#like 22 in humidity
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jvhdb · 23 days ago
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"people justify abusing hdb by saying he's a fascist but they're the ones that chose the fascist options for him" is funny as hell as an argument. he's also only a leftist because you chose the leftist options for him. this is actually one of the mechanics of the videogame you're playing.
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roylustang · 2 years ago
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I’ve never craved anything more after a run than this hummus
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theyarebothgunshot · 13 days ago
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never been happier with my apartment's cooling down system than i am right now
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fidius · 1 year ago
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That's coat weather. Probably need a hat too. 60 isn't warm. 90 is warm.
No in between. Reblog if you vote pleas
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gentlethorns · 1 year ago
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fuck dude my thumb hurts so bad!!!!!!!!!!! this bone spur shit is RIDICULOUS like do you know how much shit i use my hands/thumbs for???? it's ruining my life
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philodendronplants · 2 years ago
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Lovely-Red-ANTHURIUM
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auntopossum · 12 days ago
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Capital 'T', Capital 'M': The Manager
Saja boys x Gender Neutral! Reader
Content warning: Job Application
Chapter 1: Associate's Degree in Minding Your Own Business
Authors note: Sat down. Read through the Saja Boy x Reader tag. Thought: "Man, I wish there were more manager stories. I eat these up." Paced, possessed for 2 hours while listening Your Idol on repeat. Thought: "Be the change you want to see in the world." Blacked out. 4k long, first chapter
Chapter 2, Chapter 3
Summary: If anyone were to come up and tell you that the Saja Boys are a bunch of demons, you would laugh in their face and tell them to get out. That's because the Saja Boys are totally normal humans. Nothing odd about them at all. That's just their quirks from how harsh the idol life is. What's wrong with temporary tattoos? You don't like their newest stage concepts? The media thinks the Saja Boys are a group of absolute, adorable and perfect, bunch of angels. The world believes you and your boys got where you were through luck, willpower, and skill. They praise you, The Manager, for being so open and honest about their struggles through idol-dom. Everyday you get better and better at cultivating the ultimate Professional Persona. Of course, if you're actually honest, then why are your pants on fire? No really. These pants are on fire. You and your boys got where you were because you saw the boys lay out a perfect pair of pants and heard them discuss how it needs to be lit on fire. Then, you put them on and lit them yourself. And if anyone were to run up and scream that the Saja Boys are a bunch of demons, you would laugh in their face and tell them you'd do it all over again.
Chapter 1: Associate's Degree in Minding Your Own Business
Your bedroom reeks. It’s nearing the rainy season, and already, the humidity has been hitting hard. Your A/C unit begs for mercy as it miserably chugs along, dangling precariously from your apartment window. Powdered flavoring and oils stick to the letters of your keyboard. Your monitor and pulsing PC lights are the only things illuminating the bags under your eyes. Thumping bass can be heard through your taped over window along with the roar of thousands of fanatic music enthusiasts. Tonight is the Huntr/x’s last performance before they go on an undisclosed hiatus. 
The rhythmic beats pound away at your already frayed nerves. You close your eyes and pray to anything that can answer as your email loads your latest messages. Junk. Junk. Junk. College asking for money. Junk. Tracking number for latest purchase. Food delivery receipt. Junk. Junk. Junk. Jun— Hang on!
Re: Job Applicant
It’s from one of the job listings you applied to. One of many. Many. MANY. MANY!  
You cross your fingers over your mouse as you click to open it. Please. PLEASE. PLEASE!!!
Of course. It isn’t an offer. Why would it be? That’d be really silly. It’s not like you haven’t applied to nearly a thousand job listings in hopes for something. But… It isn’t an outright rejection. The email informs you at the bottom with size 8, gray font a different listing within their company, ‘Better suited for your skillset’. The overtly friendly wording pisses you off, but you grumble and follow the link anyway. 
It takes 5 minutes to create a new account, despite already having made one for the other job listing. It takes 1 minute to upload your resume, bullshitted cover letter, and appropriate licensure. It takes another 5 minutes for the website to actually load and accept the files. It takes 12 minutes to re-enter all your relevant information. Something that can be easily seen on your resume. That you had been forced to upload. It takes 22 minutes of crying and bashing your fists on your desk, ‘God damn it! God damn it! God damn it!’, as you struggle for nice things to say in the mandatory 2k word essay. The application website has the audacity to demand you beg and sing their praises. Demand you explain why you felt destined! to work at this low paying job. 
Thud. Thud. Thud. goes the beat of the music. Chug. Chug. Chug. goes the hospiced air conditioner. Whirr. Whirr. Whirr. goes the struggling fans of your computer. 
The scream you let out is completely silent, and for a moment you see pure red—then blue!—then black! You hold your breath, trembling with a slew of broiling emotions and watch as your monitors and computer system attempts to reboot itself. Luckily, it takes less than a minute to come back, and you’re able to safely restore your tabs. All is OK. It’s OK. You’re OK.
Except you’re not. You’re so very not OK. The application website, which took 2 minutes and 26 seconds to buffer and refresh, informs you with an absolutely pathetic ‘ :( ‘, letting you know in a bastardized version of comic sans that you missed the window. They have already hired someone else. 
The scream you unleash is buried by the cheering over taking the city air. You shriek until your lungs are burning and your eyes stop watering. Checking the time, you decide to call it quits for the night. With a sniffle and a snot filled HONK! into a tissue, you shrug your jacket on and fumble for your keys. Slipping on some sandals, you miss your door’s key hole several times before finally, shakily locking it. 
It’s time for a little sweet treat. You deserve a lil’ sweet treat. You need a sweet lil’ treat, or you’re going to pass out.
With a whoosh the automatic door to the convenience store opens, and you step easily over the threshold. You furiously blink your swollen eyelids as your face is assaulted by their industrial A/C. Shuffling further in, you grab a small basket and make a bee line to the refrigerated drink section. 
Faced with 5 door’s worth of options, you pause and consider your choices. Mist curls around you as you squat to inspect a can. Too focused on envisioning its artificial taste on your tongue, you miss the several, ‘excuse me!’s coming from behind. You only move, just to fall flat on your ass, with a flinch as a burning hot hand sears into your shoulder. 
“Oh my goodness! I didn’t mean to startle you!”, apologizes the man above you with the perfect face. No really, that dark black hair and smooth face is uncannily perfect. You ignore the hand being offered to instead grip the rubber siding of the door. With a zombie-like groan, you haul your aching body up. 
“S’all good.” You mumble out, fiddling with the zipper of your jacket instead of making eye contact with the handsome stranger. That’s when you notice three more pairs of shoes by you. You twitch, slamming the fridge door closed, and stumble back into the slightly exposed abdomen and legs of a fourth pair. A set of uncomfortably warm, burly arms steady you, and you nearly flush with fever yourself. 
“While we have you~” purrs another equally good-looking gentleman. They sport a unique cut of pink hair and step too close into your personal bubble. Something cold touches the underside of your chin, and you're forced to look up into their face. “What is this?” The object moves from your skin to reveal itself to be a beverage can. 
“Uh…” You stupidly say, leaning back into the hot, supple chest behind you in an effort to clearly read the label being shoved in your face. “Soda?”
“What’s it taste like?” asks the boy to your left with blue hair, hugging a party sized bag of chips like a life line. 
You look over the vibrant packaging, and thankfully, it’s a brand you have the unfortunate luck to recognize. Intimately. There was a dark, dark time back in college where you drank enough to make a little christmas tree from the recycled tabs. 
“Chemically sweet. Exactly like—” you gesture with a semi-restrained limb to the can’s exterior. “You would expect the color, ‘icy blue’, and the name, ‘Coastal Tundra’, to taste like. 
“Is that… a good thing?” asks the original, beautiful stranger. They look slightly off kilter, and you take a moment to survey the cluster of absurdly handsome young men. The heat radiating by your back feels obscenely good as your muscles cease their insistent ache. 
With a long huff, blowing an imaginary strand of hair from your face, you lean back on your heels before recoiling to your tiptoes, momentarily forgetting how close they’ve gotten. You let a weary smile grow on your face and look straight at the nutrient label of the displayed soda.
“It is if you want a new vice.” You laugh with exhaustive experience. “55 whoppin’ grams of sugar and over 150mg of caffeine. Enough to kill ya’ and then raise your anxiety-filled corpse back from the dead.”
Immediately after you let the casual joke spill from your lips, you regret it. Swiftly, all 5 men dart back as if burned, and you shiver in place, resisting the urge to turtle into your jacket. 
“Sorry! I’m just gonna—” You swing open the door nervously, nearly whacking the dark haired man in the face, and dart down into a squat. As you grab your chosen beverage, you gently close the now fogged up door and turn around to find all exits blocked off.
Khisssss! sing both the icy blue can and the sealing fridge door. Your thoughts flatline as you watch Mr. Hot Muscles crack open the drink and chug it back into one go. After a moment, he sputters and chokes. You gulp down thick saliva as the clear, carbonated soda dribbles down his thick adams apple. He folds over in a near perfect bend, gasping for breath. His pink haired friend slaps him on the back several times while a look of confusion passes over the man’s face.
“So?” demands the blue one, shuffling closer to reach for the can that’s been placed on the freshly waxed tile. 
Finally recovered from choking, the man straightens to an impressive height and smacks his lips in consideration. Pondering with a sculpted hand on his chin, he announces to his fellow, pastel-wearing monkeys, “They’re right.” He nods his head sagely. “It’s exactly what you would expect that color to taste like. I can’t think of any other way to describe it.”
“But is it good?”
“No… but yes?” Smack. Smack. Lickkk. “It was honestly painful in my mouth, but the after taste has me craving more.”
“That’s how they getcha.” You comment, reminding the circus of your existence before realizing your error and slowly backing away. No luck though, as you’re roughly yanked to the side. Suddenly, you have the blue haired boy slung over your shoulder. 
“What’d you recommend?” He asks, voice slithering through your ear in a ticklish whisper.
You look up through your lashes at the gang and struggle. Despite their interesting choice of bright colors, they’re giving off seriously, drop-dead gorgeous vibes. Are these rich lil’ boys coming down from their castles to play with the common folk or something? Everything about their appearance screams Money, but none of them have that kind of nepo-baby air about them. If anything, they feel more like a clamoring bucket of small crabs, moments away from being speared through as fish bait and intimately aware of that fate. 
“What’s the vibe?” You try and shrug the sweltering weight off, to no avail. 
“Vibe?” mumbles one to another. 
“Mood? Theme? Aura?” You attempt to take a step further, wriggling your shoulders with a gnash of teeth. Can this guy get off you? You do not want anyone to be so close to you right now. Not when you’re so miserable. Not when you’re so tired. Not when your poor nerves are so fried and your tears have all but dried up. You take a shuddering breath as you successfully dislodge your clinger and turn to face the misty fridge once more. Your head throbs from stress and dehydration, and you press your forehead against the cool glass in search of relief.
“Heh. Whatever a bunch of out-of-touch demons would enjoy,” jokes the pink one from directly behind. He’s snuck close enough that the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, his hips and chest hovering just out of touch.
You tilt your head to press the left side of your face into the door and regard the black haired one with one fatigued eye. 
Eyebrows raised in a challenge, you hum. “I like that. Original.” Eyes dart back to the shelves to scan for a good recommendation. Torn between two, you find yourself asking, “Freshly arrived or been here for too long?”
Nobody says anything for a moment, and you distract yourself from your own emotional constipation by doodling a smiley face in the condensation. Immediately, it reminds you of the ‘ :( ‘ from the stupid, awful job website, and soon, you're sporting a frown to match it. 
“Freshly arrived.” declares a previously unheard voice. You glance at the man with hair shrouding most of his face, but his lips are quick to fall into a deliciously neutral position, as if he never spoke. 
With a thumbs up, you sidestep and whip the door open. This time, you actually hit the dark hair stranger. With a horrific, sickening crunch, chilled plexiglass makes contact with a perfectly sculpted nose. Before he can stumble away, you close the accidental weapon and lunge for his arms that rise to shield his damaged, no longer pristine, face.
“Oh fuck! Oh my god! I’m so sorry!” you cry out, wrapping your fingers around his forearms. The skin burns under your clammy palms, but you hold firm and keep him from escaping. “I know first aid! Let me take a look!”
Then, a second round of crunching and popping occurs, muffled by taloned hands. A pair of watering, glowing eyes peeks at you through bloodied fingers. With the strength of someone two seconds away from truly Mc-freaking-losing it, you rip his hands away and take in the fully repaired cartilage. He uses your momentary hesitation to pull away completely, and you watch him tug his sleeves further down his arms. Just like your dying PC back at home, glowing tattoos pulse in a steady pattern from beneath his shirt and up his flaming cheeks. 
“Holy shit. Those are sick as hell.” You dumbly compliment, leering down at any inch of exposed skin, only to be met with swift disappointment as it returns back to its typical, normal human tone. 
Everyone is silent yet again, and you start discretely shuffling towards the candy aisle. 
Unsure of what to say, you’re rewarded with a whispered, “Uhhhh, thanks?” from him. You wordlessly pass him the chosen drink with a nod, and start step, step, stepping away. 
Dipping around the corner, you successfully get the hell out of that dodge and can now put your mind towards better things than properly socializing. Like minding your own god damned business and focusing on something sour, sweet, or savory. Down the ways, you can hear a quiet argument break out.
“What the fuck was that, Jinu?” 
“You think I planned to get my face smashed in?”
“So much for us being discrete and blending in.”
La la la. You love minding your own business. It’s just that there are so many options, and you’re standing here dutifully looking at them all. Still as stone so as to not bring attention to your proximity. 
“And you didn’t think to charm them or anything?”
Oh wow, what a steal! Buy 1 get 4 free for a mix and mash of this brand’s candy! 
“I’m not about to charm someone this soon! We’re trying to not catch any attention from hunters until we get ourselves established.”
Hm. This nutrition label is very informative. You could stand here in this exact spot all day. 
“And how are we supposed to gain a name for ourselves if we keep this up? We can’t just magic our way to fame you know!”
“Maybe they didn’t notice?”
“Are you kidding?! They totally noticed! They even complimented him!”
“That was a compliment?”
It’s so awesome that these sour snacks have jokes written on the back. It was like they knew someone would be forced to suffer through a critical enough situation that one must kill time by reading microscopic font. It’s so incredibly interesting because you are totally here minding your own business.
“Hang on if we can’t just charm our way through this plan, where are we supposed to even start?”
“I bet Jinu doesn’t even have a plan.”
“I have a plan!”
“Ok then. What’s the next step, oh leader of this-is-a-stupid-idea-that’s-totally-not-going-to-get-our-asses-scorched-by-hellfire.”
“First… We need to get a… manager?”
“Why was that a question?”
You just can’t choose. Do you go for the share sized chocolates or the 3 discounted packs of salted chews? It’s a really difficult decision, and you have to stand perfectly still and contemplate such a monumental choice.
“It’s hard to properly do research from the other side of the barrier! I’m pretty sure the best place to start would be to get a manager!”
“This is because you couldn’t figure out how to use that… Not-spider web thing… What is it???”
“The internet?”
“Yeah, that!”
“Well, what do we have to do to get someone for a manager? Pay for a newspaper ad? They still have those right?”
“I saw some for sale by the entrance. It’s really impressive how far printing presses have come.”
“I know right? I was shocked when I saw how colorful everything is!”
The tile by your foot has been placed upside down. You believe this because the spacing and cluster of small dots is more pronounced on one side, than the other and thus ruining the flow of the nonexistent linoleum pattern. It is very critical that one takes the time to notice these things. So important, you think you’ll just continue to chill here and check the ceiling tiles as well. 
“Guys. We’re getting off topic. Manager.”
“What kind of qualifications does a manager even need to have?”
LA! LA! LA! This is the region of Minding Your Own Business.
“And how much do we even pay them?”
You’re holding your breath because you’re totally in your own world and not listening to the goings-on of other people.
“Honestly, it doesn’t even matter. We really just need someone who can be a human front for us to help get hunters off our backs.”
“Ha. And make sure we don’t show our age.”
“...and show other things, but we’ve already messed up once. How are we going to handle working that closely with a human and keeping up appearances?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
“So basically, we’ll hire based on… vibes?”
“Please don’t start using modern slang. You’ll actually reveal your age.”
Wowza! This store should really replace the middle left, second down, in the far upper corner, light segment. It’s been flickering ever so slightly as you work on finding your inner zen at this exact moment in time and space. 
“Ok, so from the sounds of it… literally any human will do as long as they are willing to hold up some sort of charade?”
“Yeah. That’s about right.”
“Where are we even going to find someone like that? None of us can use this age’s technology easily, and I really don’t think newspaper ads are the way to go.”
“Well, do you have any better suggestions for the job listing? I think it’s better than doing nothing right now. It’s not like you can expect a manager to appear out of thin air or something?”
“Hey guys.”
“AHHH!”
All five jump and flinch in on themselves as you lean your head around the aisle’s end cap display. All sport various, perfectly handsome, guilty looks, like they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t have. Twisting your back with a crack! you round the bend and stand a few meters away.
“I guess, first, for the record, yes. I totally noticed. BUT—!” You stress, holding your hands up as the light around them darkens, and you're treated to 5 pairs of smoldering eyes pinning you in place. “W- W- Whu- Was. Oh my god— AHEM!— Sorry… Was that a job offer that I just overheard?”
5 pairs of glowing eyes look amongst each other in bewilderment before they all nod their heads synchronistically. 
“Great!” You say with a near manic smile, a twitching right eye, and a cute clap. “How much are you willing to pay me and when can we start?”
“Uhm.. the sooner the better.” replies the dark haired man awkwardly. Slowly, they all straighten out from their hunched, crooked postures, and resume their model-like posing in the back of the convenience store. “As for pay… uhhh… how does…”
“$14?” offers the blue haired one.
“$14? How does $14 sound?” the leader of the troupe says with much hesitation and a perfectly perfect smile.
“$14.” You glower. “$14-a-what?”
“A day?” suggests the buff guy.
“A DAY?!” You shout a little too loud. A feverish hand clasps over your mouth and suddenly, you’ve swept back into the inner ring of their cluster. You can’t tell if they’re actually hissing at you or shushing aggressively. 
“What’s wrong with $14 a day? Isn’t that good with today’s inflation?”
You easily shrug the hand from your face and clasp the muscular shoulder of the gentleman in front of you. The only thing you can hear is your own breathing and the staticky jingle of some ad through the store’s overhead speakers. 
“Brother.” You warn with a full toothed smile, sinking your nails into rock hard flesh. “A dozen eggs are like $10. Five pounds of rice is like $12. I want a livable wage, not a barest minimum wage.”
“Damn! That’s so expensive.” You hear softly exclaimed behind you.
“We— We, uh. We honestly don’t have that much money right now.” The black haired man admits, rubbing the back of his neck.
“How about this?” You begin, relaxing and removing your hand only to have it snatched by the stranger with the mop of silver hair. You huff to yourself and reluctantly let them inspect your smart watch, cringing only slightly when they aggressively sniff the wristband. “You help charm folk. I introduce you to the wonders of credit card fraud and spear phishing scams. We find a really swanky place for our base, and you pay me… hm… 14? Yeah. 14 percent of your earnings as you gain popularity and make it big.”
“...and in return, you’ll become our manager and help us become world famous idols?” He asks.
“Yup. Something like that. I guess I can help with your totally normal human stuff and not at all nefarious plans as well… as long as it’s within reasonable working hours, or I’m compensated with a sweet treat. Sound like game plan?” You throw them a double thumbs up for good measure.
“I guess. Uhm, welcome aboard..?” He sticks his hand out and tilts his head in search of your name. You laugh and try to shake hands with the opposite one, having your dominant taken up by Mr. Sniffers over here.
“You know what they say is better than a devil you don’t know?” You grin, offering your full name before giggling. “A devil you do. Nice to meet you, and you are?”
“Jinu.” He says with a pearly white, perfectly blinding smile.
“I’m Abby.” solemnly declares the handsome hunk.
“Romance~” says the pink haired one, stealing your hand from Jinu’s and kissing it lightly like a chivalrous knight. You recoil your arm back into your chest and try to discretely wipe the boiling hot saliva from the back of your hand.
“...Baby.” grumbles the blue haired boy. The chip bag in his hand is nearly empty, and you watch him adorably pout down into the remaining crumbs. 
“And that’s Mystery.” announces Abby with a jerk of his thumb and a hot hand on your shoulder. 
Before you can put your foot in your mouth some more, you feel a blistering tongue lave up your palm and all the way to the crook of your elbow. You twitch and shudder from the odd feeling, eyes widening at the realization of what he just did.
“Did?! Did you just?! Did you just lick me?!” You squeak out, body curling in on itself as if to protect your soft stomach. 
Romance tsks and shakes his head while Jinu tries to stamper out a professional apology. Both go ignored as another realization hits you with a dramatic gag.
“Bleugh! Grosssssss dude!” You whine, slipping from Mystery’s grasp and furiously wiping the hot, menthol-like feeling from your skin. “I took public transport to get here. Who knows where my hands have been or what they’ve touched!”
“That’s the problem here?” One of them whispers to another. 
Arm and hands finally free of weirdly warm, totally normal, human saliva, you cross them and think for a moment. 
“Ok so you guys want to be idols. Do you have a name in mind?” You question with a tap, tap, tapping of a foot, sandals hitting the humid, waxed tile with a damp plap.
“Yes.” Jinu perks up, relieved to steer back into a conversation he’s mentally prepared for. “The Saja Boys.”
“Saja Boys?” You hum to yourself, twisting open the drink that’s been in your basket and taking a swig. You look between all the colorful hair surrounding you before your exhausted eyes fall back to the group’s leader. “Hey, can I get a cool, fake band name too, or do I have to stay boring like Jinu?”
“Did you have something in mind?” Baby asks over Jinu’s soft, ‘hey!’.
“Yeah. I wanna be known as The Manager.”
“The Manager? Really? That feels too literal.”
“Like your names aren't? Also you have to say it with a capital ‘T’ and ‘M’, like ‘The Manager’.”
“Wh- You can’t capitalize sound when you talk. What’s even the point?”
“Hey man, if ya know ya know.” You grin smugly with a shrug, pivoting on your heel and heading towards the door. “Now, it’s just past midnight. The day can’t get any younger. Let’s go transform you bunch into some spiffing popstars. First thing’s first. We’re going to catch you up on modern pop and idol culture.” You blatantly walk out without having purchased any goods, holding your stolen drink high in the air. The plastic reflects the twinkling lights of the electrified city, and your eyes glimmer with life. “To an internet cafe!”
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melshifting · 5 months ago
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(un)necessary extras for your script!
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#01~ Your phone's battery lasts longer than others, even when you forget your charger at home.
#02~ You can consume hot drinks/meals at the right temperature without burning your tongue and without the need to wait.
#03~ Your nail polish never chips, even if you're doing chores all day. It fades naturally and evenly before you have to redo it.
#04~ Your headphones never get tangled in your pocket/purse, no matter how quickly you put them away - they're always ready to use.
#05~ Your shoelaces never come untied unless you untie them intentionally, even during intense activities like dancing or running.
#06~ You always find a seat on public transport, even during rush hour. It's as if people instinctively make room for you without realizing it.
#07~ Your hair doesn't get frizz on humid days and doesn't get matted in winter - it stays effortlessly manageable.
#08~ Your fingers never get stained from eating potato chips or snacks. It's as if your skin completely resists crumbs and dust.
#09~ You always know which is the cleanest bathroom before you go in, to save you from uncomfortable checks.
#10~ You can find the perfect lighting in any room to take selfies or record videos without the need of additional devices.
#11~ Your phone's screen never smudges or leaves fingerprints, even without using a protective case - it stays clean effortlessly.
#12~ You're always in the right place, at the right time.
#13~ You always catch falling objects before they hit the floor; your reflexes seem superhuman.
#14~ You always manage to have the perfect time to get ready, no matter how early or late you start. It's as if you've mastered time.
#15~ You can effortlessly remember someone's name, even if you've only met them once.
#16~ You easily avoid overcooking or undercooking anything, every meal you prepare is always cooked to perfection.
#17~ Your shoes never get wrinkled/scratched/damaged, no matter how long you have them on or what activity you do.
#18~ You never have to worry about the storage on your phone, it's capacity is practically unlimited.
#19~ Your home's ambient temperature is always set to the perfect level, never too hot or too cold - you'll always be comfortable when you walk in.
#20~ Clothes don't need to be ironed after going through the dryer. They come out wrinkle-free, ready to wear without any extra effort.
#21~ Your bags/backpacks are always organized, no matter how much stuff you put in. You can immediately find your wallet, keys, and phone.
#22~ You never get hangovers, no matter how much you drink, because your body knows how to balance things out.
#23~ You can access Wi-Fi from any corner of your house, and there are never connection issues, no matter how many devices are connected.
#24~ You don't alarms, because your body wakes up at the perfect time every morning.
#25~ You always find what you want the moment you need it, no matter how many times you've lost it - it's as if it magically appears in your hand.
#26~ Your pens never run out of ink when you need them, and you always have one nearby.
#27~ You can walk into any clothing store and instantly know what will look best on you, without having to try anything on.
#28~ You can instantly find and pack everything you need for a trip, no matter if it is last minute, without any stress and without forgetting anything.
#29~ They never make a mistake with your food order, whether it's in a restaurant, fast food or delivery.
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pangur-and-grim · 5 months ago
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oh yay that's so nice! I think I hid it due to embarrassment, but I'll bring it back now:
CHAPTER ONE
Anna Stewart is changeling. Anna is not a human being.
In the first month of its life, the wrinkled infant produced by Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, with fists bunched and face red from crying, was taken from its bassinet and cradled in long, thin arms. If the Stewarts, sleeping in an adjacent bed, noticed anything, it would’ve been sleep-fogged relief at the sudden quiet. Birch-white hands left Anna in its place. Those same hands dressed it in clothing stripped from the infant. The pink rabbit onesie hung baggy on the changeling – perhaps the earliest indicator that human society would be a poor fit.
It did not cry. It did not complain. It simply stared with bright, alert eyes, and waited, its mouth puckered in ravenous anticipation.
The Stewarts did not notice the change, not at first, although within the week Mrs. Stewart had switched to formula.
And how could they notice? The changeling’s appearance had been shaped for them. Its teeth filed, its skin smoothed, its limbs condensed into uselessness. Throughout the years as it grew, its form strained at these boundaries, aching for expression, but the cocoon of humanity remained rigid about it. The changeling stayed a Stewart.
It grew up. It went to high school. It got into none of the colleges that Mrs. Stewart helped it apply to. It lost multiple jobs in a row, due to some inexact quality that it could not correct in itself, but that made dogs bark and humans curl their lip. It turned 22, with no money, and no driver’s licence, having failed to gain distance from its childhood bedroom.
And now it woke up.
Mrs. Stewart had friends over. Their high-pitched laughter pierced the morning quiet and invaded the warm nest of it bedding. It tried, futilely, to submerge back into dreaming, but another laugh sounded – a braying AHHhahahaha! 
It gave up and kicked its way out of twisted blankets and pillows.
The changeling staggered to the bathroom to perform it morning routines. It practiced a smile, showing only the upper teeth, not the lower. Then it walked out, wishing only to slip past the crowd, and grab whatever food it could from the kitchen counter.
Immediate failure – its carefully lowered foot drew a creak from the top step, and the humans turned as one. It froze, pinned like an insect by their stares.
“What is that on your face?” called Mrs. Stewart, too loudly. As though it did not descend the stairs each day slathered in lotion. Its delicate skin, better suited for the humidity of the Other World, did not agree with indoor heating. 
“Moisturizer. You know this,” it said, in its own performance. “I do this every winter.” It scanned the faces of the guests, to see how they’d take that information – that its mother had pretended not to know! That Mrs. Stewart had taken a stance against her own (supposed) child!
“Might want to rub it in,” said one of the women, and another laughed.
“You should rub it in,” said Mrs. Stewart. “Really, Anna” 
The guests, gathered around a coffee table in an array of plush seating, exchanged glances with wrinkled foreheads and twitching lips. With a sigh, it plodded back up the stairs. The lotion leant more moisture if it packed on thick and left to sit – and why not do so, in its own house? 
The betrayal also stung. All it had was its mother.
Mr. Stewart was not a factor.
He was, after all, the reason for its presence here. A deal made, a child promised – and wouldn’t you know, the cheap patch of land he had purchased churned out a fascinating amount of oil. 
But he hadn’t been able to live with the child that had supplanted his own. In a moment of drunken anger (directed not toward the changeling, but at her fled spouse) Mrs. Stewart had ranted.
“He couldn’t stop talking about your ‘black bird eyes,’ or how you never smile, or how you can’t put on weight” – pausing, Mrs. Stewarts’ eyes had glinted with a malice that had it bracing its shoulders – “he even suggested giving you up for adoption. Can you imagine? His own flesh and blood?”
Except that it wasn’t his flesh and blood. 
It had simply done its best approximation of a smile, nodded vigorously between her exclamations, and said, “What a bastard!” which seemed to satisfy, or at least amuse her. 
It never had the courage to ask if her feelings would change, if a link of blood did not, in fact, connect them. If it were simply a child raised by a mother, and not one born from her. If it would still, in that case, be an acceptable burden, or if she would snarl at all her wasted energy and finally cast it off. 
The changeling lay in bed with these thoughts. A tear slid down its cheek and was absorbed into its thick coating of lotion. 
“You are spiralling,” it said to itself, sternly. “You are self-indulging in negativity.” Likely exacerbated by its empty stomach. It always ate with a speed that hinged on desperation, though this translated not to fat, but to wiry muscles that wrapped its arms and legs. This might grant grace to another, but the changeling had the jerky, sudden movements of a lizard. 
It rubbed at eyes itchy with tears. Venturing downstairs in this state was not an option. Instead, it dressed for the outside world (wiping its face clean, and combing its long, lank hair) and opened its bedroom window. It stepped out onto the branches of a hybrid poplar, whose growth it had encouraged for this exact purpose. The young tree bowed under its weight, but the changeling whispered encouragement, and it held.
In summer, it grew sunflowers along this side of the house. They obscured windows with their yellow petals and granted privacy for its excursions. By early winter, these blackened and drooped and rotted. The changeling moved with great care, ducking beneath the corpses of sunflowers to avoid attracting gazes from the living room. Easily done; the guests seemed consumed by one another, enraptured by each other’s wit and company. Which baffled it, as on the few occasions it had joined them, when it was younger and smaller and possibly cuter, they had proved to be such dull conversationalists that it had bit the inside of its cheek to blood, and very nearly been moved to rage. 
Now it scampered down the curve of the ravine that its family home sat at the edge of. The frost that coated their shorn grass melted under the warmth of its bare feet. If it had left through the front door, Mrs. Stewart would have yelled at it to wear shoes, and almost certainly socks as well. 
The trees greeted the changeling as they always did; with sways and creaks, and releases of chemicals that teased the bare skin of its face and hands. It replied, as it always did, with boundless affection. 
“I love you, I love you,” it said, ducking beneath outstretched branches, and bounding over roots. “Thank you, thank you!”
Slipping into the other world could be done in any forest, but it was particularly easy in the changeling’s ravine. All one must do is ask the trees, please, please can you shudder a hole in reality through which I might slip like a rabbit disappearing into its labyrinthian warren, and the trees say “okay!” and do just that. Ask this of them a hundred times, and then a thousand, and they will intuit your forward progress, and shiver up a hole before a request can leave your throat. 
And sometimes, horribly, if a tree is particularly friendly and obliging, they’ll extend that favour to anyone who passes.
This is what it found on that morning. 
It shrugged happily through a ripple in space and felt the cold winter slip away, the only evidence of it being the frost-nipped redness of its fingers and toes. It was about to merrily skip to its planted orchard, for a morning feast of its own succulent harvest, when it saw the footprints.
Or boot prints, rather, as these sole-blind fools had constrained themselves with footwear.
“Who the fuck…?” It said, and then put a finger to its mouth to gnaw at, anxiously. Don’t Spiral, Anna!
Most likely, the idiot tree that had opened the way for these intruders would repeat its trick if they wandered back along the same path. But would they think to? To duck under the same branch, touch a hand on the same trunk, all of them at once? For the changeling could see three trails of disturbance.
Boot prints pushed deep into the soft soil, advertising the passage of someone large and heavy. And there, a patch of moss scraped at by a hand. The height of the finger rakes implied someone smaller in statue. And the third – oh, it did not like the third at all. The third left a massacre in their wake, broken branches, plucked leaves, thrown stones, kicks and scores in the earth. Someone deeply under-stimulated, certainly, but also someone who failed to heed or appreciate the chemical screams of vegetation. 
It sighed. If this third individual caused sufficient offence, the trees might turn peevish and refuse to open the way back, even if they perfectly retraced their steps. This left the trio doomed to their fate. 
“Curse my gentle nature,” it said, and growled out its annoyance, before going through the breathing exercises prescribed by its therapist. It could never tell if they actually did anything physiologically, or if they simply provided a distraction, but regardless, it worked to soothe them at least one out of every three times. 
That done, it sighed in a performance that the trees lacked the capacity to appreciate, and started off down the very obvious, very messy trail, to save three unconsenting humans from getting trapped in a better world. 
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thebibliosphere · 11 months ago
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I made it 22 days without an acute migraine attack and then the humidity and temperature spiked again and wrecked my streak*.
I will say if yesterday was a migraine it was a comparatively mild one that I managed to sleep through the worst of it.
Which seems to confirm that my debilitating daily migraines are being caused by screens (other than my phone which seems perfectly fine) and some damage in my neck which the PT and fancy pillow seems to be helping.
As soon as I sit down in front of any screen other than my phone, the pain starts to build behind my eyes and the nausea starts. So not doing that for a while.
I was enjoying not praying for death every day and I intend to keep it that way until I can afford a different screen.
Which will probably be a while considering I owe $3k to the ER for this month alone, plus whatever the fuck this MRI is going to cost on Friday.
I’m ready for this year to be over 🫠
——
*I don’t include the occipital neuralgia or low level headaches in this category so I was still in what many people would consider moderate to severe pain in my skull, but it wasn’t the searing pressure I get from migraines with the awful vomiting which nothing seems to stop.
I’ve got another follow up with neurologist in two months. I’m honestly not sure I liked her. She asked if I’d ever tried a chiropractor which set alarm bells off and tells me she didn’t read my fucking file and the whole bit about my neck being irrevocably fucked by a chiro.
She was willing to let me confer with my MCAS doctor before she prescribed Topamax (which I’m not keen on trying. Very few MCAS patients handle it well.) but only because I got the vibe she didn’t want to prescribe me anything other than PT and acupuncture.
She also kept pushing Botox which is not great if you have cranial instability like I do and can actually make it a lot, lot worse. Not to mention the MCAS risk. It was just a very blegh appointment, but at least it’s got me in their system now and I can maybe hop to another doctor at some point if necessary.
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hhaechansmoless · 2 months ago
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as the world caves in
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pairing: kim mingyu x f!reader
genre: apocalypse au, angst, happy ending
description: we creep up on extinction, i pull your arms right in
warnings: mentions of injuries, zombies (written as the dead)
w/c: 4k
a/n: i once promised tiya @gyubakeries that the first mingyu fic I write would be for her.(also promised to make sure it would be heartbreaking but today is her birthday and I'd rather not do that so) happy happy birthday tiya!!! I love you very much thank you for listening to me yap abt anything and everything and I hope you have an awesome day and year ahead 💙💙💙 and ofc happy 10th anniversary to svt 🤧🥹!!!!
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DAY 256, 20:03 PM
“Hey. It’s just me, checking in. Hope everything is still okay on your end.”
“I’m making stew again tonight. Seokmin and I went out to town to see if there were any stores that had stocked stuff still. Found a heap of heatable food which was surprising, but we’re good for the next week or so… I think. Unless the expiry dates are sooner.”
You hear him shuffle around, hear the rustling of plastic and the distant murmur of the friend he’s made. You can almost see Mingyu, his broad shoulders hunched over the packet, lips pursed in concentration as he figures out what more to do with it.
“There’s not much to report today actually. Our new camp is fairly away from the dead yonder, so please don’t worry. There are nice people here… They were really welcoming—after the first few checks obviously—and are trying to convince us to stay. “
His voice is muffled by the static on the radio for a few seconds.
“—but we’ve told them that we’re both on the way to somewhere else. Seokmin says he has a brother waiting for him near Lindera, and well, I have you.”
“How are things at Fort Worden? Isn’t it getting warmer there? Be careful. They flock to warm places. I heard a message on the radio today—from the camp in Lindera. Seokmin says that Worden is close too. So we leave tomorrow morning.”
You don’t know if he pauses, or if what he says next is swallowed by the satellites and the nature of his worn out HT ham radio that you two have been using. 
“Anyway, just wanted to let you know. Please send a message as soon as you can. I love you, I’ll be there soon.”
You sigh quietly before flipping your recording switch on.
DAY 256, 22:47 PM
“Hey Gyu. I’m glad you guys found some food. And people. It’s safer that way.”
You’re a bit surprised at how your voice sounds unused, rough and cracking at the edges. 
“I fixed the fence with Vernon today—or well, tried to. One of the posts snapped clean through and I don’t think there’s enough planks left to patch it properly. But it's okay. There are more people on guard duty tonight. We’ll figure something out tomorrow.”
“We had three people join us today. All three came separately, which was funny because we’ve never had so many people who aren’t together. One of them is so young, Mingyu…” You trail off, eyes flitting to your door. “She’s fourteen. Her parents turned yesterday, I think. She’s really on edge and afraid, so I think she’ll be sleeping in my room tonight.”
You grunt softly as you get up to open a window. The air outside isn't as refreshing as you'd want it to be, but it's a relief from the humidity and stickiness that has been hanging over the city recently.
“And you're right—it is getting warmer here. Unbearably, almost. We’ve had more strays from the dead yonder than ever, but thankfully we're all stocked up on ammunition and other equipment. It's nice to be around so many people, Gyu. You'd love it.”
You can't help the guilt that slips into your voice, cutting cleanly into your skin like a sharp, smooth knife. 
“Please come back soon, Gyu. Stay safe. I'm sorry, and I love you too.”
You flip the recording switch off, throwing the radio one last glance before you leave your room. Outside, the corridors are bathed in dim orange lights that do nothing to make this place feel like home. Home is not a word you can recognize until Mingyu comes back.
Jeonghan stands outside your door, waiting respectfully with the camp's logbook in hand. He might have heard you, but you've come to realize that no one cares and that everyone understands. 
“I've logged in today's activities around the Fort and the newcomers but Soonyoung’s pissed Seungcheol off and I do not want to go to his room to keep this.” He thrusts the hardcover, leather-bound book into your hands. “So you keep it with yourself and I'll take it tomorrow morning and slip it onto his desk. Or you can do it yourself, if you'd like.”
You nod once. “I'll keep it. Aren't you going down for dinner?”
“God, no. I may be hungry, but there's a stack of twinkies on the table and if I see one more, I'm going to throw up. Are you?”
Shaking your head, your mutter, “Nah. Not feeling it.”
Jeonghan hums, eyeing you. “I think your boyfriend wouldn't like that.”
“My boyfriend won't know, because I won't tell him and neither will you.” You scoff, pushing Jeonghan away. He sees the small, upward curve of your lips and backs off as you shut your room door on his face.
You remember to yell out. only when you hear his footsteps disappearing down the corridor. “Send the girl up to my room when she's done eating!” 
If he hears you, he doesn't respond.
There's not much to think about, or maybe there's too many things to think about. Either way, you ignore it and plop down onto your bed. It creaks—a familiar sound that still makes you cringe every time you hear it. The thin mattress does nothing to muffle the sound. You flip the book open, turning to the page with the bookmark in it.
FORT WORDEN LOGBOOK
July 7th, 2028.
3 Survivors found. Minor injuries sustained. No infection
Newcomer Info:
Man in 30s, had two guns on him. Woman in her 20s, says she's a medic. 14 y/o girl.
Attacks on camp: 
Around 5-6 from the Dead Yonder, near the western gates.
You remember the day you came to Fort Worden all too well. Your log page probably looked like this: Woman in her 20s, cries once every hour, clutches her HT and necklace like someone’s going to snatch it away.
You doubt you can ever forget the day Mingyu left you here, begging you to get out of the car and towards safety. You can feel the ghost of the seat belt cutting into your palms as you hold on tight, trying to convince Mingyu to take you along with him. But Mingyu had always been better than you, better than anyone you know—too good not to do the right thing even when it cost him. He had people waiting for him somewhere out there, promises he couldn’t turn his back on. In retrospect, you’re sure he regrets it too—especially when there was no one to save when he finally got there.
You close the book with a soft thud and set it on the nightstand, letting your head tip back against the wall. It’s still too hot. Sweat clings to the inside of your shirt and you rub a palm over your face, feeling the salty, stickiness that hangs over this place. You should shower, and then sleep. You have to sleep. Morning comes faster than it should around here.
You hear a timid knock on the door.
You’re up before you realize it, dragging the handle open.
The girl stands there, shoulders bunched like she’s trying to disappear inside herself. She’s tiny in a way that makes your heart hurt, all sharp knees and elbows and a second-hand hoodie drowning her. Her fingers fidget with the hem of it, tugging, twisting. She looks like she might bolt if you so much as breathe wrong.
You step aside, keeping your hands loose and visible. “C’mon in,” you say, voice gentler than it was before. You wish it could sound stronger.
She hesitates, then creeps in, hovering awkwardly just inside the door. You shut it behind her, locking it out of habit.
“You can have the bed,” you tell her, nodding toward it. “I’ll take the chair.”
The girl blinks at you. “Thank you.”
You find a blanket in the closet—thin, but clean enough—and toss it over the chair before sinking into it. The springs squeal again and you grimace, curling your legs up, watching her settle onto the edge of the mattress like she’s expecting it to vanish beneath her.
You watch the window instead of her after that. The moon is high, the sky cloudless and uncaring. Somewhere out past the gates, you know the dead are wandering, always moving, always searching. 
You let your eyes fall shut, but you don’t let yourself drift until the girl’s breathing evens out. Until the world feels like it’s not caving in for a few more minutes.You’ll send a message to Mingyu again tomorrow.
Maybe he’ll be closer by then.
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DAY 262, 11:30 AM
“Baby, I think I told you that I lost the map I had, right? Good news. Seokmin and I found a car with the keys still in it and a state routes map in the glovebox. It’s a real mess, but hey, we’ve got a ride again, and that’s better than what we had yesterday. The engine’s a little rough and the fuel’s kinda low, but it’ll get us where we need to go for now. Guess the next task is to find a fuel station.
We were talking about when this whole thing is over. Seokmin says I should make a list of things
I want to do when we’re back to something close to normal. It sounds impossible, but I’ll play along. I’ve got a few things in mind already. First on the list: take you out for a meal. No canned stuff, no heat-and-serve, just something real. Something we used to do. I miss that.
Anyway, I know it’s not much to go on, but I wanted you to hear from me. Keep yourself safe. I’ll be there before you know it.”
You picture him grinning when he says it — the kind of grin he used to give you across diner tables, late at night after long shifts, the two of you splitting a plate of greasy fries. You picture him teasing you about picking the restaurant, saying he didn’t care as long as you were there.
You picture a hundred small memories that feel more like dreams now — his arm slung around your shoulder in a crowded movie theater, his hand finding yours automatically in the dark.
And then the static swallows him up again.
The camp around you hums with the low noise of survival. Somewhere behind you, Chan is arguing good-naturedly with Jihoon about ration counts. He’s been trying to grow plants in a small patch that he keeps building around. Lee Chan, you’ve found out, was a soil science or agronomy—you don’t remember the details—major before the infection hit.
The days have stretched on in the same pattern of routine: checking the perimeter, organizing supplies, scanning the horizon, and checking in on everyone.
Each morning, you check the radio. Each night, you wonder if this will be the last day you hear him.
You tuck the memory of his voice close to your chest and tell yourself you'll save a seat across from you at whatever restaurant you can find, someday. You tell yourself he’ll make it back to you.
At night, you go to sleep with prayers hoping that he is closer.
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DAY 265, 17:45 PM
Word travels fast in situations like this.
Someone caught a signal today. A voice on a different channel, not one of your usual checkpoints. They say they’re from a camp in Leavenworth and give a warning. The camp in Lindera got overrun. No survivors confirmed. The dead move faster in the heat, they say, desperate and decaying faster too.
You’re in the storage room, sorting through ration packs when Jeonghan finds you. His face is grave. His fingers tap the frame of the door, once, twice.
“You heard?” he asks.
You nod without looking at him. Your hands are steady as you snap a box shut, but inside, something is shivering loose. You wonder, absently, if Mingyu was close enough to hear about it too. You wonder if he’s already running again. You haven’t had a message in three days.
Jeonghan steps in closer. “You should rest tonight,” he says. “We’ll take your shift.”
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DAY 266, 02:11 AM
You can't sleep. You crack the window open, just enough to let the night air in. It’s sticky, thick, and sour with the scent of bodies and earth.
You turn the radio on, tuning into Mingyu’s frequency. Static crackles, long and sharp. No voice. No message. You press your forehead against the cold metal frame.
You imagine him somewhere out there—driving down broken highways, headlights flickering, Seokmin in the passenger seat clutching another wrinkled map.
You imagine him listening too, waiting for your voice to break through the noise.
So you speak into the radio.  You tell him about the small, temperature controlled patch in the garden that Chan has made. You’ve seen the first sprouts of maize today. The entire camp had rejoiced. You tell him about the girl—Suki, about how she smiled today for the first time when Soonyoung made a stupid joke about his ex.
You tell him you miss him, but not that the space he left behind feels like it’s getting bigger every day.
You tell him you’re scared, but not that it’s because you fear he won’t come back.
You tell him you love him, but not that it’s because every time feels like the last.
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DAY 267, 6:37 AM
The air feels different today, thicker somehow. The sun hasn’t fully risen, but you can already feel the weight of the day pressing down on you. You lie awake for a while, eyes fixed on the ceiling above, listening to the soft shuffle of feet outside your door and the distant hum of camp activity.
There’s a thud against the wall from next door—Jeonghan, probably already awake, too. You can almost hear the sound of his footsteps on the floorboards, his quiet way of moving, like he’s trying not to disturb anyone.
You reach for the radio, the familiar crackle of static filling the room as you twist the dial, the tension in your chest mounting with every click.
The silence on the other end feels like it’s going to swallow you up, like the seconds drag on forever, unrelenting. Your fingers twitch as you grip the radio, waiting for something—anything.
It takes a few minutes of pure radio static for you to even hear the semblance of a message. You shoot up from your bed, holding the radio closer to your ear. 
“...hearing... this... back soon.”
“Mingyu?” you speak into it, your voice groggy and rough. “Mingyu, is that you?”
The static grows louder, a sharp hiss that cuts through the air like a warning. You grip the radio harder, pressing it closer, straining to hear over the noise.
Then, the radio clicks, a low hum filling the void. It’s gone again.
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DAY 268, 15:14 PM
Suki approaches you, her expression unreadable, but there’s something off in the way she looks at you. It’s subtle, but you catch it.
“There are new people at the gates,” she says, voice low. “They’re in bad shape. Looks like they’ve been through hell.”
You shrug, not overly concerned. It’s not the first time you’ve seen beaten-up strangers. “I’ll check it out. Are they safe?”
“One of them just says he’s looking for someone who’s here. They haven’t checked for bites yet, I think.”
“I’ll go see what’s going on.” It’s routine, really.
You walk toward the gates, hands loosely at your sides. Your mind drifts, not expecting anything unusual. That is, until the HT radio clipped to your belt suddenly crackles to life.
“Hey… baby, are you there?” Mingyu’s voice, low but urgent, cuts through the quiet.
You stop mid-step, your heart skipping a beat at the sound of his voice.
“Mingyu?” you whisper under your breath, barely daring to believe it.
There’s a long pause, just enough to make you second-guess what you heard, before his voice returns, more frantic this time. “It’s me. I’m outside, but they won’t let us in.”
Your stomach lurches. You’re still a few paces from the gates, but the realization hits like a thunderclap.
It is Mingyu.
He’s here.
You barely have a moment to process the relief that floods through you before moving faster, jogging towards the gates.
“I don’t care what’s going on. Open the gate,” you demand as you approach, already pushing through the guards with authority you didn’t even know you had.
The gates groan open slower than they should.
You barely notice the hands that move to stop you, the murmurs of protocol, of safety checks and bite inspections. Someone says something about waiting. Someone else mentions Jeonghan’s name like he might talk some sense into you.
None of it matters.
Because there he is.
Mingyu.
He's thinner than you remember. His clothes hang off him, streaked with dirt and blood and the kind of exhaustion you can’t wash off. There’s a small gash on his forehead, a ripped sleeve, a small limp in his step—but he’s upright. He’s breathing. He’s real.
Seokmin’s beside him, leaning against the wall There are dark shadows under his eyes. He nods at you once, slow and grateful, like he’s holding a breath he's been carrying for days.
But all you can see is Mingyu.
He sees you too.
For a second, neither of you moves. The world slows down to the beat of your heart, beating painfully inside your ribs. And then you’re moving. Not running, exactly—but walking faster than your legs can carry, your chest splitting open with something that doesn’t know if it’s joy or agony. Maybe both.
He meets you halfway.
The collision is silent. No words, no dramatic gasps. Just arms around each other, too tight to be careful. His hands find the back of your neck, your shoulder blades, like he’s checking you’re still real. You curl your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, gripping hard.
Mingyu smells like sweat and gasoline and the end of the world. But under all of that, he smells like home.
“You made it,” you whisper, the words catching in your throat.
His voice is wrecked when he answers. “I told you I would.”
You don't cry. The tears stay lodged somewhere behind your eyes, hot and heavy, waiting for a quieter moment.
Someone clears their throat nearby. You don’t look. Let them wait. Let the whole camp wait.
It’s late when he comes back into your room.
You’re already sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, hands clasped together. You haven’t changed, haven’t moved much since the sun dipped below the horizon. The camp feels different now—buzzing in a new way, like everyone else can feel it too. That something has shifted. That someone made it back.
Mingyu steps in, clean now. Or cleaner than before. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, and he’s traded his torn shirt for one of the spares from storage—plain and soft-looking, a little too tight at the shoulders, but he wears it like it fits. You pat the spot next to you and lift the first-aid kit onto your lap.
“You found the clean clothes stash,” you say, and your voice sounds steadier than you expected.
He smiles, tired and crooked. “Seokmin said I smelled like the dead. Figured I should do something about that.”
It’s quiet again after that.
He crosses the room slowly. When he’s close enough, he kneels in front of you, hands resting on his thighs like he’s waiting to be granted something. You look at him—really look—and it guts you. The bags under his eyes. The fading bruise on his jaw, the gash that has been stitched but not bandaged. The way he keeps blinking like he still doesn’t trust what he’s seeing.
“I missed you,” he says, and there’s something cracked open in his voice. “Every day, I thought about turning back. But I kept thinking—if I could just make it a little further, maybe I’d hear you again. Maybe I’d make it back to you.”
You reach out, fingers brushing the side of his face. He leans into it instinctively, his eyes fluttering shut like the warmth of your hand is the first real thing he’s felt in weeks.
“You did,” you whisper. “You made it.”
He closes his eyes, nodding once like the words land somewhere deep. You slide off the bed, kneeling in front of him now. You’re both on the floor, eye to eye, tired bones and pained hearts.
“I’m glad you’re here,” you say, and this time, your voice cracks.
That’s what finally undoes him.
Mingyu leans in slowly, like he’s asking, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft, like a breath caught between two mouths that don’t quite know how to be completely gentle anymore. His hand finds your jaw, tentative and warm. 
He kisses you like he’s remembering it as he goes—like the shape of your mouth, the rhythm of your breath, was something he’s carried with him in pieces. Your hands find his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric, pulling him closer with a desperation that doesn’t need words. Mingyu’s lips taste like soap, like he’s brushed his entire body hard enough to get rid of the past few months. To go back to what it was like with you.
When he pulls back, forehead resting against yours, palm slipping down to intertwine your fingers, you sigh.
Mingyu breaks the silence a few moments later. “Someone named Jeonghan threatened to throw me out if I snore.”
You huff out a laugh, nose brushing his. “He’s next door. He can hear everything.”
“He also told me that you left yesterday’s dishes beside the sink without wetting it.”
Groaning, you let your head fall onto Mingyu’s shoulder. You almost tear up at the way it feels so familiar.
“I panicked! Jihoon was yelling at someone and I just wanted to get out of there.”
You can hear the grin in Mingyu’s voice. “I always told you to soak it.”
“And I always ignored you.”
“True,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Some things never change.”
You sit like that for a bit, your legs going numb, his palm sweeping slow arcs over your back. Outside, someone walks by, humming off-key. Somewhere down the hall, Jeonghan shouts something muffled and vaguely threatening.
But here, it’s still.
“Can you get up so that I can bandage you up and then we can go to sleep?” You mumble, cheek pressed against his shoulder.
He pushes himself up with a grunt, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at the stitches along his side. You sit up too, rubbing your face with the heel of your hand before reaching for the first aid kit on your bed.
You didn’t think he’d hurt himself there too, but when he lifts his shirt up, you tend to it wordlessly. You can talk about it later.
When you’re done, you drop the trash into the little bin by the bed, click the kit closed, and set it aside. Then you sit back, legs crossed, watching him pull his shirt down over the fresh bandage.
He climbs in without another word, immediately claiming his old side like it was never up for negotiation. You slide in beside him, and he reaches for you the moment you're under the blanket, his arm winding easily around your waist, his nose nudging the back of your neck.
“I forgot to mention,” You start. “Suki sleeps in my room. She probably won’t come in tonight, but we need to figure something out.”
You turn your head slightly, enough to glance at him over your shoulder. “She was scared. She needed somewhere to feel safe.”
His face softens immediately. “Of course.”
“I’ll talk to her tomorrow. She’s been warming up to Jeonghan anyway. Maybe she’ll take the bunk across from him.”
After a few moments, he mumbles, “I’ll sleep wherever you want me to. Just not near Jeonghan.”
“Deal.”
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alphynix · 3 months ago
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Dinosorex, the "terror shrew", was a genus of eulipotyphlan mammal found across much of Europe for most of the Miocene, ranging from about 23 to 9 million years ago. Part of a family of stem-shrews known as heterosoricids, it was larger than most of its living relatives – probably around 15-20cm long (6-8") – and inhabited subtropical swampy forest environments.
Dinosorex kaelini here was one of the later species in this lineage, living in what is now Switzerland around 12-10.5 million years ago.
It had massive incisor teeth at the front of its jaws and crushing teeth further back, specialized for grabbing, immobilizing, and cracking open prey like hard-shelled invertebrates. Similar to some modern shrews the tips of these teeth were also reinforced with iron in their enamel, which would have given them a striking dark red coloration.
But while Dinosorex was quite abundant and successful during its time, it seems to have had such a specific ecological preference that it couldn't adapt when the climate shifted towards the end of the Miocene. Drier conditions and more open savannas quickly took over, and the terror shrews disappeared along with the lush humid forests they were so dependent on.
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NixIllustration.com | Tumblr | Patreon
References:
Cailleux, Florentin, et al. "Revision of Dinosorex (Heterosoricidae, Eulipotyphla), with special reference to Slovak and Swiss material." Historical Biology (2025): 1-19. https://doi.org/10.1080/08912963.2025.2476116
Furió, Marc, Jerôme Prieto, and Lars W. van den Hoek Ostende. "Three million years of “Terror-Shrew”(Dinosorex, Eulipotyphla, Mammalia) in the Miocene of the Vallès-Penedès Basin (Barcelona, Spain)." Comptes Rendus Palevol 14.2 (2015): 111-124. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.crpv.2014.12.001
Wikipedia contributors. “Dinosorex” Wikipedia, 22 Dec. 2024, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dinosorex
Yuan, Haobo, et al. "The origin and evolution of shrews (Soricidae, Mammalia)." Proceedings B 291.2037 (2024): 20241856. https://doi.org/10.1098/rspb.2024.1856
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diejager · 1 year ago
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if you’re still writing for the monster 141, what about a bay hybrid reader, who is just on the edges on going into hibernation because the base is in a colder area/remote snowy location
I’m gonna assume you mean bear?
Cw: bear hybrid!readr, hibernation, binge eating, hoarding, tell me if I missed any.
Winter was creeping closer and closer by each day, your instinctual need to sleep away the cold calling to you louder than the prior days. There was a bone-deep exhaustion that clung to you, the heaviness that cold weather brought to you was a constant and nagging feeling that urged you deeper in the nest you’d built yourself in your dark room. Your curtains drawn, lights often closed and locks installed, you’d spent the weeks preparing, hoarding soft pillows, thick blankets and clothes from people you were familiar with. 
They were surprised when you brought it up, blinking tiredly and occasionally yawning in the afternoon, stumbling between everyone’s rooms with a small plea on the tip of your tongue. You took whatever they were willing to give you: a blanket from Price and Rudolfo, a shirt from König and Gaz, a jacket from Ghost and Horangi, and a pillow from Soap and Alejandro. As long as it smelled like them, a lingering reminder that you weren’t alone in your humid room, their musk grounding and safety. You wouldn’t be alone.
Price had known you were - like most bears - prone to hibernation, taking between one to three month of your year sleeping away the cold, sinking into your mountain of fabric and sleeping off the coldest months. Your time depended on the year, the warmer it was, the less you slept, and the colder it was, the longer you slept. It might’ve been a bother in people’s eyes - humans - but it was instinctual, a primal part of your brain that still clung to your ancestors who strayed from the path of being normal bears. You couldn’t ignore the pull, the call to sleep, it wasn’t possible for a bear like you, and you were fortunate to have such accommodating teammates.
You grew hungrier, your stomach becoming an endless pit, an abyss that kept taking dish after dish, stocking up in fat and calories that you’d burn during your sleep, keeping you sustained and alive without having to wake up. You ate whatever you that was within your reach, the cold bread, the warm milk, the leftover of two days ago or Soap’s surprisingly good cooking, nothing was safe when you were a big and grumpy and hungry bear near hibernation. Ever supportive and helpful, Soap and Alejandro would jump in to cook for you, hooking Gaz and Rudolfo into being their sous-chef whenever they were free. It was the delicious scent of home cooked and warm meals that brought you to the kitchen, if it wasn’t a call for fixing up someone, it was the smell of good food. 
You were ravenous, gulping down the many, many plates the duo - occasionally quartet - placed on the table, their chests puffed up pridefully at your quick eating, you were practically breathing them in. Your constant eating helped you pack some weight, your skin stretched to accommodate your growing amount of fat that would ultimately burn over the months. And when the day came, you were low on energy, grumpy and easy to anger, your patience running paper thin, bidding your goodbyes and see you soon, wrapping your arms around them and teasing them about missing you during your lockdown. 
You’d sleep through the cold winter months and wake up to a warmer and busier time, to a welcoming and excited team that had spent the better half of winter waiting impatiently for the TF’s medic to wake up.
Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @thigh-o-saur @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami
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cheritzteam · 1 month ago
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[MM] Two brothers embracing the refreshing summer🌴, Twins’ Birthday Event Announcement
Hello, this is Cheritz.
How did you spend the sunny month of May, Coordinator? 😊
Now that spring has passed and we're standing at the threshold of summer,
What summer scenery comes to your mind, Coordinator?
While some people think of refreshing and cool summer,
Others might think of the humid weather from the rainy season.
As the sunlight grows hotter,
Have you noticed that someone special's birthday is slowly approaching? 👀
Two men who suit the refreshing summer perfectly!
It's the twins' birthday 🎉
If you're curious about what events have been prepared to celebrate the twins' birthday,
please check the details in the announcement below~😉
< ① Twins Birthday Event >
The twins' birthday has returned again this year!
What flavor cake would you like to gift him, Coordinator?
Cream, strawberry, chocolate, green tea, mocha, etc... 🍰🎂
Share the cake you've prepared to celebrate 707 or Saeran's birthday on Twitter or Instagram with the hashtag #MM_Cake_OneSlice, and receive 50 Hourglasses⌛ through a drawing! (15 people)
Additionally, we've prepared a bonus event commemorating the twins' birthday!
Use the hashtags #Happy_BDay_707 or #Happy_BDay_Saeran to celebrate his birthday,
and don't miss out on the 50 Hourglasses⌛ given through a drawing♥ (15 people)
Among the participants, 15 people will be selected by drawing to receive 50 Hourglasses⌛ each♥
Event Period : June 9 (Mon) ~ June 22 (Sun) KST
Winner Announcement : June 26 (Thu) KST
< ② In-game Login Event >
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During the event period below, log into the game and enjoy with the twins birthday commemorative title image🎉
We've also prepared special login rewards to commemorate the twins' birthday! 🎁✨
Log in during the event period to receive login rewards, so don't miss out and be sure to collect them all! 😊🎉
June Title Image : June 10 (Tue), 2025 ~ June 22 (Sun), 2025 KST
Login Reward Period : June 10 (Tue), 2025 ~ June 16 (Mon), 2025 KST
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Finally, during the period below, there will be a 20% discount event for [707 Spaceship Cushion] [Saeran's Passport Set] at Cheritz Market. 
If you've been hesitating to make a purchase, Coordinator, why not take this opportunity? ദ്ദി(⩌ᴗ⩌ )
Cheritz Market Discount Period : June 10 (Tue) 2 PM ~ June 16 (Mon) 2 PM KST
This is all the June news we've prepared!
The hotter the sunlight gets, the cooler your heart should be!
We hope your summer will be even more special with Mystic Messenger 🍉
Thank you!
Sincerely, Cheritz
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airbiscuitz · 15 days ago
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The List
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼
Summary: After a big fight, you and JJ take a break. He leaves a folded note in your mailbox every day—a list of reasons why he loves you. On day 30, he writes, “I’m still here. Are you?”
Pairing: JJ Maybank x Reader
Word count: 4k
Warnings: Angst! (to bbs that requested @apeachtea, @rottinglexi)
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
You and JJ Maybank were a wildfire—bright, burning, passionate, and destructive when left unchecked. The love was never the issue. It was everything else. The chaos of life on the Cut. The weight of growing up too fast. The pain he didn’t always know how to express, and the silence you’d learned to master when everything felt like too much.
The fight wasn’t new. It had roots tangled in past arguments, old scars reopened with sharper words. You told him he never let you in. He told you that you didn’t understand what it was like to always be running from something. The door slammed. Your voice cracked. And the silence afterward was more deafening than anything.
You didn’t know who walked away first. Maybe you both did.
But you remembered the first note.
Folded into a square the size of your palm. Stuffed in your mailbox like some forgotten secret. No name on the outside, but you knew the handwriting instantly. You’d traced it on his knuckles. You’d seen it scrawled on scrap paper maps during treasure hunts and doodled on napkins at The Wreck.
It read: Reason #1: You always made me feel like home, even when I didn’t have one.
You didn’t cry then. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just JJ being JJ—saying too much or saying it too late. You slid the note into your nightstand and tried to forget about it.
But then there was another the next day.
Reason #2: You snort when you laugh too hard. I love that stupid sound.
You smiled. Just a little.
And the next day:
Reason #3: You’re the only person who ever made my birthday feel real.
That one knocked the wind out of you.
Because you remembered that day. A few years ago. You’d spent a week saving up tips just to buy him a stupid cake and some fireworks. He tried to act cool, like he didn’t care. But you saw it in his eyes—like he was a kid again, even just for one night.
You started waiting for the notes after that.
Each one folded the same way. Always at the same time: 7:12 a.m. Like he knew exactly when your dad left for work and you’d be alone. Some notes were sweet. Some were funny. Some were heartbreakingly sad.
You started waiting for the notes after that.
Each one folded the same way. Always at the same time: 7:12 a.m. Like he knew exactly when your dad left for work and you’d be alone. Some notes were sweet. Some were funny. Some were heartbreakingly sad.
Reason #9: I loved watching you dance around your room when you thought no one was watching.
Reason #14: You’re the only one who saw me when I didn’t want to be seen.
Reason #18: I hate sleeping without you.
Reason #22: I kept your first hair tie. It’s on my keychain. Looks dumb, but I don’t care.
Each one dug a little deeper under your skin, until your hands trembled pulling them out of the mailbox. Until your pillow smelled like tears most nights. Until you started writing replies you never sent.
You thought he might stop. That he’d get tired. That maybe this was some guilt-ridden apology stunt.
But he didn’t stop.
Every day, no matter the weather, the fights in your head, or the ache in your chest—there it was.
Day 30.
You woke up before your alarm. You didn’t know why. Maybe something in you knew. You wrapped your hoodie around your shoulders and crept out onto the porch barefoot. The sky was still purple. The air was heavy with Carolina humidity and summer endings.
The note was already there.
You unfolded it with shaking hands.
Reason #30: I’m still here. Are you?
Fuck.
You sat down right there on the steps, note clutched to your chest like a lifeline, breath catching somewhere between your ribs. Thirty days of silence on your end. Thirty days of him not giving up.
You knew where he’d be.
The dock.
The same one where he kissed you for the first time. The same one you stormed off from thirty days ago. The same one where he told you, once, “If I ever disappear, this is where to find me.”
So you went.
You didn’t brush your hair. Didn’t even grab shoes. You ran, heart pounding louder than your steps, gravel biting at your soles. The sun was just peeking over the trees when the water came into view.
And there he was.
Sitting at the edge, legs dangling, same hoodie he always wore. Back to you. Still. Waiting.
“JJ,” you breathed.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn. Just said, “Did you get the note?”
You nodded, though he couldn’t see. “Yeah.”
Long silence.
Then softly, “I didn’t know if you’d come.”
You took a step closer. “I almost didn’t.”
He turned a little, not fully, just enough that you saw the flicker of hope in his profile. “Why did you?”
You swallowed, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. “Because… I never stopped missing you. Even when I was mad. Even when I told myself I shouldn’t.”
JJ looked down at his hands. He was fidgeting with something—a string from his sleeve, maybe. His voice cracked. “I thought I broke it. Us. That maybe I pushed too far this time.”
“You almost did,” you whispered. “But then you kept showing up.”
His laugh was hollow, but his eyes were wet when he glanced at you. “I didn’t know what else to do. Talking never worked before. So I wrote. I wrote every damn thing I couldn’t say that night.”
You walked forward until you were standing beside him, then lowered yourself down beside him, knees tucked to your chest.
“I read them,” you said. “All of them. Some more than once.”
He turned toward you fully now, blinking rapidly, like he couldn’t believe you were really there. “Do you believe them?”
You met his gaze. “I want to.”
“That’s enough,” he said quietly. “For now, that’s enough.”
Silence fell again, but it felt different this time. Softer. Like something mending, thread by thread.
“I didn’t write number thirty-one,” he added suddenly.
You raised a brow. “Why not?”
JJ shrugged, a small smile pulling at his lips. “I was waiting to see if you’d let me say it out loud.”
You nudged him lightly with your shoulder. “Then say it.”
He looked at you, eyes shining. “Reason thirty-one: You make me want to be better. For you. For me. For us.”
Tears stung your eyes, but you smiled anyway. “JJ…”
“I don’t have it all figured out,” he continued, words tumbling out now. “And I might still screw things up sometimes. But I swear to God, if you let me… I’ll spend every day proving how much I love you.”
You didn’t reply right away. You just leaned in, forehead resting against his. Your hand found his, fingers curling together like they belonged there. Like they never stopped belonging.
“I missed you,” you whispered.
He closed his eyes. “I missed you more.”
A pause.
“I’m still here,” he said, barely above a breath. “Are you?”
You leaned in and kissed him—soft and trembling and real. The kind of kiss that said yes. That said always.
And when you pulled back, tears on your cheeks and sunlight kissing the dock, you whispered, “Yeah. I’m here.”
That was answer enough.
---
You found a shoebox two days later. Stuffed under his bed. Filled with every note he’d written before delivering them. Some with crossed-out lines. Some tear-stained. Some rewritten three times.
He caught you holding it and froze.
“I didn’t want to mess them up,” he said.
You hid a small cry with a breathy chuckle before putting the letters back inside the shoebox.
"You didn’t. You never did."
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tfpage · 3 months ago
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Daniel was a lanky 22-year-old, standing at 5’10” with a frame that seemed to dodge every ounce of muscle. His arms were wiry, his chest concave, and his legs resembled stilts. Sparse, patchy stubble was the extent of his body hair, earning him playful jabs from friends who called him “Smooth Dan.” He didn’t mind much, but deep down, he envied the burly, rugged guys at the gym who seemed to command attention effortlessly.
One humid evening, while rummaging through a dusty antique shop to kill time, Daniel stumbled upon a small, ornate bottle tucked behind a stack of old books. Its glass was a deep emerald, etched with faint runes that shimmered under the shop’s dim light. A faded label read, “Elixir of Vigor – One Sip, One Shift.” The shopkeeper, a wiry old man with eyes like polished marbles, grinned knowingly. “That’s no trinket, lad. It’s old magic. Drink it, and you’ll become what you’re meant to be. But only one sip—more, and you’ll regret it.” Daniel, skeptical but intrigued, handed over ten bucks and left with the bottle.
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At home, Daniel examined the elixir under his desk lamp. The liquid inside swirled like liquid smoke, glinting with flecks of gold. “Probably just fancy juice,” he muttered, but curiosity gnawed at him. He uncorked it, releasing a scent like pine and iron, and took a single, cautious sip. It burned going down, not painfully, but like a spark igniting kindling. He waited. Nothing. Shrugging, he went to bed, dismissing it as a gimmick.
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The next morning, Daniel woke feeling… heavier. His usual grogginess was gone, replaced by a strange energy buzzing through him. In the mirror, he noticed subtle differences. His shoulders seemed a touch broader, his biceps slightly rounder, like someone had inflated them just a bit. Running a hand across his chest, he froze—fine, dark hairs dusted his pecs where none had been before. His jawline, too, sported a faint shadow, thicker than his usual peach fuzz. “Weird,” he thought, chalking it up to a growth spurt, though at 22, that seemed unlikely.
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At the gym that day, Daniel felt unstoppable. He lifted weights he’d never dared touch, his muscles swelling with each rep as if eager to grow. By evening, his t-shirt clung to his chest and arms, and a trail of hair now traced from his navel downward, darker and denser than anything he’d grown before.
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A week later, the changes accelerated. Daniel’s reflection was unrecognizable. His chest had barreled out, pecs firm and defined, straining his old shirts to the point of tearing. His arms bulged with veins snaking across them, and his thighs, once twig-like, now filled his jeans to bursting. Hair sprouted relentlessly—his chest was a thick mat, curling over his collarbone, while his arms and legs grew fuzzy, dark strands coating them like a second skin. His beard, once a faint hope, was now full and rugged, framing a face that looked sharper, more commanding.
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Friends noticed. At a bar, his buddy Mike gawked. “Dude, what’s with the lumberjack vibe? You on roids or something?” Daniel laughed it off, but he knew the truth. The elixir wasn’t done with him. He felt stronger daily, his body craving movement, his skin prickling as new hair pushed through. Even his voice seemed deeper, resonating when he spoke.
By the end of the month, Daniel was a colossus. He stood broader, taller somehow, his frame packed with muscle that rippled under his skin. His chest was a wall of strength, blanketed in thick, dark hair that spread across his shoulders and down his back. His arms, once scrawny, were now massive, each bicep a boulder, forearms corded and hairy. His legs could crush logs, and even his hands looked powerful, knuckles dusted with coarse hair. His beard was a mane, blending into a neckline of fur that made him look primal, unstoppable.
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Daniel’s confidence soared. He walked differently, with a swagger born of strength. At the gym, he was a legend, tossing around weights like toys. Strangers stared, some with awe, others with envy. Yet, late at night, he’d catch his reflection and wonder if the elixir had taken him too far. He was no longer Smooth Dan—he was a force, a titan. But he loved it.
One evening, he returned to the antique shop to thank the old man, bottle in hand. The shop was empty, its windows boarded up, as if it had never existed. Daniel smiled, tucking the bottle into his pocket. One sip had been enough.
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