#hand sanitizer manufacturers

[skincaredeals]

The Personal Touch: Crafting Health with Private Labeling in Hand Sanitizers

In the ever-evolving landscape of health and wellness, the importance of personalization has become a defining factor. This extends beyond individualized fitness plans and dietary preferences to include even the most basic but critical element of our daily routine – hand hygiene. As hygiene takes center stage in our daily lives, the concept of crafting health with private labeling in hand sanitizers is emerging as a game-changer.

The Rise of Private Label Hand Sanitizers:

Hand sanitizers have become ubiquitous in our pursuit of cleanliness, and as individuals and businesses seek unique ways to align with health-conscious values, private labeling has gained significant traction. The idea of having a personalized label on a hand sanitizer bottle not only adds a layer of sophistication but also communicates a commitment to health that extends beyond the ordinary.

Your Brand, Your Message:

Private labeling in hand sanitizers is a canvas on which your brand can express its unique identity. Whether you are a business looking to reinforce your commitment to customer well-being or an individual aiming to share health awareness, the private label becomes your message to the world. It's not just a bottle of hand sanitizer; it's a representation of your values, a tangible expression of the importance you place on health and cleanliness.

Tailoring to Specific Needs:

One of the remarkable advantages of private label hand sanitizers is the ability to tailor formulations to specific needs. Whether your preference lies in a fragrance-free formula or an aloe-infused moisturizing blend, private labeling allows you to craft a hand sanitizer that aligns perfectly with your preferences. This customization extends beyond personal use to businesses that want to offer their customers a unique and branded sanitizing experience.

Building Trust Through Transparency:

In an era where transparency is a cornerstone of trust, private labeling in hand sanitizers enhances the level of transparency between a brand and its consumers. Knowing the source, ingredients, and quality of the hand sanitizer becomes not just a matter of interest but a reassurance of the brand's commitment to health and safety.

Corporate Wellness Initiatives:

Businesses, both large and small, are increasingly recognizing the value of private label hand sanitizers as a part of their corporate wellness initiatives. Providing employees with personalized hand sanitizers fosters a sense of care and concern for their well-being. Moreover, it becomes an extension of the company's brand identity, reinforcing a commitment to health in the workplace.

The Perfect Giveaway:

For events, conferences, or promotional activities, private label hand sanitizers make for an ideal giveaway. It's not just a token of appreciation; it's a practical and thoughtful gift that carries the essence of health. Recipients are not just getting a hand sanitizer; they are receiving a personalized product that speaks volumes about the values of the giver.

Conclusion:

In crafting health with private labeling in hand sanitizers, we are witnessing a transformative shift in how we approach something as routine as hand hygiene. It's a merging of personal identity with health consciousness, a recognition that even the smallest actions can carry a significant message. As the trend of private label hand sanitizers continues to rise, we find ourselves not just in the realm of cleanliness but in a space where health becomes a personal expression – a testament to the fact that, indeed, health is a personal journey.

[sunsburns]

the complete knock — bob reynolds

⟢ synopsis. you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.

⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, takes place during the 14 month later period. nothing too crazy, mostly plot. reader is described as female. bob is a cutie!! reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :(

⟢ wc: 9.7k+

⟢ author’s note. wrote this with a vague idea and a dream. i don't know. don't ask pls.

You were here strictly for business.

The lobby was all polished glass, military-grade charm, and propaganda dressed in gold. Cameras flashed like fireworks along the crimson carpet, catching every inch of shine from designer suits and sharp smiles. A towering digital screen looped the promo again: "The New Avengers: Built for Tomorrow." You watched from the fringe as the montage played, the images slicing together in quick succession—John Walker throwing the shield with over-practised precision, Yelena Belova dismantling a room of dummies in under twelve seconds, and Ava Starr phasing through a concrete wall with a smirk. Hero shots. Sanitized. Manufactured. All of them.

You didn’t blink as you were ushered to an elevator.

Growing up, the Avengers Tower never really felt real to you. Sure, you’d seen the photos, the documentaries, the endless footage of press conferences held on its front steps. Hell, you’d even walked past it with your parents whenever you visited New York—but it still felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Untouchable. Almost mythic.

You never imagined you’d walk inside.

And yet now, riding the elevator up with a slow-climbing hum and nerves that prickled beneath your skin, all you felt was dread.

It was a strange kind of emptiness—the feeling of finally reaching something you once admired, only to realize it had been gutted and repainted in someone else’s image. The marble floors had been waxed clean, but the history here wasn’t. You could still feel the ghosts under the polish. Somewhere between the seams of the rebuilt walls and reprogrammed elevators, there was once a legacy. Real one. But it didn’t belong to the people in charge of this event.

You were crammed in with a handful of Congress members and defence contractors, all of whom smelled like cologne and quiet greed. Congressman Gary was there too, smiling too much, already half-drunk from the limo ride there. (He said it would be the only way he’d survive an entire night listening to people praise Valentina Allegra de Fontaine). Gary had been the one to suggest your attendance might smooth things over. It might make the New Avengers feel like someone from Sam’s camp was willing to listen. Get on their good side—that whole thing.

But you were here for an entirely different reason. His invitation was exactly what you needed to get in, though.

Underneath your gown—sleek, formal, and designed to draw no conclusions—you had a mic stitched into the seam of your strapless bodice. Hidden, but live. Your earpiece buzzed softly with Joaquín’s voice, casual as ever.

“If Sam finds out we’re doing this, we’re so dead.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be overheard as the elevator operator gave a rehearsed speech about the tower’s restoration—how it stood now as a symbol of “unity, rebirth, and strength.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The tower didn’t feel like a symbol. It felt like a stage.

“He’ll take away your wings at most,” you murmured, gaze fixed forward. “Relax.”

You could practically hear Joaquín pouting through the comms.

“I just got them back.”

“Then let’s not make a scene. Gary said it’d be good optics to have someone on our side here. We’re doing Sam a favour.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I’m surprised you didn’t want to come with me. You’re cleared for field work.”

“No, thanks. As much as I adore red carpet politics, I don’t think I can be in the same room as de Fontaine without committing a felony. Might get myself in trouble.”

“And I won’t?”

“You’re better at smiling.”

“You’ve never seen me smile.”

“Exactly.”

You exhaled through your nose, the tiniest edge of a grin forming before you could stop it.

“Just... try not to piss anyone off for five minutes, yeah?”

You didn’t answer. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a muted ding, and you stepped into a wall of flashing lights and artificial warmth.

The event space had been reconstructed on the upper floors, a showroom designed to impress donors and government officials alike. White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering banners that hung from the ceilings like monuments. Each one bore the new emblem of the team—sleek and stylized, but hollow. You could see the press eating it up already.

A digital display behind the podium read:

WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.

MEET EARTH’S NEWEST MIGHTIEST HEROES.

Your stomach turned.

“You still with me?” Joaquín asked.

“Yeah.” You nodded once, moving deeper into the room as your eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces. “I’m here.”

“I’m gonna need camera access,” he said. “There’s a chip tucked under the gem on your bracelet. If you can slide that into an outlet somewhere, I’ll be able to map out the floor’s electrical system. Should help me locate the control room.”

“Guy in the chair,” you muttered, lips twitching into a faint grin. It was impressive—his gadgets, his confidence. Typical Joaquín.

Congressman Gary had vanished into the crowd, but you didn’t mind. Better alone than attached to a man who introduced you as a pet project. You plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray, the cold stem grounding in your fingers, and sidestepped toward the edge of the room.

An outlet revealed itself by a floor-length curtain. You knelt, as if adjusting your heel, and casually broke the gem from your bracelet, slipping it into the socket with practiced ease.

“Okay,” Joaquín said, voice clearer now. “Give me a minute to get my bearings. While I’m working on this, try not to look like a loser in the corner. Mingle or something.”

You scoffed under your breath. “Easy for you to say—you can talk anyone’s ear off.”

“You calling me annoying?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Go see if you can find Bucky while I work on this, would you?”

Right. Bucky Barnes.

You weren’t here to mingle. You weren’t here to sip champagne or shake hands or sweet-talk your way into the New Avengers’ good graces. You were here for Sam. And more specifically—for Bucky. Wherever the hell he was hiding.

The plan was simple enough in theory: Get a read on what Valentina was playing at. Try to talk to Bucky. Get ahead of whatever fallout was brewing between him and Sam before it turned into a full-blown civil war again. You’d offered to go because no one else would.

Joaquín was trying to stay neutral (and failing). Isaiah had dismissed Bucky as a long-lost white man with too many ghosts. And Sam refused to speak to Bucky since the news broke about the New Avengers. And Bucky hadn’t said a damn word back.

So here you were. You were the only one left who might still be able to stand in the space between them without setting off alarms, even if you were biased.

You still didn’t understand how Bucky could do it. How he could go from testifying before Congress about accountability and reform, to standing beside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine like she hadn’t personally undone everything they’d fought for. Like he hadn’t been there when Ross tried to throw his friends all in cells. (Sure, you weren't there for it either, but Sam told you all about it; the accords were one of the reasons the Avengers broke up.)

Valentina wasn’t just dangerous—she was calculated. Clever. The kind of dangerous that worked in the shadows, smiling for cameras while quietly tying strings around people’s necks. She had her ex-husband arrested, sabotaged Wakandan outreach missions, and picked through the wreckage of post-blip heroes like she was drafting a fantasy football team. The fact that she now had a unit of enhanced individuals marching under her payroll and calling themselves the New Avengers made your stomach turn.

And Bucky was one of them.

You believed Valentina was guilty the second Bucky first mentioned she’d recruited John Walker. Walker—who had murdered a man in public, with blood still wet on the shield—and somehow walked free. Charges vanished. Headlines redirected. Now he was being repackaged as a hero again, and Bucky was standing next to him like nothing had happened.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. No matter how many angles you looked at it from, it didn’t make sense. And the more you thought about it, the more it burned in your chest.

What was he thinking?

Why hadn’t he said anything?

Why wasn’t he here?

You pulled in a slow breath as you stepped further into the room, letting the sound of clinking glasses and diplomatic small talk wash over you like static.

The room was grand in a gaudy way—shiny surfaces and marble floors that reflected the chandelier light too harshly. Everything screamed polished excess, like they were trying to distract from the blood under the polish.

You tried to scan the crowd for Bucky, but there were too many faces, too many government suits and PR smiles, none of them him. You told yourself that when you did find Bucky, he’d have some kind of explanation—something to loosen the knot in your chest, something that could push down the rising anxiety. Something that could explain how the man you once trusted was now parading around in a suit under Valentina’s thumb.

Instead, you found Congressman Gary. Or rather, he found you.

He was already three glasses of champagne deep—five, if you counted the shots you’d seen him down on the way—and he beamed like he’d found a shiny toy in a sea of suits.

“There she is,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder like you hadn’t just been avoiding him for fifteen minutes. “You have got to meet some of these people. Big names. Big wallets.”

You were too polite to shrug him off, even as he dragged you into a circle of De Fontaine’s investors. Their grins were just a little too sharp, their eyes a little too eager. The way they looked at you made your skin crawl, like you were a chess piece they hadn’t quite decided how to play yet.

You smiled tightly. Shook clammy hands. Answered vague questions. Nodded while they spoke about “opportunities,” “rebuilding legacy,” and “rebranding heroism.”

One man leaned in closer, his breath thick with bourbon. “You know,” he said, voice oily, “with your background, you’d be a perfect candidate for the new team. Valentina has a real eye for talent, and we’re building something bigger than what came before. Something better. You could help shape it from the inside.”

You swallowed your disgust with a sip of champagne. “I’m not really looking to join anything right now.” That was a lie. You already had a seat in the team Sam was putting together. But he did not need to know that.

He chuckled, as if that wasn’t an answer.

“Okay, I’ve got eyes,” Joaquín said suddenly in your ear. His voice broke through the haze like a rope thrown across stormy water.

You exhaled in relief. “Excuse me,” you told the group, already turning away. “I need to grab a drink.”

They nodded, already moving on to the next opportunity in heels. Gary wasn’t too happy, though.

You drifted from the circle, walking slowly toward the open bar. On the way, you passed a tray of themed hors d’oeuvres—tiny “Avenger” sliders with edible logos, cupcakes shaped like shields and guns.

A mounted camera in the corner caught your eye, its red light blinking lazily above a velvet-draped sculpture.

“See me?” you muttered.

“Yeah, I see you,” Joaquín replied.

“Still no sign of Barnes.”

“Scanning crowd pings now,” he said. “Either he’s ghosting the place or he got another haircut and I can’t recognize him. Which would be so like him, by the way.”

You sighed and accepted another drink from a passing server, something dry and too expensive, and kept moving.

You figured you’d shaken at least six hands tonight that belonged to people who’d love to see your head on a stick—if not for the lucrative optics of you standing here at all. You were an opportunity to them. A symbol. A bargaining chip in a war they didn’t even understand.

Your dress caught suddenly.

You stumbled—only a step, but enough for the chilled drink to slosh dangerously near the edge of the glass. You turned on instinct, hand rising to fix the silk scarf that had slipped from your neck and shoulder.

A man stood behind you, wide-eyed, hand half-raised like he’d been about to catch you.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered. His voice was low, a subtle rumble barely audible over the layers of clinking glass, conversation, and ambient music. “—stepped on your dress. Sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He looked like he didn’t belong here. Not in the way the others did. No glossy name tag, no designer smugness. His suit was clean, but not flashy. Understated.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, instinctively adjusting your scarf where it had slipped from your shoulder. You shook out the fabric of your dress around the ankles, heart skipping in the echo of that voice. Something about the way he said it—apologetic, soft, like he genuinely meant it—caught you off guard.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, even quieter this time, eyes dropping to the floor. His dark hair fell over his face, almost like he was trying to shrink three sizes. You could hear a faint, awkward laugh in his voice. “Uhm… yeah. Sorry.”

He didn’t linger. Just turned and slipped back into the crowd before you could even process anything. No second glance. Just a gentle pivot and a few long strides back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by the sea of shoulder pads, press passes, and sharp perfume.

You stood there for a second, staring after him.

He moved differently from the others. No performative swagger. No politician’s posture. No tray in his hand, so he’s definitely not a server. He was quiet in a way that made you feel like you’d imagined him, like he’d only brushed through this reality for a second before vanishing into another.

You didn’t recognize him.

And you should have.

For all the files you’d scoured, the profiles and photos, the research you’d buried yourself in to prepare for tonight, you’d made it your job to know every player in this room. Who to watch. Who to avoid. Who might be useful.

But not him.

You turned back toward the bar, but your mind didn’t follow. Not entirely.

Who the fuck was that?

You were just about to ask Joaquín to pull a facial scan when something in your periphery stopped you cold.

John Walker.

He was only a few steps away, mid-conversation with some high-level sponsor, until his gaze landed on you. And then he froze.

The look that crossed his face was quick, recognition, discomfort, maybe a flicker of guilt, but he buried it just as fast, turning away without a word. He pivoted like a man avoiding a ghost, ignoring the way the sponsor he spoke to called after him.

“Walker just made a hard left into the hors d’oeuvres,” Joaquín muttered in your ear, low and amused. “You see that?”

You exhaled, more irritated than surprised. “We’re not here for him.”

“Yeah. I think he knows that too. That’s why he’s pretending he’s got important shrimp to eat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you, biting down the urge to laugh.

Typical. The last time you’d seen Walker in person, he was seated in a courtroom with his jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d snap a molar. You’d testified in his case, alongside Sam, Bucky, and everyone else who had to witness what happened in Madripoor—what he did to that man in the square. The shield, slick and red. The silence afterward, heavier than any explosion.

You never fought him. Never had to. But you'd been on opposite sides of that mess, and he knew it. Hell, you’d spoken directly to his discharge. Your words were probably still echoing in the back of his skull.

The way he turned away just now… yeah. He remembered you.

“I’m surprised he didn’t start barking about national security,” Joaquín quipped in your ear again. “Do you think we should trail him?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to. Just the idea of following in Walker’s smug footsteps made your jaw clench.

But Joaquín pressed, “He might know where Bucky is.”

And that was the problem—he was right. And you hated how much sense it made. Of course, Walker would know. You also hate how Walker and Bucky were probably friends now.

A camera flash caught your eye, and you instinctively straightened your posture, smoothed your expression. No time for a scowl, even if that’s all you wanted to wear.

You adjusted your gown, tugged lightly at the hem, checked the wire hidden at your waist, and started walking in the direction Walker and that ugly barret he wore had vanished.

The crowd shifted around you like tidewater—polished politicians and strategic handshakes, investors with too-white smiles and drinks that cost more than your rent. Every few steps, someone waved. A few shook your hand like they knew you, like you were an old friend they’d been waiting for. A woman asked for a photo. Another leaned in and whispered, “Are you joining the new team?” like it were a secret worth selling.

You deflected with a nod and a vague smile, each interaction leaving a layer of static behind your eyes.

It was strange how quickly the attention shifted now that you were in the spotlight. Recently, you’d spent most of your career standing behind Isaiah while Joaquín and Sam did the talking. You liked it there. It was quieter. Easier to breathe. Now, suddenly, they were holding out chairs for you at the table.

The whole thing felt like theatre. Scripted and glassy. Lines rehearsed. Costumes ironed. Every player doing their part beneath the blinding stage lights.

You still weren’t sure what was worse—that Bucky accepted Valentina’s funding, or that he and his new friends let her call them The Avengers.

Sam was right to be angry. He should be. He’d already turned down President Ross’ private offer to hand him the reins of a military-funded global response team. The same offer that Valentina had repackaged, repurposed, and handed off to people who were too coward to say no.

“He’s on the east end, talking to Ava starr and another woman. I think she’s Valentina’s assistant. Oh—shit. He just pointed at you.”

Your chest tightened. You turned too fast, momentarily losing your bearings in the rotating lights and mirrored walls. East—east—

And then someone stepped into your path.

A wall of a man appeared in front of you so suddenly, you nearly collided with him; broad-shouldered and bearded, dressed in a burgundy suit that looked just a size too tight across his chest.

He smiled widely, eyes bright like he’d been waiting for a moment like this all night.

“I know you,” he said, voice thick with a Russian accent. “I’ve seen you on the televisions. You shake hands with the new Captain America.”

You blinked. “I—uh, yeah.”

“Ah!” He laughed, clapping one heavy hand to your shoulder with surprising gentleness for a man who looked like he could punch through drywall. “Very brave of you. Very good. You look different in person. In a strong way. Like a panther. Or mongoose.”

You tried for a diplomatic smile. “Thanks, I think.”

“Oh! Where are my manners,” he said, dramatically straightening and offering his hand. “I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”

You knew that, but you didn’t know he’d be so... loud.

You took his hand, his grip warm and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexei.”

“Kind. Very kind,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You remind me of my daughter! You have same fire in eyes. Around same age, too—you could be friends! Yelena is always looking for new friends.”

Yelena Belova. That name lit something up in the back of your mind. You’d seen the files. The attempted murder of Clint Barton. Her brief status as an independent threat before being absorbed, quietly and conveniently, into Valentina’s new game.

And suddenly, Alexei’s smile widened even more.

“Yelena!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a very public, very polished gala. “Come meet new friend!”

Several heads turned. Cameras flashed—bright, blinding. You winced against the burst of lights, regretting everything from your dress colour to your decision to show up at all.

But it was too late. He leaned in beside you, one arm suddenly draped over your shoulder like you were posing for a family Christmas card. “Smile!” he boomed, and before you could protest, he struck a dramatic flex, biceps pressing into your back like steel girders.

You caught a whiff of expensive cologne and vodka.

In the corner of your eye, a flash of short, bleached blonde hair was making its way through the crowd with frightening determination. Elegant, yes—but there was no mistaking the sharpness in Yelena Belova’s gaze. She wore a sleek black suit like it was made of knives, a funky eyeliner design, hair slicked back and every step carved with purpose. And beside her—

Your heart dipped.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Poised. Smirking. Watching everything.

“Be careful. Yelena is coming your way with Valentina.”

Thanks for the warning, Joaquín. Delayed. But thanks nevertheless.

You stood up straighter, willing your heartbeat to slow down even as Valentina’s eyes zeroed in on you like a predator clocking a foe.

Wonderful.

You leaned slightly toward Alexei, trying not to seem as panicked as you felt. “Can I ask you something? About Bucky Barnes?”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, cutting you off before you could finish the question. “Bucky! Yes, yes. The Winter Soldier. Very cool. Very handsome. Like Soviet James Dean.”

You blinked. “I mean—do you know where he is?”

But Alexei was already on another tangent. “We fought in Uzbekistan once, did you know this? I threw him through a door. He did not like that. But I like him. I like him very much. Quiet, serious type. You know he never answers my texts?”

“Right. Yeah. That tracks.”

And then—

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” said a voice sharp as champagne fizz and just as bitter. De Fontaine. She cut into the conversation with the smoothness of someone who was always in control, grinning like she knew a secret you didn’t. A glass of bubbly dangled between her fingers, catching the light just enough to draw attention. As if she needed help with that.

“I was just about to introduce you all,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Yelena’s arm as the blonde finally joined your little nightmare circle.

“What is this?” Yelena asked flatly, eyes flicking between you and Valentina.

Valentina didn’t bother to answer—just gave a smug little hum and tugged Yelena closer, corralling her between you and Alexei. The four of you shifted automatically into position, an unspoken reflex in rooms like this.

You could feel the cameras turning like sharks in bloodied water.

Flashes burst across your vision. The moment was already captured—your stiff shoulders, your frozen smile. A picture-perfect lineup of cooperation.

And you could feel it: this wasn’t a coincidence.

This was intentional.

Valentina leaned in, voice cool and sugary against your ear as more bulbs burst. “I am so pleased to see you here,” she cooed, “considering how close you and Sam are.”

“I mean, I had to come congratulate you,” you said tightly, lips barely moving. “Recreating the Avengers. That’s… big.”

She beamed at the cameras, teeth white and wolfish. “Someone had to.”

“Of course.”

Another flash. Another frozen pose.

You winced. Sam is going to kill you.

Valentina fielded the sudden swarm of questions like she was born in front of a podium—deflecting, redirecting, charming. Every answer was deliberate, each word chosen like a chess move. Stability. Legacy. Global confidence. Alliances.

They lapped it up like champagne, snapping photos, nodding, laughing. You stood beside her, barely blinking, jaw tight behind your polite smile.

You weren’t meant to be part of this show. You were supposed to be on the outside looking in from the in the crowd.

When the flashes finally began to die down and the clamour shifted elsewhere, Valentina turned with that too-perfect, too-white grin. She glanced at Yelena and Alexei like she were dismissing children.

“Would you two mind?” she asked, breezy as ever. “I’d like to have a quick little chat.”

Yelena’s gaze flicked toward you. Not unkind. But cautious. Reading you like a live wire.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows subtly knitting.

“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine,” Valentina replied before you could speak, her hand already at your back. “Go fetch a drink. Mingle.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

You barely had time to glance back at Yelena—at the slight, suspicious narrowing of her eyes—before the crowd swallowed her and Alexei whole.

Your earpiece crackled to life. “She’s taking you to the balcony,” Joaquín said, voice low and taut. “There are no cameras there. I won’t be able to see, but I can still hear you.”

There was a pause, then: “I’ll keep looking for Bucky.”

You barely managed a breath of relief before Valentina cut in, sharp and smiling.

“Bucky’s not here tonight, if that’s really why you’re here.”

You stiffened mid-step.

Joaquín swore in your ear. Something heavy hit a surface—maybe his fist against a table—and you heard the scrape of a chair.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice light, falsely sweet. “I came to celebrate you.”

You crossed the threshold to the balcony.

It was quieter out here, eerily so. The muffled pulse of the gala was dulled by glass and distance. The cold kissed your skin through your dress. You could feel it biting at your exposed arms, but you welcomed the sting. It was honest.

Below, the city stretched like a glowing circuit board. Skyscrapers hummed with light. Traffic moved in golden veins. It was beautiful in the kind of way that felt removed. Untouchable.

Valentina’s heels clicked once against the stone floor, then stopped.

“Cut the bullshit,” she scoffed, voice low now. “We both know that’s not true.”

You turned your head, slow and steady. Her eyes were already on you. Unflinching.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked casually. “The little Mexican one?”

You flinched—just barely. Your jaw clenched tight.

Valentina smiled wider at that.

You opened your mouth to answer, to lie, to throw her off, to say something clever, but she leaned forward before you could, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips were close to your collarbone, eyes locked on your chest. On the mic she couldn’t see.

“Hola, Joaquín,” she murmured, velvet-smooth. “¿Cómo estás? How’s the arm? Still broken?”

She pulled back with a grin full of satisfaction. Joaquín didn’t respond—not a breath. But you felt the burn of it in your gut. He heard her. She knew he was listening. And that was the whole point.

She got what she wanted. You could see it in the eyes, the tilt of her head, the calm sip from her glass, the curl of smugness just under her lipstick.

Valentina turned her back to the railing, facing you fully, her glass catching the amber light of the city. Her smile didn’t crack once.

“You know,” she began, like she was catching up with an old friend, her voice silked with charm, “you don’t have to keep playing both sides. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

You said nothing. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because the words wouldn’t form. Your brain was too busy calculating exits, signals, whether Joaquín could hear any of this, or if he was already doing something stupid like storming into the gala uninvited.

“You show up with a wire,” she continued, waving her champagne flute like it weighed nothing, “a dress like that, pretending you’re just here to smile for the cameras.”

Her eyes dipped slowly, then back up.

“You do look stunning, by the way,” she added casually. “But we both know you’re not here for the press or to butter yourself up to me or my team. You’re listening. Recording. Digging...”

The flute met her lips again. Sip. Deliberate.

“Looking for Barnes,” she said. “Like he’s going to whisper some grand truth that’ll fix whatever little crisis your friends are having.”

You could feel your jaw tighten. Every word she spoke landed like pressure against a bruise you didn’t want to admit was there.

Valentina tilted her head, studying you with the kind of gaze that belonged in an interrogation room, not a rooftop party. “You’re sharp,” she said. “Good instincts. It’s why Sam keeps you close, right?”

Still, you stayed silent. Because anything you gave her, she’d twist. She already was.

“But let me ask you something,” she said, voice a shade lower, softer. “What’s loyalty really worth—if the people you serve are always the ones left bleeding in the dirt?”

A pulse of heat shot up your neck. You didn’t move, but she saw it.

Of course, she saw it.

“And for the record,” she added, twirling the stem of her glass, “I don’t have anything against Sam Wilson. Poor guy. I pity him, actually. The shit he’s put up with just for carrying that shield—God.”

She clicked her tongue with exaggerated sympathy.

“I’d kill to have Captain America on my team. The real one. Not Walker. That man is a pathetic as it gets. Hair-trigger temper, zero emotional intelligence—”

“Sam would never work with you,” you said, sharper than intended.

Valentina’s smile widened because you finally said something worthwhile. “Oh, I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “He’s a purist. One of the last. His morals are steel-tight. Fucking unshakable. A real Boy Scout. Steve Rogers made a good choice.”

And that was the part that hurt—the part that made you swallow back a flicker of doubt you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I just want to talk to him.”

She didn’t even hesitate.

“Bucky’s not missing or anything,” Valentina said. “He’s busy. Doing a job for me in Pennsylvania. Cleaning up some loose ends, you know the deal.”

You felt it before you could stop it—that tiny, invisible shift in your expression. Something cracked. Something gave her an answer you hadn’t meant to give.

“That supposed to scare me?” you asked, though it already kind of did.

“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you think. About options. About what someone like you could do with the right resources. With the right funding. Imagine it: you with your own team. Autonomy. Access. No more red tape. You make your own shots. We clean up whatever mess you leave behind. And, get this, you even get paid for it.”

You glanced toward the city, anything to avoid her eyes. Lights. Windows. Warmth. All of it felt so far away.

“And if I say no?”

“Then someone else says yes.”

She stepped back, brushing something from her blazer sleeve. “Just think about it,” she said, all silk and sugar again. “We could use someone like you. You belong in rooms like this, you know. Not chasing ghosts, or waiting for Wilson to approve your next move. You’re already breaking. I can see it. You wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t. I’m sure Captain America won’t be happy seeing your name in the headlines tomorrow morning: The Next Potenital Avenger.”

Her smile held, framed in the cold, glittering dark of the balcony. Then she turned and walked past you, the soft graze of her shoulder against yours more intimate than it had any right to be. A mockery of closeness.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said, already stepping back through the doors. “Tell Sam I said hi.”

The glass door shut behind her with a quiet click.

And the cold came in fast.

Not just the air, but the after. The silence. The wrongness of being left alone up here, the wind biting now that you weren’t so focused on not showing fear.

Your body finally remembered it was yours. Your fingers hurt from gripping the railing too hard. You eased your hands free, flexed them, saw the white draining slowly from your knuckles. You still couldn’t feel them.

Your mic hissed faintly to life, and Joaquín’s voice filtered through the static like someone calling out to you underwater.

“…you okay?” he asked, strained. Urgent.

You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was still racing through what Valentina had said, how easily she’d dodged your defences, how easy she was to turn your presence into a publicity stunt, how well she knew you—or at least thought she did.

She must be blackmailing Bucky. That must be it.

You kept staring out at the skyline like it might give you an answer. It didn’t. Just glass and steel and lights that blinked too slow to feel alive.

“No,” you finally muttered.

It didn’t come out strong. It came out cracked. Like the inside of your chest had gone hollow, and you were just now realizing it.

Joaquín exhaled through the comm, like he’d been holding his breath.

“I think legal action is our next step,” he said, tone snapping back into focus like a lifeline. “We can sue them for the name. Trademark it. Or maybe—maybe Sam tries to talk to Bucky again? We’ve still got options.”

You didn’t respond. Not yet.

The railing under your palm felt like ice. You blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting in your eyes. Not from fear. From frustration. From the way every word she said still echoed in your head, sticky and sharp, leaving splinters behind.

You dragged in a breath.

“…that fucking bitch,” you scoffed.

“Yeah… I don’t like Valentina either.”

You jumped.

The voice came from somewhere behind you, softer, unsure. You spun around on instinct, stepping away from the railing.

That man.

The one who stepped on your dress earlier. He was sitting now, low in one of the patio couches near a sleek electric fireplace that flickered lazily against the dark. The flames glinted off the patio doors and caught the edge of his profile—brown hair, downturned mouth, eyes wide like he was the one who got caught.

You hadn’t noticed him when you came out here. And now that you really looked… you realized why.

He wasn’t trying to be seen.

He sat in the farthest corner of the couch, hunched slightly, knees close together, hands clutched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like someone had planted him there and told him to wait. The firelight danced across his face, softening him. He didn’t look threatening. Just... startled. And oddly apologetic for existing.

He offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like… scare you.”

There was genuine concern in his voice—concern for you, not about you. That was rare.

“It’s fine,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.

“Who’s that?” Joaquín's voice cracked through your earpiece.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes stayed on the stranger, and for a moment, you debated whether or not to even breathe too loud.

“I don’t know…” You muttered.

“Okay, uh… I’ll try to do a voice match or something—see if anything comes up. Keep them talking.”

The man must’ve noticed the way you were half-turned, the way your fingers brushed against your ear.

He shifted slightly. “Who’re… who’re you talking to?”

You froze. And then, with a wince: “Uh… just… myself. Thinking out loud.”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I do that too. All the time, actually.”

You weren’t sure what to do with that. You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He looked different now compared to earlier. Still awkward, still nervous—but less like he was trying to shrink into himself and more like he was trying his best to meet you where you were. His eyes held yours this time. Not for long, though. They dropped to his hands and shoes after a while. But it was long enough to feel it.

You took a cautious step forward, angling yourself toward the fire, toward him, but still keeping a healthy distance.

“You um… You know Valentina?” you asked. Stupid. Of course, he did. Everyone at this party did.

“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t like… eavesdropping or anything. It’s just—there’s a lot of people in there. And it’s… quieter out here.”

He hesitated, then added: “I’m Bob, by the way.”

His voice wavered, but not from dishonesty. He said his name like he wasn’t sure it would mean anything to you. Like he just told you his name to be kind.

You gave him a nod. Not a smile. But not cold either.

“Hi, Bob.”

A beat passed.

You debated telling him your name. Joaquín would probably advise against it. But you weren’t feeling tactical anymore—you were feeling tired. Bruised in a way you couldn’t name. And maybe you just needed to feel like a real person again. Like someone who wasn’t being puppeteered.

So, after a pause, you gave him your name.

Bob blinked. Then he offered a small, shy smile that cracked at the edges.

“Cool. Hi,” he said, breathless. His brows furrowed as his gaze dropped lower, his eyes catching on your waist, your hips. “Uh—sorry again, about your dress. I didn’t mean to step on it earlier. You looked like you were in a rush and I—well, I was definitely in your way.”

You felt your lips twitch. The barest curve, not sharp or defensive. A faint grin. Delicate. “It’s alright,” you said. “Bound to happen at places like these.”

His head tilted slightly, curious. “You come to stuff like this often?”

“Not often. Just sometimes.”

And it was only then that you realized you’d stepped closer.

Your arms had casually found their place against the back of the couch across from him, hands gripping the cool metal frame as your scarf drifted with the breeze behind you. You weren’t leaning in exactly, but the distance had shrunk.

When did that happen?

You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger a little longer now, more curious than guarded. You assessed him with a little more attention now.

“I’m guessing you don’t come to these events much?”

Bob immediately shook his head, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping his lips like it was running away from him. You could see the cloud of it in the cold night air, swirling and vanishing between you.

“God, no. This is my second one and it’s—it’s been a lot. I think I’m gonna ask to just stay in my room next time.” He gave a little shrug, slouching a bit. “It’s not like I do much anyway. I mean, I’m allowed to talk to people, and I like talking to people, but I’d rather not sometimes.”

That made you blink. Allowed?

The word snagged on something in your mind. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean to offer that information but also didn’t think it was worth hiding. You couldn’t tell if he was joking, oversharing, or both. But it was too strange to ignore. Like it slipped past a filter that wasn’t built right. It made you hesitate, if only for a breath.

But he wasn’t watching your reaction. He was staring at the flicker of the fire, letting the silence sit between you like it belonged there.

You folded your arms gently across your chest, the smooth material of your dress whispering beneath your fingertips.

“You seem to be talking just fine with me,” you pointed out, softer now.

Bob looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.

“I… well…” he stammered, voice catching on another shy, almost embarrassed laugh.

And then you saw it.

The blush. A warm pink crawling up from the collar of his white shirt to the apples of his cheeks. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. Especially not in the glow of the firelight, which danced over his skin like it had a crush of its own.

“I… yeah, I... I don’t know. Some people are easier to talk to than others, I guess.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

“Yeah,” you said, “I’d say so.”

The smile that tugged at your lips came easier than you expected. Not just polite. Not guarded. Honest. Probably the first one you’d let slip all night.

Seriously, who the hell is this guy? And why did he make the night feel a little less awful?

He was cute. Not the kind of handsome that announces itself the second someone walks in the room, but the kind that sneaks up on you, quiet, awkward, totally unsure of how much space he takes up and trying not to be a bother. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at for too long and didn’t know where to put himself when he was.

You’d seen a lot of people in this world wear confidence like a costume. Bob didn’t even try. He wore uncertainty like a second skin, and somehow, it made him feel… real.

You liked the way he didn’t crowd you. Didn’t puff out his chest or pretend to have all the answers. He sat with his knees slightly knocked together, most of his hands swallowed by the sleeves of his jacket, like even they were too bold to leave out in the open. Maybe he was anxious. Maybe a little broken in the places that never healed right, but he felt safe. Your gut told you so.

And that made you more nervous than anything else tonight.

You caught yourself watching him again. The way he kept his hands mostly hidden in his sleeves, shoulders rounded forward. His suit was clearly tailored but still seemed a size too big, like someone had tried to wrap him in something expensive just to prove he belonged. And still, it worked.

His hair was brown and shaggy, a bit longer than most people would have it at these events, barely even styled, but you kind of liked it. It gave him a strange charm, even if the loose curls hid his eyes whenever he ducked his head.

You weren’t used to thoughts like this. Not ones this soft. Not ones that fluttered in your chest like nervous birds. Not often. Not like this. Not here. Not in places like these.

You came for Bucky. That was the plan. Show up, find him, talk. Clear the air. Maybe start patching things up with your broken little found family—cracks and all. But Bucky wasn’t here. Valentina played you like a fiddle, and now the whole night had soured. Tomorrow, you’d wake up to press statements and headlines, scrambling to explain why your name wouldn’t be on the next New Avengers roster. You’d spin it clean, of course. That’s what you did.

But none of that mattered yet.

In this strange little pocket of quiet, just outside the hum of power plays and champagne politics, you kind of just wanted something normal. Not mission normal. Not cover-identity normal. Real normal. A conversation that didn’t hinge on leverage or patriotism. A moment that wasn’t already weaponized.

Maybe you could stay for another half hour before you disappeared and joined Joaquín in the van downstairs, counting your losses.

And maybe it was the firelight, a flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and glow dancing in the night that influenced you. But you found yourself leaning forward a little more, walking around the couch, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. You straightened your spine, trying to will yourself into being brave.

“Would you...” You paused, “um. Do you wanna grab a drink with me?”

Bob blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He sat up straighter at the invitation, startled, like a puppy hearing its name for the first time. His lips parted. For a split second, you swore he looked excited. Maybe even hopeful.

But then he deflated.

His shoulders fell, his expression shifting to a quiet sort of apology as his eyes darted away. “I... I can’t. Sorry—”

“Oh.” You blinked, trying not to let your smile falter.

“I want to,” he rushed to say, almost stumbling over the words. “I do.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. No. I would. It’s just... I’m—I’m sober now.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry—” he added quickly, like he was terrified he’d ruined something.

But you shook your head, even stepping a little closer without realizing it.

“No. Don’t be sorry,” you said gently. “Seriously. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”

He smiled at that, small and grateful. A little crooked and thin-lipped. It was cute.

“Thanks.”

You hesitated a moment, then tilted your head. “Can I ask how long?”

“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward like he was counting the months with the stars. “I think about a year now. I’ve only really started keeping track since I moved here, so... maybe like, seven? Eight months?”

You smiled softly, your heart unexpectedly warm.

“That’s still a long time.”

He gave a sheepish shrug, and his cheeks pinked again, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your praise. Like no one gave it to him often enough for it to feel normal.

“Some days feel longer than others,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own tease.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, quiet, but real.

“What are you…?”

Joaquín’s voice fizzled to life in your ear, cracking the quiet like a crowbar to glass.

“Are you flirting right now?”

You froze, the smile instantly tugging at your lips again despite yourself.

When you didn’t answer, he laughed.

“Oh my god, you’re totally flirting right now! It’s so bad, but you so are! Who even is this guy?”

You turned ever so slightly, subtle as you could manage, and pressed a knuckle into your ear to mute him. Your cheeks warmed in tandem with Bob’s.

Bob blinked. “Sorry… did I, um—was that weird?”

“No, no,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “That wasn’t you.”

He just nodded, like your word was more than enough. Like you could’ve told him the moon was fake, and he’d say, huh, never really thought about that before.

You moved to take a seat across from him, the fireplace crackling softly between you like a low, slow heartbeat. The warmth of the flames painted him in golds and ambers, the flickering light catching the softness in his eyes and the loose fall of his hair.

You fidgeted with your fingers out of instinct. And across the fire, he mirrored the motion—thumb twisting around his knuckle, pinky tapping rhythmically against the inside of his sleeve. There was something strangely reassuring in that shared nervousness, like you were both waiting for the same storm to pass.

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing from your shoulders. “You said you moved here? Like, New York?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. His shoulders dipped too, visibly relaxing just a touch, like your voice permitted him to breathe. “I… uh, I lived in Malyasha for a while. But I’m from Florida. Born and raised. Where—where are you from?”

You tilted your head slightly, watching how intently he tried to keep eye contact and how quickly he broke it again. “I flew in from Washington.”

“D.C.?” he asked, and you nodded.

His eyebrows lifted, eyes wide for a split second. “Wow. Do you work in the White House or something?”

You huffed a laugh, smiling into your words. “Sure. Something like that.”

His head bobbed along with the answer.

“So you’re like… a really important person here.”

You laughed again, this time wider. Your teeth showed. It surprised you how easily you let your guard down. “I wouldn’t say that.”

But he was smiling too, softer now. Less anxious.

“You are,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I saw the way people looked at you tonight. Not—not that I was watching you or anything… just, it’s hard not to. You’re, um…”

You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a full, unmistakable deep red colour. He ducked his head, eyes falling to his shoes again, and you watched him fight a shy, apologetic smile.

“…I can see why they’d want your picture.”

And just like that, your heart softened.

You leaned in a little, elbows resting against your knees. “Thank you, Bob. You’re really sweet, you know that?”

Bob looked up again, startled by the compliment, his mouth parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t sure if anyone had ever told him that before, and if they had, you could guess they didn’t mean it the way you did now.

He didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Not with people like Valentina, not with cold smiles and polished lies. Not with mercenaries, politicians, and millionaires who hide behind their money. You could see it in the way he sat too stiffly on a velvet chair meant for lounging, in the way he tugged at his sleeves or tucked his hands away when he felt exposed.

“What’re you doing in a place like this, Bob?”

He blinked, tilting his head like he wasn’t sure what you meant.

You smiled, eyes squinting a little as you leaned forward more. “I mean, are you like, a sponsor? Investor?”

The words didn’t even sound right on your tongue, not when directed at him. The image of him swirling champagne and talking stocks was so laughably out of sync with the shy guy currently pressing himself into the couch cushions like he wanted to disappear.

“I don’t think you’re here for the politics,” you added, and there was a touch of something playful in your voice.

He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Me? Gosh, no. I don’t… I don’t do politics.” He scratched the back of his ear, sheepish again. “That’s Bucky’s thing. I’m here for my friends.”

And just like that, your whole world tilted.

Your smile dropped before you could stop it. A subtle shift, but you felt it everywhere: in your spine, in your lungs, in the weight of your hands resting suddenly still on your knees.

You straightened. Slowly.

“…You know Bucky?”

The question came quieter than you intended, and Bob must’ve heard the change, the sudden stillness in your voice. His smile faltered, and he went still, too, sensing the tension without understanding it. His posture shrank, as if unsure what he’d stepped into, as if trying not to take up more space than he already had to upset you.

He nodded, a cautious kind of affirmation. “Yeah. He’s my friend.”

That stunned silence stretched long between you.

“I… I know he’s your friend too,” Bob added quickly, the words spilling out like he was trying to fill the void before it grew too wide. His voice was quieter now, softer around the edges, almost apologetic. “I heard you talking about him to Val, I—I thought maybe…”

You weren’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe because you hadn’t said anything. Maybe because your smile had disappeared too fast, and he could feel the way the mood had shifted even if he didn’t know why. His nervous ramble wasn’t meant to hurt, you could tell that. But it did. It did because the moment he said Val, something in you knotted tight again.

The warm glow you’d felt around him moments ago started to dim, curling in on itself like a candle snuffed out mid-flicker. Your heart gave a small, stupid lurch—embarrassed at how quickly you’d let your guard down. Of course he knew Bucky. Of course he was close to Valentina. The pieces slid together too easily now, fitting into a picture you didn’t want to look at.

You tried to pull yourself back together, quickly and quietly. You reminded yourself this wasn’t supposed to be about comfort. It wasn’t about soft smiles or normal conversations or maybe asking someone out for a drink. You came here with a mission, no matter how personal it was. To find Bucky. To set the record straight. This—this moment of peace with a stranger who felt safe—wasn’t supposed to happen.

He called her Val. Like they were friends. Like they knew each other beyond just work. Like he wasn’t just some shy, nice guy who complimented you under his breath and blushed when you smiled at him. Jesus, were you that easy?

A strange bitterness bloomed in your mouth. Not anger, more like disappointment. At yourself, maybe. For forgetting, even just for a second, what kind of place this really was.

You stood up.

The decision was sudden, impulsive, a small motion made louder by the way Bob flinched. His eyes followed you, something tentative and uncertain flickering across his face.

You reached for your earpiece, thumb brushing over the button to unmute Joaquín.

But Bob stood, too. Slowly, almost clumsily, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow you or stay where he was.

“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he asked.

You froze. Your fingers stilled over the earpiece. You hadn’t expected that.

You turned, not quite facing him fully, but enough to catch the look on his face. His brows had drawn together, confusion etched faintly into his expression, and one of his hands was lifted just slightly, hovering in the air between you like he’d started to reach out and changed his mind halfway through. There were still several feet of space between you. The fire crackled low between you both, casting shadows across the expensive furniture and marble tiles.

“I’m sorry if I did,” he said, voice smaller now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

That stopped you. “No… you didn’t…” You said, the words stumbling out, half-formed. You didn’t know why you tried to soothe him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had gone wide or the way he seemed to dread the thought of you walking away just when he was finally starting to settle into himself. It stirred something in you. Something that made your chest tighten.

You could’ve said never mind. You wanted to. Pretend his words hadn’t struck a nerve, hadn’t made your heart twist in your chest. But they did. It bothered you.

“You didn’t upset me,” you repeated, softer now. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Bob blinked at you. “Oh,” he said, so gently it almost got carried off by the breeze.

A silence fell between you again. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the wind as you turned to look at him.

“Who are you, Bob?”

He straightened, caught off guard. “I’m... I’m Bob,” he said. “Just... just Bob.”

You tilted your head. “That’s it?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but nothing came out. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words retreating back into him like they were scared to be seen. He just shrugged helplessly. Like that’s all he had left.

And yet he kept looking at you like he was begging you not to go. Not yet.

You sighed, bringing your fingers up to your temple, pressing cold skin to your warm forehead. There was a pulse pounding there now, dull and insistent.

“I just…” You started, voice cracking faintly. “I came here looking for Bucky. I thought maybe I could get him to come home.”

“Home?” Bob asked carefully, his eyes soft.

“Yeah. With Sam. With us.” You hesitated, glancing through the tall windows behind him. The light inside spilled gold across the floor, where laughter echoed and people clinked glasses without a care in the world. Your eyes landed on the group you’d been avoiding all night—Bucky’s new team, huddled together with drinks, grinning like it was just another night to celebrate.

It made your chest hollow out.

“Ever since he joined Valentina’s little fuckass team or... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala behind you, “everything’s just been so... shitty.”

You looked back at Bob, surprised to find that he’d stepped a little closer. Just enough that you could see the way his jaw twitched, like he was working through something he didn’t know how to say.

“Sorry,” you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Not to, like, dump all that on you.”

The cold bit into your arms. You rubbed them quickly, wishing you’d brought a coat.

“It’s not...” Bob started, and then, more firmly, “It’s not a fuckass team.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“They saved me,” he said, voice trembling just a bit. “Lena. Bucky. The others. They’re my family. We... we take care of each other.”

You stared at him, something icy curling low in your stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said again, earnest. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it from the outside, but... they gave me a chance when no one else would. They didn’t treat me like I was broken. They... saw me.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it felt like trying to swallow glass.

“Right,” you muttered, too tired to argue. “I have to go.”

You turned, reaching for your earpiece.

“Wait,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d only just realized this was goodbye. “Will I... will I see you again?”

You paused, fingers still hovering near your ear. The balcony lights flickered faintly behind you, and the sound of the city buzzed low in the background, as if the world were holding its breath.

You didn’t turn around right away.

Part of you wanted to say no. Make it easy. Clean.

But when you finally looked back at him, at the boyish worry carved into his face, the way he stood there with his hands half-raised like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go, you felt that ache again. The one that whispered that maybe, despite everything, he meant what he said. That maybe there was still something worth salvaging in the strange, quiet warmth you’d felt earlier. Something real.

And you desperately wanted it to be real. You wanted it to mean something.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob swallowed. Nodded like he understood.

But his eyes lingered on you like he hoped the answer might change.

part two.

[nuclearconsole]

i love the theory that fallout didn't just stagnate in the 1950s, it returned to it. not just out of nostalgia, but desperation.

as the world fell apart, oil drying up, war time anxiety piling on and trust eroding, the government needed something familiar to sell.

and what better tool for control than the most sanitized, era of “american values” they could find?

aesthetics of nationalism, conformity, mccarthyist paranoia, all dressed up in chrome and smiles. it wasn't a freeze in culture, it was a calculated reversion.

the mythologization of a golden past becomes the scaffolding for fascist ideology. not because that past was ever real, but because it can be weaponized

myth, dressed up as memory.

in fallout's case, that myth is the 1950s. not the messy, violent, contradictory 50s that actually existed, but a state-manufactured fantasy of chrome smiles, and "american values." a world where conformity is virtue, fear is patriotism, and war is just another product.

because when people are scared, you don't give them answers:

you give them slogans. mascots. marching tunes.

you roll out project brainstorm, an actual pre-war initiative, and start pushing "covert and overt messages of extreme patriotism" into every corner of pop culture. comics. toys. music. sports.

whatever it takes to wrap the war machine in a smile.

prewar's retrofuturism isn't just for the vibes. it's state-sanctioned denial. it was a tight wrap around a dying empire, and the more things fell apart, the more they clung to that futile image.

like if they smiled big enough and said “apple pie” enough times, the oil crisis and global collapse would just blink away while the world burns behind it.

it's the same old rot, lacquered in vintage.

a country that chose the past over the future, and got exactly what it asked for.

not progress. not reform. just reruns of a dream that never existed.

and then it ended, the only way it could end:

with a country so in love with its own mythos it pressed the button waving a flag in one hand and a nuka-cola in the other.

[slayfics]

Kai comes to your house.

1.3k words

Kai watched as you quickly fumbled around your apartment, gathering items to stuff into a backpack for him.

He knew he didn’t deserve your kindness. He didn’t deserve anything you did for him. He risked your hero status by showing up at your apartment, yet you still took him in. He remembered his panicked state during another prison break that was orchestrated by some up-and-coming villain.

How far was he supposed to go with no arms? All the escaped villains took off, not caring about anyone else.

He had nowhere else to go. The only place that stood out in his mind as a beacon of hope was your apartment.

You were a popular hero now though, would you turn him in?

He decided it was worth the risk.

He’ll never forget the expression on your face when you opened the door to him. Wide eyes, those same flushed cheeks. You yanked him inside.

You didn’t turn him in.

“What the fuck are you doing here Kai?!” You yelled.

“Another prison break, I’m sure you heard,” he answered. Standing pathetically in your apartment. Unused sleeves dangling from his prison uniform.

“SO YOU CAME HERE?! To a fucking hero’s apartment!!” You scolded him. “I should turn you in!”

“Will you?” He asked.

You swallowed, expression of fury fading, you sighed. “You can’t stay here,” you decided.

“That’s fine I didn’t intend to for long,” he stated.

But looking him over once more, you felt your heart squeeze. Where else was he supposed to go? All his comrades were dead. All bridges burned. No arms to even feed himself or wipe his own ass.

“Let’s get you cleaned up at least,” you decided, noticing the dirt and grim he acquired from his journey.

“You’re an angel,” he cooed.

You cleaned him up. Bathed him, fed him, and helped him shave the stumble he had acquired in prison. Somehow you even persuaded your way into getting prosthetic arms for him. Making up some lie to one of the support manufacturers for heroes.

You stuffed face masks, and mini sanitizers into the backpack. Taking care of even his mysophobia, he found himself wishing he didn’t have to leave.

Those words you spoke to him so long ago haunt him now. “You’re a handsome man, if you had made different decisions, I wonder how different our lives would be.”

He had plenty of time to ponder it in Tartarus. If he had made different decisions, he would have been able to have a proper relationship with you. His boss wouldn't despise him, Eri would be untraumatized.

You spoke bringing him out of his daydreams, “Promise me you’ll do something good with your ambitions Kai. You’re smart. You could really make a difference in the world if you have pure intentions this time.”

“I don’t have any grand ambitions anymore,” he answered, the heaviness of his words seemed to weigh the whole room down. It was heartbreaking seeing him this way. Once so powerful and sure of his actions. Now just a hollow shell of what used to be a strong man.

“Just… don’t make me regret this. If you do I promise I’ll hunt you down,” you said again, trying to separate yourself from your growing feelings. The words “stay for just one more night,” daring to leave your lips.

Kai struggled to put one of the face masks you gave him on. His new prosthetic hands were clumsy and slow.

It was common for heroes to lose limbs in fights. So- making an excuse to get prosthetics to show your interns the severity of injuries they could get in fights had no one batting an eye. The downside is they weren’t perfectly made for Kai. Whereas a hero would have had personalized prosthetics, Kai got whatever was lying around the shop. Even still, he knew he’d never be able to repay you.

You stalked around the apartment for anything else he might need, unconsciously delaying the time before your final goodbye. "Do you- want gloves?" You asked, maybe a dumb question but with his heavy aversion to germs, you weren't sure.

Kai just gave a pitiful shrug. Highlighting again the fact that he was no longer the same man.

You decided to stuff disposable gloves in the bag just in case.

"Look everyone is going to be looking for you and- you aren't exactly hard to spot so... be careful. Get out of Japan if you can," You suggested to him, bringing the backpack over to him. "There's money and extra clothes in here too, I'm sure you can figure something out from here."

"I know a simple thank you is little to repay what you've done and risked for me. But it's all I have right now," he said grabbing the backpack from you and wrestling it on awkwardly.

The sight only further tugged on your sympathy. Fleeting thoughts of leaving with him ran across your mind. If only for a brief moment to imagine the fantasy.

Even through all the things he had done, it felt wrong sending him out on his own, as he gathered the shattered pieces of himself and re-learned how to navigate his new situation.

Yet that was the reality. You couldn't throw away all your hard work to become a hero just to vanish off with a washed-up villain. It was an alluring fantasy, but that's all it was.

The painful truth was this was going to be the last time you'd cross paths with Kai. That's what had to happen for you both to avoid any consequences.

Kai stood up and stalked to your door, knowing he had long overstayed his welcome. Every second spent in your apartment was a risk for you both. It would only take one unexpected visit from a neighbor or friend, to send him back to Tartus and who knows what punishments you'd face for harboring a fugitive.

"Repay me by doing good this time," you said following him to the door.

It was the dead of night, the perfect time for him to take off and make his next move. You wanted to ask where he was going, what was he going to do? But- it was better that you didn't know in the event that any heroes came questioning. Or any late-night fantasies of following after him got too strong.

Kai turned to you, back towards the door, "Guess this is goodbye then."

You nodded, the two of you standing in the awkward tension of the moment. It was an unnatural goodbye. How many people say goodbye with such an absolute of never seeing each other again. See you later, not even an option on this table. It was heavy. You knew you shouldn't be so saddened to watch the villain go, but logic put up a little fight against your heavy heart.

"Alright," Kai finally mumbled, breaking the tension, and turning around to open the apartment door.

"Wait!" you blurted out, pulling him back. Tearing the mask off his face you pressed your lips to his. A wince shot through him before he gave in allowing his longing emotions to outweigh his disdain for germs.

Cheeks flushed; eyes wide at your emotional goodbye.

"Sorry," you apologized placing the mask back on his face. "Just... thought we should have a proper goodbye."

Kai smiled, the first smile you'd seen since before he was arrested, "Don't apologize, if anyone could get away with that, it's you. Take care of yourself," he spoke before finally leaving your apartment.

Thinking it too risky to watch him go, you shut your door. Nerves buzzing with conflicting feelings. A symphony of screams going off in your head. Some telling you to run after him, some scolding you for even thinking about it.

In the end, you stood cationic at the door. Never deciding how to feel.

sinners: @mintsbubbletea @lalachanya @unofficialmuilover @starieq @that-one-fangirl69 @pinkpurpledreams

[genderqueerdykes]

Feminizing HRT Overview, Guide & Information for All People Seeking It

we also have a version of this post for testosterone/masculinizing HRT as well. we wanted to write a companion piece as many folks have asked about this. it has take a bit of time, but here we are!

The testosterone HRT post is here.

Getting Your Prescription

To start taking estrogen, you will need to find a general practitioner, family doctor, endocrinologist or informed consent clinic where you can discuss gender affirming care with knowledgeable staff. Planned Parenthood is a good option for many trans people in general. Your mental health may also be evaluated, and your heart health and screening for a few other health conditions, as well as having access to your family health history if possible will be required.

Check to see if you have medical insurance, either through your family, your job, or if you are low income, a program like medicaid. Search for low income insurance plans in your area if it is needed, many places offer insurance plans for those who can't afford care on their own.

Here is a map of informed consent HRT clinics in the US.

You will discuss any gender dysphoria, gender presentation needs, if you have a support network, how you are impacted by your gender in your every day life with your provider and so on before being given a prescription. You will only be given a prescription after you discuss the risks of HRT and are screened for possible health problems and diseases or ways your body could react negatively to HRT. If you have needle trauma or phobias and can't inject hormones, it's best to bring it up before you get your prescription to save time and confusion.

The Medications

Treatment typically starts with spironolactone (aldactone), an anti-androgen that blocks androgen receptors ("male" sex hormones) for a few weeks, and then add estrogen, but many folks start with spiro and estrogen at the same time. Spiro will lower the amount of testosterone your body makes. For some people, spiro isn't necessary at all!

Some forms of spironolactone are reported to make folks pee like crazy, others do not have as bad of a time with it. Your mileage will vary depending on manufacturer. Spironolactone is intended to be a blood pressure medication, meaning it is a diuretic and is intended to help your body flush out fluids + salt. You will need to keep yourself hydrated if you notice this effect, as well as increasing electrolyte intake where possible.

Estrogen also lowers how much testosterone your body makes, and triggers changes in the body that occur during puberty in afab & adjacent people. Estrogen can be taken several ways, and is usually taken daily, and several times a day. You can take it in a pill or shot, and several forms of estrogen that can be applied to the skin like creams, gels and patches.

Make sure you thoroughly sanitize the skin of any injection sites or areas you will be applying gel or patches. If you are given topical estrogen, make sure you wash your hands after application and do not have someone else apply it for you. Make sure you do not go swimming or shower within several hours of application to make sure your skin absorbs the hormone.

You may not need to take anti androgens if you are doing estrogen injections, depending on how effective the estrogen injections are for you. Some people may not end up needing anti-androgens at all, and may be able to skip that entirely as spiro has unwanted side effects. Your natural hormone levels will dictate whether or not it's necessary, but it is not necessary for everyone.

You may end up being recommended to switch from one form of estrogen to another as your transition progresses, depending on how your body responds.

It's recommended to not take estrogen as a pill if you have personal/family history of blood clots in a deep vein or in lungs (venous thrombosis).

Some people also end up taking progesterone as well alongside estrogen. Progesterone is typically taken to encourage breast tissue growth, as this is the most prominent effect of the hormone. If sufficient breast tissue growth isn't seen from estrogen alone, progesterone can be added to your regimen, though this is only done later on into treatment, around a year or so in.

If you choose injectable estrogen, make sure to listen to your provider and ask for instructions about how to use needles and syringes, as well as injection angles, how and where you'll be injecting. Do not inject in the exact same spot every time, this can prevent the issue from healing properly and create scar tissue or cause infections or skin tissue necrosis (death). You also need a sharps container to safely dispose of your needle tips. Never re-use a needle, even if it was used previously on yourself. Always ask the pharmacy if you need more needles. A lot of places let you get them in bulk.

If you are going the injection route, make sure you know whether or not you are instructed to do intramuscular or subcutaneous injections. Intramuscular injections usually taper out of the system more quickly and need to be done more frequently, where as many patients find subcutaneous injections less painful and easier as they can be done less frequently.

For more information on safe intramuscular or subcutaneous injection for estrogen, please read here.

Another option for feminizing HRT is to take gonadotropin-releasing hormone (Gn-RH) analogs. They lower the amount of testosterone your body makes and may allow you to take lower doses of estrogen without using Spiro. Gn-RH analogs are usually more expensive, but are an option if for whatever reason the conventional route can't work for you.

DON'T GIVE UP IF YOU DON'T SEE THE EFFECTS YOU WANT TO SEE RIGHT AWAY! Many of them can take a long time to develop, often times patience is the key. If you wait it out and still don't see the results you'd like, you can try another route. Don't give up, a lot of people get deterred in the early stage of transition, you'll get there with patience and communication.

Stay patient, stay positive!

What to Expect from Feminizing HRT

Less facial and body hair growth: typically happens 6 - 12 months after treatment starts. Full effects within ~3 years on average.

Slower scalp hair loss: begins 1 - 3 moths after treatment begins. Full effect between 1 - 2 years on average.

Softer, less oily skin, and changes in general skin texture: 3 - 6 months after treatment starts, full effects within 2 - 3 years on average

Rounder, softer features including face and body, and more body fat: 3 - 6 months after treatment starts, full effects in 2 - 5 years.

Breast development: begins 3 - 6 months after treatment starts, full effects within 2 - 5 years on average or more, according to medical studies, but it can vary wildly from person to person, give dosage and hormones taken. If desired effects are not seen, progesterone can be taken alongside estrogen to help after around one year on estrogen. When breast growth begins, it starts with hard lumps under the nipples along with some soreness and itchiness. Some have sore breasts for a long time, and some may get scared and think they have cancer during this stage. Breasts will be swollen and tender for good while, and nipples may be especially sensitive to even light touch.

Reduced muscle mass/density: 3 - 6 months after treatment starts, full effect in 1 - 2 years on average

Potential decrease in libido if on estrogen alone, though not guaranteed: If it happens, it's generally within 1 - 3 months in and can last a while, but may even out over time

Fewer erections, decreased ejaculate volume, and erections that can become painful or uncomfortable if frequent erections are not maintained. This begins 1 - 3 months after treatment starts, and the full effect is within 3 - 6 months. Regularly maintaining erections and frequent ejaculation can ease some of these uncomfortable feelings in some people.

Changes in how orgasms feel, changes in texture and degree of sensation of penis and scrotum skin as well as changes in body odor: typically begins within 3 - 6 months, though it varies from person to person. Often times the way one's body responds to orgasms completely changes, many people find themselves experiencing full-body orgasms and more intense erogenous zones elsewhere in the body other than the genitals.

Smaller testicles, or testicular atrophy happens within 3 - 6 months and the full effects are usually seen within 2 - 3 years.

Increase in size of bladder and decrease in size of prostate over time which can lead to making one's gspot harder to find, and make prostate examinations more difficult, though they are still vital, as prostate cancer is still a possible factor.

Potential mood fluctuations while adjusting to the hormones, many report increased crying and sadness during the first 3 - 6 months with this tapering off after a full year at most.

Increased fatigue while adjusting to the hormones, sleepiness and becoming easily exhausted are common reports. This can vary drastically from person to person, ymmv.

If you have testicles and choose to have them removed, you may need to take testosterone as well as estrogen in order to have a healthy endocrine system. You will need to discuss the effects of this with your specialists if you want to go this route. If your androgen levels get too low because your body cannot synthesize enough testosterone after bottom surgery, you may need additional medication.

Potential infertility, though this is not a guarantee, and safe sex should still be practiced at all times. No timeline projected though the longer one is on E the more likely it becomes.

Monthly cycles akin to menstrual cycles: these are not present in everyone, but many people report entering a cycle of extreme fatigue, body aches, abdominal cramping in the approximate area where a uterus would sit, headaches, and more for around the duration of a menstrual cycle (4 - 10 days on average).

Progesterone inversely to estrogen can cause an increase in libido in most who take it, and is the primary hormone used for breast growth. Lactation may also occur while taking prog, if this happens, talk to your doctor right away.

Keep track of your progress when and where you are able, and don't be afraid to bring up any concerns you may have with your professionals or trans friends, or any other trans resource. Your transition is in your hands and you're allowed to modify it as you see fit. If you do not see the effects you want from traditional HRT, you may be able to seek the Gn-RH route, and if you aren't seeing the results you want from just estrogen, progesterone might be of use to you.

You will need to keep an eye on your bone health as high levels of estrogens can increase your chance to develop osteoporosis, and potential new cancers like breast cancer may arise, as well as heart problems. Getting checkups as frequently as possible and communicating with your doctor/s will be of great use when and where possible

Either way, we hope this helps in some way! We will add to it as we find/think of more information. Good luck to everyone seeking feminizing HRT, you deserve to look and feel like yourselves!

[bioethicists]

there's definitely smth to be said irt the way in which these terms manifest as a form of self-censorship panopticon etc etc but i want to gently suggest that

1) taboos + fears regarding discussions of death + suicide have existed long before tiktok. tiktok's censorship of these terms is related to this cultural taboo, fearmongering over "social contagion" of things like suicide, + sanitizing the platform for advertisers. some of you have forgotten the tumblr era where ppl censored words like rape or incest with asterisks bcuz we feared the mere word may upset or trigger others. tiktok is not manufacturing a taboo; it is responding to one + actually, children are refusing to accept that taboo by using these terms to continue to have conversations about these issues on that platform.

2) "kids are not mature enough to talk about death" is the exact rhetoric that causes this issue. how is that not the same attitude that tiktok employs? do not let your fear of modern social media lead you to conclude that the next generation is inherently more vapid/immature/uninformed!!! children should be discussing these issues + telling them they're "not mature enough" is just a condescending way to ensure they remain fearful of these conversations. reassure them they can use the full words without consequences (then do not impose consequences, including insulting their maturity or intelligence or forbidding them from discussing it) + talk with them about these issues.

3) we can talk about shifting trends in social media or cultural norms among children without talking down to them or excluding them from the conversation. adults were writing their hands about our gay fanfics + trigger warnings + american horror story self harm gifsets 10 years ago. teens have thoughts + agency + you don't have to speculate about how these things affect them because you can simply ask them.

[sionisjaune]

George/Alex sex shop meet cute, ft. George's questionable customer service skills and unquestionable knowledge of inventory:

Alex finds himself in the sex shop because he has decided, after great deliberation, to face up to the fact that he is a bisexual man, and his occasional hookups require more equipment than he has in his flat. 

He tugs open the door which boasts a cheery little welcome sign that is quite possibly adorned with an anthropomorphized, ejaculating penis, and tries not to flinch when his eyes meet row upon row of phallic objects in glossy packaging. The bell on the door jingles as it swings shut, and Alex crams his hands in his pockets, surveying the aisles. 

Choosing to get the job done quickly, Alex rocks up to the first aisle and strolls past the shelves decisively. He chooses a dildo at random and pulls the box off the rack to examine it. The packaging reads EXTRA LARGE HOG in graffiti letters with a grinning devil waving a pitchfork underneath the logo. The dildo itself is grossly fleshy in a shade that would imply that the phallus’s owner (if it had one) was suffering from jaundice. 

Alex flings the dildo back on the rack, repulsed. God, maybe his own cock will have to do. He doesn’t know if he has the stomach to stay in the shop for long enough to make a purchase.

He’ll call Lily, he considers, backing away from the shelves. He’ll ask her where she bought her cute little rose thing and then order online with a hand covering his face, peeking through the cracks between his fingers. People have told him he’s good in bed, right? He wouldn’t get any less ass if his nightstand drawer remained empty of dildos and cock rings and butt plugs and whatever other horrifying—

While Alex spirals about the state of his sex life, someone down the aisle coughs. 

Alex’s heart skips a beat, and he nearly springs backwards, his trainers squeaking on the floor while he regains his balance. 

“You really shouldn’t buy that one,” says a pale, pinched, and actually rather fit employee standing two metres away from Alex. His hair is floppy and a rather ordinary brown, and his collared shirt is buttoned to the throat. His name tag reads George. 

“Beg your pardon?” says Alex, and nearly chokes swallowing his own saliva. 

“I said you really shouldn’t buy that one,” says George, sweeping a hand through his hair and frowning. “If you’re shopping for a missus, studies have shown that thermoplastic elastomers can disrupt reproductive health.”

“Missus,” says Alex, rolling the word over on his tongue. “Thermoplastic elastomer.” 

George blinks owlishly. “Yes. And if you’re shopping for a mister, TPE is porous, so it’s very difficult to properly sanitize,” he explains.

Alex shakes his head. He glances at the wall of dildos in their gaudy packaging and then back at George. His lanyard seems to be patterned with the same little walking, grinning pensises that the welcome sign bore. 

“What’s TPE?” says Alex, for lack of anything better to do with his mouth.

“Thermoplastic elastomers,” says George. “I just said.” 

“And those are?” says Alex. 

George runs a hand through his hair again and sucks in a breath. He steps towards Alex—which causes shivers to course down Alex’s spine, for some reason—and points towards the EXTRA LARGE HOG box. 

“Look,” he says, pointing to the corner of the box which bears writing so small Alex can barely read it. “TPE. Not body-safe.” 

“So,” says Alex, information whirling in his head. The fluorescent lighting is giving him a headache. The glare glancing off all the clear plastic packaging gives the sex shop a dream-like quality, like any second Alex will wake up erect and sweating through his covers. “So, why would it be on sale if it’s… not body-safe?”

“You see,” says George, his eyes lighting up. “Since sexual enhancers are classified as novelty items rather than therapeutic medical devices, manufacturers are able to exploit a gaping loophole and produce products for cheap using unsafe materials. For example, our top-selling Starbright Bangers—” George gestures to a display of pale, jellylike dildos of increasing length and girth. “—contain phthalates which have been shown in male animals to precipitate a greater risk of malformed penises, and—” George’s jaw snaps shut. 

Alex inhales, his hands balled in his pockets, staring straight into George’s giant eyes. “You can keep going,” says Alex. 

“No, I—” says George. “No. I’m done.” 

“So,” says Alex. He pulls his fists from his pockets and forces his hands to hang limply at his sides. “So I’m looking for a dildo.” 

“Ah,” says George, blinking again. “What kind of dildo?” 

Alex swallows. “Any kind? I’m not exactly an… experienced buyer?” 

“Okay,” says George, tilting his head back and forth. “Alright. Do you know what you like?” 

“It’s not for me,” says Alex, quickly. “It’s just that I want to… spice things up, in the bedroom.” 

“Ah,” says George, again. “So we’re looking for something versatile.” He spins to face the aisle, scanning the wall of dildos. He glances towards Alex, his dark brows furrowing. He really is rather pretty, Alex thinks. Pretty in that prim, poncy way that boarding school fantasies are supposed to be. Not that Alex has ever had any of those. 

“You never did tell me whether you’re looking for a missus or mister,” says George. 

“Either. Both,” says Alex, throat dry. 

George hums, tapping his foot. He squats to the floor, tugging a box off the lowest shelf. “Try this,” he says, handing it up to Alex. 

Alex turns the box around and squints at it meaningfully. The packaging is rather nondescript, offering a photo of the product (slim, blue, rechargeable) and the product name (SKINNY SATISFIER). 

“Great,” says Alex, pinning it under his arm. “Perfect. I’ll get this. Thanks for your help.”

George unfolds from his squat, rising to a height that’s maybe just a millimetre shorter than Alex. “You don’t want anything else?” says George, making his big owl eyes again. 

“I’ll just be on my way,” says Alex, stuffing his hands in his pockets again. “Thanks a bunch.” 

George’s mouth opens and then closes, a bit like a fish. Then it opens again. “You should probably get an anal plug,” says George. “Very popular. And you can get them without rhinestones on the bottom, if you're worried. We have all sorts. Hold on a second.” 

George dashes down the aisle while Alex remains frozen, dildo under his arm. When George returns, he’s carrying an armful of boxes. “Here,” he says. “Pick the one you like.” 

Alex eyes the mountain of boxes and the product images he can see. Some of them are rather feminine. He supposes he could use them on a girl. Or on a boy of a particular persuasion.

“They’re all… body-safe?” says Alex. 

George rolls his eyes. “Stainless steel. So, obviously.” He makes meaningful eyes at the heap of boxes in his arms. 

“Great,” says Alex, plucking one at random off the top. 

George lets out a breath and dumps the remainder on a shelf strewn with bottles of novelty lube. “I can ring you up over there, if you like.” 

“Oookay,” says Alex, fisting his dildo in one hand and his butt plug in the other. He follows George up to the cash where a scary-looking girl with teased hair and a lip piercing is ringing up a complicated leather harness. 

“Here you go,” says George, when he’s finished scanning Alex’s items and has presented Alex with a (thank God) plain paper shopping bag to carry them in. George plunges his hand into a jar beside the register, pulls out a handful of foil packets and drops them in Alex’s bag. “Every customer gets a free scoop of lemon sherbet flavoured prophylactics with a purchase of thirty pounds or more,” George explains. 

“Brilliant,” says Alex, wondering when he’ll wake up. 

George waves, his lanyard swinging against his shirt. “Shop again soon!” 

[obxineedshelp]

Ok. This is Westwind. It is, in fact, Westwinding time. Westwind Origins specifically, won’t go much past his early days

///

Westwind, originally designated simply as Unit W-05 of the Western Wing Air Squadron, was cold constructed as a well oiled machine for calculated destruction. He was also cold constructed bored. He stood with his shoulders slanted and weight skewed and relaxed to one side in a line of faces identical to his own, except where theirs ranged towards contemplative, calculating, confused, or complacent in the lessons that the MTOs were shoved through, his was bored. Bored, bored, bored— the prospect of all of it was remarkably, horrendously understimulating. From lesson to lesson, even the beginnings of hand to hand combat were, ironically, mechanical. Sanitized. Uninteresting, unsatisfying. Their commanders didn’t want their manufactured soldiers beaten in before they could do the same to any Autobots after all. W-05 tilted his head, bored, at projections on a screen, and slid his gaze slowly to W-11’s identical face.

Maybe it was time for something a bit more organic.

///

“What the frag is wrong with you?!” W-11’s high voice shrieks, audial piercing, as they stumble back from the blow to their olfactory. Their voice should’ve been practically the same as his own— it wasn’t, turned stuffed and nasal as bright energon dripped down their faceplates from the crumpled mess of their nose. He watched it drip slowly down off their chin to the floor, a steady patter, and flexed his digits to look down at them. The leading joints between the primary makeup of his servo and each clawed digit were smeared with energon, but barely dented. W-11 bristled at him, rotors clattering, squaring their shoulders that looked just like his— but where they snarled, he smiled, all sharp teeth.

When he hit them again, the force of the impact was hard enough to crumple his own plating, and the shriek that tore out of them paired with the rattling pain up his construct-dull sensor net lit up bright endings in his made-cheap processor that he didn’t even know he had. He swings again, crushing more thick double layer armor under vicious force, delighting in the bright ringing chime of metal on crumpled metal.

When they ripped at the cabling of his wrists to get him off them, he just cackled, delighted and bright.

///

“What the frag is wrong with you?!” His foreman screams in his face in the aftermath, pacing wildly and gesturing wilder. Funny, he’s heard that one before— he’s also heard that W-11 was a lost cause, unsalvageable. They’ll join a pile of spare parts meant to fix the Western Wing after their first actual battle. The thought only strikes mild amusement— he’s sure he would’ve preferred they lived, just so he could see if they flinched whenever he raised a hand near them afterwards. He sits bored and in cuffs in front of a large group of arguing commanders and officers rallying to decide what they were going to do with the ‘clearly defective’ MTO in front of them. His battle processor ticks away sluggishly, cataloguing, bored in a situation where everyone is talking about his decommissioning without talking to him about it.

It’s come up with 14 different ways he could kill his way out of his room when they turn to him, and tell him that he, in fact, is not being decommissioned, but will instead become the lead of the Western Wing. He cocks a brow, fully aware W-01 would be pissed beyond compare, and doesn’t question it with anything but a blasé smirk. They begrudgingly inform him anyways—as they take him out of the cuffs and cautiously ward him at a distance back to the Western Wing’s barracks as though he were a bomb rigged to explode— that his ‘vicious mindset’ and ‘clearly high aptitude for combat’ would be a massive attribute to the Cause in the long run, though it was said with an edge of ‘as long as you stay in line.’

Funny. He was born on a factory line. Should be no problem.

He bites down the sarcastic comment about his existence being against the Cause’s core— Towards Peace was something he only snagged out of the databases after he hacked into them, bored— and smiles wide and sharp toothed, not missing the way his foreman twitches backwards and away, optics flaring bright in alarm. “Of course. Nothing but the best from me…. from now on.”

The stares he gets from all 22 other remaining W units as he enters the barracks range from terrified, to cautious, to offput, to enraged. Not a single one of their faces look like his, in that moment— especially not with his still-split upper lip, a fresh weld that pulls and threatens to break again as he saunters by. The others shift back when he does. He’d be delighted to give them a demonstration on how well that worked for W-11.

He doesn’t. He just waves, cheerily, with an amused greeting, and sways his merry way to his berth.

The unit who recharges in the bunk above him murmured a fearful request to a further away unit to charge with them, that night, just to get away. He smiled, and carved a single line into the underneath of the slab above him with the shriek of a claw into metal.

///

On the day of his Squadron’s very first battle, the wind blew viciously to the west. It nearly stung his plating, throwing up debris from endless wreckage as it did— flying into it in alt mode felt distinctly unsafe. It was delightful— it paled in comparison to the fight that ensued. He did as commanded, leading his fleet as air support to a raging battle below, remaining high in the air. He did as commanded, watching carnage he ensued far from a distance, progressively more bored. He did as commanded, until one of his units was clumsy in an attempted dodge of a massive, piercing shot from below— and he watched out of his rear optical feed as they fell in pieces to the ground below. There was no sense of loss. There was this itch of an excuse, though.

Ignoring the shouts of his unit, he turned his nose down, cut his rotors, and he fell too.

The Autobot’s terrified shout as he twisted into root mode alone was enough to make it worth it. He deflected each comm that pinged against his network, firing back a quick designation of W-01 as the fleet head until he returned to the skies, and then detached one of his rotors and grinned wide and delighted as the Autobot tried to flip them over. It was almost too easy, ripping into them with sharp claws and a sharper blade— their own blaster singed his plating and their fists punched dents into his armor, and it sang with the rending shriek of him peeling off a section of their facial plating like a discordant version of one of the symphonies he had heard some of his unit listening to in supposed secret, in the dead of night. The Autobot shouts wildly for help, futile in the face of him weaving his fingers into their throat cabling and ripping— and then he severs the main cables of their stabilizers, and leaves them to bleed out puddles of bright blue upon the grimy ground.

A shot singes violently by his helm, missing by a hair, and he tips his helm slowly. The next shot that fires off as he turns hits— and the agony of it rings in jittering waves through his sensory net. He twists his sword out of the offlining Autobot, energon flecking, and sways into the pain like a tangible dance partner with a grin. Expressions twist from disgruntled to horrified, and then to agonized when he flings himself at the next Autobot, and the next, laughing. It feels like living, for the first time since he had one of his own unit’s internals sliding slippery-hot through the gaps between his digits . It is nothing but vicious base sensation— it is honest, lacking sanitization. This is the realest something as artificial as him has ever felt, and he grins manically wide as he skewers another Autobot through the shoulder and to a mostly-fallen wall.

“Who the— who—“ they stutter, coughing up purged energon and scrabbling to fight back, and he considers. Considers the unit he has no love for, the air high above where missile fire still rains down from, the sharp veering breeze cut through by his rotors, his rotors that cut through metal with a shriek like the wind, and he answers a different answer to that question than ever before.

“Hey, sweetspark. I’m Westwind.”

It’s an introduction to a corpse— their spark chamber feels like fireworks in his palm when he crushes it in his claws.

///

When he gets back, he is splattered with filtered energon, spiced on his tongue, and earns both a reprimand and a commendation from downturned mouths that stare at him as if in shock .

He lost count of the sparks that guttered due to his intervention, so in the night, alone, instead of adding tallies to the underside of a bunk, he just carves a newfound designation.

Westwind.

///

Ok i’m done for now this is all very early westwind. like first 100,000 years of his 3.8 million year long life westwind . just wanted to establish how he picked his name. Maybe will post more later to get to how he joined up with interrogation squad.

[reasonsforhope]

"A Ghanaian-English entrepreneur has designed an electric bike from the ground up that’s transforming short-range transportation in her home country, proving that problem-solving in Africa can be done in Africa, by Africans.

[Valerie Labi's] company, Wahu!, assembles each bike by hand, and they can travel up to 80 miles [128 kilometers] on a single charge. This means that a delivery rider for Glovo or Bolt can comfortably cover a whole day’s work without refueling.

Anyone who’s visited Accra, Ghana, in the dry season will remember the incredibly poor air quality. Poor roads mean that cars are stuck in second and third gears, and old cars traveling in second and third gears mean plenty of extra car exhaust.

Poor roads also mean exposed dirt, and exposed dirt means fine-grained dust. Combined with a lack of rain, the smog, dust, and car exhaust make the air in parts of the capital unfit for human health.

Wahu! bikes help alleviate all three of these problems, and despite her English nativity [Note: Super weird and unclear way to phrase it?] and education, the bikes were designed and manufactured in Spintex, Accra.

“By introducing electric bikes into Ghana’s transportation ecosystem, we’re not only providing a greener alternative but also offering speed and convenience,” Labi told The Mirror. “Our bikes are a testament to how service delivery can be seamlessly merged with environmental conservation.”

Valerie Labi is a true inspiration, and besides her transportation company, she got her start in the Ghanaian economy in sanitation. She holds a chieftaincy title as Gundugu Sabtanaa, given to her by the previous Chief of the Dagbon traditional area in the Northern Region of Ghana. She has three children, holds a double major in Economics and Sustainability from two separate universities, and has visited 59 countries.

Getting her start in Northern Ghana, she founded the social enterprise Sama Sama, a mobile toilet and sanitation company that now boasts 300,000 clients.

During her travels around the small, densely populated country, she also recognized that transportation was not only a problem, but offered real potential for eco-friendly solutions.

“It took us two years to effectively design a bike that we thought was fit for the African road, then we connected with Jumia and other delivery companies to get started,” she told The Mirror. “Currently, I have over 100 bikes in circulation and we give the bikes on a ‘work and pay’ basis directly to delivery riders.”

According to Labi, each driver pays about 300 Ghana cedis, or about $24.00, per week to use the bike, which can travel 24 miles per hour, and hold over 300 pounds of weight. The fat tires are supported by double-crown front/double-spring rear suspension.

The bikes are also guaranteed by the company’s proprietary anti-theft system of trackers. Only a single bike has been stolen, and it was quickly located and returned to the owner."

-via Good News Network, January 24, 2024

[archetypal-archivist]

Glorious Masquerade: What If Morgan Leech Went Too

This is a work of fanfiction of another piece of fanfiction: "the seven habits of highly unfortunate souls: a transmigrator’s guide to the coral sea" by mercen, found here. This work is not canon to Twisted Wonderland or mercen's world and I own none of the characters involved. Spoilers for the Glorious Masquerade event in the game.

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

The story begins with back when the threels and Azul are first years at NRC, their class getting an assignment to write to a school-assigned pen pal as a form of cultural exchange. The idea is to learn more about what school is like in other places in Twisted Wonderland and several notable schools are participating, including Royal Sword and Noble Bell college.

Azul gets assigned to some nobody fae from Briar valley and both he and his assigned pen pal are polite but distant, only writing bare bones details and what is required of them to complete the assignment. There's a bit of deliberate hiding on both their parts because they don't want the other to know their personal details or any weaknesses. Of course, Azul is still the type who loves to get leverage on everyone he can while holding all his cards close to his chest so he spends waaaay too long on each letter. Neither writer is interested in fostering a connection, so after the month is up, both stop writing.

Jade gets assigned a student from Royal Sword and he has a delightful time trying to lead his pen pal around by the nose, coming up with all sorts of "woe as me, truly I am so misfortunate" stories that are technically true but definitely don't tell the full story. Things like moaning about leaving home for months at a time and missing it dreadfully. (True-ish, but he isn't exactly heartsick like he's implying.) Also, food not made by the loving hands of his caretakers making him ill for how he misses the cooking of home. (True-ish, he was in for a shock about food not made by personal cooking staff and he definitely ate some weird stuff in getting used to land life. This includes such joys as raw fish from the class about sanitation on land vs at sea, as bleach doesn't work the same underwater. He wasn't the only mer who ate it at land bootcamp, nor was he the only one to get food poisoning.)

By the end of the month, the Royal Sword student is about ready to report him to CPS and is trying to ask him for an address to send him money so Jade can be on the first plane home possible. Jade, of course, finds this hilarious and also mildly panic-inducing because the Royal Sword kid is bugging the teachers on his end about Jade's personal info and he doesn't want his own teachers catching wind of his nonsense. Azul rolls his eyes and tells him to sort it out, which Jaded does by stopping writing at the end of the month too. Unbeknownst to them, Royal Sword kid ends up mildly traumatized by the assignment as he thinks Jade perished of heartbreak and it's his fault because he couldn't do enough to help. This inspires Royal Sword kid to get a pilot's license with the ill-thought-out dream of picking up unhappy teens from wherever they are and flying them 'home', wherever home may be for them. He does not consider gas, small plane rental, or the practicalities of the endeavor but has enough money not to care, either.

Floyd is fed up by the assignment almost immediately, he's in no mood to humor some random stranger, but unfortunately, Jade and Azul are very invested in his partner in the Shaftlands. Floyd got the dubious honor off being picked to write to a minor heir of a silverware manufacturer and Azul really, really wants some custom silverware and maybe a sponsorship out of this. As such, Floyd, Jade, and Azul all take turns writing to the pen pal. Floyd usually just sends a sentence or two, though he did send several paragraphs about the taste of chicken vs fish once, and a few letters on types of shoes. Jade and Azul are polite and charming, playing it up as much as possible and occasionally getting stuff wrong (ex. how best to cook toast, the exact purpose of socks) as they try to write like a sophisticated person who 100% knows everything, including how land stuff works. Between all three, the pen pal is a little overwhelmed by letters and thinks his partner is a lil' kooky (fun to watch from a distance, glad I'm here and don't have to live with 'em), so Azul doesn't get his sponsorship but does get his nice spoons by the end of the month.

Morgan is only partially aware of all of this, but finds it charming when Jade and Azul are hovering over Floyd's shoulders, backseat writing. He even goes so far as to write a letter for Floyd too, mostly sounding normal, if a little formal. However, he's very distracted by his own pen pal: Rollo.

Morgan and Rollo begin kind of distant and stiffly polite but then Rollo mentions some of his homework regarding the history of magical law, citing a few books he's read about when or if magical education should be legally required. Morgan has Opinions on this and has read the books, so he very politely disagrees and offers up some alternative titles he's read that he think Rollo should try. Rollo writes back a letter that sounds appreciative on the surface but is slyly derisive, commenting on how of course Morgan would think such things, he's from NRC, a lovely school known for its potions and practical magic classes. He very intentionally does not say NRC is known for its history curriculum, which Morgan picks up on.

A bit irked by this but in the same way as when you want to see a colleague at work dig themselves into a hole, Morgan writes back and he and Rollo fall into a debate. Over time, Rollo and Morgan find out that there is actually some overlap in their opinions, as Morgan can approach magic like a non-magical adult and rightfully sees the horrible potential of people not knowing what they're doing and accidentally causing harm. (ex. An adult knowing that handing a 6 year old their credit card is BAD). A powerful child having a temper tantrum can really hurt people if they have the right Unique Magic in the wrong circumstance. As such, regulation is needed, even if that's a little unthinkable to many people in Twisted Wonderland, as their society is strongly individualistic and having fetters on magic is considered a personal slight in some circles

Rollo, in turn, finds it hard to argue that magic is all bad when Morgan can point out exactly how a task could be done without magic and how doing it with a spell is better. (ex. medical advancements without human trials, pasteurization).

However, while the duo can agree that there's some overlap in their opinions, their points of view vary wildly and they go back and forth like academic rivals writing thesis papers for the express point of proving each other wrong. A LOT of shade is thrown between them and they both get way too into it, enjoying the challenge of one-upping each other and making the other agree with them.

Morgan thinks he's helping some brainwashed kid from a very backwards family become less extreme in his views. He views Rollo with a of pity and respect for how hard he works to uphold his personal tenants, like doing all his cleaning by hand and learning how to do tasks without magic. Rollo sees Morgan as someone who could maybe be brought to share in his vision of a world without magic because Morgan can actually concede that magic is dangerous. Having someone actually agree with him, even if only a little, is enough to reinforce his views on magic and his own personal brand of delusional. Surely, surely, if he can find the right combination of words, Morgan will see the light and recognize magic as the scourge it is. (And maybe he'll finally have a partner in his plan, someone else to share the burden of being the only one right in a world of wrongness.)

Of course, as the duo are so fired up about writing about their views, trading book recommendations and opinions backed up by logic and citations, they kind of fail to talk about their personal lives at all. Rollo has no idea that Morgan is a mer, only that they lived somewhere very different from NRC and are still getting used to life there. Likewise, Morgan knows about Rollo's duties and his self-assigned gardening project, but not what he's growing or what got his pen pal into gardening in the first place. As far as he's concerned, Rollo's just really fond of growing plants and he's trying to grow some ancient ones in the name of the challenge and the preservation of ancient species.

As Rollo opens up more, if only slightly, he starts to ask Morgan to research things in the NRC library about fire lotuses, albeit not by that name. He complies, which sparks some joy in Jade as that's his hobby is researching and asking him questions about. (Cue Jade info dumping.) Morgan begins to grow a little suspicious about what exactly Rollo is growing but he never learns about the name of the flowers or their properties, just that under the right conditions they spread rapidly and that magic helps them grow. Like, straight magic, not any of the fertilizer or growth enhancing spells he offered up to Rollo. Despite this, Morgan's not actually all that invested and they settle for just the occasional update, not really asking further.

Rollo and Morgan wouldn't consider each other friends but they have been writing each other letters every few weeks long past when the assignment ended. Jade, Floyd, and Azul don't exactly think Morgan's pen pal is a friend either, and are happy to tease them over it. Morgan never reveals Rollo's name or anything about him, especially about the conversations surrounding magical legislature and the mechanics of spells. This only ups the mystery for his brothers and friend, the eels especially joking about love letters when they catch Morgan with another envelope.

Floyd and Jade never really ask that many questions though, happy enough to tease and leave it at that. Why should they care who their brother is writing? It's not like there's any harm in it and Morgan himself insists he and his pen pal aren't that close.

The last letter Morgan receives before the Glorious Masquerade event has Rollo mention that his gardening project is complete and that he hopes to show Morgan someday. He also implies that Morgan and him may see each other in person, which is different from before as Morgan thought they were on the same page about that not being an option. This makes Morgan a little pensive and quiet leading up to the raffle for the chance to visit Noble Bell college during Halloween. Azul, when he gets to take one of the spots, is smugly gleeful. Morgan puts their thoughts to the side and settles for tentative excitement, happy to see new things but dreading the inconvenience of travel and having to appease their brothers later.

On the back-end of things, Rollo had actually requested Morgan's presence just as he had Malleus', though Crowley forgets to inform Morgan of this in his rush to inform the fae prince.

When they get to Noble Bell college, Rollo treats Morgan just the same as the others, giving no hint that he knows them. Morgan's eyes widen slightly when they hear Rollo introduce himself but they follow Rollo's lead, keeping their familiarity with him to themself. Instead he passes his focus and attention to the college itself, taking in the swooping arches and towering spires that make up the architecture of Noble Bell.

Rollo then offers up outfits for everyone, letting people fit into the celebratory atmosphere. Morgan would get an SSR here, plus a lovely teal and black outfit styled after a tropical fish with bright gold "spikes" to up the implied danger factor. Think something akin to the outfits from Six the musical but more GloMas, complete with flowing train, than punk. His cool hat would be a tricorn like Azul's but with scale-like cut-outs in the brim and decorated with big fancy feathers and more spikes. Lots of little gold chains would decorate the outfit. The card typing would be fire and cosmic, the duo partner would be Deuce, the supports Azul and Ruggie.

After getting the outfits and toured through the school, everyone gets the chance to wander through town. Epel, Deuce, Azul, and Morgan end up together with Azul trying to find business opportunities and the two first years looking for souvenirs as in Canon. Morgan is mainly looking for books and ends up idly noticing the flowers and green spaces in Fleur, as he's heard a lot about them from Rollo. When Epel asks Azul, Morgan steps in the answer questions about the gardens of Fleur city, which Azul tries to spin as it being him who's helpful. Of course he knew all that. Let me add some more trivia, I definitely read a guidebook on this. Morgan lets Azul have his moment and is the first to notice Rollo coming by to chat with the group.

Canon proceeds apace and Rollo offers up some shop locations that sell scented ink to Morgan as a place to maybe get a souvenir. Morgan agrees that this would be good, but politely hints that if he gets any it would be for himself, as he's sure his brothers wouldn't want it. This is the first Rollo has heard of Morgan having siblings and tries to push for how many people Morgan is buying souvenirs for. Azul sidles in and points out that he intends to get small things for everyone in Octavinelle, Morgan could perhaps chip in with his money and thus the gifts could be from them both. Voilà, souvenir problem solved! Morgan is indulgent and offers a bit of money to Azul, then is too distracted to answer Rollo's question about sibling counts and souvenirs by the collective group turning their interests towards food.

Morgan tries to puzzle out the recipes from tasting the Fleur treats in hopes of replicating them- both for Azul to sell, and also for their siblings, who'd happily eat the failures. Rollo gracefully departs and Canon returns to how it plays out normally.

One thing of note is that when the magic handkerchiefs are explained in Idia's group, Rollo mentions that other enchantments can be embroidered into the fabric too. Anything from self-ironing to cleaning and warming charms can be found in Fleur city textiles, for a price of course. The trick hankies that release small explosions and sparks are merely the tip of the iceberg.

Later, everyone is gathered in the ballroom and Rollo kicks his plan into action, releasing the flowers. He cautions everyone that fighting back is pointless and self destructive, then when everyone immediately takes that as a cue to start blasting spells, he scoffs and says something along the lines of providing incentive for good behavior. He then uses the chains that decorate Morgan's costume to bind them and take them as a hostage, yanking them up to the balcony like a yo-yo. Morgan is furious and shouts for the others to run, Deuce shouts back that running is a coward's move and Rollo is scum and stupid. Doesn't he know that taking a hostage only pisses NRC students off more? Now they're definitely gonna take him down!

Rollo scoffs, knocks Morgan out, uses the trap door to drop all the NRC students out of the ballroom, and leaves for the bell tower to oversee the city. Yuu/MC is left to flee into the city and Canon again marches on.

Malleus has competition for how pissed off he is this time around; everyone is surprised at how incensed Azul is about Morgan getting yoinked until he starts whining about how he's absolutely gonna get eaten alive by Jade and Floyd if he comes home without their brother. His profits would be ruined! They'd never work with him again! And what kind of employer would he be if he couldn't keep his staff safe, really, this whole thing is a blow to his reputation as an entrepreneur. He should have picked up on Rollo being shady, he had everyone's clothes sizes down to Azul's glasses prescription.

Ruggie asks Azul if he's team "rush in and fuck 'em up" like Malleus, Deuce, and Riddle seem to be edging towards, Azul immediately back peddles. Yeah no, he's getting Morgan back... after Malleus does his thing.

Epel once again does his thing and points out that the plants around Malleus when he was raging died of magic overload, which inspires everyone to ring the Bell of Solace to use its magic to wipe the fire lotuses out.

Professor Trein once again cautions them about Rollo likely being at the top of the tower guarding the bell, but admits that he has no idea where Morgan might be being kept. Nor does he know why Morgan was a target; he asks Azul why this may be the case, Azul just goes "I wonder..." and ominously trails off.

Idia mumbles about this being the worst sort of "save the princess" quest; Jamil and Ruggie bemoan that Morgan has it easy what with getting to be unconscious for this whole mess; Epel states that they can just beat Morgan's location out of Rollo, so let's get going! For lack of better ideas, everyone agrees and canon proceeds apace as the students of NRC move to storm Noble Bell College by force.

When Azul, Malleus, Sebek, Silver, and Idia get to the room that holds Rollo's diary, they begin reading it and quickly discover that Rollo makes mention of receiving letters as part of his routine. Then everyone goes HUH?! and it's revealed that Morgan and Rollo are pen pals. They know each other. Rollo invited the strongest mage of NRC and Morgan specifically. (Everyone else was just death fodder to make the specific requested people showing up less suspicious.)

Sebek is screaming about betrayal, Azul is pissed off that Morgan never mentioned knowing Rollo (a useful connection), and Malleus is, surprisingly, the most reasonable of the bunch.

He's just even more pissed now because Rollo kidnapped Morgan after specifically inviting him to the festival. That's not just an affront to invites, that's an affront to friendship. You Don't Do That.

This actually calms everyone else down enough to get back to reading, at which point it's revealed why Rollo is trying to infect the city with fire lotuses, prompting a long, sad silence.

Back to canon, Idia, Azul, and Malleus finally reach the top of the bell tower to see Rollo waiting for them, Morgan unconscious against one of the pillars holding the belfry up. He's fortunately not tied up, but he's slumped over like a doll with his strings cut, and Azul hypothesizes that he'd been drugged because normally Morgan would be awake by now with all the commotion.

The battle begins and it immediately becomes apparent that it's a lot harder to fight this battle when there's a hostage. Idia and Azul insist that Malleus not go all out against Rollo because it'd take everyone in the belfry down with him and Morgan can't shield himself. Azul's on the side of Jade and Floyd killing him dead if he returned Morgan home to them as a pile of ash- and forget that, he'd be a pile of ash too! The twins would kill him double dead! Idia frets about killing the 'princess' being an 'instant game over', plus yeah, he likes being alive thx. Please don't blow them all up.

Malleus reluctantly concedes, Rollo mocks Malleus for not going all out, Malleus notices how Rollo is fighting and points out that Rollo isn't going all out either: he's conspicuously standing right in front of Morgan. Realizing what the ploy is, Idia sends a blast of magic right at Morgan and Rollo steps in front of it, pulling up a shield to deflect the blow. Rollo's eyes go wide as the NRC boys catch on and start aiming their spells at Morgan directly, forcing Rollo on the defensive.

While this happens, Idia tries to talk Rollo down about how Rollo's actions really stem from the guy's own self hate, as irresponsible use of magic is what got Rollo's younger brother killed. Being unable to stop it, then manifesting magic later in life? It must have burned like fire, so it's no wonder that Rollo is using that same blaze in his heart to take his anger and sorrow out on the world. But throwing a tantrum isn't going to fix it, and when some rando guy shows even the slightest hint of understanding your pain, you don't get to just kidnap them until they agree with you!

Azul throws in a snarky comment at that point that if you have to kidnap someone to win an argument, the point you're arguing from is stupid. Get better at rhetoric. Idia snarks back that that's not rhetoric, that's just common sense.

Idia ends on a jab at Rollo for his position and his actions up to this point being a joke, laughing at him, at which point Rollo snaps and throws a giant fireball at the trio. As in canon, Azul takes the brunt of it and uses Deuce's borrowed signature spell to return the blast right back at Rollo. Due to the nature of Deuce's magic being a form of magical payback, the blast avoids Morgan entirely, as they'd had no hand in the damage dealt.

Tired and furious, Rollo sets himself ablaze with his unique magic and throws everything he has at the NRC trio, well past the point of caring about anyone's safety, including his own. This still isn't enough however and with one last push from Malleus, he's extinguished and thrown backwards into Morgan's prone body. This is enough to wake the eel mer... and wake up Morgan does.

He hurts. His costume is in tatters, he's a little bit on fire, his mouth tastes like sand from the drugs Rollo forced down his throat (he may have tried to bite him with his pharyngeal jaws for that), and he is done. Morgan has also just woken up and is more than a little running on autopilot.

As such, when Rollo is bodily thrown into them, the first thing Morgan does is wrap their arms around him in a parody of a hug and bite down as hard as they can on Rollo's shoulder.

Rollo screams.

The next moment is what's shown in their groovy card; Morgan stands up, squinting at the shaking body of his supposed friend, fierce and furious and a little bit groggy with an expression somewhere between 'ready to kill' and 'where the fuck am I'. On Morgan, these expressions look very similar.

Morgan growls out that usually when people ask him for gardening advice, they don't try to kill him with the results- oh wait, Rollo didn't try to kill him. He tried to kill everyone else. And that's worse. Morgan points out that if those flowers got out of the city limits, all of Twisted Wonderland would be in danger. Jade. Floyd. All his family, all his friends; the people who built the school Rollo so loves, the people who make the pastries he eats, the costumes they wear, the people that make life possible in Fleur City. And... at NRC too. For that reason, Rollo had to be stopped.

Malleus agrees with Morgan, saying that that was well said; Azul is annoyed because Morgan just woke up and it was him, Idia, and Malleus who did all the work. Idia tries to jeer at Rollo in gamer speak but at this point Morgan turns around and glares at the trio, prompting them to shut up.

At this point Rollo wheezes out a question about what Morgan is doing, as the eel mer is now moving to lean over him. Morgan just silently places his hand over where Rollo is putting pressure on his wound, gathering some of Rollo's blood on their fingertips. They then reach down and grab some ash, mixing the two together, before moving to the four corners of the belfry to sketch out some runes.

Malleus grins fiercely and points out that the marks are wards for amplification and healing. Morgan nods, distracted, then goes to the bell pull, looking right at Rollo as he raises his hands to the rope, a thin frown on his face.

For the good of the world, Rollo had to be stopped, Morgan states coldly. This? This is for me. And with that, Morgan rings the Bell of Solace, magic pealing out with each loud chime to resonate with the wards to cast a visible wave of power over the city. In the wake of the traveling wave of sheer magic power, fire lotuses wither, wounds are healed, and the city begins to recover just the slightest bit.

Trein's back even cracks back into place; it truly is a miracle.

The quartet from NRC watch in wonder as normalcy returns while in the background Rollo snivels, sobbing into his left hand as blood trickles sluggishly from between the fingers of his right.

Idia, as in canon, points out the error of Rollo's ways and how his ego blotted out the fact that ridding the world of magic only served Rollo; it wouldn't actually help his dead brother any. Morgan mostly stays quiet through this, only chiming in once to comment that saying that you're doing something for someone else's good doesn't automatically mean you're helping them. This silence continues as Malleus sweeps everyone away to check on the gargoyles and the other NRC mages.

When Azul and Malleus force Rollo's hand and convince him to make sure the ball will the happen as planned, Morgan is with Idia, commenting that even though he slept through all the drama, somehow hearing about fancy events like this makes him feel tired again. With that, everyone returns to their rooms to sleep. Morgan doesn't pay attention to, nor can they muster the effort to care, when Rollo's eyes trail after them as they retreat.

Time passes and eventually, the NRC students gather together again in preparation for the ball. Morgan arrives with Yuu and Grim, commenting how he had been checking on Trein.

Apparently, despite being healed from the strain of pulling up flowers for hours, Trein had still opted not to attend. Their professor had settled in for a nap and refused to be woken, heh- out like a light. Ruggie snickers at that, snidely commenting on Trein's age. At this point Rook points out that Morgan's clothes are fixed, and here Grim chimes in, saying that that was what Trein had been up to before he'd settled in for his nap. After all the work the great Grim and Yuu had done to fight back against the fire lotuses, their clothes had been wrecked, so Trein had decided to fix it.

Morgan smiles a little and says that Trein has a way with a needle and thread that the man claimed to have picked up from his daughters. When he saw Morgan's costume in tatters, he'd decided to fix it too since he was already helping Yuu and Grim.

Malleus arrives on the scene soon after this and canon proceeds apace with NRC going on to perform one of Fleur city's traditional songs as a gift for being invited to the event to begin with. Morgan is the one playing the instrumental accompaniment. Finally, everyone disperses to partake in the festivities.

Malleus goes to dance with Rollo, Azul to schmooze, Idia to hide, and Morgan goes to the snack table. He gathers a small plate of nibbles and goes to stand in a corner, but upon bringing a bite to their lips, he's unable to convince himself to eat it, the memory of Rollo drugging them still fresh in their mind. Rollo, free of Malleus' attentions, finds Morgan thus and while he isn't aware of the larger trauma around poisons and drugged food, he still realizes the problem.

Swaying close to hide what he's doing from the crowd, Rollo takes a few grapes from Morgan's plates and bites into them, showing Morgan the other half of the grape so they can see there's nothing in them. Rollo then breaks a cracker in half and the two eat through the rest of the plate together. At the very end, Morgan says that he can't forgive Rollo... But he's willing to be convinced.

This is an invitation to continue being pen pals and Rollo recognizes it as such, wryly claiming that he'll put more thought into his arguments from here on out. And with that, the ball ends.

When everyone gets home to NRC, Azul and Morgan trudge back to Octavinelle with heads held high and exhaustion in their hearts. Neither of them are looking forward to explaining the events of their trip to Morgan's brothers and Azul is halfway pondering if he can throw Morgan under the bus and get out of it. Unfortunately, eels are excellent ambush predators and so Floyd and Jade find the pair immediately.

Morgan offers up the souvenirs they got their brothers as a distraction, which works long enough for the quartet to set up a blanket fort in the threels' room and change into pajamas. Then Floyd brings out a bag of popcorn and everyone pauses when Morgan hesitates before having any.

This is enough to break Azul's silence and he begins to explain the events leading up to Morgan's kidnapping and Rollo's betrayal. Morgan chimes in where he's able, at which point Azul then rounds on Jade and Floyd to complain to them that Morgan had apparently known Rollo all along. This prompts some complaints from them too, dramatically flailing about how Morgan just loooooves their secrets, and why couldn't he swing them some invites to the ball too?

Morgan grudges out that all he and Rollo really spoke about was academics, Azul bites out that six page letters on the topic of magical law in regards to minors and the mentally infirm is hardly just 'academics'. Floyd teases Morgan for writing essays for fun, Jade prompts everyone to get back on topic.

When Morgan gets to the bit about how Rollo used their costume against them as a trap and dumped everyone else down the trap door, Jade and Floyd very carefully don't get quiet. They just tease Morgan for being put out of commission so easily and how he really should have gotten the two eel mer passes to attend the ball too. Floyd smirks and says that a chance to 'let loose' and meet Morgan's 'friend' would have been a lot of fun; Jade does his 'woe is me' routine about a waste of good food when Morgan gets to the bit when Rollo drugged him; and everyone gets a good laugh when Morgan admits to trying to bite Rollo that first time.

From there Azul takes over telling the story and with plenty of good cheer and popcorn to go around, Morgan relaxes enough to eat freely, something that pleases their friend and brothers a lot. Not that he notices, of course, beyond just kind of idly eating whatever is handed to him as he twaddles on about which runes exactly he used to amplify the magic from the Bell of Solace and why.

All is well that ends well, yeah?

(When Morgan gets a letter from Rollo next week, there's a lot of screaming involved. Jade, Floyd, and Azul all liked it better when they thought Morgan was getting love letters.)

[tobiasdrake]

The Hundred Line: Last Defense Academy 82 - Some Leeway for Megasmith

Well, this morning was a complete unmitigated disaster and now we have feuding cliques. That's great. Sure to make our job go so much smoother.

Fucking A-Team embarrassed me in front of the cool weirdos! And the fucking B-Team embarrassed me in front of the surprisingly reliable douchebags! I got it from both sides!

But. Okay. We have new facilities to check out and then hopefully some Free Time. Let's go see who's killing who and where.

My money's on a new way to upgrade our abilities. Maybe increase our stats or something.

Though if we're going to start jamming mystery fluids into our spinal columns or something, we'll need to test it and make sure it's safe. Fortunately, I see a volunteer ready and eager to be our guinea pig.

But I'm going to use Ima instead.

Oh good, the assassin is laughing maniacally. That always means good things for the population of their immediate vicinity. And very good things for the shallow grave industry.

Yeah, you'd be surprised how lucrative a business model it is to dig six-foot holes anywhere on-demand, no questions asked and no in-person meetings with the client.

On paper, they're contractors for laying pipe and sanitation and stuff but. Well. If you know, you know.

So you're going to be our bio mechanic, huh? I suppose that makes a certain degree of sense. Not as much as Tsubasa as our mechanical mechanic, but some.

OH COOL WE'RE DOING DRUGS

Whew

I thought we were gonna have to like cut ourselves open and get cyborg implants or some shit. But no, this is where we make the "Attack Potion" and "Defense Potion" and stuff that the B-Team had at their school. Okay, I get what this place is. It's a glorified pharmacy.

I don't need anything from here because I'm a straight-edge but be sure to let the others know. Several of them could use a chill pill or two to take the edge off. And Shouma needs about five stimulants.

THIS IS THE FATE OF HUMANITY, NOT THE FUCKING OLYMPICS, TAKUMI

WE ARE UNDER NO OBLIGATION TO COMPETE FAIRLY WITH THE BING-BONG BANDITS.

Why do you have to suck the oxygen out of every room?

Oh, no, there it is. There's the cyborg stuff.

Hey, quick question, do you have like a cool laser eye under that eyepatch? Asking for a friend.

Darumi. The friend is Darumi. She's curious about how it can be used to add complexity to a Killing Game murder.

Yeah, you don't really need it. I'm sure you got the Super Saiyan gene from Taka, so you should be fine as is.

OH MY GOD

THANK YOU

I'm glad someone remembers that we're missing someone.

You're getting stronger, Kako. I can feel the will to assert yourself within you, and it's growing day by day. Give it time. We'll be here when you're ready.

It's almost like this is a military base or something.

Thank you for your service, Kyoshika.

Yeah, as our resident trapper and engineer, you would be at home in a workshop like this, wouldn't you?

That's an interesting hobby of yours, by the way. I don't usually think of alleged autocrats as being so capable in manufacturing.

...now, when you say "involvement", do you mean as investors and business owners or down on the assembly line? Because only one of those seems to explain your skillset.

Oh, never mind. That's actually a pretty satisfying explanation for all the stuff that's suspicious about your claim to an upper-class heritage.

Alright, Megasmith, I'll give you some leeway here. But if it turns out you're full of shit, I'm going to have the biggest "I KNEW IT" for you in the history of fraud.

Only some leeway, however, because that's not how skill development works. At all. You don't get good at manufacturing because of family history, you get good at it by physically doing the labor with your hands enough to develop a talent.

I still think you worked in the factory.

As unreasonable as that demand might sound, when taken with the context of the Revive-o-Matic, it's actually entirely plausible.

When we die, we're back on our feet between waves of enemy attacks. It's super fast. Probably takes like five minutes. If we put the ritual blades on a table right in front of the machine, we could have it done in half an hour.

We're not gonna 'cause fuck her, but I'm just saying that's a personal choice, not a logistical one.

In any case, it's time to go to--

...deal with whatever this is. Darumi or Eito, which will it be? My money's on Eito. Darumi likes to come calling early in the morning while Eito's the late night guy.

Bingo. You guys are like clockwork.

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for not saving my adopted sister’s life?

Hello. I believe that I am the asshole in this situation, however, some… associates of mine have contested this. I expect my opinion to be proven right. 

For context, I am an artificial lifeform (immortal/ageless, M). I was created to be the ultimate weapon and also to cure disease. The methods of my creation are not important. After I was made, my creator’s granddaughter, M (deceased, child, F), decided to try and befriend me. We became very close and eventually came to see each other as siblings. We lived on a space station, which she was on because she was terminally ill and the sanitation and manufactured gravity of the space station slowed the development of her illness. We always dreamed of going to Earth someday, even though M and I both knew that it was more likely that she would die.

My creation was funded by a government organization. As previously stated, they intended me to be the ultimate weapon. My creator, G (deceased, adult, M), did not want this for me and hid my abilities. Eventually, this government agency raided the space station, capturing G (since he was the lead scientist involved with my existence) and killing every other person on board. M and I tried to get away and escape to earth. We made it to the escape pods, but there was only room for one of us. I wanted her to escape and leave me behind, since they needed me alive. She insisted we could both fit, and when I entered, she closed the door. M told me to protect humanity, and launched the escape pod. As soon as she did so, she was shot in the head by one of the agents. 

The rest of my story is not important. Suffice to say that I was brainwashed and frozen in cryostasis for decades, but it does not matter. I could’ve done more to save M, I should’ve done more to save her and I didn’t. I know that I am the asshole, but I will ask one more time. Am I the asshole here?

Edit: I’m the “associate” (come on, we’re friends). If you’re wondering how I edited this, I stole OP’s phone because I KNEW he would do this stunt. OP, please, I am begging you. You are not TA, you just have PTSD and survivor’s guilt. Take my hand. Let’s go to therapy together.