her voice is a gentle rumble. It's calming. It's like honey dripping down your spine. Wait, what did she say? You blink. You glance up at her. She raises an eyebrow and it kicks your body into gear. An order was an order even if you didn't understand it, and you had to be good. Mindlessly you obey, rising just as she does too. Your legs are shaky and hardly holding you up, but you know better than to complain. You keep your head bowed, limbs stiff. 

"Y-yes master. Thank you master." As trained, you address her with respect. However, it didn't seem to work. Her body went rigid, and the woman next to her winced. A wave of fury had you shrinking and taking a hasty step back, even though you knew that wasn't allowed. Resistance would only spur on a game of cat and mouse, and you were too tired for that. 

"Sev." The beta whispered, a hand on the alpha's arm. Sevika sucked in a sharp breath. She exhaled through her nose.

"I know. I know…shit, I know." You're a ball of nerves from the tone of her voice alone. Clearly you've messed up. Clearly, she was seconds away from using those bloody hands to put you in your place. Stupid. So fucking stupid. You couldn't even a fucking whore correctly. 

"Don't…don't call me that." The command is strained. You don't understand it. What did she want you to call her instead?  

"S-sorry…?"

"Sevika. When you address me," her sudden touch under your chin is so gentle, you fail to flinch away out of shock alone. She holds your head up patiently, waits for you to nervously meet her gaze. 

Serious, dark cloudy eyes make your stomach twist something awful. You don't feel like she's looking at the object you've grown accustomed to having become. She's looking at you as a person, a person that matters more to her than you could ever fathom.

"I want you to call me Sevika." Your heartbeat is loud and relentless. Your cheeks are red, and it's not only from the blood. You gap. You stutter. Sevika only hums low in encouragement, and it makes the coils in your stomach tighten.

"S-Sevika…" your voice is weak, but you muster up her name like it's thorns on your lips. The smile she rewards you is enough to make your heart soar.

"Good girl, now up we go." You squeak, only given that small warning before Sevika lifts you up in her arms. So high. Smells good. It wasn't the shimmer. It really was her own scent making you melt, and you didn't know why. 

The smell of an alpha was usually revolting to omegas within your line of work. It came with pain in one way or another, making your gut reaction ice cold fear. You'd puked from the tight, sick anticipation their pheromones suffocated you under alone more times than not, but Sevika's scent did the exact opposite.

It calms you down, and you take a deep breath of it with a sigh. Your nerves are still bundled up, aware that regardless of her kindness she's an alpha and even the nicest alphas end up hurting you–but you can't resist this. You need this warmth, this scent laced with sweet security, and somehow your brain manages to finally shut off as you blissfully fall asleep.

#sevika x reader #sevika x you #arcane sevika #arcane x reader #sevika headcanon #arcane headcanon #arcane vi #yea this one is dark bois #sorry not sorry i love that hurt/comfort lmao

[crmsnmth]

You Get Used to It

Please, don't relate to me. I'm begging on my bare knees, tiny rocks and pebbles dig into my skin. Don't let yourself be influenced by my words. I can't bear the thought of someone else suffering in what I've gotten used to

I hope you don't see the truth that burns like battery acid on your skin the smell of flesh cooking is nauseating Please don't share in my emotions Nobody should face this kind of thing alone but that's what we have to do if we really want to heal

I don't want the world to be as cold as it is

#my poem #spilled poem #writers and poets #poems on tumblr #original poem #poem #poems #short poem #poems and poetry #words words words #poetry #poetblr #dark poetry #spilled thoughts #spilled feelings #spilled writing #artists on tumblr #writing #my writing #poets on tumblr #spilled poetry #spilled ink #spilled emotions #spilled words #spilledink #writers on tumblr #poets and writers #writeblr #dark writing #creative writing

[jordie-gvf]

to be loved, josh

this is my first full blown "good" fic. constructive criticism is very much appreciated!

warnings - sickness, language, pregnancy, fluff to angst to fluff, josh being a passenger princess

wc - 2,718

enjoy!

You had awoken to the absence of your husband in your shared bed. The light in the bathroom had attracted your gaze and the sudden sound of josh coughing had gotten you up out of bed. You walked over to the bathroom to see him huddled over the toilet, sweat running down his back, and his face as white as a ghost. As soon as he looked at you, you quickly rushed over to the sink, got a washcloth, soaked it with water, and put it on the back of his neck. 

“Josh, you’ve been like this for a week now and you're not getting better. You have to go to the doctor. I’ll set you up an appointment in the morning.” You had told him in a stern voice. 

He had looked at you with an “I know and I'm sorry” look on his face, and you couldn't help but kiss him on the forehead. “I don't know what's wrong with me. I felt fine yesterday, but -.” He went to finish his sentence but soon started to cough. “Yeah well you're not fine right now, you will go to the doctors tomorrow, and I will be going with you. And that is final.”. Soon after, you had asked him, “Do you feel any better? Do you think you can make it back to bed?” and he nodded his head and said “Yeah that cold towel helped, thanks bug.”. You had kissed him on the forehead and welcomed him with open arms. “No, don't hug me, I don't want to get you sick.” and he pushed you away. You looked at him and told him, “Right now, getting sick is the least of my worries. Come on, let's get you to bed.” He had smiled at the thought of you being his personal nurse. When he got into bed, you looked at Josh and murmured, “be right back” and immediately went into the cabinet under the sink. You grabbed the thermometer and some NyQuil. When you walked back into the room, you knew he was regular Josh. “Nuh-uh. I'm not drinking that shit. Tastes like battery acid.” you laughed and said, “And you know what battery acid tastes like, how?” He looked at you seriously. “I'm serious Y/N. I'd rather suffer than drink that crap. Do you know how bad that is for you? You can't make me”. Such a theater kid, you thought. “Fine, suffer all night, I’ll be on the couch”. That last sentence alone, made him get up out of bed, and walk after you. “I'll drink it as long as you promise to sleep in here with me. I don't want to be alone.”

You had gotten in and he laid right on your chest and curled up. “Can you play with my hair?” He had asked in a very soft voice, and you immediately complied. He had fallen asleep soon after and you listened to the sound of his soft snores and you slowly fell asleep.

When you woke up and looked at the clock and it said “7:37” and slowly got up out of bed, trying not to wake the sleeping bear, grabbed your phone and scheduled him in with your physician. 

Whenever you were sick, Josh had made it his duty to cook your favorite meals the entire time you were sick. So this morning, after the appointment was scheduled, you had made him your special homemade french toast, eggs, and bacon. Once you had completed his breakfast, you ever so carefully went upstairs to go wake Josh up. 

You sat next to him and looked at him as he slept peacefully. You slowly stroked the side of his head and kissed his injured ear. 

“Josh baby, wake up, I made you some breakfast.”. In response, you received an, “Mmmmm I don't want to, not yet. Can you lay with me?”

You can’t pass up a cuddle session with Josh, you obliged and laid down next to him. He put his head on your chest and you rubbed the side of his head. You started hearing soft snores come out of his mouth. You didn't want to wake him up again, but his food was getting cold. 

“Josh, come on, there's a fresh mug of tea for you.”. He slowly opened his eyes and flashed those beautiful brown eyes at you. “Fine I’ll get up, just give me a kiss first.”

You gave him a meaningful kiss and looked back into his eyes and said, “Alright, come on, you’ve got food downstairs.”. He slowly got up and made his way down the stairs in front of you. 

He took one look at the kitchen table and saw the food you made him. He turned around and said, “God I am so in love with you.” and kissed you. Once he sat down, you brought him a mug of his favorite chamomile tea. You passed him the mug and he said, “Thank you mama. I have no idea what I'd do without you.” You smiled at him and held his hand. “You have a doctor's appointment today at 3:00 with Dr. Sandlin”

Once he finished his breakfast and his tea, you grabbed his plate and started on the dishes. “Go upstairs and take a hot shower, when I’m done here I will put clothes out for you.”. He got up from the table and said, “Yes mom.” in his own little snarky way. He trudged upstairs as you finished the dishes. You went upstairs and laid out his favorite outfit to wear, a white long sleeve shirt, khaki pants, with some socks and underwear. You heard the water shut off and he came out with his hairbrush. Knowing exactly what he wanted, you led him to your makeup chair and sat him down and brushed his curly locks. Seeing as you both had curly hair, you put a little curl cream in his hair, just to bring life back.

He spinned around in the chair to face you and hugged your waist and kissed your belly. “Daddy loves you so much Bluebelle Ann”, he whispered to his daughter through your pregnant belly. 

Suddenly, 2:00pm rolls around. Josh is asleep on the couch. Knowing he is late to almost everything, you decide to go wake him up. “Josh, it's 2:00, you should start leaving now.” As he stirs awake, he looks at you and says “Will you come with me? I don't want to leave my girls alone”. You looked at him and said “Of course I will go with you.” He slowly got up and grabbed your hand. He walked to the door with you and grabbed your purse for you, seeing as he always carries your purse for you. 

You walked to the car and opened up the passenger door for him. “What am I, your passenger princess?” You laughed and responded with, “You are a passenger princess aren't you? Always getting me to drive you places.” and he laughed. 

You got in the driver side of your car and started it. He put his hand on your belly and rubbed it for you, you always complain about it. When you pulled into the doctor's office, you looked at the time, 2:45. You told him to stay right there in the car. You got out and walked in, checked him in and got him a mask. You brought the mask out of the car and instructed him to put it on. He got out of the car and you grabbed his hand. He looked at you funny and said, “You're coming in?”, you looked at him confused and said, “Yeah, unless you don't want me to, I won't” and you let his hand go. He quickly grabbed your hand and said, “Don't even think about it.” and you walked inside hand in hand.

You sat down together and waited until he got called back. The door to the exam rooms opened and you heard a “Josh Kiszka” and you both stood up and walked to the door. They lead you back into a room and a nurse came in to take his vitals. She said “Everything looks good. The doctor will be in soon.” We waited for about five minutes until Dr. Sandlin came into the room. “ Hi Y/N, this must be your husband, Josh. Why are you in today, what seems to be the problem?” He took a long sigh and said, “Well I’m a musician and a few weeks ago I ruptured my eardrum, so I think that may be the root of the problem. I felt very nauseous yesterday and last night I threw up, my fever broke yesterday, I just can't figure it out”

She looked at him and said, “It sounds like an inner ear infection. When you ruptured your ear, if it wasn't taken care of as soon as it happened, it most likely caused this. Can I look in your ear really quick, it won't hurt”. She grabbed the otoscope and looked in his left ear. No sooner did she place the otoscope on the outside of his ear, she said “Oh yeah, that's an ear infection. A pretty bad one.” She took the device away and he placed his head on your shoulder. “I am going to prescribe you amoxicillin and cortisporin. It will heal the inner ear and the ruptured eardrum.”. As soon as she said those words, his face lit up. “Thank you so much, I’ve just been in so much pain.” She looked at him and smiled, “You’re welcome Josh”, then Dr Sandlin looked at you. “When is the little bugger due?”, you responded with “April 3rd, which is also his brother's birthday. He's very excited that he gets his first niece for his birthday”. She smiled and said, “Aw, how sweet. Congratulations guys.” 

Once you checked out and Dr. Sandlin put in the prescription, you went straight home, as Josh started to fall asleep in the passenger seat with your purse as his pillow. You sadly had to wake him up, you were approaching the house, and he can't just sleep in the car. You nudged him slightly and he shot up. “We’re already home?”, he groaned. You smiled and said, “Yes love, we're home. Come on, I’ll get some tea going for you.”. He ever so slowly got out of the car and trudged his way to the door, purse on his shoulder. When he walked in, he took a deep inhale, then exhaled and sighed. What is he, 80?, you thought. He went over the coat rack and hung up his jacket while you went to the kitchen. “Uh where are you going?” He questioned. “To go make you tea”. You said back. “You just drove 45 minutes to and from a doctor's appointment for me, at least let me hang up your jacket.” He came over and grabbed your coat off your shoulders and hung it up.

He made his way to the couch and took his shoes off before putting his feet onto the ottoman. You made your way over with his tea and sat down with him. You looked at him with all seriousness and said, “I fucking told you to take care of your damn ear when it happened, Joshua.”. He looked at you with a look of shock. “So this is my fault now? You think I wanted this to happen? I didn't want to cancel shows left and right just because of a little ear pain. Sorry I didnt listen to every fucking thing you said.”. He got up with his mug and went into the bedroom. You, never walking away from trouble, followed him upstairs. “I never once said it was your fault! All I said was to take care of your ear sooner. Sorry for being a concerned wife.”, you walked out of the room, grabbed your car keys and your purse and got in the car. You drove straight to the store, got some chocolate ice cream, and went straight to your best friend's house.

You walked up to their door and did the secret knock. They answered the door with excitement. “Y/N? Bitch, what's wrong? You look depressed as all hell.”, “Yeah well when your husband yells at you for caring about him, you'd be depressed too.” They looked at you with a sad face. “Oh god. Please come in.”.

You walked in and sat on the couch. Trin brought over two spoons and said, “I just assumed we were not going to use bowls, so I brought over spoons.”, you smiled at them and said, “yeah, you'd be correct”. They handed over a wine bottle and offered you some. “Cant. Pregnant”. They looked at you with astonishment. “You whore. You didn't tell me you were pregnant! When are you due? What's the gender? What's the name?” You looked at them and laughed. “Well, I'm due April 3rd, Sammys birthday. It's a girl, and we decided on Bluebelle Ann.”. That's when the waterworks started. “My middle name is Ann, are you naming your child after me?”, you nodded. They started sobbing and saying, “That's the best thing someones ever done. Thank you.”, you sat there and hugged for at least five minutes. Trin started to question what Josh had done. You had to explain everything.

“Wow, your husband's kind of an asshole.”

“He has his moments.”

Bzz Bzz

Your phone started to ring. You looked at the message.

little lover

Where the fuck are you?

It's late. Get your ass home

You scoffed at his message and showed Trin. “So demanding of my husband”. Trin laughed and said, “You probably should go home, it is pretty late.”. You agreed and made your way to the door to get all your stuff. “Fine, I guess I can go. But he's not getting a response. Bye, I love you, I'll let you know how it goes. Keep the ice cream. Fuck it, im getting McDonalds on the way home.”. Trin smiled and led you out to your car. You had always enjoyed having Trin as a friend. They were always so caring and always there.

You pulled into McDonalds and ordered a 10 piece chicken mcnugget meal with ranch and an oreo mcflurry, finally, a day where the ice cream machine wasn't broken. Being the good wife you are, you got Josh a McFlurry too. You paid and made your way back home. When you were approaching the house, you saw him sitting outside on the front porch. When he sees your car, he runs up the driver side door, opens it, and embraces you tightly before you can even turn the car off. “Don't you ever do that again. You scared me half to death.”, he said, very upset. You hugged him back, and handed him his m&m mcflurry. “I got you a McFlurry”. You went inside the house and put your purse down. You walked over to the kitchen table, set your food down, and got a glass of water. He unpacked the McDonalds bag, stealing a fry in the process. You walked back over to the kitchen table and sat next to him. “I shouldnt of yelled at you, love. I'm sorry.”, he said apologetically. You smiled at him and said, “I never meant to accuse you of anything, and I am sorry that you felt that way.” 

You finished your food and looked at the clock, 11:31pm. Damn, it was pretty late. You cleaned up as Josh went upstairs to go “do something” as he called it. When you went upstairs, you saw your favorite pajamas on your bed, an old tshirt and underwear. “The shower is warming up, figured you would want one after today”, you smiled and sent him a “thank you”. He made his way to the turntable in your room and played Jackie Wilson, To Be Loved, your wedding song. You got out of the well-needed shower, did skincare, put on your jammies, and put your hair up. You walked out of the bathroom to find Josh asleep on the bed. You went to his side of the bed and kissed him goodnight. 

My god, did you love him.

#josh kiszka x reader #josh kiszka fluff #josh kiszka #josh kiszka fic #josh kiszka angst #greta van fluff #greta van fic #greta van angst #josh gvf

[beardedmrbean]

Problem is sometimes euthanasia can be the best option for some people

But y'know, everything depends on the situation

There was a young man from the UK, his girlfriend had tossed battery acid in his face.

I'm just going to do this, sticks with me since I think it was the first thing like this I ever really interacted with. Link

A woman threw acid over her former partner in an attack that left him with such "grotesque" injuries Belgian doctors agreed to end his life.

Berlinah Wallace, 49, is accused of murder and applying a corrosive fluid to Dutch engineer Mark van Dongen in Bristol in 2015.

Mr van Dongen ran screaming into the street in his boxer shorts with "horrific" injuries before being taken to hospital, Bristol Crown Court heard.

Ms Wallace denies both charges.

The attack on 23 September left Mr van Dongen, 29, paralysed from the neck down, unrecognisable and all but blinded, Bristol Crown Court heard.

Ms Wallace allegedly laughed and told him "if I can't have you, no-one else can" before throwing a glass of sulphuric acid into his face.

Prosecutor Adam Vaitilingam QC said the defendant "deliberately threw acid at Mr van Dongen, intending to cause him serious harm".

"She admits throwing it but denies any intent to cause him harm. She says that she believed that what she was throwing over him was a glass of water."

(oh yes people often mistake acid for water I'm sure)

Mr Vaitilingam said Mr van Dongen's "physical and mental suffering" drove him to euthanasia.

"Put simply, he could not bear to live in that condition. If that is right, we say, then she is guilty of murder," he added.

The court was told Mr van Dongen suffered 15 months of pain before being granted euthanasia in Belgium, where it is legal and where his family lives, in January 2017.

"He was examined by three consultants, who confirmed that this was, in their terms, a case of unbearable physical and psychological suffering despite maximum medical support," Mr Vaitilingam added.

"They agreed that the test for euthanasia was met, and on 2 January 2017 they inserted a catheter into his heart, which brought about his immediate death." ___________

Not really a fan of euthanasia, but as reasons go, I wouldn't fight anyone over this I don't think.

Now let's go to Canada.

Canada's Veterans Affairs office offered to assist a Paralympian and veteran to commit suicide when she sought to have a wheelchair lift installed in her home, the woman told lawmakers last week.

Christine Gauthier, a 52-year-old retired corporal who competed in the 2016 Paralympics at Rio De Janeiro, testified to lawmakers that a VA official had offered — in writing — to provide her with a medically-assisted suicide kit. The case officer remains unnamed but reportedly made similar offers to at least three other veterans, according to the Independent.

"I have a letter saying that if you’re so desperate, madam, we can offer you MAID, medical assistance in dying," Gauthier said in a hearing before the House of Commons veterans affairs committee.

Prime Minister Justin Trudeau condemned the incident in a public statement on Friday after Gauthier said she personally wrote him a letter on the issue.

(I don't believe for a moment trudeau is displeased with anything about this other than the press it's getting is making him look bad)

This woman here

Wanted one of these

And was given the option of ending her own life instead.

So ya, you're right and I'm showing here 2 fairly extreme ends of the spectrum when it comes to this kind of thing, there should be some dignity allowed out there and you shouldn't be forced to live in excruciating pain where every moment after the morphine wears off leaves you in agony.

He went and made the decision for himself to do what he did and several doctors signed off on it saying, ya dude's fucked and baring a miracle will be beyond miserable for the foreseeable future so we're gonna ok this request, coup de grace, mercy killing.

Then we have a mostly fit veteran, paralympian, athlete that would like to be able to go upstairs in the home they live in and the doctor hands them a brochure that says have you considered suicide. (probably far more tastefully put than that, but still)

So while you are right there are situations that call for it, having EDS shouldn't be one of them, neither should having OCD, Borderline, Schizophrenia or Bipolar,

and being poor should not be a factor included either

OCD, Borderline, Schizophrenia and Bipolar I haven't actually seen if they're offering it to them but with the fact that they are offering to people with mental issues I wouldn't be surprised.

This is not mercy, mercy is helping people heal that can be helped heal, it's a chairlift for someone. it's not a needle so they don't have to fuss with it

Canada's standards for this are already too loose and they're about to get looser, doctors that don't want to treat someone might start pointing folks towards this too.

It's wrong,

#the scungles of crungles

[vohunara]

@snowtombedstar said ー Staring at him each time he takes a drink and makes A Face. Her own expression is Extremely judgemental.

      Which way does her judgement go? Hard to tell under normal circumstances, even harder to tell when his brain is clouded by strong caffeine rush from something that tastes like battery acid. Though his heart races as if running a marathon, his position on the chair remains the same ー this is enough energy to, who knows, save an Archon? If only he'd been invited to the party back then, he'd have just the thing to finish it in half of one Act! (Cue laugh track!)

      Whether as an offer or a threat, Kaveh still pushes his mug toward Tem so she can suffer a similar amount if she's either so bold or foolish to take it.

#⨇ DEFAULT VERSE. #snowtombedstar

[dnd-smash-pass-vs]

Once again, its fluent in Common so it counts. No size listed but there's a person for scale in the picture, I'd guess around 9 ft (2.7 m). They're just slightly dumber than other giant birds because they're "inherently evil." I don't believe that. Take a look at animal stats/descriptions some time, you'll learn real quick these designers don't know anything about animals.

They're not innately evil and "haunting a starving creature for days to enjoy it's suffering." They're just waiting for it to die, vultures can go weeks without food so why risk injury? Especially since that quote is following "Unlike its smaller kin, it will attack a wounded creature to hasten its end." Which is both contradictory and blatantly false, normal vultures will happily attack a wounded creature when they're hungry. No part of thier lore, even in previous editions, shows malice that I can find. Stop calling things evil just because you don't like thier lifestyle, their carrion disposal singlehandedly holds back plagues across all species! You're just jealous your stomach acid can't destroy metal (PH 0, makes battery acid look like lemon juice.). ...I mean it's still just a sentient bird that eats carrion, this isn't going to change its smashability, but i just wanted to say that the 5e writers really did this one dirty.

#giant vulture #dnd #d&d #smash or pass #5e #dnd 5e

[hes-a-rat-whisperer]

Spamton?

Send Me a Character & I'll Tell You✨️

My first impression well technically my first exposure to him was all the cute/suggestive fanart that was appearing everywhere on the internet shortly after the 2nd chapter came out! and my impression was pretty?? neutral? like- I thought he was kinda cute but not much else- but after playing it I was like "ok I get it now >w>"

My impression now he´s a precious puppet man who deserves hugs and kromer *holds out two handfuls of kromer for him to take*

Favorite thing about that character PUPPET!!! I am always weak for puppets, especially if they have ventriloquist dummy mouths!! but also, I love the whole ´pushy salesman´ aesthetic very nice UwU

Least favorite thing the fact that he´s clearly suffering and neither kris nor the player can help him- he´s living in a dumpster, his speech is glitched and broken, his friends literally just peace-d out and every single approach you take when battling him ends up with him dying WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO US TOBY?!?!?

Favorite line/scene favorite line(s) AND favorite scene is that one scene in his shop: "WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF??? ACCORDING TO [[Encyclopedia of]] [[Being Afraid]] THERE'S NOTHING TO FEAR EXCEPT ...can anyone hear me? Help..HUH??? WHAT?? NO, I DIDN'T HEAR ANYTHING JUST NOW!!!...BUT IT SOUNDED LIKE THEY WERE TALKING TO YOU."

Favorite interaction that character has with another honestly, I love all scenes where he´s talking to Kris, but it´s pretty clear that he´s actually talking to the player (at least that´s what I think)

A character that I wish that character would interact with more none- I quite like the approach that Spamton only really talks to Kris, because it underlines that they´re in the same boat (like, why would spamton talk to anyone else if he knows the truth?)

Another character from another fandom that reminds me of that character hmm I mean, there are quite a few salesman characters I can think of from the top of my head, but Spamton is quite a special case, isn´t he? eh, I can´t really think of one that comes close!

A headcanon about that character he´s touch starved and at the same time afraid to be touched also, I imagine he has quite a fear of water due to the battery acid incident

A song that reminds of that character basshunter - I will never be afraid again (I don´t know why- it just has a vibe)

An unpopular opinion about that character I honestly have no idea if any of my opinions would be considered "unpopular", but I guess my general opinion of him is just?? he´s the puppet equivalent of a raccoon. he´s adorable, but he will bite you if you get to close- dont touch! its for your own safety!

Favorite picture

(GIFs count as pictures shhh)

I could watch him dance for hours, look at him go!

#deltarune #spamton

[wizard-irl]

Buying Crystals - Ethics

Part 1 of 7 for a guide on buying crystals. Read the rest here!

Obligatory “there is no ethical consumption under capitalism,” but there are ethical ways to get crystals. It isn’t easy because hiding where and how your crystals are mined is profitable.

Content warning for discussions of violence, sexual abuse, child abuse, worker exploitation, and environmental exploitation. I promise the following parts won’t be so heavy, but this needs to be said before I discuss anything else. I’m unsure these tags are adequate, so tell me if I should be tagging differently.

Many mines, especially in developing countries, have terrible conditions. People work without proper ventilation, proper safety equipment, proper pay, and proper compensation to their families if they die from their work. Miners who refuse to work in dangerous conditions are often fired. Women are paid much less and are subject to sexual harassment.¹ Children too often work in the mines. Furthermore, mining operations contribute to the finances of militant groups, which can further press and abuse people into working for them, furthering the violence they perpetuate.² There have also been links between mining conflict minerals and rates of sexual violence and torture in a region. In the Democratic Republic of the Congo alone from 2012 to 2014, up to 90% of money from mining conflict minerals went into armed groups, and one-third of the 2 million miners were children.³

Big corporations are not the only ones who buy conflict minerals, or minerals mined in these tumultuous regions that go to fund further human suffering. Of twenty Etsy shops interviewed that had sold between 4,000 and 50,000 products since opening, only four listed what country their crystals are from, and none gave specific mines. When pressed, fourteen said their crystals were ethical, but most didn’t share details about specific mines. Even with the shop owners knowing the mines, they rely on the word of their suppliers, who in turn rely on the word of the mine owners. The mine owner could (and can) lie to the supplier, who repeats that information to the seller, who then believes they are selling ethical products.⁴ Further, there is a financial incentive for keeping quiet: if you tell everyone where you source your products, other sellers will also go to them, losing you profits.⁴⁻⁵ Finally, there are no international requirements to track crystals, so sellers/suppliers may not even have documentation on where a crystal came from.⁶

Beyond the human exploitation, there is also an environmental impact. Water is easily contaminated with byproducts from the mining itself and chemicals like battery acid, diesel, and trash associated with mining. Rivers may be diverted which can cause flooding, and pumped groundwater depletes the groundwater supply that communities may rely on as their source of fresh water. Soil may be eroded, lost, or contaminated, causing agricultural issues. Mining operations may cause the destruction of forests and savannahs, as well as poaching.⁷

If you want a 100% ethical crystal, you need to mine it or find it yourself. Since most of us can’t do that, what can we do to ensure we buy ethical crystals? Look for:⁸⁻⁹

What mine a crystal was mined in. If a supplier/seller doesn’t list this, ask. If they refuse to say, don’t buy.

Countries with strict regulations on mining. This may vary by crystal, but the US, Canada, EU, and Australia have regulations ensuring workers are safe and paid.

Supply chain transparency from the supplier/seller.

Open discussion of a mine’s working conditions, wages, and environmental impact.

Lab-grown crystals. I will discuss these further in a later post.

Certifications and complying with standards, such as the Kimberly Process for diamonds, Responsible Minerals Assurance Process, Regional Certification Mechanism, Standard for Responsible Mining, Responsible Mining Index, Fair Stone standard, Certified Trading Chains Programme, XertifiX, and the Responsible Jewellery Council, among others.

In the next part, thankfully a much lighter topic, I will discuss how crystals may be modified without changing their structure or composition.

Sources

“Technology and conflict minerals,” Ethical Consumer.

“Sexual violence and conflict minerals: international demand fuels cycle,“ - The Guardian

“Conflict minerals,“ Shop Ethical.

“Buying Ethical Crystals Shouldn’t Be This Hard,“ Cosmopolitan.

“Are crystals the new blood diamonds?“, The Guardian.

“Do You Know Where Your Healing Crystals Come From?“, The New Republic.

“Environmental Stewardship in Gemstone Mining: Quo Vadis?“,  University of Basel.

“10 Most Ethical Gemstones: Is Mining Ethically Possible?“, Our Endangered World.

“Approaches to responsible sourcing in mineral supply chains“, Resources, Conservation, and Recycling.

#self post #crystals #crystal buying guide #|| #witchcraft #witchcraft 101 #witch #witch 101 #baby witch #beginner witch #crystal #crystal witch #witch tips #witch basics #witch101 #witchblr #witches of tumblr #magic #magick #crystal healing

[thatboxylady]

nothing like a mini fic where jetstorm from a thrust reformatted au meets the canon universe thrust :)

"Neither of us is the real deal, you know," Jetstorm finally said. Better to address the proverbial elephant in the room now before they hurt themselves worse, or frag forbid an actual elephant came through-- damn Maximals. He was too tired to add any real sass to his inflection for the sake of a bit, because the only bit he was having to deal with right now was the piece of broken reality in front of him. He felt like he was going crazy. "Not as far as the other is concerned. Sorry. All we are to each other is a... copy. Copies."

"What makes you say that?"

Even hearing his voice felt wrong. At least the feeling seemed to be mutual? For as mutual as you could get when the world was upside down with nothing to adhere to, because none of this should have been happening. Thrust was still standing relatively stiff and squared off, which was a telltale sign he was anxious. Primus, it was like he never left. Like...

Both Vehicons continued to linger by the edge of the pit. Neon green bioluminescence splashed over their frames. it smelled like rotting organic matter and rust down here. The stank of underground musk was mud drenched in battery acid. Vague sulfur lingered on his olfactory sensors like the disorientation that came from a waking nightmare. "Storm?"

"We're not from the same..." Jetstorm hated how he was struggling with this. Talking to a reflection of a dead man who somehow wasn't dead in the way he had become used to was a little unnerving, honestly. "Urgh. Roller wonder, you know what I'm trying to say. If you're anything like my version of Thrust, you would understand..."

"I know. I ain't playin' dumb, I promise. I'm just wanting to figure out if you're thinkin' the same way my Jetstorm would." Thrust shrugged, and frag, even the way he held himself was identical. "That make sense?"

"Was there even any difference between our universes besides... this?" Jetstorm gestured to the pit and regretted taking a closer look. On the rock jutting from the center of the pool were marks. Some with fushia paint transfer from where his Thrust had tried to bash his own head in; with blue where his own counterpart had tried the same. Whatever was necessary to stop the pain each must have gone through. The blending of their realities had superimposed those separate instances on top of each other, leaving them plain to see in all its technicolor suffering. They were looking at their own doppelgangers' graves as much as someone they cared about.

"You mean the other one dying," Thrust mumbled. "I haven't noticed, if that makes you feel any better. You're identical."

"It doesn't. I'm still thinking that this feels wrong," Jetstorm murmured. "You're not my Thrust. I'm not willing to replace him. What would he--?"

"I'd think he'd want you to be happy," Thrust suddenly said. He didn't look at him, keeping his stare straight at that same rock. The green refracting off his armor made him look as sick as sad. "I'd want you to be happy, y'know? Ain't a lot of that in abundance around here. We always what we get and don't question the good stuff when it comes, because gettin' too comfortable means that losing it will hurt."

That was more than fair.

"I say we take it for what it is. No one's getting replaced," Thrust continued. Now he did turn to look at him. "We're just picking where the other left off so we get taken care of. I think that's why this is happening. We could take it for what it is-- no one is replacing anyone."

Jetstorm scoffed. "You wouldn't be even a little upset?"

"Would you?"

Theeere it was. The hail mary gone bloody in the face of losing everything you cared about, versus gaining it back through a looking glass. What was even real at this point? Was it worth trying to figure out when your entire world was ripped out from underneath you, only to get dropped back on your plate as if his partner, friend, mate hadn't been murdered? "No."

"We ain't ever gettin' a second chance as good as this one."

Jetstorm hummed. "Guess not, roller boy."

"That settles it, then-- right? You wanna go? I could use a drink. Maybe a reintroduction, too. I'll try not to ram you off a freeway this time."

Jetstorm managed to laugh at that. It was only a little, but it was a start. Running away with a second chance felt like "We could try to get this right this time. Better be careful! I still bite, biker boy."

The bastard laughed right back, and damn. After going so long without hearing that smokey codec, having it resonating against his processor bordered something beautiful. "That ain't ever scared me."

All they ever had between them was blues despite the stardom; bruised in all the glamour laid before them. This broken life they were born into was the only one they had, with the few parts shared between them that made it worth surviving. Through all of the sorrow, though? Jetstorm was ready to feel like flying high again-- this reflection of Thrust seemed more than ready to do the same. Even with all they had lost, the truth of the matter was neither one of them had ever let the other go. "Nothing wrong with that," Jetstorm answered.

#KNOCK ON THE DOOR ASKING FOR THE DEVIL AND HE MIGHT ANSWER #AND THIS TIME HE DID........................ #beast machines #boxy writes #haha oh no i hurt my own feelings