#ive tried so hard to get that file like where is it....

[wizardmp3]

pretentious art mutuals i want you to know that yall are the reason i sound vaguely competant in this art class rn

[anundyingfidelity]

I'M A RUIN — Soldier Boy/Ben (Part I)

Summary: After the events of the Seven Tower, you present Grace Mallory a new secret project you're working on already to develop a cure to Compound V. The only problem? You need Soldier Boy for that.

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x female reader.

Word count: 1,536.

Warnings for series: set after S3 (spoilers), some OOC!Ben, some depressed!Ben, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, slow-burn, language, PTSD, reader has Compound V (she's no Vought supe tho), Soldier Boy being an usual asshole, reader is a fucking liar.

Notes: As soon as I saw him my feminism left my body immediately and my inner voice agreed that I'd let him take away my human rights with no question. He's an absolute idiot, would sleep with him 100%.

Heads up as English is not my native language sooo, yeah you know what follows. Lord pls give me inspo to finish this fic, amen.

☕ if you like my writing, support me with a ko-fi !

get yourself in the taglist!

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII

GEN MASTERLIST! — SERIES MASTERLIST!

Part I: For The Common Good

Two months.

Two months ago Grace Mallory decided to put the former greatest supe into sleep. Somehow, you managed to get in her head, explaining your new project to her and finding a new use for Soldier Boy, who had enough rest for 40 years.

You knew what happened at the Seven Tower, how Soldier Boy and Butcher's team ended up there to finally kill Homelander. Grace tried doing some shit against Vought before, but she never managed to win. It wasn't different this time. What was better then, that to develop a cure for supes like you, who didn't ask for it? People who never used their powers in public, nor seeked fame and money.

As a doctor in Chemistry, you were developing a cure for Compound V with a secret team. Suitable for you, you were in the same CIA tower Colonel Mallory decided to encapsulate Soldier Boy to, initially, spend the rest of his days in. You had luck Grace gave green light to the project, even though your team was already working on it without her approval anyway. But it was so much better if she found out properly.

Making your way to the super secured wing where Soldier Boy was held out of his sleep, you gripped the folder in your hands. You were scanned thoroughly before going inside a cold space, where two different crystal windows and metal doors separated the place. The armed guard guided you to the first room to check first through the window. You sighed, seeing a man sitting down, hands cuffed to a harsh steel table, gaze lost. It was him.

"The keys," you requested the guard by your side.

"Doctor-"

"I said, keys. He doesn't need to be cuffed."

He complied to your order, clearly annoyed but with a straight face and you walked to the closed door.

"If something happens, I can take care of myself. Don't let anyone inside understand?" you said.

He gave a nod. With that, he let you inside the room, the doors closing behind your back.

The prisoner observed you carefully as soon as you entered. His gaze was tired, but he seemed ready to attack, and it was completely hard to ignore his rough stare on you as you made your way to your seat in front of him. Soldier Boy observed you, placing the folder on the surface, and you held his gaze, not flinching for a second. Until you decided to talk first.

"I am glad you're awake. My name is Y/N, I am a doctor at the facility. Just wanna know how you're doing today," you spoke in a calm and soft way, so he could see you were not a threat.

He saw you roaming through the pages of the file, which he recognized as a copy of his file, and you took a pen from your lab coat to make some anotations.

"Not a smart move to let a fucking doctor here," he said with a deep voice, lips forming a straight line. "What do you want?"

"I want to help you."

"Cut the bullshit."

"I want to talk. If you let me, I will uncuff you so we can have a chat, like civilized people. Just don't try to escape, you won't go too far."

He raised an eyebrow as you reached his wrists and carefully, you set him free from the metal grip.

"I know what happened with Butcher and his boys," you said, confident that he would not try anything else. "About Homelander and your relationship with him."

"What the fuck do you know?" Soldier Boy tensed visibly hearing the name of the bastard. Still, he remained on his seat. "Want some info? You can lick Grace's pussy for that."

"She is, actually, the one who approved me to be here right now," you answered, brushing off his vocabulary. You used to deal with assholes like him all the time.

He scoffed. "Why?"

"Ben," you called his real name softly. "You've been sleeping for four decades. You deserve a second chance, I am offering you that. In some sort of way."

"I'm not going to be part of that freakshow-"

"This has nothing to do with Vought," you cut his words, his tone rising and you knew perfectly why. "You just need to be here in the facility, awake, in a dignified place we will give you so you can learn everything you missed. We can give you therapy, a comfy room, anything you want that's legal, of course..."

His jaw clenched, feeling you would ask for something more. "In exchange of what?"

"I know it's hard, unfortunately you won't be able to get out, but you don't deserve to sleep forever again," you sighed. "I will pay you visits and follow your improvements because you're human, after all. That's all I ask from you," you gave him a smile for the first time.

For a few moments, he said nothing, as if making up his mind about it. "Alright, anything but coming back to that shit hole. I need reefer though."

"Lucky you, that's legal now. We can certainly make it happen."

He looked around the room as you let him go inside first. Not the fanciest, not the shittiest. It had the basics: a bed, a sofa, a TV, a closet, a bookshelf with different books, magazines and newspapers he wasn't sure would read any time, a separate door for a bathroom, enough privacy, and no windows though. It wasn't really a cell, but he did look and felt somehow like a hostage. Just a little less if he could say.

"This is what we have for now, I am all ears if you request something else to have in here," you began as he paced around and tested the bed, sitting down on the mattress.

Ben still wasn't convinced on why you offered this to him. Sceptic, he gave a good look at you, roaming his eyes at your standing figure in a fucking lab coat. Christ, he hated those. Too pretty for a doctor, but too dumb to be locked with a supe like him. He was so tired that he didn't try and hit on you like he normally would with any walking pussy that appeared in plain sight. He was too exhausted to even give a shit.

"Lemme think about it, doctor."

"Of course, take your time," you replied as he walked toward the bookshelf, scanning through the titles there were. He recognized only half of them.

"So, I will be imprisoned here instead of a fucking eggshell," Ben said, turning around to meet you. "Charming," he smirked, dragging the words out of his mouth. "Doing charity."

He watched your face drop as you shook your head. "It's not like that-"

"Then why keep me awake?" Ben insisted as he gave steps to get close to you. "I can't die, it's much easier to force my sleep in a capsule your boss made specially for me."

He stopped mere inches in front of you, your eyes never turned away from him. He thought you were fucking brave just by keeping his dark gaze.

"Ben, I told you I will be watching your progress. You can grow from all of this with our help-"

"What kind of doctor are you?"

"A psychiatrist. That's why I'm here."

Ben scoffed with a grin showing on his lips. He didn't believe in that kind of shit, but oh, well. What was he gonna do about it? He was tired of sleeping, Mallory captured him, and you were here, giving him a shelter for no cost, but his freedom. In his mind, that was temporary of course. With time, a plan would come. Right now, he just needed to keep up with the fucked up things of the modern world.

"I guess you would come and babysit me then," he said, going back to take a sit on the bed.

"Wouldn't use 'babysit you' but I will come to see you, that's for sure."

He nodded. Silence was his answer, so you continued.

"Just general rules. Our people will bring you three meals a day, if you're missing something that you need then just push the button by the door, there will be guards outside to assist you on that. Also, there are clothes your size on the closet and personal products so you can change and take a shower," he stayed silent again, just taking in your words. "If you don't need anything then I leave you to get comfortable," you said, about to leave.

"Wait. I do need something," he hesitated for a moment, but he continued anyway. "Don't use those lab coats when you come in."

Your eyes widened, he quickly realised you already knew why he was requesting that when you started to take off the coat, revealing your formal attire. You wrapped the coat on your arm and cleaned your throat.

"I totally understand, I will keep that in mind when I come tomorrow. And I will ask for your reefer too."

You flashed a final polite smile and left him to get settled. Ben breathed out. Fuck, he really needed a shower.

[heartbeat-eras]

My 100th Post... (Stress Test Recording at bottom of the post)

Well I can't believe I have made 100 posts! It's one of those milestones that make you look back at where you have been and what brought you to this point. Now I'm a big nerd so I thought I would break down some numbers.

Of the 100 post.. (two had 2 Audio files and 1 had a video and Audio in 1 - Hence the 103 below)

61 had Audio Recordings

6 had ECG videos

4 were reblogs

32 were replies / word posts

I've been active for 260 days

I hit 559 followers (which I hope means you like my little heart)

I've had 277 comments

342 reblogs

4437 likes

A total of 5056 notes

Favourites (you really like the ones where I push her to her limits)

The Fastest She Ever Did Beat..

And She Keeps Getting Faster...

Just a little exercise.. right?

Locations

There are 11 recorded at Erbs

5 at mitral

44 at Pulm (surprise)

8 At Tri

Steth

17 were contributed by the Stemoscope

2 by my KindCare Cardio

26 by the Plum Littmann Classic

2 by the Champagne Littmann Classic

16 by the Cardiology IV

Beats

Fastest - 198

Slowest - 41

adding all the time together there is 16 hours, 17 min and 26 sec of my heartbeat posted publicly on this blog.

She averages about 93 on meds so that's approx 90,901 beats (I'm not nerdy enough to count 16 hours of files lol)

But while all this is fun to look at numbers and all the posts I've made along the way, going back through them made me remember the moments I've shared with you all. When new people popped into my existence and earnt real estate in this little heart. Before coming here I could barely express this Cardiophilia thing, and the posting and the people I have met have helped me really understand and explore it so it's now such a beautiful addition to my life. Despite never meeting them, I have made some epic friends, some of which I consider to be in my closest circle. Connecting with people on a "heart level" is something different and special. So I thank you all coz this community is all a part of making that a reality.

So with that being said, I know you're all here for this video and less words. So here I managed to get my 12 lead record an exercise recovery. We maxed out at 183 coz it is really hard to run with all those cables hahaha. I did my best to get the least amount of noise in the recording, but I hope you enjoy what I managed to pull off. Do you think she passed the stress test?

[hoseoksluna]

SMOKE, iv. | myg

pairing: idol!yoongi x smoke!oc (ft. jungkook)

genre: angst, heart-wrenching fluff

word count: 6.5k

summary: everything that hurts must begin to stop at one point. 

pinterest board: smoke / taglist: join / discord: join

warnings: DOMESTIC ABUSE, oc gets triggered a lot in this chapter, dissociation, anxiety, alcohol consumption, a brief mention of physical violence, religion, praying, jk and oc smoke together.

note: hi, my babies. i'm here with another chapter. i really like this chapter a lot and i like where it's heading, so i hope you like it as much as you do. let me know what yout think. sorry, this is a bit short, but i didn't want to drag it out, esp. if everything that needed to get settled did. i love you all soso much, mwah.

When Jungkook appears, uncanvassed, damp and abysmal, in the field of my swimming vision, I have to stop dead in my tracks to see if my inebriated brain isn’t playing tricks on me. 

He’s sat on the half-wet stone of the staircase leading up to the street where I live. My apartment complex is just straight up, a minute away from where he’s waiting for me, and the wheels within my brain cells begin to whirr and turn, reminding me that I tapped on the crescent moon icon on my phone before I absconded to my girl best friend for a heart-to-heart conversation and a new set of nails. Misty-eyed, I recounted to her the monochrome poetry lines that bloomed through last night between me and Yoongi and wilted in my bare, sleep-cloaked hands this morning while she filed down the freshly baked acrylic powder. The moment she heard the deadly words that were spat at me, she flung her rosy, tiger-print file across her station, got up to her feet without a word and came back with a bottle of my favorite pink nectar in even pinker, fancy glass, certainly not meant for wine. 

And I downed each and every refill in one, singular gulp everytime she moved onto the next step and my hand was free. 

And Miyun… as much as she erupted in her idiosyncratic rage, her work on my nails was immaculate and untouched by her vivid lava. Curses and funny remarks, that yanked the weight off my shoulders and wiped it out using her vigor and red-hot magma, shattered the room until I laughed so hard that the alcohol dipped into my system far quicker than usual. She glued on the crosses I had asked for while I chortled, and she shushed me, breaking into a soft, non-obvious laughter that she tried to keep at bay while her hair fanned around her. Cherry-red, long and lustrous, curling on the smooth skin of her arms. The laughter died down and silence replaced it as she laid down the last layer of top coat over her artwork—and I felt a certain inspiration seize me. 

“What if I dyed my hair red, too?” I voiced it out, a seawave of different kinds of co-existing emotions ebbing and flowing in me. Airiness and offense, care and distance. And they were all roped around the memory of Yoongi in me like the roots of flowers in a colorful meadow soil. Vast and expansive, yet delicate and frail. One sweep of the wind’s harsh breath and they tilt—and remain tilted. 

I do, too, despite my efforts. 

Despite my ingrained fight to straighten and my strivings to be unaffected, unagitated and undisturbed by the way I was disrespected by Yoongi. They were all fruitless, however. Barren of my long-exercised resilience against the violence of men, my wariness and vigilance of them only strengthening. 

He took me to the far north side of paradise with his tongue and fingers in the middle of the night. And when the sun rose, he treated me like I dragged him to the deepest of hell and left him there to perish of starvation and thirst.

I should have seen it coming and prepared myself for it, especially when I had decided in my heart to take care of him, take care of the deep-sunk, nameless agony in him that prevented him from coloring our stanzas. But alas… it came to face me too soon, in my gossamer defenselessness.

Yoongi metamorphosed into the vermin that Ji-hoon was. His face faded on top of his while my ex-boyfriend’s body remained intact, broad and fear-instilling. And when Yoongi stood up so quickly, I sailed back, against my will, to the sheer realm of brutality that I had dwelled in, years ago. Yoongi with Ji-hoon’s body, abandoning me after I got myself into trouble. For wearing too much make-up, for having long manicured nails, for dressing a certain way that was impertinent in our relationship. He would leave a bruise for every mistake I made to discipline me, to ascertain that I would learn from it and never do it again. And I did learn after I was depleted of color-correcting concealers, the sinews I would use to raise my hands and tap the cream product in, erasing my foolish mistakes from the eyes of Jungkook, Minyun and my parents. 

I fought for too long during the relationship. For my freedom, for my dignity. And I fought for too long after the relationship to go through it all over again. 

I dreaded being hit when Yoongi stood up from my couch. Flinched when he went around the coffee table past me because I anticipated the swing of his arm with my eyes boring holes into my carpet. I had flexed my muscles to brace myself against the incoming physical pain so hard that I nearly gasped, pathetically, for air when he walked on into the corridor. 

But I still couldn’t look at him. 

Although I knew, rationally, that Ji-hoon wasn’t present, I didn’t let up until he shut the door behind me with a soft click because my body didn’t connect to my clear-headedness. It was caught in a fight or flight response like an ensnared bird. 

And this must’ve been what Minyun was seeing when she contemplated me, paused in the middle of dusting her station clean with her pale-pink kabuki brush. Because she resumed right after once I reciprocated her gaze and curled her lips under her teeth. 

“We can go to Olive Young then, and stop by 7-Eleven after to get some snacks and drinks.” 

She reflected on my wound and didn’t hesitate to cradle my head and bring me to a safe refuge. 

And I didn’t hesitate to wrap my arms around her and hug her until all those oxymoronic emotions, which I felt towards Yoongi, dulled in the smallness of me. 

I let her take the lead. Choose the vibrant, deep cherry tint that would annul my trigger and dye me anew. I sipped on my iced cherry drink for the occasion while she glided the brush along my strands, splattering most of the orange paste on the thick wisp of the symbol of my connection with Jungkook, the only man in my life who never used his manliness against me. I thought about him as she rubbed it in; and I thought about Grookey. Thought about how, in that very moment, I was saying goodbye to the self I possessed while being attached to them. 

And when Minyun washed my hair and curled her round brush through it, the stark contrast to who I was before overwhelmed me so much that I began to weep. 

I couldn’t recognize myself, I didn’t know who that girl in the mirror was. But something told me that she was stronger than who I used to be. And while it felt petrifying to be standing alone in the crook of my past self and my current self, the longer I gaped at myself, the more I adapted to the assurance that she was emanating. 

She wasn’t going to take any shit from any man ever again. Certainly not with darkly, sequoia-kissed hair like that.

Minyun brushed her thumbs under my eyes and shifted me deeper into the refuge by grabbing my shoulders and guiding me to her balcony, where she sat me down on her chair while she crouched in front of me. Sliding a tiny cigarette into her IQOS and taking a puff, she leaned over to the square table and grabbed her pack, nudging a longer, classic cigarette between my chapped lips. 

I never smoked on my own. I would take hits from her slender, pink case of flavored air or steal her cigarettes when I had enough buzz from the alcohol in my veins. Forget about it the following days and weeks that we wouldn’t see each other because I was such a hermit. But I didn’t want to be one anymore—I wanted to spend more time with her from now on. With Jungkook, too. 

“You look so pretty with your new hair,” Minyun said, sweetly, leaning back on her sock-clad heels in her Louis Vuitton slides, wrapping her arm around her knees like I did around my chest last night, and I inhaled her compliment along with the drag of her cigarette. “We’re twins now.” 

I had become such a fragile egg shell that her words multiplied in me as they settled in my lungs, bursting and imbuing me with pigments of confidence. And I beamed through my tears, a light protruding through clouds, as I exhaled the smoke. 

It felt as natural as breathing—to claim her cigarettes and make them a thing of my own. 

In place of Grookey. 

It’s what Jungkook spots first, instead of my hair, once he senses my presence and lifts his head, standing up to his feet, towering over me. And he must’ve been waiting for a long time because his scolding words are flung out first before anything else.

“Where have you been? Do you know how scared I was? I called you up. I rang your doorbell and you wouldn’t answer. All day.” 

I take a long drag just to stabilize myself, gratitude unfolding in my sternum for the way he isn’t manly. 

He’s merely caring. 

Hovering above me, moving his arms in my proximity, features stern in his soft manner, and yet I’m not threatened by my fear because I know him, because I trust him. Trust that everything about him is securely soft and boy-like, round and endearing—even when he raises his voice a little at me. 

Minjun and I took another bottle of rosé to her balcony that we finished by passing it to each other and smoking like there was no tomorrow, so the liters of the nectar that flit in my bloodstream elevate how I see him and my body is naturally inclined to do something I normally wouldn’t do. 

And much to Jungkook’s surprise and a little bit to his dismay, I listen to that hushed tone of my heart and obey it—discovering that it is an aid and nothing else. 

“Since when do you—” 

I silence his stupid, yet valid question by wrapping my arms around his neck, careful not to nip his skin with the hot prickle of the cigarette. Its orange tip envelops us in a soft glow in the middle of the darkening evening, the smoke surrounding us like a protection ring. It takes three beats of my heart—which in reality must be his and surely not mine considering the numbness that has descended, fully, in me—for his arms to move and swathe me in complete safety. 

He’s rescuing me, like Minyun did. Bouncing off of her and finishing the job, without knowing a thing about it. 

We become one, singular form of a penumbra, dressed as we are in this unlit shade. Jungkook with his cargos and baggy sweatshirt; me with my tracksuit that’s too big for me. His neck is cold and I scatter a little bit of my warmth upon that skin, regretful that he waited for me this long because of my foolish forgetfulness. 

My dearest boy best friend. 

I squeeze him harder and Jungkook buries his nose in my shoulder, fisting the fabric of my hoodie on my back. 

And then, he sniffs my hair. Makes a Korean sound of discovery and surprise. Pulls back just to look at me with narrowed, inspecting eyes. Drags me to the nearest street lamp—and I watch his eyelids grow to their original, bulbous size. 

Roundie. 

He has noticed my hair, at last. 

Fluffs it and completely destroys the impeccable blowout that Minyun gave me. 

“What the fuck, Jungkook?” I grumble, pushing his hand away, but, like my hoodie, he fists both of my wrists in one hand and sinks the other one into my length, following the diligent curve that Minyun created. 

I huff, and the sound is deadened by the devastating words he utters, disappearing into the prickling coldness of the air. 

“What did he say to you that made you do this?”

I dwell in silence, my numbed emotions leaden, dented and yet sharp enough that I feel their resurfacing pain. 

I look away, untangling my wrists from his hold. Jungkook unclenches his fist, but the ash from my cigarette lands on the back of his hand. I gasp, quick to brush it away, however he’s quicker. Doesn’t make a sound in response. Shakes his hand and steals my cigarette, puffing on it. 

My mouth parts. Shock strangles me. 

He smokes? 

Jungkook’s seriousness droops as he chuckles, dryly, at my reaction. He takes a step back, slides a hand in the pocket of his pants, coalesces into the shadows of the early blooming night. 

“I didn’t know you smoked either,” he says, smiling in that lopsided way of his, a large dent in his cheek. And it feels as though I’m getting to know my best friend for the first time. What else is he hiding? What does he do, in utmost normalcy, when he’s not with me? 

He dips his chin to look at the cigarette before he flicks his thumb across its ivory butt. The ashy particles fly to the rocky ground in tandem with his smile. And his mind travels back to this morning’s misfortune, as rapid as a rocket shooting up beyond the clouds. 

“I’m not giving this to you until you tell me what he said. The last time you did something to your hair like this was when you left that good-for-nothing son of a bitch.” 

A fleck of memory appears before my eyes. Me dousing my hair in black dye with my own hands while Jungkook stood by; him putting my star clips in my no longer virgin strands to distract my tears, me sliding the same ones into his, making a middle part and laughing until my stomach hurt. He had healed me by just being with me, not expecting words, not expecting any explanations. 

Him asking me for them has a great meaning, a certain hastiness that I know full well has a stabbing pain, and I feel his fear, instead of mine. Understand, all of a sudden, why he waited for so long.

And I put him first, just so that emotion unclenches its fist from him. Nod my head to let him know that I’ll tell him, bare my heart for him. 

I walk backwards and sit down on the stony stairs. Jungkook joins me, right beside me. Takes a long drag of the cigarette as if to prepare himself for what I’m about to share with him—and I need the same smoky courage. I take it from him, puff on it and give it back to him. He gives me a gentle smile and I recognize the reason behind it.

A new form of bonding settles between us. 

I reciprocate the smile and gather my words in the brief silence. The wind helps me as it breezes through my hair, fondles my face ever so gently and when I lift my chin at its attention, my eyes stumble across the full moon. 

I breathe in its pristine energy. Let my lungs be full of its beams—and let it cleanse me, thoroughly. 

Jungkook’s patience helps me, too, as he quietly finishes the cigarette, stubbing it out on the step. Ready to listen. 

And so I begin. 

“I invited him upstairs because I wanted to,” I start and realize that I have to come forth with the truth. Deem that he deserves to know. I look inward, quickly, and try to detect any obstacles in me—but I find myself empty, cleansed, a dried fountain with no drops of water, yet I am free. With the alcohol still trickling in my bloodstream. “I didn’t feel sick. That was a lie.” I flick my eyes to his reaction, catch him widening his eyes and parting his mouth and I decide it’s time for another cigarette. I pull one for him and myself, lighting it up for the both of us. “I didn’t want you to know that I got triggered. I’m sorry for that.” 

Jungkook blows the smoke in the other direction, away from my face. He furrows his brows in pity as he leans his elbows on his outstretched knees. 

I expect him to yell at me… but he does the exact opposite, soothing me down to the marrow of my bone. 

“Triggered? How?” he asks, his voice so muted that I barely hear it, lips pursed in that eternal pout of his and mine mirror it, naturally. I appreciate his gentleness so much that I lean the side of my head against his shoulder. And he leans his against the top of mine. 

“I guess I wanted to be alone when I left the room and I found Hobi at the end of the hall. I sat with him for a little while and when he started talking, I realized he was drunk and my body gave up on me. I dissociated like I used to after the breakup. I thought I was better, that I healed from it, but it’s been a long since I was in the company of men, you know? I didn’t want to disappoint you, especially when I’d promised you that it wasn’t happening to me anymore.” 

I hear him take a strong puff and I reflect him, doing the same. Then, he sighs and extends his legs, his back rounding forward. I watch the smoke make patterns in the night-tinged air and I breathe differently, now that I’ve pulled the skeleton out of the closet. And even though my emotions are numb, my softness deepens when Jungkook takes the bony creature into his arms and begins to dance with it. 

“You could never disappoint me,” he whispers, his words the music for the dance, and I wrap my fingers around his clothed forearm, just holding him there, needing it. “You should’ve told me. Did you think I would tell you off for it? Of course not, you silly goose.” 

I chortle, and the smoke comes out in staccatos that are guided by my tender laughter. And he melts it with his following words. 

“How can I help you? Should I get you a therapist? I don’t want you to take meds for it…” he trails off, clicking his tongue and fishing out his phone from his pocket. His fingers move on the keyboard of his screen and the letters I read fracture my heart and glue it back together all the same. “Grounding techniques. Breathing slowly while counting. Different sounds, walking barefoot, blanket, ice cube or cold water—”

My mouth opens before my brain registers what my weakened heart longs to say. 

“Yoongi splashed cold water on my face and neck and that brought me back,” I spew out, tiny tears lining my vision at the memory, at the feel of his cold, solid hands, at the sight of his wide, fearful eyes that relaxed when he realized that I was back in the present times. “He saved me.” 

I blink them away; I smoke them away. 

Jungkook sucks in a breath, clicking on an article about dissociation and scrolling down. “Yoongi and I will be your therapists, then. For free.” 

I look away and withdraw from him, twiddling with my fingers. My heart enlarges, yearns for it—yearns to create a link to his beyond the physical bound we have, reach out for him like a child for its father, but my fear of being triggered again, of being afflicted by his pain slaps its arms away from him. 

It’s not meant to be—Yoongi is not the one for me because if he were, there wouldn’t be any barrier between us. And with that knowledge, my obsession with him, slowly and painfully, dissipates, leaving my frailty and my willingness to help him, if he’d ever need me, in the hands of God. 

But knowing the faces of manliness and ego, Yoongi won’t allow himself to be helped by me. And that bruises me more than the words he flung at me.  

Jungkook senses my absence more vividly than I want him to, and his head swivels in my direction, the article momentarily forgotten. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, prodding me, and it’s me who sighs this time. 

I take the last drag and gaze at the moon as I speak. “Yoongi can’t help me when he needs help himself.” 

The yellowish face of the bulbous planet nods at me and I feel, ever so slightly, at ease, leaning my elbows back on the steps. That is until a lump forms in my throat and, inertly, I ask the feminine luna for her strength, for her resilience, and I ask her to help me become my new self that resembles her so much. 

Jungkook locks his phone and stares at me. “What happened this morning?” 

And perhaps she does nurture me with what I need through her radiance after all because I don’t hesitate to tell him. 

“I wore lingerie to bed that was see-through and when I looked for him and found him crying on my couch, he told me, ‘can you, please, put something fucking on?’ and left,” I unravel, violently, mimicking Yoongi’s coarse morning voice, and Jungkook scoffs, averting his gaze. He sucks hard on the last of his cigarette before throwing it away with the same nerve, shaking his head as he thinks about those poisonous words. Validates me, like Minyun did. 

It takes several heartbeats and several more moonbeams puncturing my sternum before he turns back to me. 

“Check your phone.” 

A wrinkle between my brows. “Why?” 

“Just do it.” 

Without understanding why he wants me to do that, I comply. I pull out my phone from my purse, the light from the screen bathing me in stark blue. Jungkook chews on his bottom lip as he watches me read my notifications from him, Minyun and Netflix. And when I say nothing, he tilts his head and reads them on his own, only to groan and place it in his hands. 

Then, he stares off into the distance. 

“What?”

He takes my hand and drags me to my feet. “Come on.” 

I yelp and Jungkook yanks me to the patch of grass by the street lamp, kneeling by the gravel. And I can’t speak as he builds a praying altar of rocks, leaves and sticks. I can’t speak when he holds it in place and makes sure it doesn’t collapse, as small and sturdy as it is. And I can’t speak when he adorns it with an abandoned, pink flower petal that he finds nearby. Places it on the top of the last stone, against the flesh of the damp, green leaf that is propped by a petite rock. 

And in my silence, once he’s done, he tugs my hand down, sinking me to my knees. Sits back on his folded legs and presses his palms together. 

“God, I know that you know I don’t believe in you. My dad probably talks to you a lot about me, so I’m sure you know who I am. I don’t come to you because of me, though. I come to you right now because my friends need you,” Jungkook prays, his voice mellow and subdued, meant for my ears and the ears of God that I myself believe in, but don’t have a relationship with. I settle down into my respect for his bravery and kindness, closing my eyes, and I feel him enveloping his fingers around mine on my lap. My heart thumps and my other hand finds the way to it—I pin my palm to the left side of my chest, cradling those full-blooded strikes, willing the corners of my mouth not to quiver. “My dad says you know everything and right now I really hope that you know what Yoongi went through. I ask you, sincerely, to give him strength to be a better person. To make sure his feet don’t walk backwards but forward with the girl beside me. I also ask you to help her to not dissociate anymore, help her not remember that son of a bitch, sorry—that guy that broke her. And altogether, I ask you to heal them both. Also, make sure Yoongi mans up a little and texts her like I wanted. Or just do something, anything. Give him ideas. Make his balls grow or whatever. Thank you. Sorry for all I did. Amen.” 

The tears fall and I can’t halt them, nor do I want to. Lightness floods my chest, my mind, spreads all over my bones, and I breathe out in hiccups. I agree with his prayer by whispering the same ending word and when I glance at Jungkook, I see him meditating, privately, on something on his own. 

It inspires me, comforts me and impassions me to do the same. 

I flutter my eyes closed and quieten my breathing. 

Dear God, if I was wrong and this is for me, allow me to take care of Yoongi. Help us find a way towards each other and cleanse my heart from all the pain. 

And then the words spill, my prayer prolonging, and I discern that they don’t root from me, bathed in the glimmer of the moon as they are. 

I forgive him and I’m giving him another chance. Give us the opportunity to better our actions and communicate our pains. Give us the strength to do so. Give us the words. Give us peace of mind and clarity. Thank you. Amen. 

My tears have dried by the time I’m finished with my internal prayer. Jungkook has patiently waited the whole time, holding my hand, and he gives me the lovingest, most wholesome smile I’ve ever received in my life when I face him. He kisses my knuckles and I feel, strongly, that it seals our prayers. 

Helping me stand, it’s him who hugs me this time around. I bury my face in his chest, fisting the back of his sweatshirt like he did to me when I arrived. We remain like this, underneath the lenitive moonlight and the merciful eye of God that I sense upon us. And I know, in the abyss of my weakened heart, that I shall never forget about this moment. 

“Did you also feel that lightness in your chest?” Jungkook asks onto my hair, and I nod, too lost in my brimming, alive emotions—no longer numb, but erupting in tender colors—to answer. Love, thankfulness, delicate joy and that persisting lightness. 

Grabbing my shoulders, he breaks the hug and grins down at me. He glows underneath that street lamp, a pure whiteness lining his form, the tiny twinkling freckles of stars scattering upon his skin and I love him. 

I love my best friend. 

And the more I look at him, the more I’m reminded of the way I put the star clips in his hair and I think it would only be right if he were to wear them right now. 

I link my arm around his. 

“Let’s go inside.” 

The moonlight shone upon our way, ascertaining that we didn’t stumble. Reached a standstill and formed a ring around us when we stopped by the door to my apartment building and had another cigarette together, this time another shared one because I felt as though I had inhaled too much smoke throughout the day. 

The stars poked at my back in our silence, encouraging me to break it, and I did—once it was my turn to puff. I thanked him, earnestly, for the prayer, showed him my nails embellished with little silver crosses, ones he gaped at with utmost fascination before it all spurred something in him enough for him to share with me what went down earlier in the morning after Yoongi left my apartment. 

Crestfallen Yoongi, drenched from the rain, murky, cloud-bearing; the very one I know. Jungkook had to, essentially, extricate him from the force of his innermost downpour, and I waded through the torrent with each information he provided me. 

He was profoundly regretful and made a fool out of himself by choking at the sound of my name—something that made my cheeks ignite with coy flattery and my fingertips to tingle. The knowledge that he rued his actions wove through my prayer and quelled me, my heart and my mind, until there was no ounce of ache that bothered me. 

I entered a state of sobriety, plopping down onto my couch with a small basket of hair ties and clips. Jungkook wasn’t really cognizant of what I was doing as he focused on telling the story, describing, in his teasing manner, the way Yoongi looked like while he spoke of me. The way his cheeks flushed and light burst in his eyes. He was so preoccupied with the task that he didn’t flinch when I brushed his hair with my Kuromi tangle teezer, nor when I put up his hair in two pigtail buns and secured them with matching, violet Kuromi hair ties. 

His hair felt brittle in my fingers from all the bleach the stylist used on his hair. Briefly, I remembered the way he specifically asked her if there was a drugstore alternative to the professional dye and he went to buy it for me that very day and we splattered it on together, with him choosing the strand, of course. I made a mental note to talk about his hair with him later. 

I grew hot when he shifted to the part, where he read to him the message I sent for him. I had cleaned the whole apartment in effort to rid myself of the residue of my trigger, but my care for him remained because I understood where he came from. What I hadn’t known was that after listening to my heart and typing out the message, I would get tormented by my mind so viciously that I had to seek my girl best friend. My care for him sank to the bottom of me and the offense I felt resurfaced, swallowing me whole. 

To know, in the present time, that Yoongi thought it too good to be true, grew smaller when Jungkook began to tell him off, washes it all out and I am a brand new canvas. 

I take off my hoodie, aflame. 

“He really thought about what I said to him and he even put your number in his phone. I visibly saw him opening a new text message and typing something,” Jungkook says, exasperated, and I have to chuckle to myself—he looks so damn adorable with the two minty buns, but he’s still missing those clips. I search for them in my basket, reveling in that fire of his, which his words are permeated with, the heat stifling me. “I thought he sent it to you. I didn’t see him do it because I got a call from Namjoon, asking where we were. We had a meeting right after—and that’s also something I need to talk to you about.” 

My ears perk up and I freeze with the clips in my hands. 

The smile Jungkook gives me this time is cheerless. 

The sweat that coats me morphs into a layer of iciness. 

“We’re going on tour abroad next month,” he imparts and my heart closes. I disintegrate, the clips falling out of my hands. And the stars blanketing the heavens outside must do the same, plummeting to the ground, conjointly, with me. “We were supposed to have another concert tonight, a secret one that would be made into a docuseries, but then America fucking called.” 

That means no hanging out with Jungkook, no star clips; no seeing Yoongi and leaving things as they are—unfinished and still aching on his part. 

And that leaves me alone with my thoughts. 

I pout, my heart dead silent. 

“When will you be back?” 

Jungkook gathers the fallen clips and sets them down upon my open, vulnerable palms. Manages to warm them up in that brief exchange. 

“There aren’t many tour dates. I’ll be back before—”

My phone pings in the kitchen. 

And before I can breathe, Jungkook scurries to his feet and flees. 

Grabs my phone and holds it in front of my face, so the detector can unlock what the notification hides. And once it does and his eyes sweep over the lettering multiple times, he squeals. Springs. Beams like the warmest star he is, personified firelight. And I’m more happy that he’s happy than I’m happy about the fact Yoongi has done something. 

For me. 

Jungkook slides the phone into my clammy hand and I let out a little breath. Instagram has notified me that a certain person that goes by the name agustd liked my post. I smirk, cupping my face, while I click on the notification to see what exactly he liked. Jungkook sits beside me and looks over, laughing, vehemently, through his nose before he starts clapping. 

My stomach jumps, stirring my butterflies awake. 

I’m wearing a knitted set in the picture, nearly pellucid with how stretched out and purposefully ripped the fabric is, and I’m sat on my vanity table in my room with my arched back facing the mirror, my long black hair obscuring most of the sheerness of my spine. 

Is that a truce? Liking a picture where I’m wearing something so akin to the slip that broke us this morning? If he did, then that’s an intelligent move in the chessboard of all toxicity. 

And I like it. 

I blush, profusely. But then another notification rings through my living room and Jungkook stills beside me. We share a look, both of our mouths parted, before he steals my phone, though I slap his back and retrieve it from his grasp, the shifting causing the message to get opened. 

I run a hand down my face. “You clicked on it and now he can see I’ve read it, Jungkook.” 

He merely laughs. “So what? Read it.” 

I groan, tipping my chin, focusing my gaze on the letters, and my heart thrashes in my ribcage. And their meaning propels it to fly on the wings of my butterflies. 

The letters tremble in tandem with my hand as I read them. 

“I’m sorry for my behavior this morning, you didn’t deserve that. I hope you allow me to make it up to you as best as I can. Car drive tomorrow at 8 PM? Food’s on me, you just bring your playlist, moon kitty. And your sneakers. Yoongi. Jungkook gave me your number.” 

My heart stops mid-flight. And I don’t see Jungkook’s eyes abounding in the glow of the stars. Neither do I hear his laughter and his praises for Yoongi because I walk backwards into myself. 

Bring your sneakers. 

I see myself getting hit for wearing heels. I don’t feel the pain, but I have a glimpse of the bruise forming on my cheek, a patch of red and purple staining me for weeks only because I wanted to feel pretty and feminine on our date night. And before Jungkook’s voice can get to me, the echo of Ji-hoon’s command fans out in me. 

You won’t dress like a slut when you’re with me. Take them off. That dress, too. And wear your sneakers. 

I was forced to wear jeans and Nike’s to a fancy restaurant while he sported nice pants and a polo. And much to his dismay, and later to mine as well, I still received stares and smiles. From men and women alike. 

The memory splinters at the sound of Jungkook’s voice. And I perceive that it’s just that. 

A memory. 

I didn’t dissociate. 

And vulnerability clutches me so tightly that I shrivel and don’t think before I fold myself into Jungkook, hugging him until the memory completely evaporates. 

Jungkook pets my head as I bury it deeper into his chest. “What’s wrong?” 

“Just a memory,” I heave, blinking rapidly, and Jungkook holds me to him, sifting his fingers through my hair. 

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, continuing with the movement that intersperses mollification all over my being, and I nod. 

As long as I have my best friend, I will be okay. 

“It happened this morning, too,” I admit, unafraid, and Jungkook stills for a moment. “When Yoongi got up from this couch, I thought I was gonna get hit again. And now when I read that he wants me to wear sneakers, I remembered the way Ji-hoon hit me because I wore heels that one time. But it wasn’t so bad. I didn’t dissociate. Your prayer helped.” 

Jungkook curls around me and holds me tighter, putting me back together, and I let him. 

I let him because there’s nothing else for me to do. 

There’s no one else for me. 

“He’s not here anymore. He’s not in your life. I broke his leg, remember? He can’t walk back into your life.” 

It’s the only memory, where he’s present, that brings me pleasure: Jungkook finding out I was a victim of domestic abuse and chasing him all over the city until he yanked him by the back of his shirt and beat him until he was unrecognizable. He broke his leg by purposefully driving over it with his motorcycle upon leaving, considering the deed done. 

“Every time your bad memories come back to haunt you, remember this one,” Jungkook advises and I pleat his words, stuffing them somewhere inside my sternum, where I can return to them and remember them like he said. Use them as a weapon.

Something tells me that now I shall need it more than I ever have before.

“Yoongi isn’t like him, I promise,” he continues, seeping his boyish warmth into my skin as he cups my face and makes me look at him. I feel as though I have run a marathon with the way I breathe spasmodically and Jungkook sees me, composes me by leading me to take deep breaths that subdue my nerves. “I regretted letting him take you home but for a far different reason. Underneath all that pain is a good person. A romantic that has lost his hope, but if there’s anything I can depend on, it’s the fact that Yoongi will find what he’s lost. And he’s halfway there. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have texted you.” 

I ponder his words, my heart collecting all those stars that have plummeted from the heavens, and, internally, I use their light to help me comprehend the deeper meaning behind his words. A romantic that has lost his hope. I wonder what meadow of agony he walked through—and I wonder how much it would devastate me if I ever were permitted to place my bare feet upon his footprints on that flowery soil. 

“You can trust him because I trust him.”

I slide the star clips beneath the space buns I twisted his hair in and I nod. 

“Let’s text him back.” 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hobiberrystuff, @kam9404, @fr0ggieth1nk.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

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[ninyard]

please can you explain what kevins part of the deal wth andrew is because ive never really understood it and i feel like you probably get it

Okay. So. (tw; brief sh/suicide mention)

My understanding of Kevin and Andrew’s deal in the best way i can possibly explain it and HOPEFULLY i saw what i mean and it makes sense:

TLDR: Kevin promised to give him purpose, and Andrew’s waiting to see if that’s even possible.

There’s this part in TRK where Kevin tells Neil about their deal -

I’ve seen a few posts about Andrew’s mental health recently - about how Andrew wanted to recover, how he wanted to survive.

I think it’s hard to imagine Kevin and Andrew’s relationship sometimes because we see so little of it aside from Kevin keeping his pills, but there’s this;

I think it was Andrew who told him this. Andrew told Kevin that without his drugs he was destructive and joyless, in whatever context it was mentioned in. He told Kevin he had no ambition for life. (or because Neil says he tried to “remember her exact words” he talked to her? Read the files? But what are the chances of that?) I like to think that early on before they’d made their deal, Kevin asked him about his meds and Andrew told him. I think he’s quoting Andrew, who quoted his counsellor.

We know Andrew was struggling with self-harm. I know when Neil described Andrew’s scars as “up and down” his arm, it most likely means in a literal sense - from the top to the bottom of his forearm, but coupled with this;

I wonder if Andrew’s depression led him to have a closer relationship with suicide than we think. He had 12 psychiatrists before Bee. What are the chances that all of them are from after Cass? (ie Andrew’s mental health journey started before her)

STICK WITH ME HERE.

Regardless of who told him what, I think a part of Kevin saw that Andrew having no purpose was dangerous. I think Andrew himself worried that without his meds he’d fall back into this rabbit hole of having nothing to live for, having no purpose, having no point to continue living. And Andrew wanted to survive. Any excuse to live was worth it. Even if he didn’t believe in it himself, even if he saw it was pointless - leaving us with:

Going back to that first quote “he’s waiting to see if I can keep it.” If it’s even possible. It’s like finding tiny reasons to stay alive when you’re suicidal - I can’t kill myself because my favourite band might release new music. I can’t kill myself because my favourite tv show was cancelled, but there’s a chance it might come back. I’ll never hear my favourite person laugh again, I’ll never see the sunset again, there a chance that I’ll miss being an uncle, or I might miss my brothers wedding, or I might miss the invention of something life changing. My favourite band that broke up might get back together again - it’s unlikely, but I have to stay alive just in case.

Exy might be my purpose, and even if I don’t believe it, I still need something to live for.

So Kevin gave him something to live for. He believes in him.

Kevin was the first person to see any worth in Andrew - maybe since Cass, maybe ever - and Andrew knew that.

So Andrew gave Kevin his game; even if he won’t play with Kevin because he thinks it’s funny or whatever.

When Kevin came to PSU, he needed a reason to stay, something that would make transferring to the team worth it. And he knew Andrew was worth it. He knew how Andrew could play, how he should be court. Sure, David was there, but Kevin stayed because of Andrew. Andrew offered him protection, and then gave Kevin a reason to believe in the foxes. Every other player might’ve been dog shit and not worth a second of Kevin’s time, not worth his talent, not worth investing in.

But Andrew was.

Andrew could be court.

If Andrew promised Kevin he would allow him to give him purpose in Exy, then that gave Kevin reason to stay. Does that make sense? Kevin wouldn’t have stayed infthe Foxes were actually the worst team in the league. But with Andrew there, they weren’t, and that was reason enough to stay.

Kevin sees Andrew’s worth - he sees what he can do to keep Andrew going, so when Kevin says “he’s waiting to see if I can keep it,” I think it’s Andrew waiting to see if he’s right. Can he actually give me a career out of this? A life out of this? Maybe it’s a lack of self worth on Andrew’s part. He clearly doesn’t care about how good he is. But does he know? Does he even believe it?

So he’s waiting for Kevin to keep his promise. To prove that he’s good enough. To prove that Exy can realistically actually be his purpose.

But Andrew both believes and doesn’t believe that that’ll ever happen. He’s a walking contradiction. On the one hand he says out loud, “im waiting for Kevin to give up,” but I don’t think he means: im fucking with him and don’t believe him. I think he means: im waiting for him to finally see in me what I see in me, which is somebody who isn’t worth it. It comes from a place of self doubt/lack of self worth. It comes from a place of not believing he actually has anything to live for. It comes from that self destructive instinct that he has.

Andrew wants to survive, but he doesn’t believe that he can.

Andrew’s deal with Kevin: I’ll keep you safe and give you a reason to stay*

Kevin’s deal with Andrew: I’ll give you purpose and something to live for*

*but neither of these things can exist without the other. Kevin won’t stay if Andrew doesn’t see that he’s good enough for Exy to be his purpose, if he doesn’t let Kevin prove he was right by believing in him. If he doesn’t, then Kevin can’t give him something to live for.

Kevin promised to give him purpose, and Andrew’s waiting to see if that’s even possible.

Does uh. That make sense?

[sinon36]

Ghost x undercover!reader (HC) Part VI

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Warnings: torture, violence, gore, mistakes.

- the sixth time you meet it’s after a lot of frenzied searches

- the missions have been slow a while now; you mostly act as a handler for TF141, alongside Laswell; the boys got used to your calm voice in their earpieces, guiding and directing them through buildings and underground bases; your “hacking” skills come in handy when Laswell gets caught up with something else

- they always come home in time for you to get supper together; it’s a nice way of living; so different from the loneliness you felt before; now you have a small family to call your own; the banter between you and the sergeants feels the air; you throw jokes to one another; Price quietly chuckles at his younger subalterns; Ghost on the other hand stays silent most of the time;

- you always sit next to him, in the mess hall, in briefing rooms, in helis, or cars; it’s something he’s not sure yet how to interpret; yes, the two of you got along just fine; you have the same dark humour that makes the other soldiers in the base shiver when they hear you laugh at your jokes; you can sit in comfortable silence for hours; you don’t pry into each other’s lives, which he’s thankful; you hadn’t even asked him his name, and you already know one another for more than two years; he won’t admit but he doesn’t like the way his heart feels when you laugh at one of Soap’s jokes, or discuss with Gaz one of the new books you’ve bought, or even when Price comes close to you, peaking over your shoulder and talking quietly with you about the files you’ve got in front of you;

- Ghost does not allow the thought, that he might be jealous on his comrades’ interactions with you, take roots inside his mind; he can’t; you’re just doing your job and you just happen to enjoy the 141’s company, in the most platonic way; he knows that your bond is far superior to that of the other’s; you saved his life, saw his face, and he in turned saved yours; that must add up to something;

- yet he feels that something’s wrong with him; Price pointed out that ever since you joined TF141 he seems quieter, and less present; he’s becoming more and more his namesake; he denies that, and argues that he’s just tired, now that he’s getting older; Price calls out his shite; the captain is older than him, and he’s far more active than him;

- but the captain can’t do more than that, a friendly conversation; yours and Ghost’s relationship is extremely professional; he rarely sees the two of you interact in the common room, or anywhere else for that matter, that’s not the battle field or the briefing room; you also work incredibly well; you two and Soap had made quite the trio when it comes to field work; he affectionately calls you the Unholy Trinity of Task Force 141; trails of body are left in your wake and almost all missions go well without the tinniest hitch; the men joke around that surely you are some kind of witch that made a deal with the devil to have success; you laugh and chalk it all up to skill, hard work, and a shite ton of sheer luck;

- though you keep reminding them that your luck will run out one day, they ignore you, joking that you’ll have to tolerate them until you retire; you’re not as optimistic; you’re the realist of the whole team; you know the risks are ten times bigger than theirs

- most of the times you go in alone, unarmed, no back up, no communication; you only have yourself to rely on; and you know that when the fatigue catches up with you, you’ll slip up, make a mistake, that’ll get you killed or worse

- and then the worst you feared happens; you go MIA during a simple infiltration; the boys find no trace to indicate where you’d been taken to or by whom; Laswell can’t find any sign of you, no matter how hard she tries, or how far she’s stretching her informant network; nothing; denial turns to angry searches, busting down doors and torturing anyone they come across; that turns to desperation, they start looking into the most unrelated events they find, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they get a glimpse of your name, or an alias, or something, no matter how small; and that turns to silence, they stop bringing you up, start avoiding your name or anything that might point out you’re not there; after Laswell mentions you in one of their briefings, that the time to change your status to KIA is due, Ghost smashes the chair you used to sit in

- it’s one of the most violent reactions he’s had outside the battlefield since you’d disappeared, and Price starts to worry that his lieutenant will do something stupid if they don’t find out what happened to you; he threatens Laswell to not touch that file of yours; ‘Not yet, Kate. Not yet.’ He says in a sadder and calmer voice    

- acceptance never came; the thought that maybe you’re not even alive, buried somewhere unmarked, or body burned beyond recognition is a thought they’d long banished; wherever they went they kept their eyes peeled for you; their hope of finding you never wavers

- and then their prayers are answered; they get something; it’s not much; a 3-second clip; it’s blurred, to few pixels to really make out any details; and the camera seems to be moved violently, barely catching the hunched posture of a person tied to a chair; Laswell got it form one of her contacts; it’s from a half destroyed hard drive they recovered from heli the dropped out of the sky

- it’s not much; actually, is far too little to go on with; the video doesn’t show a face, nor reveals any names; the background so dark they can’t make out anything; But they agree it’s you; from the size of your body, to your complexion to the colour of your hair, now longer and falling over your face; it’s been months since they last saw you but they know it’s you   

- ‘Proof of life’ Price concludes; ‘But fur who?’ Soap voices the question they all thought of that; ‘It don’t matter’ Ghost points out, voice gruffer than ever; ‘Where is more important.’ Gaz specifies

- they get to work; they comb the crash site, having received the location from Laswell; at first they don’t find anything; but Ghost’s keen eyes find it; it’s a small piece of silvery metal, wedged in the dirt; it’s only half, but he can make out the letters clearly; cyrillic letter; he grunts; ‘Price…’ he shouts to get everyone’s attention; when they come closer he shows it to them; ‘Russians’ they conclude

- the hunt begins; Nik is there to smuggle the Brits over the Russian borders and to provide them with an extraction vehicle, in his case an old rusty Russian helicopter, that can barely fly under the radar, it flinches and grunts at every gust of wind, but it’s as covert as can be; they don’t bear any insignia visible on their black camo uniforms; their faces tucked under black balaclavas; even their guns are Russian, some AK-47 Nik provided them with no striations on the barrels; they even agreed to keep their mouths shut, letting the captain converse with anyone that they might encounter; no one can no that a team of Brits put their feet on Russian soil

- they carefully went over all the details just like you got them used to when you did infiltrations; they are as prepared as ever; the plan is simple; take out the guards that make their rounds through the facility and take their place; that will give them sufficient time to look for you and find a way out to get you out; “if” they find you; the information came through Laswell and it was already a couple weeks old; chances are you’ve been moved;

- they search everywhere; you’re not there; time for plan B: infiltrate their data base; Price gets his hand on a computer and plugs the USB containing the backdoor virus; it takes some time to install, then to reboot the whole system; Laswell gives the green light that they’re in; they get out of there leaving no trace that they ever were inside

- the next two weeks are gruesome; Ghost spends most of his time destroying the punching bags in the gym; he barely eats and barely sleeps; he starts hearing your voice in the night when he climbs the ladder to the roof, perched up like an owl, having a smoke away from everyone; he hears a soft whisper, or a small chuckle; he’s going crazy, he thinks; crazy with worry for you;

- it’s been years since Simon felt worry for someone; when his family was killed, he vowed to never get close to another soul again; but then you had to save him; you didn’t even know him; risked your life for a stranger that cannot repay you for that act of kindness

- but he can; he can make sure you’re safe on missions; that’s why he’d always stalk your figure through the scope; that’s why he’d have you with him and Soap every time you’d split up; so he can keep his eyes on that pretty face of yours; that’s why he’d threaten the other marines on base with the court martial when he’d hear lewd comments about you being their whore and so much worse; he’d be wringing their necks if Price didn’t keep such a close eyes on his actions  

- he misses you, and your presence, and your sweet perfume, and your voice, and your eyes that would look straight into his when he told you a joke, smirk matching his own; he missed the way you’d drink your tea together in the morning, in silence broken only by soft sighs and the sound of the sofa under your weights; if he got up before you he’d make sure to boil enough water for two mugs and he’d put the tea in the moment he could hear your footsteps heading to the common room; he was so accustomed to you that he could make out your footsteps even in the busiest corridors; lighter than most, almost quiet but quick, lively; he misses that too

- the way you’d make your away towards him and with a nod take the seat next to his, softly brushing his shoulder with yours in an unspoken acknowledgement… I’m here, next to you… your simple touch made his skin boil underneath his clothes and yearn for more; he’d take advantage of situations out in the field; he’d grab you and help you climb over obstacles, he’d give you a head anytime he felt you needed it; and you’d never refuse his help;

- he’ll be dammed if he doesn’t find you; just like you found him when you first met

- two weeks pass by slower when you’re almost always awake, Simon knew that already; but he’s the first to get on the tarmac when Price gives the order for heading out; Laswell managed to pinpoint your location; one of the Russian commanders moved you to an off the record, but not really cause ‘Russians are shit at keeping a low profile.’ Laswell adds, compound where they’d keep foreign prisoners for interrogations; the American woman sends them out to get you out and wipe any witness that has seen your face

- exactly what Simon wanted; the green light to do what he’s best at: mauling his enemies;

- the compound they keep you in is underground, ventilation system outdated, like pretty much any piece of technology they keep; they record the interrogation on an old Sony camera; you doubt it can register your mumbled responses, not that you’d say anything useful; you’d match every question with a curse in a clear American accent; you don’t want to give them anything that might be traced back to your British boys;

- they can’t get anything out of you; not your name, not whom do you work for, or where you’re from, what you were looking for when you infiltrated their operation, etc.; they were met with an unsurmountable resistance; no matter how many times they’d beat you, drown you, burn you, cut you, electrocute you, or humiliate you; they took away most of your clothes, leaving you in your underwear and what little remained from your tank top, enough to cover only your upper torso; you were cold, hungry and in pain; you had been in this condition for months; but you wouldn’t give up

- in the academy they taught you that the longer you lasted the more chances of being found; that thought has crossed your mind more than once; but you don’t allow yourself to hope; that would only weigh you down the more time passes; no, you look for ways to free yourself and learn the personnel’s schedule; and you wait for the best opportunity

- that window of opportunity is near; for a week now you worked on pulling out the nail in the chair that holds the chair’s handle together; you managed to pull out the nail and twist your wrist to try and scratch at the rope; the motion is uncomfortable and painful, the skin of your wrist is cut open by the rope that soaks up your blood; you’ve been at it for hours, trying to cut yourself loose; and you finally manage; surprise overtakes you as the rope unravels and your hand is free; the limb aches with exertion as you shake it to get the flow of circulation to get back to normal

- then you lean forward and grab at the knife left there from the previous session, still wet with your blood; freeing yourself is more strenuous than you would have imagined; as you bend down to free your ankles you almost pass out from the sudden rush of blood to your head; you lost of it, enough to hinder you in your escape; but you push through

- when you stand up you grab the chair for support and move in slow motion afraid you’ll pass out; you have a plan in mind already; get dresses in the coat left on the hanger by the door, and lay in wait for the interrogator to come back for another round; now that your body is filled with adrenaline times moves slower, but it doesn’t take long for the door handle to start to move; you wait for the tall and skinny man to enter; if he were a little leaner you wouldn’t have had a chance; but this failed physician that took to torture won’t even know what hit him; you stab him in the neck with a somewhat quick strike;

- he dies drowning in his own blood; you manage to drag his corpse under the table, leaving the pool of blood untouched; maybe they’ll think that you finally bled out and someone took your corpse to the morgue to be burned; you don’t care as you grab the handgun off his waist; the same one he’d threaten you with when you wouldn’t answer;

- judging by the thick clothes your assailant wears you know outside is cold; so you do what they told you at the academy; you undress the corpse an take his pants an shoes; they’re huge on you but you can’t complain; you shiver at the warmth still trapped in the wool fibres;

- you make your way outside checking for any guards; you found none, as expected; you heard the Russian complain that is too cold and stuffy down here that nobody but him frequents the lower levels; some people don’t know to shut up and you are glad to exploit that; with his gun, knife and car keys in hand you make your way through the dark corridors; you follow the boot prints left on the filthy floors;

- the only guards you encounter are the ones stationed by the door that leads to the stairs; you make quick work of them; one shot for each of their heads; you almost fall down on your ass as the gun kicks back in recoil; you take a moment to lean on the wall taking a few calming breaths

- your ascend is slow, laboured breaths escaping your gaping mouth; you strain your eyes and try to decipher the word on the walls marking the level and the facility; you’re looking for the parking lot; you find it after climbing to the second to last level; Russians really don’t know how to keep a facility secure; as you climb the emergency stairs there is no one to stop you; they underestimated your ability to escape this hell hole; their mistake

- as you reach the parking lot you look for the physician’s car; it’s a rusty red Lada; it’ll do just fine; as you get in the passenger side you start hearing gunshots; it’s faint; maybe you imagined it; but no, it’s there; you don’t wait to find out what’s happening, as you turn the key in the ignition you pull out of the spot and quickly drive towards the exit; whatever firefight broke out in there, pulled away every guard from their stationary position; for a moment you think about TF 141, but you quickly dismiss it

- you make your way out, a little dizzy from the spiral ascension; once out of there you notice that there’s forest around, and some snow; you hit gravel and as you look back you notice the exit; the only indication that there is something men made here; you doubt that tunnel can be spotted from a drone; the trees block the line of sight; that confirms your suspicions

- the gun fire must be coming from another escapee, not as lucky as you; you drive down the dirt road following every twist and turn hoping you won’t see any other cars; you check the glove compartment; now that the adrenaline rush is over your body aches like never before; you search for some pain meds but you only find a wallet with some cash in it; Russian rubbles, enough to keep the car going for a while; maybe you’ll find a gas station; it’s risky but you are I dire need of food and water; that might give you enough strength to push forward

- the 141 moves quickly taking care of the two sentinels at the mouth of the tunnel; two well placed shots and they’re down; Gaz and Soap move the bodies in a bush and hide their car in the tree line; hopefully nobody will come looking for this two in the next crucial minutes; they comb through the facility dropping anyone they encounter; their pistols bear silencers masking the loud sounds; they move deeper and deeper, but soon the alarm is sounded and a full fight ensues; the guards are no match for the 141; they drop like flies; but the fight costs them precious minutes;

- Ghost breaks away from the rest of his teammates; he knows they got it; he needs to hurry to find you; he needs to make sure you are still breathing, and that your pretty eyes still hold fire in them; he gets to lowest level where the holding cells are; he checks behind every grate and every door until a he gets to what seems to be the place they torture the prisoners

- he notices how filthy and cold it is; but what makes his blood freeze is the chair and the large pool of fresh blood; no…, he’s too late; he came to late; a wave of blinding fury surges and like a tsunami Ghost thrashes the room; he stops only when he discovers the body of a tall Russian man behind the desk; his throat slit; pants and boots missing; atta girl he can’t help the smirk taking over his face under the balaclava; you were capable, he knew that, but you still manage to surprise him; he gets out trying to radio in the discovery to the rest of his teammates

- the radio crackles with static, concrete walls too thick for the signal to penetrate; he’s made his decision; he’s going after you even though he knows Price will kick his ass later; you need him; probably not as much as he needs you; he chases the droplets of blood you left on the ground as you walked towards the emergency staircase; at the door, two more casualties; no, you didn’t need him; you had it handled

- in the parking lot he finds a military truck with the key in the ignition; he follows you as quickly as the car gets on the dirt road

- you drive for what feels like hours; your mind is struggling, eyes out of focus and body feeling heavier with every minute; you don’t know why or when the car starts to shake and tilt, you feel yourself flying out of the seat; everything goes black

- Ghost’s eyes scan the road in front of him through the thick snowfall; he almost misses the red car that swerved of the road and now rests on the side in a ditch, snow piles on top almost making it disappear; he gets out of the truck and approaches the car pistol pointed at it; he wipes away the snow that covers the window on the driver’s side; inside he can make out a body that’s laying on its side face obscured by the thick collar of the jacket; he pulls the door open carefully and nudges the body to see if they’re conscious or not; when there’s no movement he peels the collar from their face

- Simon thinks he is no longer able to panic; he survived through his father’s and brother’s abuse; then he joined the military where they taught him to surpass any fears and to control himself; then the Mexican cartel who buried him alive; that experience showed him what terror looks like; only to return home and find all the people that he held dear massacred; Ghost is the result of so many horrifying events; he is the cautionary tale of what prolonged survival in a malignant environment looks like

- the level of fear matches that of when he found the body of Beth hugging Josep’s smaller one; he acts without thinking, grabbing your limp and cold body and pulling you out of the wreckage; your head is bleeding from where you hit it on the window; lips are blue and your skin cold to the touch; he checks for a pulse; he can’t tell if he feels yours or his own; his hands are trembling with rage and powerlessness; he grabs for the radio’ telling Price he’d found you but you need medical assistance immediately; there’s no answer on the other side; just static

- he hoists you up and takes you to the stolen truck placing you in the front seat; he climbs in the driver’s seat letting you down slowly over the seat head resting on his lap; he puts the heat on high trying to make you warm again; he checks for your breathing and he’s thrilled to find that small puffs of air come from your open mouth

- he starts driving, he doesn’t know where; he neds a safe house to treat your wounds and to keep you safe; the snow is falling heavy, making impossible to see where he’s driving; then he sees it; to the side he can make out a building in the tree line

- the abandoned cottage is nothing more than a ruin; but it has four walls and a roof and he’s glad to see a small fireplace, dry wood abandoned next to it; he puts you down on what he can only assume is what remained of a thick rug long forgotten by its previous owners; he works quickly and efficiently, in mere minutes a fire burns casting a warm glow in the barren room

- he moves to work on you; he peels the jacket off only to find that you are nearly naked under the stolen clothes; he gets angrier at the Russians wishing he could bring them back only to subject them to the same kind of torture they did you and some more; he quickly checks for deeper cuts or signs of infection; but he can’t find none; they must’ve given you antibiotics to keep you alive as much as possible;

- he cleans the cuts with the antiseptic wet wipes his med kit contains; then he dresses the wounds with gauze; your thin body looks like a mummy from the amount gauze; he addresses your head next wiping the blood of and bandaging your forehead; he sighs in relief when your lips and skin slowly turn pink from the warmth; you lay in between his legs as he sits on the floor, your head laying on his thigh

- he tries contacting 141 again, but to no avail; looks like he’ll have to hold out here tonight; he’ll stay awake to protect you until you wake up

- it’s morning when you stir, he watches your face intently from above you; your eyelids groggily open eyes trying to focus; as you lay eyes on brown ones, hidden behind a black balaclava you start to panic; you weakly push at his hands and chest, mumbling and trying to get away from him; he doesn’t relent though; his grip is firm on you and in a commanding voice he orders you to sit still; hearing your name does the trick; you didn’t tell those fuckers your name; and his embrace is not restraining more like protecting; you think hard and try to remember eyes flickering over the balaclava; ‘Ghost…’ you croak when your vocal chords decide to vibrate; ‘Gho…’ you repeat even more brokenly; he shushes you and reassures you that yes, he’s here and no, he won’t go anywhere; not without you; that puts your mind at ease and you close your eyes again

-when you wake up again is noon; he feeds you some water through cracked and dry lips and he gives you a dose of morphine to help with the pain; that sends you back to sleep

- the third time you wake, you are being carried by strong arms; the sound of blades cutting air becomes louder and louder; Ghost walks backwards shielding you from the snow that’s being picked up by the gusts of wind;

- he climbs the heli; Nik greets Ghost, as Soap and Gaz pull him and you inside; the ride is silent, no one says anything; the Russian pilot takes you to a better equipped safehouse

- you wake up to someone entering the room; you’re in a warm comfortable bed, IV connected to your wrist fluid being pumped in your veins; you open your eyes to a dark-haired man bringing in a tray of food; you panic again when you hear him greet you, voice laced with a deep Russian accent; he sees the look on your face and he slowly puts the tray on the table; ‘Don’t vorry, I’m Nick. A friend ov 141. I von’t hurt yu, agent’; he tells you it’s nice to finally put a face to the name, and that you are prettier than Gaz told him; you watch him in silence, regarding him with apprehension; when he stops talking, you look to the door and ask for Ghost

- he chuckles knowingly and then informs you that “your boy” is being ripped a new one by the captain just outside, and he leaves you to tell Price that your awake; you don’t have time to correct him cause he already out the door; Price walks in soon after, you’re glad to see him; ‘Ah, there you are’ he smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes; he asks you how you’re feeling; numb thanks to the morphine; he wants to know what happened

- it was a trap; they were waiting for you, Russians; they wanted to know who you were and who did you work for; you told them nothing; he knows; he asks you about your time in the facility; you don’t quite remember much, just the torture and the questions; he tells you that you did good, and that you need to rest now;

- Gaz and Soap stop by to talk to you a bit; you tell them you’ll be fine; and then you ask for Ghost; they rub their necks a little ashamed; you asked them what happened; Ghost got scolded for going AWOL in search for you; Price even threatened him with the court martial; you huff; and swing the blanket off; you sit at the ledge of the bed; you’re glad to find you’ve been clothed in a pair of slacks and a long sleeve shirt; you grab the IV needle and pull hard on it; then you stand grabbing the table for support

- the two sergeants move forward to catch you if you fall; you wave them away and move towards the door; you search the living room for any signs of Ghost; instead, Price and Nik talk about something at the dinner table; when Price sees you up and about, despite him telling you to rest, he mutters a ‘Bloody stubborn they are’ and points toward the kitchen; you thank him; you can hear Nik commenting something about you and Ghost deserving each other; but you keep walking, slowly, one hand on the wall for balance

- Ghost stands by the window, his back turned to you; he ignores your poor attempt at greeting him; without thinking you cross the distance and hug his waist burying your nose in his hoodie; he tenses

- ‘I’m probably high right now,’ you nuzzle your face in his back inhaling his scent: soap, cigarettes and something you can’t quite tell; ‘thank you, for coming after me’; you let go of him turning to go back to rest; he grabs your upper arm and gently turns you; he watches you closely, you can feel his breath on your face, and smell the cigarette on his lips; his balaclava is pushed up his nose; he stares into your eyes as he speaks ‘Tell me to stop’ his eyes shift to your lips

- ‘Please don’t’; he kisses you, deeply and for a long time; you pull away for air ‘Ghost, I…’ ‘No,’ he cuts you off; ‘Simon, my name is Simon’ you smile lost in his pretty brown eyes; ‘Simon Riley’ and he surprises you taking his balaclava off; you stare at him, trying to memorize every scar and blemish; he’s handsome, in a rugged way; blonde hair, pale skin, and brown eye; you kiss him again.                                                

Previous part here.

[timextoxhajima]

Sonder: Part IV

Parts: I II III IV V

member: enhypen heeseung! x oc! woo ki yeom [3rd person pov]

genre: coming of age, slice of life, angst, romance

w/c: 5.8k

warnings: topics on religion, distressed relationships, mental health (I want to leave an a/n here that I grew up with my maternal family being Buddhists so what I've written is based off what I researched online and the way her family practised Buddhism. I'm personally a free-tinker and this narrative is not in any way meant to offend nor support any particular religion.)

synopsis: after being kicked out of her home, Woo Ki Yeom is forced to live life on her own. struggling to find herself in the midst of her chaotic life, she meets lee heeseung, who, like her, can't give any more fucks to life than she does.

"n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own."

It had taken Heeseung awhile to fall asleep, despite knowing that she was long passed out. If he tried hard enough, he'd be able to hear the first morning birds chirping from a distance.

Ki Yeom was wrapped in her blanket, passed out on the mattress on the floor. Her place was kept simple and somewhat tidy, with an abundance of instant food and a rather adequate range of cutlery and utensils. The furniture is minimal - they look like resale items from garage sales or thrift stores. There's a small desk in the corner where her laptop is, and right next to it is a single-columned shelf with some files and books. He wonders if they have her drawings, but he's too tired to get up and be nosy.

Besides, he's heard enough of her story to feel bad for her, to feel like he was an asshole for thinking the world was a boring place. Suddenly, he feels like a hypocrite.

He had the perfect home, much like the best friend she had described, and yet, he chose to pack up and leave, in search of 'life's purpose'.

Heeseung sighs, breath trembling. He leans his head back on the kitchen cabinets, and prays that his tail bone and neck wouldn't hurt too much in a couple of hours.

By the time Ki Yeom's eyes had finally managed to open (albeit how swollen and uncomfortable they were), she had already managed to make out the blob that's passed out along the length of her kitchen and cabinets.

He slept facing upwards, one arm under his neck and the other over his eyes, hair tousled and his shirt was slightly pulled up to expose his belly button.

She rolls over in her mattress, arm extending to the rattan box she had by it as a tableside top.

11.38am. 3 missed calls. 327 unread messages.

She pulls the notifications bar down.

2 missed calls from Jun Yeol.

1 missed call from Soo Min.

Jun Yeol: Hello?

Jun Yeol: Don't you have an appointment coming in at 12.30pm?

"Fuck."

Ki Yeom sits up, tired eyes struggling to remain open. She swings her legs over the edge and stands, stretching her neck and arms as she walks over to the bathroom quietly.

And for the first time in four years, there's a need to close the bathroom door.

The afternoon sun was ruthless when she stepped out, scorching her skin in all the spots she was exposed, but it felt different.

Ki Yeom wonders if the talk the night before had really made the difference. Why did it make such a huge one?

She pushes herself into the parlour, rushing past Soo Min and Jun Yeol (so they wouldn't be able to spot her swollen eyes that easily) and straight towards her client who was already seated at her booth.

Heeseung jolts awake when a car honks, then he realises the sun wasn't in its usual spot in the mornings when he normally wakes up. He sucks in a deep breath, then yawns, hands fondling his sides for his phone. Gone.

He quickly sits up, wondering for a moment if the girl might've possibly stolen it. But as he sits up, he spots his phone being charged at the plug on her desk.

He sighs, instantly feeling terrible about doubting her. Awkwardly squatting next to her desk, he unlocks his phone without pulling out the charger, looking through the messages that his friends had spammed in their groupchats and the Instagram notifications that he couldn't really care less about.

Maybe I should just delete it, He thinks to himself. Then he unplugs his phone, then grips the edge of the table to pull himself up.

That's when he spots the post-it note pasted to the surface.

Feel free to stay the day. I trust you won't steal anything. I have an appointment and then I have to meet the friend I was telling you about last night for coffee in the evening. Wish me luck.

Heeseung peels it off the desk and reads it again. He gently folds it, deciding he would keep it as some sort of contract for their friendship. As he drops it in his pocket, he realises that he was instantly finding joy in being an annoying friend.

It's a slow afternoon as he goes back to his apartment, freshening himself up before leaving to run errands. But just as he steps out of the lift-

"Hi, I'm looking for a Woo Ki Yeom?"

Heeseung looks up from his phone despite having already walked past him. He doesn't turn, but in his peripheral vision, he can make out an older man, probably in his late 40s, talking to the guard at the counter.

Exiting the building, he turns back and looks in through the glass, watching the man gesture to the security guard. In his wrinkled hand was a little note, which Heeseung assumes is the address, and as he swaps the note from one hand to another, he wipes his free palm on his Bermudas.

Heeseung looks away, heart stopping and breath held.

They have the same tired eyes.

"Alright," Ki Yeom takes a deep breath, sitting upright from the crouched over position she was in. She gently pats the wrap and pulls off her gloves, reaching over for a newly packaged ointment bottle and placing it into a plastic bag. "This is the moisturizer ointment. Wash your tattoo two to three times a day gently with water then dry it, then use the ointment. Don't go sunbathing or tanning until your tat's healed."

"How long before it's healed?"

The girl sits up in the chair and swings her leg over the edge, awkwardly lifting up her arm where the abstractly-drawn starfish was red and swollen.

"Uh..." Ki Yeom laughs a little (on the inside. She doesn't want to hurt the girl's feelings. The star fish has the diameter of a coin). "I'd say a month? Should be fine... Do you go to the beach or go swimming in an outdoor pool or running or...?"

"Oh, no. I just... you know. Wondering how long I have to wait..."

Ki Yeom squints at her before turning around in her roller chair, reaching out to pack her equipment and inks. "Wait? Before... showing it off?" She pauses, studying her client. "Someone doesn't want you to get a tat, huh?"

The girl purses her lips together in an awkward, embarrassed smile. "When it's healed, it's easier for me to say that I've already gotten it done and there's nothing to be done about it."

Ki Yeom smirks cheekily, tossing her used gloves into the bin by her station. "My boss once told me that tattoos belong to the person that's getting it. Your body, your choice. If that's of any comfort."

The client nods again, unsure how to respond. Ki Yeom ignores the horrid ending to the conversation and walks her up to the cashier, where along the way, she spots Ji Yeon loitering outside the parlour like a stalker.

Maybe I shouldn't have told her I was free today.

After her client leaves, Ki Yeom pretends not to see Ji Yeon, meagerly walking back to her station as if dragging out the time and procrastinating the coffee date. Though, she kind of needed it, after all that crying and lack of sleep last night. In fact, Ki Yeom is surprised she had managed to stay awake the entire time she was working.

"She's like an ex-boyfriend," Soo Min calls out from her station, eyes quickly glancing to her and then back to her own client.

"Y'think?" Ki Yeom widens her eyes, well aware that she wasn't in anybody's field of vision to see it, as she crouches to pack her bag.

"Will you be okay?"

Ki Yeom picks up her bag up and swings it over her shoulder as she stands. "I guess I'll find out later."

Soo Min looks up from her client for just a second, and nods.

There's a reluctance in Ki Yeom's chest as she turns around. Ji Yeon was still outside, now back facing the parlour, and turned to face the road. She was looking up at the buildings, eyes still full of wander.

I will always be second to Ji Yeon. As someone experiencing life; as a person. She will always be kinder, and sweeter, and gentle with her words. Polite to the elderly and patient with the children. The type of person that cats and dogs wouldn't hesitate to run up to on the streets, as if they already knew her.

The waitress at the coffee shop was clearly more than surprised to see the unfriendly tattoo artist coming in with another person. And as the cherry on top, said person was the polar opposite of Ki Yeom.

"Hello," Ji Yeon greets the waitress, who beams upon the acknowledgement.

Great, now I look even more like an asshole.

"Hi! Can I get you started on any drinks or appetisers?" The waitress is high-strung, as if excited to finally have someone to talk to. The dinner crowd hadn't come in yet, and Ki Yeom is slightly curious at why she seemed so enthusiastic.

"Give us a couple of moments to look through the menu. What do you recommend?"

"We're known for our coffees! But our pork belly rice bowl and fusion items are popular as well."

"Great, I'll keep that in mind."

And with that, the waitress smiles widely, greeting Ji Yeon again before she walks back to the counter.

"Can we get this over with?"

Ji Yeon looks up from her digital menu and at Ki Yeom, eyes tired and shoulders sunken.

"You look like you didn't sleep a wink last night," She points out as-a-matter-of-factly, looking back down at her phone screen.

"I slept late, and slept badly, just so you know. But we don't have to prolong this. What do you want to talk about?"

"Are you hungry? Shall we get their coffee specials and just a pork belly bowl for sharing?"

Ki Yeom stares at her, wanting to frown but unable to when she looks up from her phone again, eyes bright and spirits lifted.

Then this nagging, digging feeling in her stomach comes again after four long years. The feeling of watching someone be absolutely perfect, knowing you wouldn't be anywhere near and being unable to fathom why.

She was in perfect control of her feelings, her facial expressions, her body language, her tone and her words. Ki Yeom knows that the problem is within herself, but she knows she doesn't have the patience to fix it.

"Can you stop being like this?"

Ji Yeon presses the submit button on the digital order form as Ki Yeom hurtles the words at her. She looks up at her, then locks her phone and places it facing down on the table.

"Like what?" She gently shakes her head and politely places her hands on her thighs.

Ki Yeom tightens her jaw, leaning back in her seat and placing her wrists on the edge of the table, fingers curled in, like she was stretching, while facing Ji Yeon who was sat opposite her. She studies Ji Yeon - That blank, innocent look on her face that tells her Ji Yeon truly has no idea what she's talking about.

It steps on her toes all over again.

"Like a perfect... specimen of a human being. What's wrong with you? Are you so afraid to hurt someone? Are you scared that being angry is going to piss someone off? Are you afraid to make enemies?"

Now, there's a gentle frown slowly forming between Ji Yeon's brows. "I don't understand. What does the way I respond to things have anything to do with this conversation we're supposed to have?"

"Because you're just so perfect! Do you owe the world something? Why do you care so much about how people look at you?"

"What are you talking about?"

Ki Yeom pants slightly, realising that she was speaking abit louder than normal. Her hands were now gripping the edges of the table. She sighs and rubs her eyes.

"No, don't shut down on me now," Ji Yeon reaches out and pulls her hands off her face.

"Don't touch me!" Ki Yeom retracts her wrists sharply.

Ji Yeon is obviously hurt at the rejection, but she leans back and crosses her arms across her chest. "Go ahead. Say something else. After all, this is how much you've spoken in four years."

"Oh, now you're getting mad? All those years of being Miss-Goody-Two-Shoes finally catching up to you, huh? I was the grumpy one and you were always the pretty, smart, nice one and you loved it!"

Ki Yeom pauses, watching as the brutal truth and harsh emotions begin leaking from a cracked bottle that she had tried so hard to wrap up and throw away. It's slow - the beads collecting at the little cracks. So small, that you might mistake the bottle for condensed beads of water.

"And you know what? You loved it all the way until my family fell apart. Even then, being the nice person was your utmost priority! Paying for my meals when I said I could. Buying things for me just because I mentioned it once! And then when it all happened, you ran around asking where I was, announcing that you were just worried. All that effort trying to find me and making sure that I was okay. Well, guess what? With or without you, I was not okay. I needed a friend. A friend who would get angry with me and be broke together and lose all direction in life. Not a fucking guardian trying to replace my fucking parents. Not a role model that's excelling at everything she does. Not a person that never disappoints."

Something in the kitchen dings. It's a good thing nobody else was in the cafe right now, for a pin drop would sound like a metal thermoflask dropping on the floor.

Ki Yeom had completely expected Ji Yeon to pack her things and leave. Maybe throw a cup of water at her. Or at least tear up and cry out of hurt and grief.

But she is Ji Yeon, and to Ki Yeom, she will always be perfect in the way she feels things; sees things; perceives them. Right now, Ji Yeon is just but a person who is victim to the trials and tribulations of life, the victim to individual thought and perception.

"You're right," Ji Yeon responds quietly. The reply stuns Ki Yeom, surprise seeping again into anger. Ki Yeom cocks her head, a disbelieved smirk ripping apart her lips and preparing to retort again, but Ji Yeon interrupts her. "If you think I'm perfect, then I guess to some extent, I am. I don't wish to look imperfect. That's just how I am. I grew up believing that perfection is just a concept, subject to individual perspective."

"Shut the fuck up. You're telling me you had this ideology at what, the ages of six to ten?"

"From the ages six to ten, perfection was not a concept I understood."

Ki Yeom stops.

"From the ages six to ten, I was just learning. God forbid anybody who thought that a kid who just wanted to learn was imperfect. You are angry at my lack of response to the things that happen out of my control. I see it as a waste of time if I respond angrily. What good does it do?"

The anger seems to seep back in again. The irony is, Ki Yeom understood her. Word for word, from her perspective. But the more she spoke, the more perfect she seemed, as if she couldn't be more perfect. What kind of politically correct, woke response was that?

"I know what you're thinking. You're thinking why I'm still acting like I'm perfect. If it's of any comfort, I don't think I am, but you seem to think that I am. And yet, the fact that me being perfect is imperfect to you is a point in itself. Perfection gets on your nerves and imperfection gets on others'. There's no winning."

Ki Yeom sucks in a deep breath, toes curling in her shoes as she buries her face in her hands. She can taste the sour ball in the back of her throat as her nose starts to sniffle with her breaths. There's a muffled second, only able to hear the music playing in the back, then there's an overwhelming grief of loss as the gravity of the truth slowly sets in.

"I'm not here to talk about whether I was perfect and how it bothered you. I wanted to know... how you've been. Clearly, the things I did as you went through that rough patch in your life was not the best sequence of actions from your point of view but it was from mine. I hope you know that even though what I did wasn't of help, but it was still what I thought was best."

There's a pause as the waitress comes by with the coffees. The ceramic clanks onto the table.

In theory, Ki Yeom knows she's right. Ji Yeon is always right. Everything she did, she did with her best interest at heart. She was broke, so Ji Yeon offered to pay. She was kicked out, so Ji Yeon wanted to look for her.

Maybe that's the part Ki Yeom couldn't swallow. Even when she was the victim, she was still the bad guy, not the fallen hero who had a redemption arc.

"I wish we weren't ever best friends," Ki Yeom's voice is hoarse and exhausted. "Because then we wouldn't need to go through this."

"The good friendships are tested to their limits. That's how a bond is formed."

"No. Our bond was gone a long time ago and we are both just here to reconcile with it, and bury it."

There's a special type of grief that comes when you're actively aware when an era or a period of fond memories come to an end - like a holiday.

Or a friendship.

Said grief feels slow, almost insignificant. Like you don't notice it because it's been gone for so long.

There isn't much to say about how it feels. Except that it creeps up on you, no matter how many times you are able to rationalise the feelings to yourself. You could tell yourself the story a hundred times in the mirror and still be unable to swallow that the friendship had turned sour, no matter the exact reason.

And that sucks.

Ki Yeom was too exhausted to feel the sadness and the grief of it all on the way home. She couldn't even cry.

So when she spots Heeseung sitting by the bench outside the apartment building and eating an ice cream, the setting, evening sun casting a mandarin shade on him. She wonders for a moment if he was here for her.

She pauses at the traffic junction, tilting her head as she waited for him to take notice of her waiting for the lights to change. Then he looks up and around, and spots her across the road. Ki Yeom wants to smile, but it doesn't come out.

Then her heart stops, when Heeseung seemed worried. She doesn't know why she had expected him to smile and stand and wave to her, but he doesn't.

The traffic light turns, the incessant beeping somehow making its way past her headphones and into her eardrums, that quite literally explode in them when she gets them off.

"Hey," Heeseung greets first, licking the corner of his lips. "Look, there's something that I think you should know before you go into the building."

Ki Yeom frowns at him, as if he were the one who just broke her heart into a million pieces. He sucks in a deep breath and purses his lips, puffing up the space between his gum and the inside of his mouth, then exhales through a small 'o'.

"I think your father's here."

And just like that. The day literally could not get any worse.

"What?"

Heeseung parts his lips in a bid to say something, but nothing comes out.

"Why don't we go elsewhere? Until late, and maybe he won't be here anymore."

"How long has he been here?"

"I woke up in your place around lunchtime. 12 plus, one? Went home, washed up and came out for errands around two and he was already here. Asking the guard if you lived here."

How many fucking times must she go through this tormenting process in a day?

"You said you had that coffee date today with your friend. I'm assuming it didn't go well. Let's not stay here."

"You just told me he's been here for five hours. Even if he goes away while we're away, he's gonna come back another day."

"I know that but you're not in the state to have another conversation like that."

"Don't talk to me like you know everything about me."

"Then be my guest and go in there. Have that conversation with your father about the last four years he was absent from your life. Tell him that you're doing well but you got an offer to move overseas and that you just fell out with your best friend."

If her thoughts were a mindless man running on a treadmill, he'd halt so abruptly, he'd fly off.

Heeseung raises a brow when she goes quiet.

The street behind them had significantly picked up in traffic all of a sudden. He assumes it's the evening traffic.

"What, did I just summarise your life? Ever since you moved out?"

Ki Yeom frowns and looks away, eyes welling with tears.

"You are so caught up... in- in thinking about the same few things, that you couldn't see anything outside of it. And now that they have finally come knocking on your doorstep, you hate it. But haven't you been giving it the most attention? Given how much you despise it? Four years! And this is all that you think you life amounts to? Topping sales, an offer overseas, a falling out with your best friend?"

She turns and shoves him back on the shoulder, the tears finally billowing over her lower lids. "You think it's so easy to let go? You think I don't wake up wishing that things were different? Maybe if I were a better person and I weren't such a bitch, I'd be a better friend and a better daughter."

Heeseung parts his lips in disbelief, hands ruffling through his hair as he combs through his locks with his fingers. "You don't get it. These are all but mistakes in life, personalities and perspectives that don't align. You've had four years to learn from them, accept them and forget about them before you move on. But you have been your own prisoner."

"Ki Yeom?"

Heeseung gently shuts his eyes when he can hear the fragile voice coming from behind him. His arms drop to his side as he opens his eyes again, watching through her eyes as her inner world crumble even more. He already made her cry, now someone else is here to finish the job.

"Who is this?" The footsteps are anxious as he comes from behind Heeseung, who turns around and meekly greets the elder. "Is he bothering you? Who is he?"

Ki Yeom is speechless, but she can't ignore how different he looks.

She counts the wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes. His hands are naturally trembling abit more as he points to Heeseung, and he seemed to have a little limp when he walks.

"Ki Yeom, is he bothering yo-"

"Don't."

There's a look of hurt that's somewhat expectant on his face when he knows her response is to him, and not to answer the question.

"Who gave you my address?"

Her father looks down at his feet, slightly ashamed.

"I begged your grandfather for it. I'm sorry. He told me he can't give it to me but I just... kept asking. When he gave it to me, he told me that I could only come look for you in secret, and not reach out. But- but how could I? I mean... it's been-"

"Don't."

Ki Yeom has both palms lifted in the air and facing him in a bid to tell him to shut up. Eyes closed, she blinks the tears that are hindering her vision.

"I'm..." Heeseung's voice croaks. "Going to go-"

"No," Ki Yeom glares at him. "You." She points at him. "Don't move an inch. And you." She turns back to her father. "You have three minutes to say what you have to say because I have nothing to say to you. And regardless of whatever it is you're about to say, I have nothing to say back. I just hope that making this trip and getting it off your chest is enough for you because that's all you're going to get."

Heeseung's brows are slightly furrowed as he side-eyes her father, trying to read his expression from his peripheral vision. The elder man is taken aback, in a 'hurt' type of way that he knows there's nothing he can do to redeem himself.

"I just wanted to know if you're doing well, and if you're safe. If your workplace has been kind to you and whether you need any additional financial help, because I brought some for you," He ransacks his waist pouch for a smaller one, holds it out. Ki Yeom doesn't move an inch, eyes fixated on his. "I wanted to apologise. For the way things happened. I know I can't turn back time and undo what happened but I want to apologise on behalf of your mother and I want to say that she only did what she thought was right-"

"No, she did what she thought was right for herself! If she had any idea what was right for our family, don't you think she would've taken grandpa's help?! But no, being faithful to your religion was enough, wasn't it? That was what would put food on our table, fill our wallets up with money and light up our rooms, right? Right?"

They had been standing there long enough for people to start noticing them, and for the sun to set enough for the street lamps to flicker on.

"And don't you dare think for a moment that this isn't your fault. I don't blame you for losing your job, but I blame you for not being a better father. Not being around to make sure mom didn't do what she did. I know you were out trying to make ends meet but in the midst of all that, you had completely forgotten that I existed. I as in your daughter who just needed a parent."

If Heeseung were watching a soap opera, he'd be on the edge of his seat, eyes widened and fingers holding some chips, but no. This was happening in real time right before his eyes, and he hasn't got a clue what to do (since he knows better than to say something).

He can see the tears drying up her eyes all over again, as if her swollen eyes from the night before had properly recovered. And her father, the indescribable look in his eyes as he tears up as well. Head hung low and fingers anxiously picking at the corners of the cash stack.

The inevitable uncomfortable silence between them sets in, amidst all the noise that was happening around them.

Ki Yeom knows that an apology will not suffice. Nothing ever will. The damage had been done and even if she did take the cash, it will not make a difference.

"Are you done?"

Her father looks up from the floor.

"If you are, please leave."

"Ki Yeom..."

"Now."

A motorbike races past.

"And I never want to see you again."

Heeseung glances at Ki Yeom, and back at her father. His shoulders are sunken. He knows he's defeated. But still, he lifts his hands and tries to offer her the money.

Ki Yeom reaches up to her face to wipe the tears, clearing her throat as she steps back.

"You'll need it when you retire."

Then, she gently grabs Heeseung by the wrist and pulls him along, past her father and away from the apartment building. Heeseung lets her drag him down the pavement, earning strange glances from corporate passerbys who were making their way home from work and whatnot.

But until he was sure they were definitely out of sight of her father, Heeseung holds his weight down, hand reaching out to her forearm.

"Ki Yeom," He says, loud enough for her to hear. But she doesn't respond, ignoring his touch and his call, and continues dragging him with more force.

"Ki Yeom, please."

He finally puts in enough strength to halt her, and so she jerks to an abrupt stop when it's his turn to grab her arm. Her eyes are swelled up again, mucus running down her philtrum and between her lips when she turns around to face him. He can tell she's trying her best not to take a deep breath, for it would trigger one of those hard-to-breathe sniffles and she would collapse into a sobbing mess.

Heeseung doesn't know why, or much rather, how, he has grown to see her. Perhaps, for the first time in a long time, she's the first person that he's known abit more than surface level. Maybe it was because she knew nothing about him, other than the things he has chosen to share, and that made it easier to trust her.

Who said a stranger you meet at a laundromat would stay a stranger?

He awkwardly, but slowly, closes the gap between them, gently releasing her arm. He's careful, trying to read her body language as she stays almost completely still. Then, he can feel the bones in her shoulders under his arms, and she remains so still for a few seconds, he was still unsure.

But like hugging a vase that was haphazardly pieced together with glue without enough time, care and concern, Ki Yeom shatters. He closes his eyes, trying not to cry himself, as her entire frame softens, shoulders shivering with each sob and sniffle.

She doesn't hug him back, but she presses her face into his shoulder so hard that he can feel her tears soaking through his shirt and onto his skin.

"I- I wish it didn't happen- like this."

"I know."

"I- I know he meant- meant well. But- I- just-"

"I know."

The conversation was short-lived.

Sometimes, there aren't enough words to explain a feeling; a feeling of resolution, even if it feels like it's the worst decision you could make.

Perhaps, trying to find the words defeats its purpose.

After Ki Yeom had finished crying, mostly because she regained enough social awareness to realise how embarrassing it was to be hugging in the middle of the street, the duo had found themselves sitting by the pavement, feet on the street as bicycles and cars drove by.

The ice cream was melting quickly, so Ki Yeom fought the urge to close her eyes and finish it. Heeseung tosses the last of the cone into his mouth, swiping his hands against each other to get rid of the remaining crumbs.

He sighs, leaning back with his palms on the concrete by his hips, eyes looking up at the cloudy sky that was partially blocking the moon. There was that dewy scent of rain wafting through the sky, so he looks around somemore, hoping to catch a glimpse of lightning somewhere.

Ki Yeom quite literally shoves the rest of the lemon coating into her mouth, knowing that if she ate any slower, it would start running down the stick and over her hands. She wraps the stick in the wrapper the ice cream came in, and folds it nicely.

She looks ahead, then around, trying to find what Heeseung was looking at previously. Pulling in her knees to her chest, she wraps her arms around her thighs, fingers picking at the dry skin on her elbows.

"You know, what you said to me just now before he showed up... It made sense."

Heeseung takes awhile to turn his head back to her, processing her words before he tilts his head in her direction. His eyes remain looking forward, at the street and the lamp post on the other side.

"I've had so many conversations with myself. Running around in circles and trying to persuade myself that it was time to move on and that I didn't care. But I knew deep down that I needed closure, even if it meant a messy one that I didn't want. I knew I was angry with Ji Yeon and I knew it wasn't her fault. I knew my father did what he thought was best at the time it happened. But I just couldn't forgive them for the things they did."

Heeseung finally turns to her. He pulls his legs into a cross and picks at the threads in his ripped jeans.

"Just because you can understand why they did those things doesn't mean you have to forgive them. I think if that were the case, mankind wouldn't be so complex. We'd all just be aiming to be understanding, and by that condition, we'd be a peaceful society. But we're not, and... I mean, things happen."

Ki Yeom starts to smell the rain as her clogged nose clears up completely.

"When I went through my own difficult times, I'd tell myself that I'm just an anime character that had to go through these stupid arcs to get the character development. Else, I'd just be the lame side character that everybody forgets about."

A little smile cracks through her lips as she looks down into her lap, staring blankly at the cotton stitching on her pants.

"It's not common that a character has to go through two arcs in so little time, but it happens. Usually they're the badass ones that everybody roots for, even if they're morally questionable."

Then the drizzle starts, gentle and kind, like little snowflakes falling from the sky. Like they were trying to wash away her sadness and grief.

"I think I'll stay here for awhile."

Heeseung turns to look at her, face turned up to look at the sky. The droplets land on her skin, and for a moment, it seemed like the sky was doing the rest of the crying for her.

"Are you planning on staying until you're soaked?"

She hums in response. "Maybe."

He turns to look at the sky too, closing his eyes as he let the water run down his face and neck.

"By the way, do you do your laundry on Wednesdays? Because I just remembered it's a Wednesday."

[mysticetus]

on the topic of diy hrt as ive seen it going around the dash a few times, i want to offer what i can in terms of help as i got on hrt in secret while still living with my parents. i cant give advice for paths i didnt take (getting the hrt itself online) but i can detail the process i experienced so you know what to expect if you pursue.

i highly recommend seeing if there is a planned parenthood in your area and if it offers gender affirming hormone therapy. i had a couple things that made this an option for me that may be barriers for others - i was over 18, and they do not offer informed consent to minors. i also had a job that allowed me to pay for the visit and the prescription. lastly i forced myself to learn how to drive so i could get to the planned parenthood and the pharmacy.

for cost, i recommend checking beforehand if planned parenthood accepts your insurance. They did not accept mine so i had to pay out of pocket for the appointment. Luckily they have a sliding scale system that charges based on your monthly income. The amount changes (and this may vary by region as well), so you can call them for a cost estimate. As someone going for testosterone, my visits have cost between $39 and $63 out of pocket.

For me getting HRT occurred in 2 phases: A telehealth call where they told me about the effects of HRT and then had me digitally sign an informed consent form. And then an in-person visit to my local PP office to get my blood pressure and hemoglobin (finger prick) checked. I then walked out with a T prescription.

For bloodwork, planned parenthood offers this service as well but it was a “strongly recommended but not required” option for me. I did eventually get my levels tested through PP but it cost me ~$40 because of lack of insurance. i later learned i could get my bloodwork done for free at quest diagnostics, for which PP sent in an order that automatically went into quest’s system and all i had to do was make an appointment online filed under “all other tests” … in my area quest can be found in grocery stores. I recommend looking into quest for bloodwork if your insurance would cover it.

Estrogen and progesterone are not controlled substances (often used in birth control), but testosterone is since it can be abused as a steroid. so if you are pursuing T this may present challenges - in my experience it makes it hard for me to change pharmacies without calling planned parenthood first, and you need to present ID when picking it up.

At first i swore by gel and not injectable because i was afraid of accessing needles, and i used goodrx coupons to get gel at a reasonable price. I do not recommend this as it is not sustainable, goodrx coupons are great but always changing. Unfortunately if you do diy hrt you are probably going to be doing injections. i tried for several months to get gel in a sustainable way but the only way i was able to do this was when i had insurance that would cover it (which i since lost access to).

You can get needles and syringes in bulk (100 for like $10) on amazon. Your prescription will probably include an order of needles and syringes but pharmacies are generally not awesome to get them through, because they tend to cost more and be out of stock…. for subq i use 25g 5/8” needles to INJECT, and 18g 1.5” needles to DRAW. i use 1 ml syringes with a LUER LOCK. make sure the needles and syringes have the same locking mechanism so they can connect to each other. the alternative to a luer lock is a slip tip, which you do not want.

Even though on the bottle it says INTRAMUSCULAR USE ONLY, i and many other trans people do subcutaneous as the needles are smaller and less painful. “subq” injects into the layer of fat beneath the skin and releases the hormones slower over time. I personally inject into my stomach in the area below my belly button - i pinch the fat and inject at a 90° angle. there are detailed videos on how to do a subcutaneous self injection on youtube, and here is planned parenthood's guide.

if you are scared of needles, i am too - i used to black out when i had to get a shot. i can say that subcutaneous rarely hurts and its definitely tolerable to me. i know its freaky to inject into your stomach but the fat layers there make it pretty painless. if you pinch your fat your nerves focus on the pressure your fingers are making, and as long as you hold the needle like a dart and inject quickly you barely notice it.

For questions i recommend looking on reddit. there are many subreddits dedicated to DIY hrt as well as logistical questions in the context of navigating pharmacies and doctors. And, i am always happy to offer what help i can.

[swamp-spirit]

Got tagged by @redhoodinternaldialectical

My word is ENOCH, so the prompt is to go through a WIP file to find paragraphs starting with those letters and share a snipper. Enjoy some previews from my Superhero Thesis Novel and a junky xeno space lesbian romance.

Even talking was too loud.

“I’ll do her make-up with a little extra foundation and she’ll look fine,” Liz said. “You know I’m a miracle worker.”

She really was. When corporate realized there wasn’t a single professional make-up artist in all of Northern Nevada that could do dark skin who hadn’t already moved to Vegas, Liz was recruited off her social media make-up tutorials, and Sara had been nervous. Liz was a fan, and fans tended to be disappointed when their heroes were people, but she’d been…

She’d been a good friend, really. That was hard to find for heroes. You could only give your secret identity outside the industry if you were married, which meant lying a lot, but Liz hung out with her on days off and had her back at work. Kim could well get Liz fired, but Liz was confident in her skill.

The dehydration was too bad to sleep, but she wasn’t up for audiobooks or music, so she just lay back, wishing the roads were smoother. Maybe Bloom could campaign against potholes.

The IV was finally starting to kick in when her tablet buzzed.

“Fire. It’s an all hands,” Sara said, sitting up. “And Kim, before you say anything, we still have three hours before the shoot, and we can tell them we’ll be a little late due to the huge fucking fire, okay? Because if it gets out everyone else was saving homes and I was advertising strawberry milk, they’ll crucify me.”

Nexus was the only planet in the system where aliens were common, and even then, it was usually Batk-Hy. She’d never seen an alien in person. Humans were famous for their unprotected skin. Their name translated to ‘a bare heart under armor’, something that could refer to the contrast between their brutal and affectionate reputations or provide helpful instructions for killing them.

What did a sentient creature with no fur or scales look like in person? Were they slimy like exposed muscle or dry like sandstone?

“It is my honor to meet you all. I have been kindly granted the name Mist-Rolling-in-Across-the-Harbor. My shortname is to be ‘Harbor’.”

The human’s accent was perfect. Their voice was a bit odd, and she finally looked over to see if it had a throat injury.

Oh. Of course. Its voicebox wouldn’t be flexible enough to talk properly.

It was small, only up to Dawn’s shoulder, and without the armor she’d seen in pictures. It was dressed for the local heat in light cloth. The skin didn’t look slimy or dry; it looked like soft fabric.

Once Dawn was safely married out… it would be a relief to be an orphan. She would no longer be asked to be a spy to her own mate. She could forget her past and make a better life with her new family, raise her children with affection and gentleness. If she didn’t like the family she married into, she’d be free to divorce, take anyone or no one as her mate, go to another planet. Go to another Solar System where House Mist meant nothing.

If Harbor tried to kill her, however, she was screwed. Killing Dawn was as easy as turning off her heater on a cold night.

Well, if Uncle Close didn’t know how to win a human’s loyalty, Dawn would have to learn how to do it right. She didn’t need a loyal tool. She just needed, if Harbor ever realized how many of her problems could be solved with murder, not to be one of those problems.

"Course. How’s your day going?”

Listening to her complain about office politics was a nice break from hero stuff. He’d been seeing too much of the kind of stuff nobody filmed. Grieving loved ones, hecklers and catcallers nearly every time they got out of the car, and the slow realization that Derby was maybe not stable enough to keep herself safe in the field. People admired her work ethic, but, from close up, Drew thought it looked more like compulsion.

Derby slept two hours, but she woke up to the emergency alarm. 

“Shit,” she said. “Shit fuck. Villain punched out a support column on a hotel. We’ve got a lot of people injured. We need to go.”

She leaned toward, like she could make the car run on her own energy.

He’d seen the AYMU building downtown. AYMU’s hero office was a shining tower you could see from blocks away, the logo across the eighth floor daring a villain to attack. Drew knew most hero offices were non-descript. He was pretty sure daisy heroics operated out of a coffee shop downtown.

The office his GPS had taken him to was ugly, a squat, brown thing from the seventies with a few decorative plants barely hanging on to life. Drew stepped through the sliding doors onto yellow-brown carpet, worn down the center and coming up at the edges. He was still half hoping for this to be a front, but instead of pressing in a code and taking the elevator down into a lair, he was shown into a meeting room with foam cups and stale coffee. The woman across from him, Joanne, was small and professional. She handed him stacks of documents to sign.

Kicking it forward to @lebirbybitch @19cats-and-counting @esseastri @abalidoth if they want to play. Your word is REMAIN,

[syrupspinner]

i just completed Hypnospace Outlaw

i sincerely love how much the sci-fi genre is just explaining how much sci-fi stuff would suck if it was real

the reason you play hypnospace outlaw is the aesthetic and presentation, just so were all on the same page. the reason this game got your attention is because its a passionate parody of web 1.0, and it does an excellent job of that. i can tell this game was made with a deep nostalgia for what made the past special without being blinded from its flaws (like the viruses and general difficulty to navigate).

the only problem is that im 24

well i shouldnt say thats a problem. just because i dont have nostalgia for what theyre throwing back to doesnt mean the game doesnt stand on its own. i didnt grow up with a ps1 or n64 but i still enjoy that specific form of lowpoly modeling, for example. its just unfortunate that i cant have the same hit of nostalgia that people slightly older than me can, yknow? i wish i could enjoy this game as much as them

again, the game was still very enjoyable. the puzzles start out very grounded, introducing you the the world and how it functions very effectively, before ramping it up with more abstract mechanics and compounding techniques needed to find more results. the only problem i found myself stuck on in an unfun way was figuring out how to decrypt sandwich files. its one of those puzzles that make you feel silly for not getting it earlier, but in my defence... who the hell would program something that esoteric

as an aside, i saw people discussing what genre games like this would be. by "games like this" i mean hypnospace outlaw, outer wilds, rain world, animal well, that kinda thing. i dont think applying one genre is effective, but instead its about how they combine the genres of exploration and puzzle. instead of having all the tools to solve a puzzle when youre presented with it, you have to leave and seek out the solution elsewhere. notably, if the game isnt build to accommodate/encourage this, itd be pretty unfun. these games and their open-ended design manage to skillfully mesh both genres together: the exploration is the puzzle

so yeah, i really enjoyed the game! there arent a lot of games where its just fun to explore the world as its presented, and HO does a fantastic job of that even without considering the puzzle design. i love just reading about the characters and their lives in hypnospace. this games greatest strength is just how charming it is, theres really nothing that matches it in that regard

i also found it really inspiring. i love how much personality all the characters fit into their webpages. maybe someday ill move this blog to neocities just so i can evoke something half as impact

oh no this was all a secret advertisement for neocities wasnt it! well, it worked, im not even mad (yes i know about the page builder)

anyway! the game is worth it for the vibes alone, and the puzzles are a really solid foundation that everything is built on. totally worth buying! the only thing is if youre going for completion, please use a guide to find all the pages, some are hidden way too well. totally worth it, though. if you know what the "thanked" achievement is named after, you know it makes it worth it. also, buzz was hilarious, i love pranks on the player

now im going to spoil the ending, stop reading this is you want to not be spoiled about the ending, because im about to spoil it now. after sasuke

oh my GOD dylan merchant is such a schmuck. maybe ive just lost too much sympathy for venture capitalist techbros, but i cannot spare any positive regard for this guy. like, okay, i get hes the bad guy, but outlaw 1.0 tries sooo hard to make you feel bad for him it wraps back around to being infuriating. the thing is that i have no idea if this is intentional? like, was a guy who let a teenager go to jail and think about how his prank killed 5 innocent people plus his crush apologizing decades later (*after* being caught) with an unfinished video game supposed to be a sincere tug of the heartstrings? "sorry i killed zane before he could stop being an annoying twerp" "sorry i killed rodney, his family smelled like walmart" "sorry i killed mavis, i think that was her name. i got nothing else to say about her" "anyway thanks for playing the 'final' version of the game that killed everyone. you have successfully absolved me of my sins and sent me to heaven. remember to subscribe and hit that bell icon" DUDE how emotionally shallow and self aggrandizing do you have to be you are a child murderer my guy

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Hurricanes / Hummingbirds: IV

Series Synopsis: As the years go by, you find that it is incredibly difficult to survive wars and fight storms, especially when the only thing you have by way of a cursed technique is the blessing of a tiny bird.

Chapter Synopsis: You, Nanami, and Haibara take on a mission to help Gojo and Geto.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Hajime Kashimo x Female Reader; slight Kento Nanami x Female Reader; slight Satoru Gojo × Female Reader

Chapter Word Count: 4.3k

Content Warnings: swearing, enemies/rivals to lovers, character death, canon-typical violence, angst, gore, original characters included

A/N: the found familyest found family

“This does not seem like the kind of mission that first years should be assigned to,” Nanami said as you trudged through the airport, the veins of his hand standing out from how hard he was clutching the strap of the bag carrying his characteristic blunt blade. “It’s definitely inappropriate for them to have called us here.”

“Maybe so, but I’m still psyched. I really want to show Geto that I’m reliable and strong!” Haibara said.

“Plus, he and Gojo are working so hard to protect that poor girl. We should do whatever we can to help them in their cause,” you said, absentmindedly stroking the Sword of Syrinx, which hung from your belt as always.

“I doubt they’re doing anything that serious,” Nanami muttered. “Knowing them, they’re probably slacking off as usual, leaving us to do the actual hard work.”

“I don’t know about that. If they specifically were called on the mission, that means it’s special grade worthy. They probably won’t even have a chance to slack off, and whatever they’re dealing with must be worse than what we have going on. Otherwise, they would’ve offered to trade positions with us,” you said.

“Whatever,” Nanami said with a frown. “It’s still way more work than I was planning on doing over the weekend, and you know what the worst part is? Since it’s their mission, we won’t even get paid for the hours of our lives that we are losing.”

“I’m sure we can get Hinode to convince the higher ups to give us a bonus if we do a good job,” you said. “But regardless, we came here as a favor to our upperclassmen, so getting paid should be the furthest thing from your mind.”

When Gojo and Geto had texted you and Haibara respectively, asking for yours and Nanami’s help on their mission, you and Haibara had jumped at the chance to make yourselves useful. Nanami had been far more reluctant, but that was just how he was, so it was to be expected.

Though you had begun the mission thinking it would be difficult and dangerous, things were slow and there was little to do but people watch — this was at least somewhat interesting, given the number of eccentric people filing in and out of the airport at any given time.

You and Haibara began a game where you tried to imagine lives for the various travelers. Nanami thought the game was ridiculous and chose not to participate, leaving the two of you to giggle like schoolchildren over the increasingly over-the-top backstories you came up with.

“I bet she’s on the run,” you said.

“From the law or from gangsters?” Haibara said, eyes wide and voice hushed as he glanced at the woman you were surreptitiously motioning towards.

“From her former lover,” you said.

“Why?” he said.

“He only married her to inherit the family fortune, but she found out in the nick of time and is now absconding with her wealth to reunite with her childhood best friend, who has secretly been in love with her for years,” you said.

“How romantic!” he said. “I bet that guy is in the middle of a heist.”

“Jewels or art?”

“Probably the glass eye of a famous politician.”

“What does that even mean?” you said. Haibara shrugged.

“First odd thing I could think of. How would he even pull that off?” he said.

“Maybe when the politician was in a deep, deep sleep — you know the kind where your lids are fluttering and all? Yeah, that stage — he snuck into the room, used his fingers to manually open the politician’s eyes, plucked the glass one right out, and then escaped before the politician could wake up,” you said.

“Would it be slimy?” he said.

“The glass eye? Probably, but I’d assume he rinsed it off for storage purposes. That briefcase looks like leather,” you said. “If you mean the politician, I’d have to say that’s an outdated joke.”

“But you probably found it funny anyways,” he said.

“Maybe a little bit,” you acquiesced.

“Say, do you think we’ll have to stay here for the night?” Haibara said.

“Probably not,” Nanami said, finally deigning to speak to you all. He was currently perusing a rack of magazines idly, though you knew none of them would interest him very much. At that moment, your phone buzzed, and when you flipped it open, you saw that it was a text from Gojo.

‘extending trip for an extra day xoxo.’

“It looks like they’re staying for an extra day,” you said, showing Nanami the text. “So probably, yes.”

His face turned green, and he grabbed your phone as if he could not quite comprehend what he was reading. “That’s cruel. We’ve been here the whole day.”

You scoffed. “It’s not that big of a deal. The girl’s going to have to merge with Tengen; don’t you think she at least deserves a couple of days of fun before she essentially loses her life? What they’re doing is a good thing.”

“Why’d you have to go and make it a question of morality?” he said. “Ugh. We’ll take turns sleeping.”

“I’m not tired yet,” you said.

“Neither am I,” he said. In unison, you turned to look at Haibara, who was already slumped against the wall, snoring lightly. You smiled fondly at him, and even Nanami relaxed a bit, taking off his jacket and draping it over Haibara like a blanket.

“I guess he’s first, then,” you said. Nanami leaned against the wall beside Haibara, and you did the same. Although you needed to remain vigilant, both of you allowed yourselves to take a moment to breathe. After a day of nothing happening, it was hard to believe that anything would actually attack you.

“Do you ever wonder what our futures will be like?” Nanami said, some time later. It had gotten to be late enough at night that the airport had quieted a bit, or at least gotten as quiet as an airport could get, and it almost seemed like the two of you — plus the sleeping Haibara — were the only ones in the whole building. It would’ve been eerie, but with Nanami and the Sword of Syrinx at your side, you found you were not scared.

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “But also, not really. I expect it’ll just be an endless cycle of exorcising curses until I’m killed or retire.“

“Besides being a sorcerer,” he said. You tilted your head, gazing out at the night sky through the glass windows of the airport.

“What else is there, besides being a sorcerer?” you said. “It’s all I have left for me, since my parents clearly want nothing to do with me and I don’t really have any friends to speak of back home.”

“I wish there was something else,” he said.

“Do you not want to be a sorcerer or something?” you said. It was the first you had ever heard of such a thing; though Nanami hated having to do any work, he also was a model student and excellent at his job.

“It’s a shitty life, that’s all. You said it best — an endless cycle of exorcising curses until you die. Maybe you’ll get to retire, if you’re lucky,” he said. “There’s not even a point to it all.”

“That’s true,” you said. “But…no, I can’t argue with that. You’re right.”

“It’s probably the hour,” he said when your dissatisfaction became clear. “It’s so easy to slip into depressing thoughts during the night. Let’s talk about something else. Look, the moon’s already so high in the sky. It’s pretty tonight, isn’t it?”

“It is,” you said. It was bright and full, a silver dollar in a velvet sky, peering down at you benevolently. “I miss the stars, though.”

It was because there were too many lights. Cities never slept, after all; it was never fully dark enough to see anything besides the moon and the winking of planes passing by overhead. For some reason, it made you sad, though you could not recall ever caring much about the stars in the past.

“They’re still out there somewhere,” he said. “Even if we can’t see them, it doesn’t mean they’re gone.”

“I suppose not, but it’s hard to believe in things without the proof of their existence,” you said.

“As long as they were there at one point, I can do it,” he said. “That’s enough proof for me.”

A manager came to pick you all up when it was time to go back. Contrary to Nanami’s complaints, it really had been an uneventful mission. The most excitement was when a shop owner accused Haibara of stealing the book he had, in fact, paid for, but it was all smoothed over when you showed her the receipt. Otherwise, you all had done little more than laze around and do what you would’ve done back at the school anyways.

“Were Gojo and Geto successful?” you said as the manager started the engine and pulled out of the airport parking lot. You were sitting in the backseat with Haibara, as Nanami had claimed he would get carsick if he could not be in the front — whether this was true or not, you weren’t sure, but neither you nor Haibara were willing to risk it.

The manager cleared her throat. “Well. No, not exactly.”

You cocked your head, for certainly you must’ve heard her wrong. Haibara seemed similarly confused, and even Nanami stiffened a bit, though this might’ve been due to nausea.

“I think you might’ve misunderstood what I was saying,” you said, as politely as you could manage. How was it that Geto and Gojo, the strongest sorcerers, the best of the best, had failed? It was inconceivable. You could not imagine a world in which they were not the pinnacle of achievement. Nothing was supposed to be impossible for them, so how could one simple mission have gotten their better?

“I didn’t,” the manager said, turning the car sharply, throwing you against your seatbelt, which instantly turned taut so that you didn’t smash into the seat in front of you. “Gojo and Geto failed. The girl was killed by an assassin before she could merge with Tengen.”

“An assassin?” Haibara said. “Are the upperclassmen okay?”

The manager did not say anything, and your stomach dropped. Your nails sunk into the black leather seat, and your toes curled as various scenarios ran through your mind.

“Geto was in critical condition, but the assassin supposedly left him alive for fear of what would happen to his gathered curses should he die, so Ieri was able to heal him,” the manager finally said. “As for Gojo —”

“No,” you said immediately, cutting her off before she could finish. “He’s alright. Don’t lie and say that he’s not.”

How was it that even in your worst nightmares, you hadn’t imagined Gojo harmed? He was supposed to be untouchable. He had the Infinity that not even his counterpart Geto could claim, he was that rambunctious boy that had effortlessly exorcised the curse about to kill you and then bought you food. You could believe anything else. You could believe that Geto had been beaten, though even that was fantastical, more fiction than reality, but at least you could envision it. But Gojo? You could not. You could not even picture it. He was so full of vitality, he was life itself, and the absence of it, emptiness in what ought to be whole, was wrong.

“He is alright,” the manager said. You, Haibara, and Nanami breathed a collective sigh of relief. It was more than just caring for Gojo that fueled it. If there existed a being that was Gojo’s superior, then none of you were safe. Gojo’s power was monstrous and unprecedented, but if he was a monster — and of course he was not, but even if he was — he was a monster that was on your side. It was easier to be alright with impossibility when it was to your benefit. It was harder to accept when it was an unknown, when it wanted to harm you, even.

“So, then? Why’d you hesitate and frighten all of us like that?” you said, hugging the Sword of Syrinx to your chest. It sent out a pulse of warmth, its attempt at soothing you, and to its credit, it worked, the cursed energy mixing with your own and raising your spirits just a bit.

“He was killed,” she said. “And left for dead. Somehow, that situation managed to unlock his reverse cursed technique, and subsequently his cursed technique reversal. He healed himself and used his newfound discovery to utilize a secret technique, the Hollow Technique Purple, before using it to kill the assassin.”

“Um?” you said. “I don’t know how I should feel about that.”

“It’s like I’ve gone through every stage of grief at once,” Haibara mused.

“That’s a dumbass name for a technique,” Nanami said with an air of finality. “Especially one as difficult and powerful as that. The best they could come up with was Purple?”

“I’m just glad he’s alright,” you said, grateful to Nanami for lightening the mood. “Also, Purple makes sense. It’s a combination of Red and Blue.”

“Which, by the way, aren’t much better,” he said. “Whatever. Good for him for learning to use it.”

This was how he expressed himself, so you didn’t reprimand him. No matter how much he claimed to dislike Gojo, it was nothing more than surface-level, and when it came down to it, he had been just as worried about him as you and Haibara had been.

There were still slick sanguine stains covering the stone courtyard of the school, fly head curses buzzing around, sticking their proboscises into the puddles and growing fat from the blood they sucked up. You paused by the deepest well, staring at the depths of the liquid, half-mesmerized and half-sickened by the sheen of power glossed over the top.

“This is Gojo’s,” you said, a sour taste in your mouth. “But there’s so much.”

“Let’s go,” Nanami said, lightly touching your shoulder. “Don’t dwell on it. He’s fine, you heard the manager say so.”

“But there’s just so much,” you repeated. It was everywhere, rivers and rivers that the curses were feasting on without care. It didn’t matter if the manager said Gojo was okay. You weren’t like Nanami. You couldn’t believe in anything without proof, and the only proof you had was what you saw in front of you.

There was a faint voice in the back of your mind.

Would you like to…would you like to…

When you tried to discern what it was saying, however, it disappeared. You ground your teeth in frustration. Because now anger had taken over your feeble terror, and before you could really think about it, you had drawn the Sword of Syrinx.

“What are you doing?” Haibara said. It was not accusing; he was just curious, and you squared your shoulders before you responded.

“These curses,” you said, pointing the sword at them. “They don’t deserve it. They don’t deserve to get stronger because of someone else’s pain.”

“There’s nothing to be done about it,” Nanami said. “Come on, I’m sure Hinode is waiting for us.”

“There is something to be done about it,” you said. “And I will do it. I will exorcise them.”

“Me, too!” Haibara said. Maybe he had also been thinking along the same lines and was glad you had spoken up, or maybe it was a novel idea you had had, but either way, you were glad for the support.

“You guys are such a headache,” Nanami said, but he was already taking out his blunt blade and activating his technique on a nearby fly head.

There were so many curses crawling around the campus that it was already high noon by the time you had exorcised all of them. In an effort to calm your temper, Haibara had proposed a competition, and then the fighting actually became somewhat fun, each of you tallying up the amount of curses you took out and trying to get rid of more than the others.

“I got 360,” Nanami said.

“Weak numbers,” Haibara commented. “668 for me.”

“What the hell?” Nanami said. “Where did you even find that many? And why did you go that hard?”

“I had to win!” Haibara said. “Let’s hear it, Y/N.”

“672,” you said. “How does it feel to lose?”

“It was only barely,” Haibara said. “So I’ll take it.”

“At least you did better than Nanami,” you agreed. “Nanami, were you even trying?”

“No,” he said. You looked at him and then at Haibara, who made a face as if to remind you you couldn’t really expect much more from Nanami.

“Fair enough,” you said. “Now, we should really go check in with Hinode.”

“If he’s upset with us, I’m blaming you,” Nanami said.

Hinode was in his classroom when you three walked in, drawing something on the chalkboard that resembled a swarm of fly head curses. When you shuffled into the room, he did not even turn around to greet you, continuing to draw, digging his chalk into the board passive-aggressively.

“It’s good to see my students showed up,” he said. “I was beginning to think they’d skip the entire day.”

“Sorry, sir,” you said. “It’s my fault.”

“I’m a relaxed teacher, but even I occasionally have things for you all to do,” he continued. “I don’t know what you were so busy with, but in the meantime, the campus has been swarmed with fly head curses. If we let them wander around willy-nilly, they’ll multiply into a real problem. Even this much time having elapsed means it’ll be harder to get rid of them once and for all.”

“More fly heads? But we just exorcised so many,” Haibara said. “What gives?”

“I already got rid of 360,” Nanami said. “That’s my quota for the day. Anything more and I want to be paid a bonus.”

“Hinode, sir, I’m sorry we were late to class, but we were busy cleaning up the campus from all of the fly heads that came due to the assassin’s attack. If those are the fly heads you speak of, then rest assured that they have already been taken care of,” you said.

“You three exorcised all 1,700 of those fly head curses without even being asked to?” Hinode said, the chalk dropping from his hand and turning to dust under his foot as he took a step towards you.

“Yes. Should we not have?” you said. “It was just really gross that they were sitting around and drinking Gojo’s blood like that. Speaking of which, you should send someone to wash that whole mess up. Oh! And, um, is Gojo around?”

“He’s in his room,” Hinode said. “Did you guys seriously get rid of all of the fly heads already?”

“Do you not believe us?” Haibara said.

“We’re definitely strong enough to deal with a bunch of curses that are so weak, they don’t even qualify as grade 4’s,” Nanami said.

“I’m not doubting you, it’s just…no, never mind. Good job; I’m sorry for being angry earlier. You can take the rest of the day to shower and do whatever you want. I’m proud of you,” Hinode said.

Proud. You, Nanami, and Haibara had made Hinode proud. The three of you barely made it out of the room before you and Haibara squealed, grabbing Nanami into a group hug.

“We made Hinode happy!” Haibara said.

“Can you believe it? Kaito Hinode, the Kaito Hinode, he’s proud of us!” you said. Nanami rolled his eyes but did not even shove you off.

“Yeah, yeah, I guess it’s pretty cool,” he said. Even though Hinode was never critical and was actually pretty liberal with his praise, it still felt different this time. It wasn’t like you had succeeded at doing something you had been assigned — you had exceeded his expectations, made him proud just by being yourselves. It was the most validation you had ever received.

“Now, I’m going to shower and nap until dinner time,” Haibara said, letting Nanami go.

“Skipping lunch? That’s so unlike you,” you said.

“It pains me to do so, but I’m just exhausted. We barely got any rest at the airport, and then the sheer number of fly heads we had to exorcise took more out of me than I initially realized it would,” Haibara said with a yawn.

“I agree,” Nanami said. “I might eat, but then I’m getting in bed for a bit. I need to catch up on my rest, and my back hurts.”

“I guess I’ll see you all at dinner, then,” you said.

“You’re not going to sleep?” Haibara said.

“I would like to, but I want to make sure Gojo is alright first,” you said.

“You’re such a good underclassman,” Nanami said.

“Send our well-wishes!” Haibara said.

“Yes, please do that,” Nanami said.

“I’ll be sure to,” you said.

Gojo’s room was locked tightly shut, and when you knocked, the only answer you received was a muffled go away. It was enough proof that he was alive, so technically you should’ve been satisfied by it, but you knew all too well that being alive and being alright were two separate things.

You returned a few minutes later with the necessary supplies, and then you braved knocking again.

“It’s me, Y/N,” you said softly.

“I’m busy,” he said.

“I brought sweets?” you tried, crinkling the paper bag of convenience store snacks you had gotten to bribe him into opening the door. They were nothing like what he had treated you to on your mission together, but they were enough that a few seconds later, he cracked his door open, a single suspicious blue eye peeking out at you.

“Come in,” he said, replacing his glasses and opening the door wider after affirming that you did, in fact, have sweets with you. You slipped into the room and set the bag on the desk. He was on it like a vulture, unwrapping packets and shoving the food in his mouth, hardly even chewing before he swallowed and reached for more.

There were so many things you wanted to say. You’re alive. You failed. How did it happen? You’re the strongest now. What does Hollow Technique Purple even mean? Are you alright? No, really, are you alright?

What you actually said was this: “You’ll choke.”

“No, I won’t,” he said between mouthfuls. “That’d be a stupid way to die.”

“There are very few stupid ways to die, and that’s not one of them,” you said.

“Is being attacked by a flock of geese?” he said.

“They are notoriously aggressive birds,” you said.

“Is slipping on a banana peel and breaking your neck?”

“Banana peels are serious threats to society.”

“Is —” His blithe tone dissipated in an instant, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “Is being one of the strongest sorcerers and getting beaten by someone with no cursed energy at all?”

“Even the strongest sorcerers are still human,” you said. “If I were such a being, I would do well to remember that. Even if the world called me a monster or a god, I would have to keep in mind that I am only one person.”

“Then it doesn’t count as a stupid way to die in your mind?” he said.

“Heavenly Restrictions are no joke,” you said. “If I went out like that, I’d be proud.”

“Proud!” he said. “What pride is there in losing?”

“There’s pride in having fought at all,” you said. “That’s the important bit. If I’ve learned one thing from studying and from Nanami and the others, it’s that there’s no real winning in this life. There’s just those that continue to struggle and those that give up.”

“Things should be easy if you’re the strongest. I shouldn’t have to struggle,” he said.

“Then maybe that means you aren’t the strongest yet,” you said.

He contemplated this. “Well, I haven’t mastered the Domain Expansion.”

“Hm,” you said. You did not know what a Domain Expansion was, but Gojo seemed to think it was important, so you pretended like you did. “Massive shortcoming.”

“Exactly,” he said. “And I still need to work on my Infinity.”

“Oh, yeah,” you said. “You’ve gotta go to infinity and beyond.”

He did not even recognize the reference. “Yes! I need to go beyond the normal limits of the technique and take it to the next level if I want to be the strongest.”

“Sure,” you said. If he found solace in it, then who were you to tell him that that wasn’t quite what you had meant to say?

“You’re a helpful girl, Y/N. I knew there was a reason you were my favorite of the first years!” he said. “Also, thanks for the sweets.”

“Anytime,” you said, unable to keep up with his changes in mood and finding no point in trying. “Oh, it looks like Hinode just emailed me, so I should probably see what that’s all about, but I’m happy we could talk for a little bit.”

“See you around,” he said. “Expect a sandwich for your troubles.”

“I look forward to it,” you said, leaving Gojo’s room and opening up the email Hinode had sent you.

Subj.: URGENT Mission Alert

In the wake of Satoru Gojo’s power increase, curses with unprecedented levels of strength will begin to manifest. One such curse has already appeared at a nearby animal shelter, and we have been assigned with exorcising it. Bring the Sword of Syrinx.

Thx,

Kaito Hinode

[sirwow]

since iv posted so much abt rose apocalypse id thought id share the first 3 pages of the fic since its taking quite awhile. Context of the story is this around the end of pikmin 4

Apologies for the white flashbang </3, text version will be under the cut if you dont wanna look at the images

A trumpet rings out throughout the hull of the S.S. Shepherd, followed by the dozens of groans of tried castaways being abruptly woken up. “Attention everyone! We need you all suited and ready in an hour so you can all head home so no diddle daddling!” Shepherd barks out to a groggy crowd. After some quiet annoyed sighs and whispers the ship begins to wake up with the movement and chat of the castaways

The Rescue corps members file order amongst the wave of people walking around the ship. Pom hops outside early to stretch and bask one last time in the morning sun of PNF-404. The mission has been a success, no treasure or castaway left behind and Pom’s hard work has finally come to pay off. “You look ridiculous.” 

Pom jumps a bit. “Who said that?” She stutters while looking around. “Over here, Wilted.” The sneer of a sickly pale figure reveals itself from behind the ship’s wing. “You look silly posing like some kind of hero over a bunch of pebbles” Harbinger chuckles. Pom retorts. “What do you want?” “Oh please don’t act like you don’t know what we are. I just find you such a ridiculous curiosity really.” Harbinger claims.

“What do you mean by that?” 

“What’s your goal? Be friends with the ants you could destroy with a flick of your hand? They’ll figure you out sooner than later and probably get rid of you.” Harbinger states. “They won’t. And what is your problem?” Pom questions “Mmm I don’t think you’d understand considering your plans. Better off dumb and clueless, just like your plan!” Harbinger flicks her antenna with a sizzle and laughs to himself.

Poms face burns red as Harbinger mocks her under his breath as he hobbled off. She stalks after him and grabs his arm to demand answers. “I- what the hell are you doing?? Let go!” “Not until you say what you’re up to!” The two struggle against each other and Pom doesn’t realize the pain in her hand until she had completely lost her grip as her glove and parts of her hand had been torn and wilted. “W-what did you-“ Pom stops herself as she sees roots and thorns growing and blooming where she had her grip on Harbinger’s arm. He’s pulling at them but it’s clearly left a glowing mark where they grew.

Harbinger stomps up to Pom to yell but her attention is focused on her panic upon seeing Collin hopping out of the ship to investigate what the yelling was all about. All 3 freeze as Harbinger’s glowing goop drips from his arm and Pom fails to hide her torn suit glove. Collin is confused and processing what he’s seeing. Harbinger isn’t willing to give him the chance to think, shifting his hand into a bright blue claw and lunging for Collin.

He’s stopped in his tracks as long claws grasp his heel and throw him back into the dirt. Pom breathes heavily as her claws burn. She’s unsure herself what just happened but Collin’s scream most definitely snapped her back. “Collin!-“ Pom’s plea for his silence is fruitless as the rest of the Rescue corps and other castaways jump outside from hearing the scream. 

The air is malleable. Pom stands, frozen in time as hundreds of eyes stare her down. Her claw has ripped through half her suit sleeve. Harbinger stands up from the dirt, his disguise falling apart and only now seeing the sea of glares he and Pom are now drowning in. 

Pom runs. Shepherd, acting on her instinct, demands her crew to stop them. Though the others freeze, Yonny pulls a tranquilizer from his side and fires. The first hits Pom in the shoulder, and a second hits a cowering Harbinger quickly trying to transform. The others begin moving as the shock wears off, Pom scrambles past Harbinger getting to his feet, her body turning most monstrous without her control. The sting of the tranquilizers and frantic panic drive both wraiths into a dash across the undergrowth.  ——————————

Clicking of Shearwigs fills the dusk’s quiet. Pom slowly trudges through the pedals of Blossoming Arcadia, feet worn and muddy from the run. It’s strangely peaceful with most all the wildlife minding its own business in the dark. Pom reaches the stream and rests by the edge, water soothing her legs and washing away the muck. A green glimmer against the ripples catches her eye and looking up to her side is the unmistakable burning stare of Harbinger despite the neon state.

“What do you want?” Pom snears “What do I want? You’re the one who did this! Now I have to be stuck in this stupid cubby!” Harbinger barks back. He opens his mouth to shout again but slinks back into the old toy car upon seeing a Bulborb looking over the edge of the pipes from the noise. Pom huddles under the bridge she built weeks ago to hide. The Bulborb stomps away after hearing another creature back from whence it came. 

Harbinger peers out again, stating in a much more hushed tone, “And now you’ve set us up to be eaten in hours.” Pom merely gives a glare before falling back against wet rock and sighing. “..Ugh.. you and your silence. Why don’t you go ahead and marry it if you love it so much?” Harbinger jests.

Pom pays him no mind much to Harbinger’s annoyance. Her mind is still rushing with thoughts and worries about what to do now. Surely she could explain to the rescue corps and they’d be accepting. But what if they had already left, scared of the monsters that had snuck among them? What if they were now out to kill her? It was all too much.

Harbinger watches her in boredom and still a piping fury of his plan being ruined by Pom’s nosiness. “What worried no one will ever trust you again? That you’re gonna be left here, stuck like this cause of your “friend”? Cause’ it’s right.” Harbinger mocks. “You don’t know anything.” Pom returns. “I don’t know anything? Dear I think I know full well what it’s like to be alone and dropped by people at the drop of a hat. They’re not coming back for you.”

 “Shut up.”

[silentstaresfanficandfanart]

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Give us your best and worst feelings while experiencing being a game dev

okay!

some of the best feelings: working with my new teammate person (the one i mentioned was teaching me a while back! now we're a proper dev team!) and talking about and planning idaes with him

when something finally works

solving a probelm i couldnt figure out a few days ago

when its finally done

watching your characters come to life

COMMENTS HWEN SOMEONE COMMENTS :D ive only gotten one comment on my itch.io games so far but IT MADE ME SO HAPPY and i keep going back to look at it when i need motivation-

playing through with my friends over vc and us making up funny bits and doing voices while we're at it! We had one playthrough where the main character was named paperwork and all their diologue was just paperwork, by the time it was done i was struggling not to say paperwork in the middle of random conversations and frankly it was hilarious

when your friends like your game : ' )

that relatable feeling of playing a game or recalling an odd choice a game developer made in a game you loved once and being like oh I get it now. iiiiiget it now (*glances at pokemon in solemn understanding* i see why you didint do that now. I get it.

the loving feeling of you and your fellow programmer workign on a script and you putting your cursor next to theirs (it feels like a hug <3, its like, programmer cuddles, i am 99% that just an us thing) the utter TRIUMPH of getting something fully functional

when one of your friends decides to latch onto a specific character and loves them and its like YES PLEASE LOVE MY SON I WORKED HARD ON HIM HES A GIFT TO YOU YIPPIEEE

WHEN YOU TRY TO FIX A GLITCH AND THE GAME BOOTS UP PROPERLY AND NOTHINGS WRONG :D

the worst feelings:

when something you worked really hard on doesnt get much attention

when you cant solve a weirdly specific problem (*Shakes fist at color wheels*) and you know its objectively making your game MUCH worse and harder on the player, but you just cant find the information you need to solve it

when youve tried to fix the same bug 10 times and the error log isint changing

thinking you got all the bugs only to find out your newest update is a buggy disaster and one of your characters has decided to become a nudist and preform mitosis which was NOT your goal whatsoever because your naming conventions were flawed

when you have too many files and its just overwhelming-

messing up ONE letter or the indentation on something

problems that take 3 days or more to figure out solutions to

and as the artist and one of the two main programmers: character creation. i understand now why its not more common in video games. this is hard. I definitely intend to do it but golly

trying to balance stats and things

when the game crashes while youre bugfixing-

trying to figure out what strange seemingly alien language your fellow programmer is using to get amazing results because you have to understand how it works so you can actually use the amazing system they made but if you COULD understand it very easily already you would have made it yourself so youre just crawling through it trying to reverse engineer it so you can avoid breaking what they made and add onto it lol

[snaillamp]

Fuck appendixes pt. 3

Christina and Boris were sitting at the desk in the nurses area, discussing their difficult patient. “He’s so much easier to help when he’s drugged up and mellow. I legitimately feel scared to go in alone when he’s in one of his moods.” Boris murmured to her.

It had been half an hour since they had tried giving Enjar Nielson his meds, but he was so difficult to help when he kept refusing it and being so rude and aggressive. “I know it’s hard, Boris. You’ll have people like that sometimes. He seems different though. It’s weird, I see him in town sometimes and he always seems so nice and friendly, what changed?” Christina mused. “We need to get that consult for him that Dr Mathieson wanted. Dr Singh maybe? He seems like the right guy to manage someone so... hard.”

Boris nodded, stroking his chin. “Do his records say anything that we can use?” Christina shook her head. “It’s so weird, the notes are really vague. The last time he was in hospital was due to injuries sustained in a home invasion, that was just some glue to his head and a concussion, but look at before. These are the worst medical notes I’ve ever seen in my 15 years of nursing.”

She clicked onto the file, running her finger under the pitiful sentences. “10 years ago, he went to hospital for: Severe work related injury, major lacerations to face and arms, surgery required. Blood transfusion required, administered in right arm. No more information is available at this ti-” A scream echoing down the hall interrupted her. Boris, Christina and a few other nurses shot up and hurtled down the hallway towards the room.

11B, Mr Enjar Nielson.

Boris reached the doorway first, gasping in horror at what he saw. Enjar was seemingly asleep, thrashing in his bed, tangled in his IV and sheets. Sweat was drenching his body as he squirmed, screaming again, crying out slurred words. Christina pushed past him, yanking off the sheets before looking at him and yelling. “Stoltz! We need to get the IV!”

Boris snapped into action, rushing to Enjar’s side and softly pushing his shoulders into the bed. The man seemed to choke on his panting gasps, tears staining his face as he tried to get free. His right arm flew up, blood already streaming from the IV as he clawed at Boris’ arms. He watched as the man’s eyes flew open, fixed on him and yet also nothing, pupils blown bigger than he had ever seen on someone before.

He felt the sharp fingernails of the man stab painfully into his wrists as he tried to calm the man down, telling him to breathe deeply and that he was in the hospital. The terrified, screaming man didn’t seem to understand as Christina fumbled on gloves to disconnect the IV. Before she could even do that, the man’s grip tightened painfully of Boris’ wrists, before he choked on a hiccup and pushed Boris off with strength he didn’t expect from a sick and injured man.

A rattling, chesty cough overtook Enjar as he shook violently with every convulsion. Christina tried to grab his arm to remove the IV but his wild eyes locked onto it, and before Boris could reach out to stop him, he pulled the cannula from his arm, hurtling it at the wall before wrestling off his oxygen.

Christina stared in horror as the hyperventilating patient stared at his rapidly bleeding arm before his wide eyes rolled back and he fell sideways, only caught by her at the last second. Almost immediately, his breathing calmed and the shaking stopped. Both nurses looked at each other in awe, before they shot into action again, dressing the wound on his elbow and calling the doctor.

~

Dr Fayed heard the screams from his office, jumping from his chair, he ran down the hallway to see a group of nurses crowded around the room 11B, Enjar’s room. Shoving his way through, he reached the bed where his friend lay, limp and pale, sweating profusely. The head nurse, Christina was dressing his bloody elbow, blood also staining her scrubs, the bed, the floor. “What happened in here?” He asked in shock. The younger nurse looked up at him, arguably more pale than the patient, “I have no idea…” he panted.

Dr Fayed pulled a pen light from his pocket, shining them in Enjar’s eyes. His pupils were huge. Feeling his wrist, he raised his eyebrows in shock. The man’s pulse felt like it wanted to jump out of his skin. “Is Dr Mathieson coming?” He asked Christina, who looked at him grimly, nodding. She finished dressing the wound, before stepping back and looking at her blood stained clothes. “Well, time to grab my seconds.” She muttered, mildly annoyed.

She glared at the nurses crowded around the doorway. “Well? Get back to your rounds, ladies and gents. You know better than to gawk.” She huffed as they all muttered apologies, shuffling away and returning to their work.

Dr Fayed looked at the man below him, watching his chest rise and fall. “Oh Enjar. What has happened to you?”

~

Dr Mathieson flew into the ward looking ready to kill. “Where is my patient!” He yelled, face contorted and pink with rage. Christina shot up and rushed to his side, “Shhh, we’re trying to be quiet so we don’t make him fly into an episode again. Dr Singh is with him right now. Just... be quiet for once.” Dr Mathieson drew in a long, sharp breath, sighing steadily. “Alright.”

When he entered the room, a tall man was taking a seat by the bedside of his patient. He had a fancy, mauve coloured silk vest on over a neatly pressed, crisp white shirt and perfectly fitted dark grey dress pants. His leather shoes could probably have reflected Dr Mathieson’s face in them if he looked at them. He had a matching mauve turban wrapped around his head and was twisting an expertly curled moustache with his right hand, his low, vibrating voice quietly talking to a fast breathing Enjar. The man’s shaking hand was squeezing the doctor’s own, his long fingers curled around the patient’s pale, clammy ones.

He turned at the sound of Dr Mathieson entering the room. “Ah, Tomas…” He whispered, beckoning him in. “Nice and slow okay, we need to work with him, not against him.” Dr Mathieson nodded, taking a cautious step into the room and glancing at his patient, who was staring at the ceiling, eyes streaming with thick, hot tears. “We are just having a moment together, then you and I can talk. You’re welcome to join Ahmed.” The tall doctor did a tiny, slow gesture towards Dr Fayed, who was leaning against the wall looking angry.

Dr Mathieson watched as Dr Singh gently brought his right hand down to Enjar’s hand. It was still tightly gripping his own and he could see Dr Singh's skin going pale as the blood flow was stopped in the iron grip. “I’m touching your hand, can you feel it?” He whispered, watching in the rapidly fading light as the silent crying man nodded. Dr Singh stroked the back of the man’s hand very softly, before speaking again. “I’m going to touch your forearm, okay? Remember that you are in a safe place, and if you want me to stop, just say the words.” Enjar jerked his head in a small nod, swallowing as he closed his eyes. “Breathe in deep for me, Enjar.” The doctor trailed his fingers down the man’s forearm, guiding him in his breaths.

~

Enjar felt the delicate title of the man’s soft fingers. His presence was calming, he smelled nice, his scent filling the room. Some kind of deep, sweet, herbal smell, maybe floral? He felt the man’s hand trail to his elbow as the told himself over and over: ‘It’s a hospital, not that hospital. I’m safe, I’m safe. Stop being pathetic Enjar.'

He heard the man’s strangely deep, vibrating voice again. “I’m going to touch your upper arm and shoulder. Tell me if you want me to stop. Remember where you are and try to ground yourself.” Enjar let out another shaky breath as the man’s fingers traveled up his arm, then rested on his shoulder.

“Good, good.” The doctor coached, squeezing his shoulder ever so slightly.

“Please… don’t hurt me…” Enjar whispered, trying to push the image of the gloves and helmeted men from his mind. They weren’t the enemy. They were the medic squad, he shouldn’t be afraid of them. “I won’t hurt you.” The helmeted man by his side said, before the image in his mind seemed to dissolve and he heard the new doctor’s voice again. “I am not here to hurt you.”

He heard a shuffle from somewhere around him, and he twitched, before the steady hand rested on his shoulder a little harder. “It’s just Dr Mathieson, Enjar. He won’t hurt you. I need you to ground yourself, alright. Take all the time you need. I’m going to place my hand on your chest now. Tell me to stop if you don’t want it.”

Enjar gulped as he stared at the ceiling, looking at the light fixtures above him. He felt the doctor’s hand move over his shoulder and stop on his chest lightly, right above his pounding heart. “Keep breathing, you’re doing so well Enjar. In and out with me, now.”

Enjar heard the man’s deep, sighing breaths and copied. The gentle hand on his chest felt comforting, the pleasant weight resting over his heart and the breaths that were making him feel faint. After a few minutes, he suddenly became awake of where he was, drawing in a deep breath and blinking as his vision cleared as if a wave of clarity had hit him like a truck.

“There we are. Did you want a lamp on so you can see better?” The doctor asked. Enjar took a moment before shaking his head. The dark was safe. He was safe. “That’s okay. Take all the time you need to come back to us.”

Enjar sat up, hunched over for several minutes, breathing deeply as a hand rested between his shoulder blades. With every breath, he felt like he was shedding his heavy Enjar suit and actually becoming himself once more. It no longer felt like he was looking through someone else’s eyes, feeling through someone else’s skin and hearing through someone else’s ears. He was back.

That meant the pain came back too.

He groaned, clutching his stomach and laying back down coughing a little. He squeezed his eyes shut, before mumbling barely coherent words. “Can I have the lamp on now?” Dr Fayed smiled, “Of course, Enjar.” He whispered, leaning over to the dim lamp in the dark room, switching it on. Enjar saw the light come one behind his eyes lids, and after getting used to the brightness, he opened his eyes, sighing.

“I feel like shit.” He whispered, slurring his words. Dr Singh smiled, “That’s understandable, you’ve been through a lot. Take your time, Mr Nielson. I just need to talk to your doctor.” Enjar felt a twinge of panic. He didn't want to be alone. “Will you come back?” His voice hitched as he asked. “Of course. But I do have to go for a short time.” Enjar nodded, rolling onto his side and relishing in the fact he could pull his right arm around himself and not be restrained by the oxygen. Holding his blankets over him as he curled up, he lay there, watching the three men leave the room.

~

Dr Mathieson shut the door and looked at the two doctors. “So what exactly happened here?” Dr Singh, towering over Dr Mathieson crossed his arms and answered with an accusatory tone. “Your patient experienced one of the worst traumatic episodes I’ve seen in my career, that’s what.” Dr Mathieson felt a pile of lead settle in his stomach, before it erupted into fire. “Are you insinuating that I did not look after my patient?”

The taller doctor looked down his hooked nose and smirked. “Of course not, Tomas, but I am concerned that it got to that stage in the first place.” Dr Mathieson huffed, pacing the hallway. “And what about you? Why were you in there?” He snapped at Dr Fayed. “I was passing by and I heard him screaming bloody murder. He ripped his IV from his elbow and threw it across the room.” Dr Mathieson scoffed. “That explains the blood everywhere. So what he went insane?”

Dr Singh grimaced. “No, I would prefer the term, went into a fight or flight response. It seems he thought he was somewhere else, perhaps the same place as where he received his scarring. Either way, he wasn’t lucid or aware of his surroundings, think of it like a dream but you’re awake and asleep at the same time.”

“So who’s fault is this?” Dr Mathieson asked, shrugging. “Well, nobody’s and everyone’s. Pointing fingers at what everyone did and didn’t do correctly is not going to help. What we should focus on right now is getting him through this, Doctor Mathieson.” Dr Singh finished shortly. He twirled his moustache. “What is his treatment plan like?”

Dr Mathieson ran a hand through his hair, brow creasing in thought. “He need IV antibiotics and fluids. The nurse made a note that his surgical site may be showing signs of infection, apart from that, rest and sleep.” Dr Singh nodded, stroking his chin. “It looked like he hadn’t been sleeping well. Was he being interrupted a lot?”

The head nurse, Christina wandered over, hearing the question. “We were doing hourly vitals and he had a malfunctioning machine in there that kept beeping for a bit. Any sleep he was getting was maybe 20 minutes at a time, maybe slightly more. It seemed like he was deliberately staying awake too, before he’d pass out at random times.”

Dr Singh nodded again. “Right, well let’s get treatment back on track. I want his IV in his hand and easier mobility for him. Maybe give him a bath and some kind of independence. Let him feel in control. We can adjust from there, okay? Any issues, call me immediately.”

All three doctors nodded, before Dr Singh cracked the door open, peeking in.

Enjar looked up at him, smiling a little. “How are you feeling?” The doctor asked as he sat up a little. “Sore… Tired... Drained… I just want to be left alone to sleep.” Dr Singh nodded, adjusting his vest slightly. “We will leave you to that, Enjar. However I want to discuss with you your sleep. Have you been getting any?” Enjar felt a small ball of anxiety settle on his chest. “I can’t… Too many memories.” He looked at the doctor, his voice hoarse from screaming.

“They hurt me. The target… All I remember is waking up with my face being covered in gauze and a mask… Black gloves and guys in tactical gear…” Dr Singh moved his head in curiosity. “You were a soldier?” Enjar shook his head. “Special Ops. I helped take down so many guys… bombers, shooters, murderous maniacs…” He sighed, “My team… was my family. We went out on a mission, the target had kidnapped a woman… but we didn’t realise that he wanted us to turn up. I was the only one of my unit to survive, but not without…” His fingers traced the cuts on his arms, a haunted expression on his face.

“I hit my head on a rock and passed out, but I was bleeding a lot. When they found me I woke up and they kept me alive, barely… The hospital in the capital was hell. I was so scared, they didn’t listen to me, it was happening too fast and I just needed a second to catch up.” A hot tear fell down his face and Dr Singh hummed.

Enjar woke to a blank ceiling. He tried to move his arms and legs but they wouldn’t move. The cuffs had strapped him firmly down as he tried to escape... howling at the doctor to wait, to stop, that he wasn’t ready.... He tugged at the leather straps so hard he felt his wrist pop, before two nurses pounced on his right arm, holding it down and letting the doctor penetrate it with a needle....

He couldn’t move, scream, cry, he wanted to run but he was strapped down and it was all to much… The cold liquid filled his arm making it ache, they couldn't do this... he had the choice to say no didn't he? His mind was going a million miles an hour as he felt a jab in his arm and his mind tipped sideways...

Dr Singh frowned, looking angry. “That should never have happened to you Enjar. What that doctor did was wrong, they should have listened to you.” Enjar shook his head. “It was a classified case… Their job was to keep me alive so that I could go to court and testify. My organisation didn’t see me as a person. I was a tool. A means to an end, and that meant they could do anything they wanted. They didn’t even use my name. I was Officer 6926… It was all in my contract...”

Dr Singh rested his hand on Enjar’s and he held it, enjoying the warmth. “Well here, you’re Enjar. I hear that now, you’re a lighthouse keeper. That must be interesting.” Enjar's eyes light up. “It’s the best job in the world." Dr Singh nodded, encouraging him. "I work for the Coast Guard keeping ships safe and even do rescue missions when they need me. I’ve gotten really good at bird watching too, and if I wake up early enough, I can watch the dolphins, whales and seals come in. If I'm lucky, an orca... ” Dr Singh smiled at him, nodding. “That sounds like a dream.”

Sadness washed over Enjar’s face. “I want to go home. Back to my cabin. To my own place. Everything feels… right there.” The doctor nodded, squeezing his hand. “I want to talk to you about that. The sooner we can get you well, the sooner you can go home.” His face made a shiver go down Enjar’s spine.

“This means you’ll need an IV.” Enjar tensed, but the doctor squeezed his hand, “I will make sure they put it in your hand, not your elbow. I’ll need to look at your charts, but I’d say a week or so from now, you might be able to go home to bed rest. We can organise someone to check in on you too. You’ll need to come for check ups of course, but I see you making a full recovery, though this is not my area of expertise.”

Relief filled Enjar as he relaxed, nodding after considering it. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

~

“Ready?” The nurse asked Enjar as his hand began to shake. His breath hitched with anxiety. “Remember what we talked about, Enjar.” Dr Singh’s deep voice reminded him. “It’s like a wave, you just have to face it and let it wash over you, then it well be over and you’ll be fine.” Enjar nodded, gulping. “Okay, I’m ready.”

He shut his eyes and flinched as he felt a small prick, then nothing. A minute later the rush of cold fluid into his veins made him grimace, but he felt fine, if not a little jittery. “You did wonderfully, Enjar. I’m proud of you.” Dr Singh smiled wide, flashing his shining teeth, before it fell.

“You feeling okay?” Enjar felt a slight faint feeling creep over him, the blood draining from his face. “I think I might be fai…” His head lolled to the side as he went limp. “That was to be expected. Give him a minute.”

When he came to, Enjar felt fine. He groaned, moving his arm and feeling nothing but the dressing on his elbow crease. “Welcome back, don’t worry you were out for less than a minute.” Dr Singh comforted him. “I have to go now, but you did well Enjar.”

~

Sleeping was easier for the next few days, the IV so much more comfortable. The dreams were still happening, but he would only twitch or moan in his sleep when he had them, not even remembering them after he woke up.

A day or two later, Matthew and Gunnar came to visit, bringing with them well wishes from the Base and other lighthouse keepers, before they stepped aside and revealed a face Enjar hadn’t seen in many years.

“Johaan?” Enjar laughed, sitting up and watching as the hunched over old man shuffled into the room, leaning on a cane. “Ah, my protégé! How are you my boy? Looking after my old home well?” Enjar smirked, “Evidently not, sir.” The leathery skin on the old man’s face creased as he faked offense. “Now, now, boy, what did I say about all that formality crap, hmm?” He burst into laughter, flashing a toothy grin. “It seems like you have even less teeth than last time!” Enjar joked back as the hunched elder wrapped his arms around Enjar’s frame. “I still have plenty of teeth. Oh, but I missed you, my boy.” He muttered, jokingly before sitting back and reminiscing with the younger man about his own time in the tower.

Enjar seemed to really perk up over the next few days. A mild infection was treated on his wounds and by his second week in hospital he was being prepared for discharge. Matthew and a nurse helped him put on some fresh clothes, before helping him to his weak feet and almost dragging him to a wheelchair. He hugged his delicate stomach tight as they wheeled him down to the entrance of the hospital and into the Coast Guard Four-Wheel Drive.

Matthew jumped in the front seat, revving the engine and starting off, Enjar laying back and sighing in content, he was finally going home. “We just have to make a quick stop first.” Matthew leaned over the seat as he glanced at Enjar, “What, forget to get your wife an anniversary gift?” Enjar joked. Matthew scoffed, “No… Wait what day is it?” Enjar opened an eye and looked at him, amused.

“14th.”

Matthew looked a little pale. “Oh, yeah, okay two stops.” Enjar chuckled, wincing at the pain it caused, before closing his eye again. They stopped at a corner store, Matthew rushing in and coming back with a box of chocolates. “For me? How thoughtful.” Enjar teased, watching Matthew go red. “Shut up. Just cause you’re sick doesn’t mean I won’t hit you.” He smiled, looking at Enjar properly. “I’m glad you’re back, though. I missed your endless taunting.”

~

Enjar watched the streets turn to empty roads, before they reached a building he hadn’t seen in a while. The large, red and white concrete building with it’s radio towers and lights was nestled into the mist. “Everyone wanted to say hi.” Matthew said, as he got out of the car.

Enjar opened the door and slid out, leaning heavily on the door. “I can get the chair if you want it? You don’t have to be all tough and shit in there.” Matthew said, gesturing at the boot of the car. Enjar gritted his teeth, shaking his head. “I want to try. Just the length of the car and if I can’t then sure.”

Matthew rolled his eyes, before slinging Enjar’s arm over his shoulders and helping him walk. With each step, Enjar seemed to get slightly stronger, until they made it to the door. Enjar gripped the wall for a minute, catching his breath, before nodding. “Ready.” He muttered.

Matthew opened the door and Enjar smiled at the familiar smell of must and burnt coffee that greeted him. They limped through the reception area and into the main office, where someone yelled out, causing the 10 people in the office to all look up and cheer.

Enjar blushed, looking at his feet. Somehow, he ended up in the centre of the office, seated in a comfortable chair with a warm, very burnt coffee in his hands and showered in hugs and greetings. The officers were all happy to see their favourite lighthouse keeper (although they would never admit that), happy, well and alive.

Enjar was shown all the new equipment they had just received. Gunnar was particularly excited about a large chainsaw, and one of the radio operators proudly showed off their collection of birds they had spotted in the area, neatly ticked off in a bird book. Before long, Enjar felt the pain creeping into his body and he apologised, insisting he it was time for him to go home.

As he was helped from the office, he laughed at how everyone was being so careful and delicate with him, almost as if he was made of glass. As Matthew loaded him into the truck again, he sat back and watched the sun begin to set along the coastline, feeling the nerves and turmoil of the past fortnight settle as the sea air filled his lungs.

“Nearly there buddy.” Matthew murmured as he pulled up to the lighthouse. The officers at Base had all been taking shifts to operate it while he was gone, and Enjar was little apprehensive to see how many things he would probably have to fix because of that, but most importantly, he was home.

~

As Matthew opened the door, Enjar sighed. Everything was fine, except for some muddy footprints on the floor. He rolled his eyes as Matthew gently placed him on the couch next to the door. “You’ll be okay from here?” He asked Enjar again for the millionth time, looking nervous. “Yes. The nurse will be coming tomorrow, so if I die or anything, I’m sure they will rescue me.” Enjar insisted, half annoyed.

“Okay, okay…” Matthew asked, admitting defeat. Biting his lip, Enjar decided it was best to do it now. “Hey… You know what I said when I was sick…” He fiddled with his hands as Matthew said it was nothing, assuring him that it was fine and that he had been sick. “Just be quiet… I’m sorry. You saved my life, Matthew. Thank you.” Enjar grinned.

Matthew plonked down on the couch, causing it to groan under the strain. “Hey, you saved mine when I was a rookie, think of it as me returning the favour. Now we're even.” He smirked before standing. “I gotta get home. Call if you-“

Enjar rolled his eyes, finishing Matthew’s sentence, “-Need anything. I swear if you say that one more time I’m going to throw you off the tower.” Matthew grabbed the door, laughing. “You gotta catch me first!”

He waved goodbye, leaving Enjar to sit in the silence of his cabin. It felt good to be home, his anxiety finally calmed and his mind at ease.

Easing himself up, he slowly made his way across his home, grabbing onto chairs, benches and door frames, before finally making it to his bed. He collapsed face first into the soft mattress, exhausted. “I missed you…” He mumbled into the sheets, freshly washed by one of the guards.

Crawling into bed, he stared at the ceiling, looking at the knots in the wood of the awnings. He had counted them many times with his eyes on nights that he couldn’t sleep, but tonight, his eyes fell shut before he got past number 4.

That night he had the best sleep he had had in a really long time.

~masterlist~

[lord-shitbox]

part 2 of this ask

📝Process for hurt mezu drawing 

here are the steps i dug out of an art server's wips channel lol

1. initial sketch

2. refine sketch. thats lines now babey. (omitted "the sleeves are KILLING ME WAHHH" stage that led to this)

3. grayscale, to use with gradient map (this is a more polished grayscale than I started with, i dug the working file out to get better images)

4. find nice gradient map (ended up being the same one I'd used for the piece i made right before. the goal is to make what's essentially an underpainting, not to color the whole thing with one map)

5. tweak and add colors that arent in the map with hard light layers & also sneak in a layer for special effect and atmospheric/ scenic perspective while you're at it

6. shading & more finishing effects. pretty much all of the shading was done with hard light layers! the only non-hard light layers I used for the shading were the particle effect layers & like one faint glow layer to fix some values. blood was done with linear burn

✨Inspiration for hurt mezu drawing 

the coloring method (grayscale -> saturated gradient map underpainting -> additive color adjustments) is something I tried out with the piece i'd made right before (the one where gozu is holding mezu from behind) & turned out really well, so I wanted to keep going with it

I also wanted to draw them angstily again because it'd been a very long time. like half a year at least. angsting them is very enriching for my soul so I try to do it regularly, this one was overdue

subconsciously referenced the poses in the initial sketch from this old thing (feb 2021). i love doing this. all my for-fun works recycle old elements in some way. my favorite game is "what old art reminds me of what im doing rn" im so good at digging stuff out of my archives for it. everyone loves when i do this

the gangi-kozou panel also

i went through a "shade in bold red-orange & dark blue with hard light layers" phase in like..april/may of 2021. i still like that stuff a lot so I wanted to revisit it

💚Things you like about hurt mezu drawing

repasting the link there but the sixth image in the process is essentially the final so you can just look at that

the colors are nice!! I'm real happy with using more saturated colors n I think the warm vs cool balance works really well

the sleeves (man being dramatic on the sand meme)

no like fr look at the 2021 piece's kimono sleeves vs the one I just did 2.5 years later. so satisfying

Gozu's expression came out nice

i think the claws and flash lines successfully added Emphasis to Gozu's expression & the piece overall

the poses … the drama …. the brush textures are also good

⏳Things you’d do differently with hurt mezu drawing

add in a liiitle more contrast...aka use a wider range of values. Some lighter lights and darker darks. I miss my 2021 hard neon lighting

a bit more distinction between the characters and the background also

the composition isn't bad but it could be better. Should've thought more about the way the eye would flow around the image in the drafting stage (solid b&w color block thumbnails are good for this)

Moar Sparkles. (I put a solid amount of large & low opacity light bubbles in there & some finer brighter dots especially around the claw stems, but I think more clusters of tiny bright lights on the characters themselves would've gone hard)

💌Some favourite feedback on art

as the wise man Austin Kleon once said: keep a "praise file" of all the positive feedback you get (if you've never read "Steal Like an Artist," you must). so. i am prepared for this question hold on

tastes like sugar glass

multiple people have told me my art is soft & dreamlike

jayce you reblogged my touchstarved art with nice tags on april 10th ive got that saved love uou

umm theres a lot...anytime someone keysmashes or feels emotional because of my art i get happy ,,, lys messaged me about the hurt mezu piece that made me happy also,,,,,there is so much joy in the world

[theoldaeroplane]

meandering thoughts (reflective style)

with my life seeming to settle a little bit (knock on wood) my brain returns to its favorite dilemma: relationships! how confusing they are for me! how i get crushes all the time on everyone and am too scared of alienating people important to me to do anything about them! operation "just be cool and hot and hope people are attracted to you" does not seem to be working, despite the fact i am both cooler and hotter than ever. i have always given off an unconscious air of "don't interact with me" that I think makes this difficult for people. (probably because I largely don't want most people to interact with me, and because I'm autistic and can't figure out social cues, and because even casual touch with people outside of a very small bubble activates like seventeen goblins in my brain!)

i talked to my therapist about these feelings last week and we're probably going to focus on them moving forward. this was really the year where i realized that the depths of the damage done to me growing up were much deeper than I thought. it's difficult to acknowledge that! it's hard to really look in the eye how much work I still have to do even now.

I've been reading about relationship anarchy and finding it appealing. the trouble of course comes in the practice. my therapist, who's trans and poly and is someone I trust to have good takes on these things, said something like ... "you can just ask the people you want to be closer to if they're interested in exploring a possible deeper intimacy." im both fascinated and terrified by this. sure i can just ask. what if i get told no? ive been told no so many times. it does a number on your self confidence! what if it makes this person who is important to me uncomfortable? what if it pushes them away from me? it's happened before! i can't risk losing what I have!

i suspect the fact my support network is almost entirely friends makes this much more frightening; without the kind of anchor relationship most people i know have in the form of immediate family, expressing interest in changing the relationships i do have kind of feels like fucking around in my operating system's files without a backup. it's sort of funny to be okay with the mortifying ordeal of being known, but being too afraid to even get to it.

relationship anarchy says, do away with preconceived notions of what a relationship "should" look like. kick out the fences and define new borders. fuck your friends and live domestically with your platonic life partner, if you want. this fascinates me. it's something I've been writing into many of my characters' relationships for some time now, without having a name for it. do i want a traditional partner? part of me thinks I do, but maybe that's just a lifetime of social conditioning. what would be the most fulfilling for me? i don't know. it seems like something you can probably only figure out with experience, and right now that's my problem.

i was raised by people who wanted me to "court" instead of date. (My therapist made a terrible face and said oh I hate that for you when I told him this.) i was raised by people who definitely would have tried to get me to read "i kissed dating goodbye" if i had done anything other than have a crush on a gay boy all through high school. I still talk to that guy all the time, crush free even, and he's in a great relationship with another man now. their relationship is strictly romantic; the partner fulfills his sexual needs with other people. i thought that was so cool when I first heard about it. I think it was the first time someone I knew personally demonstrated a functioning, nontraditional relationship. Others have followed. I'm so happy for them! I watch, fascinated, from behind the iron wall I've built for myself while "Hello My Old Heart" plays in the background.

it's Christmas as I write this, and I've got no plans. a few people have checked in on me, because I'm always alone at this time of year. (honestly, the checking in kind of makes it worse. "hey I'm celebrating with my loved ones and I know you aren't, how are you?") that's another complicated topic, but it's been a little easier this year. it's probably to do with both time and the fact that my adhd is being managed for the first time ever; it's common to have increased emotional regularity when that happens. I'm lonely, but I'm used to it, and things will go back to normal soon. It would be nice to have someone to spend it with. i don't know if it's in the cards for me. maybe next year.

I worry sometimes that I sabotage myself. Oh, I'm into this person, but they're in a relationship, or they're straight, or they're ace, or they live far away, or I work with them (as if any of those things are a hard limiter in all cases). I can find any excuse not to express my interest in someone. It's something I'm working with my therapist on.

As morose as this post is, I'm okay. today I'll mess around with my server project and go feed my friend's pets while he's away. I'll spend a lot of time thinking about this and distill my feelings down into something I can overlay onto a character; i see myself most clearly when I do it through a mask. I've got things to cook and a fridge to clean and an indoor bike to ride. There are people who care about me and it's important I try to remember that.

uh, happy holidays! i promise i am okay enough. please don't make me think about it any deeper than that. I really truly hope you have a good one.