#so he died when he caught pneumonia

[nagasakidivision]

Haruto: Oh, so when Descartes works until five in the morning, he's a once-in-a-millennia genius, but when I do it, it's 'clinically concerning' and 'probably going to lead to a nervous breakdown.'

[fangirl-dot-com]

what does mitch look like? like does she have a face claim?! and vito?? (i couldn’t tell which one was which in imola)

ok so here we go! - thank you to whoever asked for this!!

this was a tag worthy post I believe :)

face claim - Amal Clooney

Meet Michelle "Mitch" Walker - Y/n L/n's race engineer

She has been at Red Bull since 2020, but was an actual engineer for the cars. She graduated with a Masters in Engineering and interned under Adrian Newey. She is currently in her late-30's and not married.

She was a bit skeptical when she was told by Christian that she'd be a rookie's race engineer, but when she saw you and your times on the sim, she was hooked.

She can be seen wearing her favorite big sunnies during race weekends and carries her gray notebook everywhere she goes. As a part of a ritual, she always drinks an iced Americano before a race.

For future references, she stays Y/n L/n's race engineer until said racer retires. She will have served under two different team principals by the end of her carrier (but I'm not saying who the second is hehe).

no face claim - Italian, short beard, and a whole lot of love for Y/n

Meet Vito Accardi - Y/n L/n's manager

Vito had been a part of an organization of people who lend out unofficial managers to younger racers who don't already have one. He was assigned to Y/n L/n in 2018 when she first joined F4. He, like most people, thought that she had raw talent and he wanted to stay with her.

Fast forward to 2019 and F3, Vito was officially Y/n L/n's manager, hired by her godfather Lorenzo. He has no plans to leave anytime soon.

He has a Public Relations Degree along with degree in Business. On the side, he runs his own line of go karts. He has mentioned that he was only able to start it due to the kindness of Y/n and Lorenzo.

For further references, Vito stays with Y/n until her retirement. After that, he ends up being asked to be godfather of her second child. Of course he agrees and tears are shed.

face claim - Brendan Taggart

Meet Lorenzo "Enzo" Alessandrino - Y/n L/n's Godfather

Lorenzo had been Y/F/N L/n's best friend growing up after meeting at boarding school, but distanced himself after he saw how awful he truly was. Only came back into his life after the birth of Y/n. Surprisingly, he was named godfather and he took that to heart.

Being a major business man and influential figure in karting and Formula racing, he couldn't possibly be near the girl all the time. But after finding out what you had been going through, he wishes that he would have fought for custody. Maybe then you could have grown up with other kids such as Logan Sargeant, Oscar Piastri, Mick Schumacher, and Arthur Leclerc. But, he couldn't dwell on the past.

Everyone thought he was pretty poor as he didn't like to flaunt his wealth everywhere, but they were wrong. Pretty much one of the wealthiest persons the time of his death.

Gave Y/n L/n a second chance at karting and formula racing as he fought for sponsors to agree on the younger girl (most said no due to age and gender, but he never gave up).

Late in 2019, he caught pneumonia, which turned into a fatal respiratory tract infection. He died in early 2020 after falling into a coma. The only person to ever show up was Y/n L/n

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[gg-neptune]

hii! Are you still taking request? I'd like to ask for one in which Reader takes care of a very sick Severus (Anything but a cold, it's too common), with all the comfort and pampering it requires :] Sev deserves to be pampered

A/n: Hiiii! Thank you for requesting this! I really likes writing this it was quite fun imagining a sick Sev. I imagined him having pneumonia for this since it was the first thing that came to mind and I had it recently so I based it off my symtoms. I hope you enjoy this. :)

Warnings: Sickness, pneumonia, coughing, phlegm (like he coughs it up it's gross but yk), if I missed anything pls tell me

It was not very often that wizards were affected by muggle viruses and diseases. By now they had come up with various potions to counteract them, and they had plenty of magical plants to help with the effects of whatever they had managed to contract. However, there were some rare cases in which they could not fight off the muggle diseases. It usually was not because they did not have a remedy but rather because they did not have the means to get to the remedy. This was often the case for Professor Snape.

Of course, being the Potions Master, he was always the one restocking the hospital wing and helping students who came to him who happened to get sick. Who was there for him when he was sick? Absolutely no one. Until recent developments in his life.

You. You had absolutely flipped his entire world upside down and shaken it violently to the point he was not sure this was his life still. He was quite used to going to his desk and spending hours grading alone without interruption. Now he had you come sit with him and pester him. He was used to wallowing in his bed alone when feeling ill, after Madame Pomfrey had told him off for being too needy one too many times. However, you were now here, and that simply would not be happening.

Now he had caught some virus that, till the day he died, he would claim was just a simple cold. He had written an owl to you that morning explaining his condition: “Just a simple common cold. I’m calling out so I don’t spread it. Don’t have a good enough potion brewed. Have a good day. Love you.”

This raised your suspicion, so after receiving it, you made your way down to the dungeons. After making it to his chambers, which was quite a way in the dungeons, you knock on his door.

“Severus, you ok? I wanted to check on you,” you call out to him. After waiting a moment with no response, you try the doorknob. A feeling in your gut told you something was wrong. Luckily the door was not locked, so you let yourself in. The curtains were still closed, and it seemed as if he had not even woken up yet. 

“Severus, hun, are you ok?” you call out to him only to be met with the sound of a loud groan.

Quickly, you make your way back to his bedroom. The door was left open, and inside there was Severus. His hair was wet with sweat, and so was his shirt. Normally he was pale, but now looking at him, he was ghastly. He had been lying down, but his head was barely lifted to be able to look up at you.

"Oh, you didn’t have—” he was cut off by a cough, followed by him wheezing for breath, trying to clear his lungs. “You didn’t have to come see me. I am fine, just a cold, as you can see,” he quickly tries to choke out before he is attacked by more phlegm coming up his throat. “Keep a reasonable distance; I don't want you to get sick.” He barely gets this out before coughing again, this time coughing up a sizable amount of mucus from his throat.

"Severus, I don’t think this is a cold, I mean.” You take him and his appearance in for a moment as concern begins to flood your chest.

“I’m going to write to Dumbledore and call out. I think you need to go to the hospital wing, but I know you won’t,” he flops his head back on his pillow, acting all dramatic.

“I’m fine. Go teach, I will be fine,” he wheezes out, pulling off his sweat-soaked shirt.

“Severus I think you have something worse than a cold. I mean, you look terrible.” You take a couple of steps toward his desk and pick up a quill and some parchment. “I’m calling out. Deal with it.” You quickly write an owl to Professor McGonagall, knowing she will not come to his room to try and visit but rather just find something for your students to do all while listening to Severus groan and cough in the background about how he is fine and how it’s “just a cold.”

After sending off the owl, you turn back to Severus and sit on the edge of the bed, reaching your hand forward and taking his hand in yours. "Severus, dear, you're obviously very sick.”

"No, I’m n-,” once again he is cut off by his own coughing.

“Lay down for a second. I'm going to go run you a bath. You need to dislodge some of the mucus in your throat.”

“That is simply not necessary.”

“Severus, I will drag you into the bath. You are covered in sweat.”

He grumbles one last time before you walk out of the room and into his bathroom. You run some hot water into his bathtub, letting it fill up. You decide to drip some peppermint oils into the water, hoping it will help his lungs clear up a bit.

Once the tub is half full, you go back to Severus, who is now splayed out on his back, still wheezing for breath.

“Come on, Sev, I’ve got you a bath running.” Your tone is gentle as you grab the man by his arm and try to rouse him up from his position on the bed.

He just groans before slowly pushing himself up and standing. He sways quite a bit and has to put quite a bit of his weight on you as you slowly walk him to the bathroom. You sit him on the closed toilet seat and begin to attempt to undress him. Which considering how soaked his clothes were with sweat proved to be a tremendous feat. After getting him to undress, you help him into the bathtub. The entire time you do not speak, just gently trying to get him into the tub. It would have not mattered anyway, as he keeps coughing every second or so anyway. You make sure to close the bathroom door so you can lock the steam in, which will help him dislodge some of the mucus in his lungs.

He leans against the back of the tub, eyes half closed with exhaustion. He can barely keep himself up as you grab a washcloth and spread some water on his shoulders and face.

“I’ll wash your hair too,” you whisper to him, not wanting to disturb him too much, as honestly, you cannot tell if he is asleep or not.

Suddenly he pushes his torso forward and dunks his head under the water, submerging his hair completely. He comes back up and lazily pushes it out of his face before relaxing against the tub again. “There. Hair washed,” he grumbled out.

“Severus, you cannot be serious.” Disbelief is the only word that you can come up with to describe your feelings right now.

“What,” he snaps. His illness has clearly shortened his temper and patience quite a bit. He glares at you through his eyelashes, not bothering to lift his head.

“You cannot just dunk your head under water and expect your hair to be clean. It’s drenched in sweat and disgusting,” you say as you begin to try to adjust him so you can actually wash his hair. He, however, does not help you at all and instead just goes completely limp, leaving you to have to move his dead weight.

Finally, after breaking a sweat yourself, you get him properly adjusted so you can wash his hair. You lather up some shampoo and begin to gently work it into his hair, focusing on his roots. He seems to almost flinch as you make contact with his scalp.

“What’s wrong? Too rough,” you ask him with a quiet voice, wanting him to relax as much as possible.

“My head hurts,” he replies, scrunching up his face in displeasure. “I don’t mean a headache like the skin on my head.”

Humming in acknowledgement, you more gently than the last time threaded the lather through his hair. You know if his scalp is tender, it will be painful either way, but it is best to be as gentle as possible.

When you are finally content with how much you’ve washed his hair, you attempt to rinse his hair out with a nearby cup, but he swats you away and dunks his head under again.

He continues to cough up more and more phlegm, and time goes on, the hot steam proving to loosen some of it. Eventually the water goes cold, and you help him up and into some fresh clothes.

As you are putting his shirt on, he leans against the sink, not being able to support himself when he gets a violent fit of coughing.

“Lift your arms up,” you tell him, getting ready to put his shirt on.

He does as you say without complaint, but after you slip his shirt on his arms, they find their way around your waist. He holds you there for quite a while. As you are pressed against his chest, enjoying his warmth (and also realizing he is most likely running a fever), you can feel him wheeze with each breath he takes.

“Thank you,” he whispers to you, barely audible after quite some time.

You simply nod, knowing he is just not used to people taking care of him like this or even sticking around him like this.

After a while, he releases you, and you walk him to the couch in the lounge area.

“Why do I have to sit in here?” he complains as you gently push him to sit down on the sofa.

“Am I wrong to assume your bedsheets are covered in sweat?”

He gives no response to this and instead just lays on the couch, grumbling in displeasure at the fact you had a point.

“I’m going to write an owl to madame Pomfrey for your fever and cough; I don’t think I could brew a decent enough potion, and I don’t want to leave you alone for very long,” you explain to him as you grab a spare piece of parchment from the table in his kitchen.

“Hurry up,” his voice is almost whiny as he says this. He’s glaring at you again, not happy with the fact you are so far away from him.

Following his demands, you quickly explain to Madame Pomfrey what Severus’ symptoms are and to please give him something quick. You sent it off with the school owl that had returned with McGonagall's response, which said that it was perfectly fine that you called out today. Professor Sprout needed more hands to deal with some Devil's Snare.

Before returning to Severus, you rummage through his cabinet and quickly find a sleeping draft, deciding he needed to rest some. You bring it back to him and find him waiting on the sofa, sitting upright, glaring at you still.

“Why did you take so long? Like genuinely, what are you doing there?” he complains. You don’t know what had gotten into your man, but he seems to be even more dramatic and sassy today.

“I wrote an owl and I got you some sleeping potion; calm down.” You sit beside him, wrapping your arm around him and allowing him to lean into you. “Why don’t you lay down, Severus? Here, take a few drinks.” He does as you say, but he does not lay down.

“I can’t breathe when I’m lying down,” he’s becoming even more congested as time goes on.

Hearing this, you summon some pillows from his room with your wand and use them to prop up his head and chest. He settles against it, nestling himself in the pillows, not bothering with blankets as they are too hot for him at the moment.

You are sitting on the edge of the couch, running your hand through his still wet hair as he teeters on the edge of consciousness when he reaches out an arm and wraps it around your waist. He is attempting to pull you close to him; however, in his sick state, he cannot muster up the strength to actually pull you to him. You decide to help him out and lay next to him. You attempt not to put too much weight on his chest, not wanting to obstruct his breathing even more, but he continues to tug on your waist until you are on him to his full content.

Soon after, since he decided to exert all of his energy on pulling you on to him, he passes out immediately after. Leaving you to your own thoughts and opportunity to admire him. 

His head had fallen back on the pillows, mouth slightly parted. It was only a matter of time before he started snoring. His hair that was still wet was splayed out everywhere.

A small smile formed on your loops as you looked up at him. He looked so calm for once in his life. He was not scowling or wearing an expression of displeasure but rather just a calm, happy face of content.

You run your fingers through his hair, earning a sigh from him, though he does not move or show any other signs of waking. Pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose, you carefully rest your head against this chest once more.

~~Later~~

You had been lying there for quite a while before Severus had woken up. You were not able to fall asleep yourself, but it did not bother you, opting to just admire the man you were laying on top of.

When he does finally wake up, it is only because madam Pomfrey is knocking at the door, which you have to get up to answer. He had quite a grip on you, so after struggling to get him to let go, you finally are able to answer the door, allowing her to give you the potions he will need in order to make a recovery.

“I expect he’s got pneumonia, but this should do the trick. Make him drink all of it, then sleep, and when he wakes he should be fine. Maybe cough up some remaining phlegm but otherwise good as new,” she explains, handing a bottle of dark green liquid to you. 

“Thank you, Poppy. Genuinely, if he stayed in the state he was in for much longer, he was going to hack up a lung,” you partially joke but then begin to wonder if this was actually true.

She takes her leave soon after having students in the hospital wing to attend to, and you return to Severus, deciding it is time to wake him up. However, he is already awake. Glaring at you once again.

“Why were you gone?” he wheezes out, slouching against the pillows.

“You hold up the potion bottle to him, knowing he will recognize it immediately. He huffs and holds his arms out to you, wanting you close to him.

Not being able to deny him, you set the potion bottle down on the table and snuggle next to him. He is no longer lying but rather sitting against the pillows, allowing you to sit in his lap. You smile up at him, but he is not looking at you, opting to scowl at the potion you have been provided moments before.

“Do you have personal issues with that potion or something?” you joke. A hand goes up to his face, resting it against his cheek. He leans his face into your hand, craving more and more of your touch.

“I should’ve been the one to brew it,” he complains. You can tell by his tone he is feeling like he is not enough. You must be quick to rebuttal, or Severus will get lost in his own head.

“You were sick, Sev. and spending good time with me.”

Luckily, he is content enough with this answer and decides to drop it and shove it from his mind. He holds you close to him for quite some time. You keep your hands on his cheek, stroking his cheekbone, and occasionally you press a kiss to wherever you can reach on him, causing his cheeks to go a slight shade of pink.

Soon his eyes start to droop a bit, so you decide it is time to administer the potion to him. You lean over and grab it from the table, and after some coaxing, he drinks the entire thing. This time a sleeping potion is not needed in order to put him to sleep, so you just spend the rest of the time cuddling.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he whispers to you, almost asleep.

"Anytime, Sev,” you whisper back. You glance up at him, expecting to be met with his dark eyes looking at you fondly, only to see he has succumbed to sleep.

[violet-fluff]

💙 Levi x Sick! Reader

Pulling Through

“We should visit Y/N. It’s been a while.” Petra says sadly.

Gunther frowns. “You know Captain won’t let us. It seems like the better she gets, the more protective he is. Which I understand. It took so long for her to get better so he’s probably paranoid of her getting sick again.”

You caught a bad case of pneumonia, and at one point, the doctors didn’t think you would make it. Fortunately you did pull through and you felt like it was all because of Levi. He took care of you from the beginning. He made sure you took your medicine on the dot, bathed you, fed you and did everything in his will to keep you alive. Now you are in the recovery stage trying to get your strength back.

Petra feels sympathetic for her Captain as she knows how much he loves you. “Hanji told me before that Levi’s mother died due to sickness. It would have been awful if the same happened to Y/N.”

“If what happened to me?”

They all quickly snap their heads to the side and gasp when they see Levi rolling you in a wheelchair into the mess hall.

“Y/N!!” Petra squeals excitedly.

“Well look who decided to finally show up.” Eld jokes lightly as they all walk up to you.

You feel Levi’s hand stiffen on your shoulder as everyone gets closer, so you give his hand a light squeeze to tell him it was ok.

“I begged Levi to let me come out and get some fresh air. I feel better already!” You smile as you take in the sight of your friends who you’ve missed.

They all take in the sight of you as well. Their faces dropping slightly as they notice your thin frame from the weight you’ve lost, as well as your dark sunken eyes against your pale skin.

“Well it’s good to see you out and about.” Oluo announces happily, for once not uttering a sarcastic comment.

Levi grunts. “Ok brats, time to leave my wife alone. She needs to eat.”

You give the team a knowing smile and let Levi wheel you to the table. While you wait for Levi to finish making your soup, you catch up with your friends.

“I’m so glad you’re ok.” Petra croaks out, trying to not cry.

You lean over to hug her. “Don’t cry it’s okay.”

Oluo rolls his eyes. “I’m glad you’re back so now I don’t have to listen to Petra’s girly gossip anymore.”

Gunther snorts a laugh. “It’s weird you say that because from the looks of it, you love the gossip.”

Petra sighs. “Bet you didn’t miss these bozos.”

You laugh. “I miss everything. Time seemed to fly by for me though. I can’t believe I’ve been down for two months now.”

“It was a long two months without one of our favorite captains. Also, there was no one to protect us from Captain Levi’s harsh training.” Eld says.

“It was much needed training.” Levi scolds as he walks back in with a bowl of soup.

Due to muscle pain and weakness, Levi has to hold the bowl for you but you were able to lift the spoon to feed yourself. You were only able to eat half of the bowl before becoming full.

“Please, Love, just eat a few more spoons for me.” Levi begs with a sigh.

Petra has to cover her mouth to stop herself from squealing while the guys look at each other awkwardly as they have never witnessed their captain so lovey-dovey.

After eating a few more spoons to make Levi content, you yawn. “I’m tired. Can you take me back to the room?”

Levi nods and grabs the handles of your wheelchair.

“I’ll see you all tomorrow.” You wave goodbye to your team.

Everyone watches as Levi wheels you away, as well as kissing the top of your head.

Petra watches with love-struck eyes. “I’m so happy for them. I hope I find love like that one day.”

Oluo scoffs and then hurls over as she elbows him in the stomach.

[katyawriteswhump]

the freak in the penthouse, part 5.1

accidental millionaire eddie/sex-worker steve. E-rated (overall for sexual content, this part M) CW: contains references to past abuse

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2

On AO3

5.1 Newsflash

“Jesus, how many times do I have to tell you, Robin? Eddie genuinely is the best thing that’s happened to me in a fucking age.”

“No way, shit-bird.” Robin grabbed Steve’s arm. He let her drag him back into the kitchen. She poured him a glass of milk, dumped it on a counter. She glared meaningfully at it then proceeded to butcher a pile of herbs.

“You like that Eddie guy too much,” she whispered, chopping madly, which always made Steve nervous. This week, she’d already gotten band-aids on three fingers. “What do you really know about him? Or him about you?”

“What kinda dumb question is that?” He whispered too, though the kitchen was otherwise empty.

“You’ve spent over a fortnight with him!”

“So? Look, I honestly think I’ve made a difference to his life. When we first hooked up, he was mopey and depressed. He’s totally pepped up.”

Or it could be all the sex and booze acting as his band-aid.

She paused in her chopping. “What’s he done for you?”

He makes me happier, too. Bite me.

Robin didn’t look in the mood for that kind of bull. She plucked a banana from a bowl and dumped it down beside his untouched milk.

“You know I like looking after people.” He picked up the banana. “I’ve got my meds and I’ve paid off most of my debts.”

“You told him about that, huh? Why you need the money so badly?”

“Get real, Robin. What was I supposed to say—'Hey, Eds. I’m your friendly neighborhood asthmatic call-boy.’” He stuffed the banana in his mouth.

“No. I mean, how your trust-fund went bye-bye, and what that horrible lawyer did to you.”

“Jesus, Robin. No!” He swallowed quickly before he spluttered all over her. “It’s not exactly a turn-on. Mommy and Daddy were loaded, and I was their coddled brat who’d been told he’d never want for anything. Before they went and inconveniently died.” He always impressed himself when he got that word out without a hitch, though it never came without a pang. “Then it turned out my trust fund was in debt. So my dad’s lawyer got me working it off with my ass, passing me around his friends. Then I finally got away, got a shitty job as a shitty bellhop… and caught pneumonia. In LA. Nobody catches pneumonia in LA! I mean, it’s beyond pathetic.”

“It’s tragic, Steve, and it’s not your fault. I honestly still don’t know how a trust fund can be in debt."

“Look, it’s over.” He took a glug of the milk and met her scowl with a cutting one of his own. “I’ll be able to rent somewhere of my own when he’s through with me.”

“Yeah, and I wouldn’t worry so much, but you look waaaay too sad when you say that. Be careful Steve. I don’t wanna have to stab lover-boy’s eyes out with an ice-pick.”

“Don’t you dare. His eyes are dazzling.”

She harrumphed despairingly then drew a key out of her apron pocket and dumped it by the banana skin. “My roomie is away. Get some sleep, or heaven help me, Steve, I got a filleting knife here with your name on it.”

…

Eddie was poring over his game notes—sucking on a cigarette and stressing his pants off. Someone knocked loudly on the door. A jerk in a three-piece suit, who Eddie vaguely recognised, let himself in.

“Mr Munson, I’m terribly sorry to disturb you.” The newcomer offered a preening smile. “I’m Larry Kline, head concierge here at the Beverly Hills Yorkshire. We met briefly when you checked in last month.”

“Right.” He unenthusiastically shook Kline’s outstretched hand. Kline’s beady eyes slid around the room. “Uuuuuh, is there a problem?”

“Have you had company staying here, Sir?”

“What’s it to you?”

“You are supposed to sign in extra guests, Sir. But seeing as you’re a very special guest, we can overlook—”

“Look, man, nobody else is staying here.” He turned away, stubbed out his smoke in frustration. “Is that why you’ve come to play ‘persecute the freak?’”

Kline’s hand flew to his chest in an attempt at mortification that reminded Eddie what an amazing actor Steve was. Steve’s douchiest fluttering of his lashes never looked that fake: “It was not my intention to offend, Sir. Please accept my sincerest apologies.”

“Accepted,” muttered Eddie, wishing he’d get lost.

Kline cleared his throat. “I am here, ahem…”

About how I’ve made your sleazy hotel stink like good ol’ Reefer Rick’s?

Kline presented a silver ashtray with a couple of mints and a scrap of paper. “It’s a delicate matter concerning your check this week, Mister Munson. I’m sure it’s just an error at your bank, but it’s bounced.”

“What?”

Kline put down the ashtray on the doily-covered occasional table. “It hasn’t been paid.”

“That’s gotta be a mistake.” Eddie found himself fiddling madly with his rings. There’d been a fat row of numbers on that check from the gaming company—he was richer than God! Apart from the house he’d bought for his uncle, he’d not gone too mental. Okay, there was the collectors’ guitars, the studio time, the… penthouse.

He got rid of Kline with a mumbled promise that he’d call the bank. He’d have to find his check-book to find the number. He stared at the phone, a ghastly turquoise monstrosity with a golden handset. And then at the mints in the ashtray, under which was tucked an invoice for 8,347 dollars and twelve cents.

He stared at it, unmoving, for a long time.

Then he ate the mints and tucked the invoice under the phone. He’d call Dustin. Later.

...

5.2 on tumblr .... On AO3

I've added a hashtag #thefreakinthepenthouse for ease of finding the earlier parts. I am very happy to tag usernames if anybody is interested... please let me know.

Thank you for reading. Likes reblogs and comments much appreciated and will feed the bunnies🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕🐰💕

On tumblr: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3.1 Part 3.2 Part 4.1 Part 4.2

On AO3 All my ST stuff on AO3

[doraambrose]

Hello friends,

I apologize for my absence and not answering your asks, but I had an incident while shadowing the ER vet.

See, I knew going into this that there would be alot of death and euthanasia, and I prepared myself accordingly. When it's something like cancer, car accident that messes up the spinal cord, distemper virus, etc. Something that can't be cured or is super duper hard and it's an older animal where the quality of life isn't there, euthanasia feels like a humane way to end suffering. So I was able to keep composed during all that. But a case this last week broke me.

This bulldog puppy came in with infectious pneumonia. That's seen alot in the er and icu, it's pretty common with that breed. And he was even trying to bite the oxygen tube while they were examining him and taking his vitals. I even took pictures because it was so cute. I thought that it would just be him in oxygen for a couple days and then he's all better, blah blah blah. But the tech wrote up the estimate. It was going to be between 5-7000$. She came back in and said that the owner had to talk with her husband because she wasn't sure she could spend the money and that they were leaning towards euthanasia.

That caught me off guard and I started crying. I left before they made a decision, so idk if the puppy was euthanized. I signed up to help save lives and do what I can. I hate that that puppy mightve died because of money. For something treatable. I hate that there's nothing I can do about it. I feel like a part of me died that day.

So, I've been down lately, but I promise to get back on track soon. I've got some cool jason todd asks and dc in general. I've got a couple art asks that I'm currently working on as well! See you soon!!

[thegreenhordes]

Twilight's Notes: What is Known

What is known of 'The Glow' infection: - The Glow, Also known as Pustule Pox, Green Horde Disease, or The ████████ Contagion, so far eludes me as to where exactly it emerged. Subject ████████ ███████ has informed me ground zero's location, but has no clue at this time what the true beginnings were. If I could get to Ground Zero without putting everypony at risk, I would. - Through either sheer luck or early treatment with common medicines, an infected pony has anywhere between a 5-40 percent chance of recovering during the early infection stage. The more aggressive the medical treatments, the better the results. There are currently 6 recovered ponies in camp- there were 7, but unfortunately the permanent symptoms of early infection leaves recovered ponies vulnerable. Granny Smith was up in her years, and simply couldn't recover from the cold she caught. It was a miracle on its own that she survived being infected by The Glow. - Samples of infectious material shows that this contagion is in a constant state of mutation. Given that there are already two separate stages as of now, I wouldn't be shocked if more popped up in the future... - Animals infected by The Glow do not progress pass the initial infection stage, though the symptoms persist as a chronic condition just the same as a recovered pony. Poor Spike, I'm just glad he's still with us. - Attempting treatment via magic results in death of the subject, Discord's chaos magic appears to be ignored by the infection, save during a few instances where his abilities accelerated the infection tenfold. Discord seems to be naturally immune, however- if he wasn't such a scaredy-pants about needles I'd be able to study his immunity better.

Current Treatment plan for early infection: - Rest and medication (those used for things like the common cold, the flu, and pneumonia appear to be the most effective.) - Quarantine, This not only prevents them from infecting others, but keeping patients in a sterile environment alongside the previously noted rest and medicine have had the most promising results. So far the simple treatment plan is our best bet, aggressively and frequently administering medication has been the main cause for the camp having any recovered ponies at all. I do hope to find something with a higher success rate however- Preventing progression is one of our best chances to get this under control again- permanently this time.

Subjects (Infected under study as of the past month): - Cheerilee: Dead, died of malnutrition as a stage 3 'Growler' - Sweetie Drops: Alive, Stage 2 Type 2, Mute. Her vitals are fine for now, but she's becoming more and more prone to stalking behavior, and we've had to install a second door to her room for security. - Bow Hothoof: Alive, Stage 1 Growler, Progressing fast towards Stage 2. Rainbow Dash was devastated when her dad arrived with news of her mom's death and a bite on his right front leg. We tried to help him recover but he was too late into the early infection and progressed to stage 1 within days. He said he 'Just wanted to see his daughter again'. Rainbow Dash spends a lot of time talking to him through the glass of his room. - Fluffy Clouds: Dead, entered Stage 4 of Type 2 and had to be put down. Type 2 infected are too dangerous. Type 1 'Growlers' might be strong and powerful hunters, but I Don't feel comfortable having a Stage 4 Type 2 under long-term observation right now. - Nurse Redheart: Alive, Unfortunately infected when Cheerilee unexpectedly entered Stage 2 faster than usual and bit her. Something is off about her, I can never get a good look at her because she says the light hurts her and they're kept off in and around her room as a result. If I do turn the lights on for talk sessions or to try and get samples she hides under her bed. In either instance she just.... stares. Her eyes glow stronger than a Type 2, and she is eerily quiet most of the time, in a way that makes me want to be quiet and hide when I'm near her room. She might be a new infected Type, but until I can safely get an actual sample from her I can't know. She doesn't have pustules on the outside of her body either- They seem to glow from within her, and I see them inside her mouth whenever she speaks.

Number of infected who died under my care since the outbreak started: Fifty. The more that number grows, the worse I feel. I hope the other princesses have good news for me soon, this is all starting to wear me down.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Our Grit and God's Grace

by Aiden Wilson Tozer

But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. — 2 Corinthians 12:9

I am cheered to know so many of you are with me on this. We are going to go to the New Testament and be Bible Christians. We are going to sell out to God and not the devil. We are going to pray more, read our Bible more and attend prayer meeting more. We are going to give more and break bad habits by the power of God. We are going to become Christians after God's heart. We are going to be protesters in an hour when the smooth, sickly, slippery, rotten, backslidden, degenerate, apostate Christianity is accepted. We are going to stand for God, to act like simple Protestant Christians, to act like our Presbyterian Scottish forebears, to act like our English Methodist forebears, to act like the dear old Baptist who broke the ice in the creek and baptized people in the freezing water. They had a saying in those days, "Nobody ever caught a cold getting baptized in the ice." God Almighty saw to it that nobody ever died of pneumonia. Those Protestant forebears made these two nations, the United States and Canada. They made this continent. Are we going to be descendants of which they should be ashamed? Or are we going to say, "Lead on, we are following. You followed Jesus Christ, and we are following you." John Thomas was a dear old Welsh preacher I used to hear. While he preached he would raise his hands and say, "You supply the grit and God will supply the grace." He was right. You've got the grit; God has the grace.

[daisychainfiction]

What's the most embarrassing thing the characters have ever done?

Ooo fun. Below the cut!

[ROs]

Annika – Caught by Deerly while having sex with Deerly’s son, Xavier. She was terrified Deerly would have her sent to the woods. When that didn’t happen, Annika settled on mortification. She didn’t speak to Xavier or look at Deerly for a month.

Vardah – has no sense of shame whatsoever. The day she feels embarrassed is the day she’s dead.

Hunter – the quintessential ‘asked a someone to prom and was let down in front of everyone.’ It wasn’t even that embarrassing of a rejection, but he was so sure the feelings were mutual that he was not prepared. Stood there grinning like he thought the person was joking. No one made fun of him to his face, but there was a lot of pity (which was worse in his opinion). He has still not recovered.

Jordan – Was the 'someone' Hunter asked to prom. Unlike Hunter, they have recovered from it. Nowadays, nothing can embarrass them.

Silas – Got super sick but decided to go through with a paid speaking engagement (because broke post-grad). Went up on stage, forgot his notes and talking points. Tried to wing it. Failed spectacularly. Literally fell and got a concussion leaving the stage. Turned out he had pneumonia and could have died if he didn’t get sent to the hospital.

Nadia – Nadia’s biggest embarrassment was writing herself secret admirer letters as a teen – and then getting found out by the biggest loudmouths at Deerbourne, Xavier and Silas.

[Others]

Kimberly – sold fake feet pics online. As in. Silicone mannequin feet that beauty schools use to teach students/ stores use to model shoes. Got found out by Maria and grounded for three weeks.

Maria – couldn’t get into her car in the grocery parking lot. The key fob wasn’t working, so she called a locksmith. ...It wasn’t her car; her car was two rows down. The real owner threatened to call the cops, plus she had to pay the locksmith for their time.

Deerly – redacted for plot purposes 🙃

[maximura]

Maybe Monster, Part 02

So this is the next chapter of that Gang AU I wrote in 2019 and thought was lost. I haven't made a nice post for it yet and it doesn't have a proper title because it's all still just drafts I'm trying to piece together. I kept calling it my "Maybe" story so now it'll just go by Maybe Monster. It will not make any sense unless you read Part 01.

Warnings: violence, mild swearing and typos. Words: About 7500k. Characters: Ateez and Seventeen.

****

Maybe Monster Part 02

6 months earlier. 

There was a 7-Eleven that once let San sleep out back without calling the cops. He had chased away a group of obnoxious teenagers trying to rob the place and the owner took enough pity on him to let him sleep in the small space where they usually unload all the deliveries. He got fed a few times a week, things that were perfectly fine but dented or unsold by the end of the day and would’ve ended up in the trash anyway. Not that it’s above him to dig through trash. As long as it’s still wrapped, it’s still good. 

It was going fine until the owner’s wife got wind of the whole situation and San had to move on from one 7-Eleven to another. The next one wasn’t so accommodating but at least he knew their routine and when all the food would be thrown out. If the cameras catch him digging through the trash like an overgrown raccoon, nobody calls him up on it. 

The men’s shelter was a few blocks away, it was always busy, always overrun and always so chaotic. But he hadn’t belonged there. He wasn’t a man who had fallen on hard times. He wasn’t a man who fell in with the wrong crowd. He was hardly a man at all. 

He had just turned eighteen, no longer a child of the state and therefore, completely invisible. The church refuge has been kind for awhile, until he was caught stealing food. It had only been a piece of bread but apparently you can only have it during business hours. He had aged out of their care by then anyhow, suddenly a threat to all the other children there by virtue of age. 

There was nowhere to go. Sometimes he lines up at the shelter and gets a hot meal and shower. Sometimes he shows up too late and they send him away with a sandwich if he’s lucky. Sometimes he sees the fights breaking out and just keeps walking. 

The best days are when it’s slow and there’s hot water left or the communal washing machines aren’t busy. Those days are rare. 

The worst days are always when it rains because there’s no way to escape the damp cold. 

The weather gets warmer now though and it’s easier to live and sleep under the stars without fear of double pneumonia. 

San considered himself lucky to find a low rooftop that hasn’t been occupied yet, there was a paint factory across the road and even though it had been shut down for months, there was always a faint smell of chemical lingering in the air. But now, as San lays there staring up at the dark skies, he doesn’t think about that. Instead he thinks about the mother who loved him before she died and the father who didn’t. 

They are both long gone now and he was left with nothing but scattered memories and his father’s debts. He was only sixteen then, with no real means to pay them off.

So bank took the family home. 

After that, he really had nothing at all. 

San sighs at the memory, it seems forever ago, but in reality, it’s been barely two years. Adjusting the balled up jacket under his neck he closes his eyes and tries to get some sleep. 

He’s just about to drift off when there’s a quiet scuff of boots on pavement, the sound coming from somewhere below him. 

It’s followed by the rattle of a chain fence and then a tired ‘fuck!’. 

There shouldn’t be anyone around here. San staked the area out for weeks on end to make sure. The 7-Eleven nearby, with its persistent security cameras, deters most street sleepers and the dangerously lawless Docklands a few blocks away was always the more attractive option. 

San crawls towards the edge of the rooftop, slowly peering down into the alleyway below, careful to stay hidden in the shadows. 

There’s a figure clad in a dark green jacket and hat, standing in front of the fence that usually leads to the old paint factory. The whole time San has been sleeping across the street, he’s never seen anybody try to break in. The property hasn’t been opened in months so San has no idea why this stranger would want to get inside there now. Anything of value would’ve been taken long ago. 

The Stranger turns around a few time, surveying his surroundings, before disappearing into a patch of shadow. 

San almost loses sight of him but suddenly there’s a flash of blue flame and he watches with fascination as it cuts through the chained fence like a hot knife through butter. 

The Stranger slips through the newly form hole and gets about five steps before the alarms are tripped.  It’s loud and pervasive and invasive, causing San’s hands to fly to his ears in protest. 

The Stranger runs back out through the hole in the fence as police sirens wailed in the distance. The 7-Eleven worker must have called. 

San groans. 

Cops.

Great.

He rushes back to collect the few belongings he has, throwing them hurriedly into his blue backpack before climbing down the hidden back ladder. He’s half way down when he comes unexpectedly face to face with the Stranger trying to climb up. 

“Out of the way kid!”

“Don’t call me that!” San bristles in annoyance. 

“I’m kind of in a hurry here.”

“To the roof?” San snorts in disbelief. “Stupid way to get caught but whatever.” 

He doesn’t wait for a reply, just nudges past the stranger and slides the rest of the way down. Under the cover of darkness, he runs towards his other hiding spot; a literal hole in the wall on the side of another abandoned building. It used to be an old bakery with a small front room where they used to sell bread to the public. It’s dangerously run down, unsafe and always on the verge of collapse, that’s why nobody else hides there, not even the most desperate of street kids. 

Within two minutes of pushing into the old building, San hears footsteps approaching. 

It’s the Stranger, who flashes an unexpectedly bright smile at him as he shoves into the tiny space next to San. 

“Kinda small in here.”

San just stares at him. 

“I’m assuming the cops don’t check this place?”

San shakes his head.

“Okay, good.” The Stranger says, weirdly conversational. “You’re gonna be real quite right?”

San nods swiftly. 

“Great.” Another wide grin is flashed at him and San can’t remember a time when anyone smiled at him this much for no particular reason. 

So they both sit in the darkness, cramped and uncomfortably close. San doesn’t talk and thankfully the Stranger doesn’t either but San sees the way there’s a hand resting inside that green jacket. He sees the black outline of the gun. 

In the distance, police sirens come, bringing with them a swarm of crunchy footsteps and typical voices muttering too much of absolutely nothing. Cops all talk the same. They never know anything. 

It’s the criminal detectives and forensics team that everyone should worry about. 

After half an hour of intense noises, everything fades to quiet.

There’s nothing but dark stillness when they finally climb out into the alley way. 

The Stranger hums, surprised and pleased. 

“Huh, interesting. Well, thanks kid, seeya round.”

And then he’s gone. 

San’s had plenty of weird encounters in the wild but this must be in the top three for sure. 

He adjusts the straps of his backpack and treks to another hiding place in the city. 

****

“Well?” Seonghwa asks when Hongjoong climbs back into the Honda Civic. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Drive. Slowly.” Hongjoong says, stuffing his jacket and hat into a bag under his feet. “There might still be cops around.”

Seonghwa rolls his eyes. “Yeah no shit, I heard them. You tripped the security?”

“Yeah. Ground sensors.”

Seonghwa cruises the Honda calmly onto the main roads, resisting the temptation to speed away from the few stray cop cars still loitering around, especially the one that stops next to them at the red lights. 

“That’s interesting.”

“Definitely interesting.” Hongjoong agrees as he flips the old CD player on. It plays The Carpenters and Seonghwa grimaces at the way Hongjoong starts singing along to the strains of Superstar. 

The cop next to them rolls up his window with a disgusted groan and Seonghwa smiles inwardly when they turn off the main road to drive home. 

“That paint factory hasn’t done business for eight months. Big Red bought the company then deliberately ran it dead. Ground sensors are an expensive investment to protect a few ancient machines. Which means-“

“There’s something of worth there.” Hongjoong finishes. 

“Exactly.”

“We need another way in.”

“Obviously,” Seonghwa rolls his eyes. “Did you seriously think you could just cut a hole in the fence and walk right in?”

Hongjoong laughs and turns to his work partner with a lopsided grin. “You know what? For like five seconds, yeah I did.”

“We can’t trip the ground sensors again. We’ll have to go really high-“

“-or really low.”

Seonghwa hums in agreement. “I’ll talk to Wonwoo about getting the underground plans.”

“Yunho can get them.”

“But then we’d have to tell him why we want them.” Seonghwa groans. “He’ll talk my ear off.”

“I’ll ask him. Don’t worry.”

“Hongjoong, I really think we need to keep this one between us.”

“You still sore after that fight you two had?” Hongjoong asks. “He doesn’t hate you. I think he likes you more than he likes me!”

Seonghwa scoffs. “You must be joking right? He’s always questioning everything I say. He only respects me because you and Seungcheol tell him to.”

Hongjoong just looks at Seonghwa like he’s grown antlers. 

“He questions all of us. It’s just what he does. We just don’t take it personally like you do. His eye for detail is why he’s a good point man and you know it.”

Seonghwa sighs now. “He wasn’t like this when we first found him.”

“Well he’s not sixteen anymore.” 

“He was easier as a sixteen year old.”

Hongjoong cackles loudly. “Are you serious? You were complaining about how clingy he was back then and now you’re complaining about how bitchy he is at twenty three. Just face it: our kid just grew up.”

“Our kid?” Seonghwa muses, “I think he’s your kid.”

“Only when he’s being a bitch to you.”

“Which is all the time.”

“Whatever. Leave it to me, I’ll get the plans. But first, can you detour around that corner?”

“To the spicy chicken place again? Thought you were carb cutting.”

“I’ve had an unsuccessful night, I think I deserve spicy chicken. My mental health needs it.”

“Okay enjoy your early cardiac disease.” Seonghwa teases but takes the detour as requested and then reminds Hongjoong not to forget his side order of Pad Thai. 

Back at Headquarters later, now fed and warm, Seungcheol grills them about the failed reconnaissance venture. 

“There's no visible security personnel front or back but a huge amount of ground sensors as soon as you step on the property.”

Seungcheol raises as eyebrow at that. “That’s interesting.”

Hongjoong nods. “There’s cameras around the entire perimeter and also almost 180 degrees of security camera coverage from the 7-Eleven across the street. It’s not even deserted. There’s a few street sleepers nearby. It‘ll be difficult to get in and out of without someone noticing.”

“Drop in from the air?”

Hongjoong shakes his head. “Distance between the rooftops is too far. Even for zip lines.”

“Underground?”

“Yeah, looks like that’s the only way in.”

Seungcheol nods slowly, chewing through the information. 

“Get the underground plans from Wonwoo. I want a team meeting and plan about this by the end of the week. Red can’t just take my shit without consequence. I want what’s in that building.”

Hongjoong nods, ignoring Seonghwa’s ‘I told you so’ smirk. 

“Which team? Soonyoung is in Japan with Jihoon. Jeonghan and Mingyu are still in China helping out Jun. Hansol is stuck in New York. Unless you want to call in Heeseung?"

Seungcheol shakes his head, “No, I want to keep this between the four of us. It’ll be too dangerous to manage if more people know.”

They’re dismissed with the wave of a whisky glass. 

“I’ll go talk to Wonwoo now.” Hongjoong says, as they exit the business floor of their Headquarters and head towards the living wing. 

“He hates you. I’ll go talk to him.”

“He hates everyone. It won’t matter who asks.”

“Fine.” Seonghwa relents.

They find Wonwoo in the kitchen, heating a glass of warm milk in the microwave. He nods a greeting before going back to peering at his rotating glass of milk. 

“Hey, you got a minute? We need-“

There’s a hand held out in their direction. It doesn’t lower until the microwave finishes and starts beeping its countdown. 

“Okay, so-“

The hand is held back up, silencing them again. 

They wait until the other man takes a sip of milk and sits down at the big wooden table like he runs this whole place. Which he kind of does. 

“Can we talk now?” Hongjoong asks. 

Wonwoo eyes the doorway. 

“I checked already.” Seonghwa says by way of answer. “Yunho is still out on mission. Jongho is asleep. Mingi is in the gym. And Mufasa is pacing around his office in his Armani suit.”

Wonwoo cracks a smile at that, finally nodding for them to talk. “Go on.”

“It’s about Red. He’s hiding material at the old paint factory on the edge of town. The only problem is the ground is bugged with sensors, there’s no air entry options and there’s street level cameras everywhere. We need underground plans by the end of the week. Seungcheol wants a meeting but just strictly the four of us.”

Wonwoo takes it all in, sipping his milk quietly, waiting for them to finish. 

“Okay.”

It’s all the older man says before shuffling to the sink to wash his glass and waving them goodnight. 

Hongjoong sits back in relief. “That went well? Maybe the milk was really good.”

“Maybe it’s laced with Xanax.”

“Or he suddenly developed a soft spot for us.”

They both look at each other with a grin. “Definitely the Xanax.”

****

There’s a red Honda Civic parked next to San’s hiding hole. He had a decent sleep and when he woke up, there it was, perfectly positioned for him to car jack. 

It’s a 2001 model at best. Not likely bugged with screeching alarms, judging by how ancient it looked, except for the tires. The tires and hub caps look strangely new. 

Stranger still, nobody has come to claim it in over two hours. 

Time is of the essence. Seize the day and all that Latin motivation. 

San has his father’s old crowbar and figures he can at least sell the shiny new hub caps for some money. It’d be nice to buy decent food again. 

He’s gotten two off when there’s a hand that closes around his shoulder. 

It startles him like an electric shock and his body reacts by spinning around to swing the crowbar at some unsuspecting ankles. 

But if he’s quick, the ankles are even quicker.

And now the ankles are laughing at him. 

By the time he’s standing up with the crowbar in front of his body like a weapon, he finally sees the Laughing Ankles. 

“Oh. It’s….you.”

“Hey kid.”

“I said don’t call me that!”

It’s late afternoon and San can finally see the other man’s face clearly now. 

He’s younger than expected, with dark dirty blonde hair and really straight teeth. He’s about Sans height but broader and built in ways San’s pathetic muscles could only dream about. 

Handsome, some part of his brain whispers, but he’ll pretend he didn’t hear that. 

“Stealing is a crime you know.” The Man says, leaning casually against the Honda with his hands in his pockets, as if he wasn’t even threatened by the feral creature holding a crowbar. 

“So is breaking and entering.” San counters, offended by the casual response. 

“I guess we’ll call it even then.”

San lowers his crowbar, staring slack mouthed. “You’re not gonna call the cops?”

The Man screws up his face. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh.” San breathes, relieved but feeling out of sorts. “Why not?”

“What’s the point?” The Man shrugs. “Unless you want to go to jail? Awful free meals, very permanent shelter? I mean, it’s a pretty cool deal except for the torture, stabbings and lack of freedom.”

San shakes his head. “No, no, I’m good here.”

“You live around these parts huh?” 

San pauses. “No, just visiting.”

Something about his answer makes the Man chuckle. 

“Okay, well I’m pretty hungry. You eaten lunch yet?”

San shakes his head again. He hasn’t had dinner or breakfast either. 

“Alright, put my hubs back on and I’ll buy you a hot dog.”

It’s the one thing San thanks his father for teaching him; how to hot wire and work cars apart before putting them back together again. There’s not exactly a lot of legal applications but for once, it proves helpful. 

“You a mechanic’s kid or something?” The Man asks, surprised at the speed and skill.

“Sort of.”

“Interesting.”

It’s the way the Man says it that has San on edge. His mind floods with images of being kidnapped and trafficked or turned into a drug mule. He’s seen it happen countless times before and would rather die than let that happen to him.

But he’s so tired of being hungry and vows to bail as soon as he’s eaten. 

They walk to the nearest 7-Eleven and he gets two hot dogs. Then a third, with cheese. It’s the best meal San’s had in months probably. He can’t even remember. 

He’s chugging a blue Gatorade when the Man gets a phone call that turns his bright face all stony and cold. It’s a short phone call with barely two words exchanged. 

“Gotta go. Stay out of trouble.” The Man says, walking away before hesitating and turning back round. “Don’t go near the abandoned paint factory tonight.”

And then he’s gone again, before San has even finished his Gatorade. 

It’s later, when he’s walking to the other end of the city, that San finds a folded twenty dollar note in his jacket pocket. 

Weird. 

****

Two days later, San’s curiosity gets the better of him and he’s back down near the paint factory again, taking care to stay hidden in shadow and well away from the front of the 7-Eleven. He knows there’s cameras. He saw the monitors that one time he went inside to contemplate buying some Skittles but not wanting to break his twenty dollar note, he stole a sandwich instead. 

Resting now, hidden in shadow on the landing beside a laundromat, he’s startled awake by a sudden burst of commotion and noise. There’s a mocking laugh followed by a flurry of angry shouting. 

Someone runs past him and rounds the corner to disappear into the shadows towards the old bakery. 

Before he can do the same, a hand yanks the back of San's jacket.

“Not so fast.”

Cops. 

Great.

“Where did he go?”

“Who?”

The hand shoves him against the dirty wall. “I don’t have time for this shit. He ran down this alley way, where did he go?”

San struggles against the heavy body caging him in but it’s futile. “I don’t know!”

He’s shoved hard against the jagged wall again, it grazes his cheek uncomfortably. 

“I think….he went behind the 7-Eleven…”

Another cop jogs up to them now, taking in the scene and pulling his partner back. 

“Don’t waste your time. It’s just a useless street kid.”

“He said he’s behind the 7-Eleven.”

“He’s probably lying, they all do that.”

There’s a loud crash coming from outside the alley way and the hand on San’s jacket leaves momentarily, only to shove him onto the ground as the cops run towards the new chaos.

It’s not until later, when the boots and voices and sirens have all faded away, that San quietly sneaks into the old bakery. 

“Oh it’s you, hey kid.”

It’s dark but the light gleams off the Man’s teeth and it reminds San of that book from school, the one with the smiling purple cat that was as helpful as it was a nuisance. 

“They gone?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure about that?”

San nods. “I checked.”

“What else did you see?”

“A lot of cops and a really big car.” San says. “Kinda weird.”

The Man looks at him sharply, the intensity piercing, even through the darkness. 

“How big?” 

It’s a strange question, San thinks. Why is the size of a car the most important question here. 

“Really big?” He replies lamely. 

“Big like a Bentley or big like a Maybach?”

“What’s a Maybach?”

There’s a pause and San thinks he’s annoyed the Man in some way, only for him to continue on in the same steady voice. 

“Was it a little bit bigger than my Civic? Or a lot bigger?”

And ah, those are some dimensions that San does understand. “A lot bigger.”

The Man nods then sits back against the wall in contemplation. There’s a sliver of light than shines across his face for a moment and San wonders who the person opposite him really is. What was he trying to steal? Who was after him? Besides cops and someone in a really big car. He can’t just be another Nobody. He must be a Somebody. 

“Come on, let’s go.”

San looks at the Man standing up now, confused by the invitation and even more confused that it’s extended to him.

“Go where?”

There’s a flash of hesitation, conflict, early regret maybe. San knows those looks well, he’s seen it on the faces of his parents and almost every adult in his life. They always leave but they never want to take him with them. 

“You hungry?”

He’s always hungry so he nods. 

“Then let’s get outta here.”

It’s an uncharacteristically cold night for June and San shivers as they walk, even though he’s wearing almost everything he owns. 

“Here.”

It’s a thick black Nike hoody. 

He must stare at it for an awkwardly long time because the Man rolls his eyes and shoves it against his chest. 

“You keep shivering, it’s giving me anxiety.” The Man says. “Just put it on, it’s just a hoody, not a bomb. God, you’re as paranoid as Seonghwa.”

“Who?”

“Ah, just a guy I know. Don’t repeat that name to anyone though, okay?”

San nods as they stop to let him put the hoody on under his jacket. 

It’s quiet for a moment before the Man talks again. 

“I’m serious about that. Keep his name out of your mouth. Things like that can get you killed out here.”

San looks across, panicked all the sudden, and wondering again, who the hell was walking beside him. Maybe this was the time to run off down one of those alley ways. 

The horror on his face must be obvious because The Man’s serious expression softens a little, not completely, but it’s less threatening. 

“I'm not here to kill you kid. Relax.”

San absolutely does not relax. 

“It’s just very important to me you understand what I’m saying right now. You’ve helped me out a few times now, so I’m going to go easy on you. I know you’re smart. I know you know these streets back to front. But I can and will find you if I need to. So if that name ever leaves your mouth and I get wind of it, I won’t be this nice. You got it?”

San nods like he’s never nodded before. His hunger long forgotten and even the promise of food doesn’t seem worth it anymore. Not from someone who might be a few breaths away from crazy.

He slows down and considers his options. He thinks about running again. There’s a patch of shadow up just ahead and he’s fast, he could make it... 

But they reach the familiar sight of the Honda Civic now and The Man motions for him to get in. He doesn't. He pauses, frozen with his fingers on the door handle. 

“If I wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it by now.” The Man says, as if reading his mind. 

They are probably words meant to comfort him but all they do is the exact opposite. 

San always trusts his gut, it’s never let him down, but right now it’s twisting uncomfortably in knots; unsure and uncertain. 

“Uh, I’m actually not that hungry.” He says. “I’ll just go if that’s okay.”

The Man just eye rolls condescendinly. 

It all feels so abnormal to San. Even for someone not fond of human interaction, the Man in front of him is behaving in ways that just don’t make sense. 

“Get in the car.”

“No, it’s fine, I’m good, I should be asleep…”

“Why? You got school tomorrow? A job you need to be at?”

It’s a low blow and they both know it. It turns San’s uneasy fear into an angry fire that’s ready to fight. If this is how he dies, then so be it. 

But before he can even spit out an insult the Man is looking at him with another one of those smiles. 

“What? You gonna fight me?”

“Maybe.”

“Listen kid, I got shit to do later tonight. I’m craving spicy chicken wings and a cold beer. If you want to fight me, can you at least wait until I’ve eaten?”

San doesn’t even know how to respond to that. 

“Get in. I’m not asking a third time.”

So San does.

“What’s in that backpack you carry around?” The Man asks him as they drive through the night streets. 

“My stuff.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“Just…stuff.”

The Man sighs and it reminds San of his father for a moment, always disappointed and always making everyone feel like they did something wrong. 

“Just clothes and stuff from my mum.” San says, hoping the answers is enough. 

“Why aren’t you ever at that shelter on the other side of town? They have showers and let you sleep there for the night don’t they?”

San scoffs. “The showers are alright if you get there before everyone else and the volunteers are around. It’s not as nice as you think it is.”

“Why’s that?”

“People fight.” San says, looking out the window at the city skyline. “They take your stuff. Some people get…taken advantaged of. I’m not going there unless I need to clean up.”

There’s a weird look on the Man’s face as his eyes meet San’s. They both look away. 

“How do you eat?”

San moves uncomfortably in his seat. The unusual criminal beside him, and San is definitely sure he is a criminal by now, suddenly sounds like a social worker. ��

He think he prefers the criminal. 

“Steal it. Or trash dive.”

“How long you been doing this for?”

This.

“Nearly two years.”

It’s quiet after that. Neither talking until they pull up at a small restaurant. 

The car doors are still locked. 

“I’m going to ask you something and I need you not to lie to me.”

“…okay?”

“You know about the gangs of this city don’t you?”

“Only some.” 

“You know what I am then?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Well, nobody’s stupid enough to break into the paint factory. The only thing in there is probably illegal. I saw your gun before... and your clothes are too nice for someone who drives a stupid Honda Civic.”

It must the right thing to say because the Man laughs before turning serious. 

“You scared of me?”

San scoffs. “No.” 

Yes. 

“Who do you belong to?”

“I don’t belong to anybody.”

“I told you not to lie.”

“I’m not!” San says. “I’m not in anyone’s gang.”

“So you’re telling me, that in the two years you’ve been out here on your own, nobody has ever tried to recruit you?”

“Of course they tried. I didn’t say it worked.”

“That sounds like bullshit.” The Man says. “Who tried?”

San’s anger rises again. “What’s it to you? Maybe I’m just good at hiding.”

“I’ll buy you chicken if you tell me how you’ve managed to stay alone and alive this whole time.”

“Ugh, fine!" San huffs, tired and irritated by all the questions. "Everyone’s scared of the paint factory and the big car that sometimes goes there. I figure the closer I am to the danger, the safer I’ll be. Well, it doesn’t really make sense but it's true.”

“So you're just really good at hiding all the time? I find that hard to believe. Someone is always watching.”

“How would you know anything about that?” San asks spitefully.

“Where do you think I came from?”

It’s a loaded response, hanging heavily between them in the car. 

“I....hide in places people don’t go or know about. In the daytime, I stay near the university so they think I’m a student. And when I can’t do that, I sit near the bus stops so people think I’m going somewhere.”

San hates himself for saying anything at all but his gut instincts aren’t blaring out warning sirens anymore, haven’t done for the last fifteen minutes, which is the most surprising fact of all. 

“Alright.” The Man says, unlocking the car doors and getting out. “Let’s eat before I have a hypo.”

San scrambles to follow him. 

“What’s a hypo?”

****

The Man gives him a job. 

He’s never had a real job before. Not that this is a real job at all but he gets paid actual money. It’s not much but to San, holding the notes in his hand, he might as well have won the lottery. 

All he has to do is watch the paint factory and report when the big cars, the Maybach, rolls by. 

The Man doesn’t give him his name. He doesn’t ask for San’s either. It’s strange feeling but then again, San hasn’t had anyone say his name in nearly a year. 

“Names are important on the street. It’s a myth that there’s no honour amongst thieves. Honour and respect is everything to these people.”

San nods, mentally taking notes. They’re working on the Civic because the transmission sounded strange down the highway. San knows a thing or two about engines and apparently, so does the Man.

“Don’t give anyone your real name. Don’t give anyone mine.”

“But I don’t know your name.” San points out. 

“It’s safer for you that way. You’ll earn it when the time comes.” 

Earn what? 

“Do you remember the name of my friend?”

“Yeah.”

Seonghwa. Of course San remembers. It’s a nice name. 

“There’s only two people you can trust with that name. Me and him. Maybe our boss.”

“Who’s that?”

The Man laughs. “You’re definitely not getting that one. But when you meet him, you’ll know. You ever seen a MMA fighter?”

“I think so? Like um, Conor McGregor?” San saw him once on TV, fighting until he was bloodied but victorious.

“Yeah, just picture that in a suit."

“Is he nice?”

The Man snorts. “He’s terrifying. But I guess he can be nice when he wants to be. Just don’t be a brat to him. I mean it.”

It’s not a comforting description. 

“What about your friend? Will I know him when I see him?”

A strange smile spreads across the Man’s face, one that's different to all his other smiles. “Yeah you’ll know him when you see him. He looks like his name. Like a tall model in the most expensive suit.”

“A what?” San doesn't know what to picture in his mind.

“Like those billboards in the city, the black and white perfume ads. That’s what he looks like.”

“Oh…okay.” San nods like he understands but he doesn't. Maybe he should go do some billboard research tonight because he really has no idea what a model killer supposed to look like.

“I want you to be smart and careful about who you trust. You shouldn't even trust me if your gut says otherwise, okay?”

“I can’t trust you?” 

“Not if you think it's wrong. I want you to learn to trust yourself first. It’s an important skill. But you’re already pretty good at it.” The Man says with a relieved sigh, finally finished with the car's wiring. “What does your gut say about me right now?”

“I don’t know.” San shifts uncomfortably, feeling put on the spot. “You’re…okay.”

“I’m okay?” The Man chuckles. “No, report it to me. Like a summary.”

And that just makes San sweat. 

“Well, you’re....not mean to me. You didn’t call the cops. You make sure I’m not in danger. But then you get yourself in danger, which is a kind of stupid. You buy me food and gave me a job. So I guess that makes you okay.”

“That’s a terrible summary of me.” The Man laughs. “But fine, I’ll allow it.”

San shrugs, cheeks blushing for some reason. 

“Oh! I forgot to give you this.”

It’s a card that says 24 hour gym.

San isn’t sure what to do with it, he turns it over in his hand, looking up expectantly for an explanation. 

“It’s a gym membership card. It gets you into Planet Health, that big building two blocks from here.”

“What do I do with it?”

“You go there?” The Man says laughing, “You never been to a gym before?”

San shakes his head. 

“Oh, well you don’t have to use all the equipment but they have showers and you can sleep there for a few hours. It’s better than the streets.”

San nods slowly as his finger traces over the name on the card.

“Who's Kim Juyeon?”

“That’s you. Well, it’s a fake name obviously. Don’t use your real name. Not in the field. Not at work.”

“Hotels and motels need ID. Gyms barely care. But pretend to use the treadmill or something when you go, otherwise it’s just going to look suspicious. You already know about blending in, just do that and you’ll be fine.”

San is still staring at the card. Then he stares at the man. Trying to figure out the maths and motive behind it all. 

“What?”

“Why are you being nice to me?”

“I’m employing you, I need you alive to do your job.” The Man says matter-of-factly. 

San nods. Of course. Of course. It’s part of the job because why would anyone just care about him for no reason.

But he doesn’t push his luck by asking more questions. Especially when the hot water pressure at the gym almost makes him cry. He spends twenty minutes in there, washing away years of street grime all at once, watching his old life swirl down the drain and finally emerging like a snake with new skin.

The gym machines are intimidating but he finds a treadmill the next day and walks very very slowly on it. It’s not so bad. 

He sleeps when he can, a few hours here and there. The job is mostly nocturnal so he occupies his daylight hours how he's always done.

The university term has started up again and in the late afternoon San makes his way down to it's big grassy courtyard. He watches other eighteen year olds with their book bags and nice clothes walking to classes and laughing with their friends. He doesn't even have any friends. It’s bittersweet if he’s being honest with himself and he tries not to resent the lives of other people. It doesn’t really work. 

The Man gave him a book to read, something about looking the part and getting some culture. The cover is old and worn and there’s a scrawled PSH on the first page. 

It’s a story of a boy shipwrecked at sea and San struggles through the first chapter, not particularly enjoying himself but he figures he was given this particular book for a reason, and he’ll finish it, even if it kills him. 

The sun is high and warm in the sky as San struggles through chapter two. And that’s when he sees him. 

Or to be more accurate: hears him. 

It’s a shrill cackling laughter, wheezy in parts, not dignified or pretty, but completely joyful. It’s the kind of laughter that could only comes from someone who doesn’t care what other people think of them. 

The sound belongs to a heartstoppingly handsome guy on his phone, talking and laughing animatedly about something to do with avocados, the movement scrunching up his face in a way that shouldn't be attractive at all but just is. His hair is dark and shaggy, half tied back messily, like he did it in a hurry, and he has a distinctly prominent nose that reminds San of someone he’s seen on TV once. 

San can’t look away. And doesn't.

He can’t remember the last time he saw someone so bright like that. He can't remember the last time he ever felt like the world spun around just one person. He wonders if any of this is normal.

The Man who employs him glints cold silver in the way a knife does but the one walking towards him now just shines warm and yellow like the sun. 

The Guy walks past now and heads inside the cafe that San's always been too afraid to go in. Partly because it’s crowded but mostly because they charge five whole dollars for just one small cup of coffee. 

He resigns himself to his coward's fate: parked on grass, reading a book he hates, watching for the guy who shines like the sun every Thursday and never having the guts to following him into the cafe.

Well, things could be worse. 

The courtyard gets busier as the university term progresses and it’s not until one day, when it’s about to rain, that San is finally forced to set foot inside the cafe. 

It’s busy. 

The crowd makes him anxious but he stutters his way through ordering a cup of Earl Grey tea, because it was the cheapest drink on the menu, and finds a poky little table in the corner to sit and wait for the skies to clear. 

He feels normal. Just for a moment. He could pretend to be another university student: he's Kim Juyeon, drinking a cup of tea in a cafe and reading a book about a shipwreck. Nobody would know he’s homeless and has no future. 

Once the rain stops, the crowds disperse quickly, the students probably rushing back to their classes, and with that, the charade is over. San goes back to being a nobody. 

He’s nursing the rest of his tea when there’s a peal of laughter, one that he’d recognise anywhere now. 

The Sun Guy bursts through the cafe doors, says sorry to everyone and no-one in particular, before making his way towards the counter. San watches him order a caramel latte and something called a chocolate eclair, whatever that is.

The Earl Grey in San's cup is gone now and he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to buy another one just to keep sitting there. Are there cafe rules he doesn't know about? He'll need to ask the Man about this later.

But to be sure, to save himself the embarrassed of overstaying his welcome, he reluctantly gets up to leave and tries to discretely catch a glimpse of the Sun Guy on his way out.

It's near the exit when they suddenly lock eyes and San shrinks back like he's been hit with lightning. He has to look away quickly but in the process he nearly brains himself on the door frame and it takes him two attempts to open it before he’s successful. The last thing he remembers is a bright amused smile directed right at him. It might as well have been a shotgun and San has no idea how to respond to that so he doesn’t. 

“What’s with you?” The Man asks when they meet up that night. 

“Nothing.” San grumbles morosely. 

Nothing but total life ending humiliation in front of the most handsome guy on campus.

The Man asks for his report and there’s still no activity at the paint factory but two Maybachs drove past. Nobody got out but the 7-Eleven worker waved to one of the cars. 

"Interesting."

The Man drives him to the gym for his nightly shower, a privilege San still can’t get his head around, and gives him a crash course on gym equipment which he doesn't listen to.

It’s nearly Four PM the next day when San makes his way to the university again. It’s a Thursday, he’s figured out that the Sun Chocolate Guy must have a specific class in the afternoon on a Thursday. 

Sometimes they see each other. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes there’s people with the Guy. Sometimes he’s alone. None of it helps San get over his cowardice. He’s still resigned to just watch from afar, drinking his one cup of tea and reading a book he doesn't even like. 

He’s sitting by the cafe window one week, still cursing himself, when a cup rattles next to him, it's followed by the smell of chocolate. 

There's a presence next to him and with his heart thumping in his throat, San forces himself to look up slowly; his eyes trailing from the loose pants, to the slouchy White t-shirt half tucked in, to the soft light denim jacket. He swallows and steels himself as he reaches a veiny tanned neck, messy black hair and an amused smile. 

When their eyes meet, all he can think about is that he’s never actually had a crush on anyone until now. 

The Guy's lips are moving.

Wait.

"Um, can you repeat that? I missed it." San stammers, bright red and sweaty. 

The Guy smiles kindly. "I asked you if I could sit here?"

"Here?" San blinks at him incredulously. 

"Yeah? That okay?" 

"Oh, um, yeah. That's okay."

"Thanks."

The Guy sits down, taking a sip of coffee and small bite from his chocolate eclair with a satisfied hum. 

San just stares at him like the loser he knows he definitely is. 

"You stare a lot you know.” The Guy says as he observes him with a tilt of his head.

"Sorry." San blushes red again and diverts his gaze to the book the Guy is reading. There’s a lady with a sword on the cover; The Feminism of Joan Of Arc, it reads. 

"I didn't say it was all bad."

The Guy just keeps on reading and sipping his coffee so San figures he should do the same, except he can't even make sense of the words on the page.

“You know, we’re always here on the same days. I figure it's about time we met. Don't you?"

The Guy is still looking at his book but San isn’t sure if he's even reading it or not. 

"Why?"

"What do you mean "why"? Why not?"

"But you're...."

The Joan of Arc book is a snapped closed and those shiny eyes are suddenly on him. It's still feels like lightning. Like the first time it happened.

"I'm what?"

Way out of my league. 

"You look…busy.” San finishes lamely.

The Guy looks at him with a mix of amusement and condescension. 

"You're cute." 

"Huh?" He's staring again. 

"Those eyes are going to get you into trouble one day." The Guy says with a sad chuckle. "What's your name? You have a name right?"

"It's...Juyeon." San says hesitantly, the name sounding so unnatural in his mouth and even worse out loud.  

There's a hand extended across the table and he's suddenly shaking it. 

"I'm Wooyoung. Good to finally meet you."

San is busy cataloging the sensation of The Guy, Wooyoung's, hand when a phone goes off somewhere nearby.

He's still holding on awkwardly when there's a sharp squeeze and tug on his fingers. "Er? I think that's your phone."

Oh. 

The Man gave it to him and truthfully, San is struggling to get used to having one again.

He drops Wooyoung’s hand quickly and digs into his pocket. "Hello?"

"Hey Kiddo, need a favour. Where are you?"

"Out."

"Yeah where? I'll come get you."

“At the cafe."

"I'm 10 minutes away so be out front."

The phone call is short and San hangs up cursing life. The one day this happens and he's gets an actual call in. 

"You need to be somewhere?"

"Yeah. Sorry. It's….work."

"Why are you apologising?!" Wooyoung laughs. “It’s fine."

Reluctantly, San stands to gathers his jacket and brushes the crumbs on the table into his empty cup.

"I'm here every Thursday.” Wooyoung says, it’s quieter, almost shy, if San read that right. 

"I know." 

It escapes from San’s mouth before he can stop it. But instead of teasing him. Wooyoung says nothing. Just gives him a warm knowing smile. 

"Good. So I’ll see you next week?”

"Yeah…sure, Okay, um, I'm going to wait out front for my ride."

In his haste, he rushes out without his jacket and has to go back for it like an idiot. "Forgot this. Um, bye again."

"See you next week." Wooyoung says brightly with a wave.

When in gets in the car he lets out a groan. Why is he always such an idiot at the worst time. 

"What's wrong with you?" The Man asks, eye brow curious and concerned. It's nice that someone is concerned about him. He forgot what that felt like. 

“Nothing.”

“You made a friend?”

San whips his head across. “How do you know that?” He asks defensively.

“Because the cafe has windows?”

"I don't want to talk about it." San flushes and stares out the window. They let the topic go.

The drive to the old paint factory is quiet and they park two blocks away, walking the rest of the way through the back roads. 

“What are we doing here?”

“Just recon stuff, I need you to cover my back okay?”

“From what?” San replies in a panic. He isn’t ready to be promoted to a job like that. “Is someone coming after you?”

“Relax. Nobody is coming. We’re just going to do some walking and some measurements.”

He’s gives instructions to mark walls with glow-in-the dark stickers. And despite asking three times, he doesn’t get any explanations. 

“Geez, slow down. You’re going to choke on that hot dog.” The Man says later, when they're eating at a sleeping diner.

San slows his chewing but it feels like a waste of time. 

“I need to talk to you about something. And after I’m done, you’re not going to repeat it to anyone. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I need you to stay away from the paint factory for the next two weeks. No sneaking to look or anything. If you get caught, you don’t tell anybody you saw me or know me.”

San swallows the last of his hot dog and frowns deeply. This doesn’t good at all. This sounds final. Like another goodbye. 

“Don’t go looking for me.”

“But-“

“Don’t go looking for me.” The Man repeats again firmly. “If I need to find you, I’ll find you. There’s money in that locker at the gym. It’s yours. Use it.”

San’s mind is reeling now and it takes him agonising seconds to put it all together. 

The Man is leaving and it’s somewhere San can’t follow. Something will happen at the paint factory but he doesn’t know when. He’s going to be left alone again. 

“Geez, cheer up,” The Man says, as if he didn’t just drop a depressing bomb in San’s lap. “I’ll be back in a few weeks. You’ll be fine. You’ve survived for two years, just remember everything you’ve learned. And always trust your gut instincts okay? Even if it goes against what I said.”

San nods dutifully, unsure if he should be as sad as he feels. He doesn’t know anything personal about the man next to him but they've spent almost every day together. He doesn't want to admit he's attached to the routine but what else could he call it?

“Okay, I should go. Be good. Stay out of trouble. Remember what I said.”

There’s a squeeze on San’s shoulder and then he’s all alone again. 

****

The normally black night sky is lit up angry orange and smokey. Even a block away San can feel the intensity of it. 

It’s unreal. Like a scene from a horror movie that he can’t quite trick his mind into believing. 

The closer he runs towards the flames, the worse his gut feels. 

It’s the old paint factory. The entire property is on fire. Everything is engulfed in flames, there’s no sirens because the fire must have melted all the cameras and sensors. Across the street, the 7-Eleven is closed. It never closes. 

There’s a small section of side fence that hasn’t caught fire yet and San slips through it, pulling up his shirt to try and stop breathing in all the smoke. He runs to the nearest window where the light is still flickering but he can barely see anything and his eyes both water and burn. 

Then he sees him. The Man, crouched on the floor, next to what looks like a hole in the ground, stuffing files into his bag, seemingly unbothered by the flames creeping closer towards him. 

“What are you doing!! The whole place is on fire!!” San yells out, voice shaky with a fear he hasn't felt in a long time.

The Man whips his head up and San can only see his eyes flashing angrily.

“What the fuck are you doing here! Get out of here before they come!”

The Man forcibly pushes him back out the window with a strength that San didn’t know he had. When he reaches his hand back through the window, it’s gripped still.

“You are leaving right now!”

“But you’re going to die here!” San coughs, tears already tracking down his face. 

“Yeah that’s the point.” The Man says sadly. “Go. Go find him; Seonghwa. You can trust him but only him. Tell him what you saw.”

“But-“

“Just go. Do this for me.” 

The Man lets go of his arm and runs back through the burning building as San sees another group of men chasing him down the corridor. 

A wall collapses and San has to drag himself away. Every step full of dread and feeling wrong.

Climbing on a rooftop, numb and exhausted, all he can do is watch as the whole factory burns to the ground. The big Maybach cars speed off as the police and fire trucks converge on the area. 

And San waits. Half expecting a smiley face to pop up unexpectedly to scold him for crying over someone he barely knows. 

It’s not until nearly dawn, when there are only a handful of officers guarding the ashened property, that San gathers himself to go down there. 

But there’s nothing. 

Every building is flattened and destroyed. There’s no way anyone could’ve survived that. 

In the room where he last saw the Man, the hole in the floor has buried under mountains of debris.  

He knew. The Man knew this was coming. 

There’s quiet voices to his left. And that’s when he hears it. 

“Fuck, get him on the phone, I need to tell him.”

It’s a tall and broad man, imposing in both presence and stature, frowning at the burnt factory. There’s another standing beside him, dark and in glasses, who holds out a phone. 

“You alone? Line clean?”

“Kim’s missing.”

There’s a knowing tone to the way the man says it. A weary sadness. If he was the enemy, the response would’ve been different. 

San’s gut tells him that this must be the boss he was told about. 

He watches the two men for a few more minutes, quietly following them until they reach their car that’s parked a block away. 

It’s the one in glasses that sees him first. 

It all happens faster than San prepared for. The hands that grab him are strong and efficient. He’s shoved against the car in a headlock. 

“Talk.” The boss says, voice deep but calm. “You followed us a whole block.”

He’s bristling with an intensity that San hasn’t felt before. 

Terrifying.

Yes, this must the Boss. 

“I....want to talk...to Seonghwa.”

The man raises his eyebrow in shock and shares a troubled look with the other.

Then it all goes black. 

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #36: Crocodile

Masterlist

content: nightmare, discussion of death

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Heather was aware of Jackie’s nightmares, but she never brought them up. There wasn’t any point in that. They were unpleasant, she was sure, but it was just another fact of life that he had gotten used to. There was nothing to be done.

So when Jackie woke up with a violent jerk, pulling away from her and pulling up the bedsheets in the process, she knew exactly what had happened. But it couldn't be helped. 

She rubbed her eyes. “Jackie—“

His stare flicked to Heather. For a moment, it was like he didn’t recognize her, like he was a feral thing with eyes gleaming in the dark and a blank terror flashing in his expression—but the moment passed, and his blank stare gave way to recognition. His posture relaxed. Only a little, but he wasn’t a split second away from bolting out of the room now.

“Oh. Sorry. Bad dream. Nightmare.” That was all the explanation he offered. After a brief hesitation, he sat upright proper, shifting out of his awkward half-down half-up stance. He cleared his throat, fixing his gaze upon the bedsheets.

That was fair. That was natural. It couldn’t be helped, couldn’t be changed. This didn’t mean anything. It didn’t have to mean anything. 

“Heather…” His gaze returned to the bedsheets. “How long did you leave me down there?”

 Well. This had to come up eventually. No use in sugarcoating it. “Three months. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t try to guilt me.” But he didn’t sound angry. He sounded rather guilty, in fact. “I thought you would come back sooner.”

“I know.” She closed her eyes for a long moment. “I know. It was a mistake. I was scared, but I shouldn’t have abandoned you.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. I hurt you. You’ve never done anything wrong to me, and I—“ She let her voice waver here, a bit, let it hitch—“I hurt you, Jackie. I’m sorry. I didn’t—“

He looked like he had run his car over a puppy. “Listen, it’s fine. I don’t care. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Just go back to sleep.”

“Don’t say that to make me feel better,” she snapped. It didn’t take much effort to make her voice tremble. A bit high pitched and a little quiet, that was all it took. “I’m a horrible person. I’m awful. I’ve been awful to you. It was selfish. I want to change, believe me, I want to fix this, but I don’t know how, and I don’t know how to make it up to you, and I want to apologize—“

He looked like the puppy he just squashed exploded into a mess of blood and bones. “Heather, I was going to kill you. I was literally trying to kill you. You’re mortal. It’s not the same thing. I needed to learn a lesson. Please just go back to sleep.”

And that was all you needed for an apology. All there was to it. Just a few crocodile tears, nothing too difficult. They could move on from that little detour.

She sighed. “You’re right. Let’s forget about it.”

He nodded. He lay his head back down. He did not face her, but that was understandable. That was only fair.

She did the same, lying on her back, staring at the dark of the ceiling. A chandelier hung from a chain, dull glass and the vague outlines of curves. The television had turned itself off. There was no more neon glare to disturb the gradual black. But the lights outside the window were as insistent as ever. She couldn’t tell the stars from the billboards. All bright and blaring, all the same. 

Without warning he shifted over, sat up again, startling her. “Heather?”

“Yes?”

“How do we know you’re not immortal?”

“That’s easy.” It was a natural question to ask, now that they knew mortality was not a given.  She had never died before, after all. Immortality was usually proven behind a sharp blade or a bottle of arsenic, something that wasn’t easy to test. On the surface, it was a paradox. But Jackie was late to the paradoxical party—Heather already had her proof. 

“So?” he demanded. “How do you know?”

“I’ve caught the flu before. A bad case of pneumonia as well, when I was younger. You’ve never gotten sick, right? Never even caught a cold?”

He nodded. 

“Exactly. Your immortality prevents it. But I’m completely mortal, on the other hand. I’m not immune to these things.”

This had upset him, for reasons she could not understand. It wasn’t obvious, but she knew him well. He couldn’t hide it from her. The corners of his mouth went tense, his gaze somewhere else, pupils shining and unfocused. 

Heather almost put a hand on his shoulder, but thought better of it. She knew, somehow, that it wouldn’t help. “Do you want to tell me something?”

“You’re going to die one day.”

“Yes. That’s the definition of mortality.”

“But I won’t.”

“We don’t know that for certain, Jackie. It’s very possible that you will die one day. Your body could simply stop healing. It could fail for no reason at all. It happens all the time. We’d be none the wiser.”

“What if I don’t die?” he asked, more insistent, almost sounding angry. “What if I live forever? What if you’re gone one day, and I’m still here?”

“Don’t dump my body in a ditch, I suppose. A proper burial would be nice.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean, I’ll do all that, but what about…” He attempted to explain with a few vague gestures, which did nothing to help his point. “What about me? What would I do? Where would I go?”

“You could go wherever you want to.”

He stared blankly.

“You could do whatever you wanted,” she repeated. “I wouldn’t be able to stop you. You could leave.”

She thought this would comfort him, but Jackie just glared at her and went back to bed. He said nothing more on the subject.

Heather blinked. People, so intricate, so easily set off. Spiderwebs of invisible strings, broken by the slightest pressure. He was tightly wound.

“Jackie, come on.” She leaned forward a little. “I didn’t think it would upset you.”

“I’m not upset.”

“If you insist, but don't ignore me. Besides, I’m not going to die any time soon. Unless something unlikely happens, I’ll live for five or six decades more. There’s no point in getting anxious over this.”

“I know.” He didn’t get up.

Heather stared at his back for a few moments. Her situation was… strange, to put it lightly. She was in bed with her test subject. In bed with the immortal Jackie Rockwell. This was not very professional. But they had crossed that line long ago; there was no point in going on and on about it like a broken record. 

It was nice, though. Not arguing. Getting along for once. He was incredibly compliant, and he was beautiful, and Heather had nothing better to do.  

Oh, it was all his fault. He was just too good at it. That poised little smile, the earnest expression so plain on his face. When other people expressed their love, they sounded like recordings, like parrots. Heather tried to think of anything else, but she found herself replaying his words over and over until they lost their clarity, until they blurred and distorted—a confession, an admission of defeat.

“Are you asleep?” he asked.

“No.”

She heard the soft sounds of shifting fabric. “I can’t sleep.”

“That’s okay.”

The headlights of a truck flashed bright-white outside; a stop sign flashed red. She bit at the edge of her lip. The stilted gaps in their conversation were getting to her. But there was no point in trying to push the discussion any further. That had died long ago, and it was nearly two in the morning. Heather went back to bed.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl @lthrboy @whumpy-wyrms

@yassifiedinformation @creppersfunpalooza

@vidawhump

[fictionadventurer]

Putting aside all politics, I think John Tyler is a strong candidate for the title of funniest presidency.

He starts out as a Democrat, but leaves the party because he hates Andrew Jackson, and he becomes a Whig.

He's tapped as William Henry Harrison's vice president because they believe his divergent views on states' rights will win them more Southern voters.

Harrison's opponents, trying to cast him as a doddering old man because he's (gasp) in his sixties, say things like, "He'd be happy retiring to his log cabin and drinking hard cider." Harrison's campaign is like, "Thank you for handing us the imagery to present our aristocratic candidate as a man of the people," and they make hard cider and log cabins the focal point of their campaign.

Harrison wins the presidency and dies thirty-two days later. (Not because he caught pneumonia during his inauguration speech. He caught typhoid fever because the White House was downhill from a massive dumping ground for human feces.)

No one knows how to handle this. The Constitution is ambiguous. A lot of people believe John Tyler should be "acting president"--taking on the duties, but not the title, either until the end of the term or until they can hold another election.

John Tyler says, "No, I will be Actual President." He refuses to answer letters addressed to "Vice President" or "Acting President" Tyler. Eventually Congress just kind of has to go with it.

I want to point out again that he was picked as vice president because of how his views diverged from the rest of the Whig party. Now he's president.

The first thing he does as president is to veto a bill to reestablish a national bank of America. The one thing the Whig party really wanted to do.

The Whigs are so ticked off that they officially kick him out of the party! While he is still sitting president! John Tyler now officially has no political party.

When it comes time for reelection, he tries to run as a Democrat. The Democrats don't want him. He tries to run as an independent candidate, but realizes that won't work.

As he's leaving office, someone gives a speech about how "we're well rid of that outlaw, and he can return, like Robin Hood, to Sherwood Forest."

John Tyler renames his house Sherwood Forest. Has special doorknockers made for it and everything.

Like, it's just so funny that getting into office and leaving office both involve him spinning an insult into a mark of pride.

And considering the Harrison situation, it's darkly funny that he later gets elected to the South's House of Representatives, but dies a few days before taking office.

[shokos-lazy-life]

Guys....guys...about the Kamados...

Also spoilers!

Just finished reading this damn sobfest manga and a question here,specifically about the dad,

as in are we sure Tanjuro,the Kamado patriarch,didn't die because he overtaxed himself with the Sun Breathing?

We sure he didn't die because of the demon slayer mark or something?

Like it's never specified what age he was when he died but he seemed young if ill and the Kamado's wouldn't know that they are essentially performing superhuman and really taxing feats,yeah?

Like Tanjiro specified his father had the same damn mark he himself is developing and Hinokami Kagura is essentially just Sun Breathing for dummies so...?

I mean the official reason for the death of the Kamado patriarch is basically an unspecified illness and I am totally ready to accept that too!

Don't get me wrong this story is tear jerking enough without the implications of the blessing of inhuman strength also basically being a curse for everyone involved.

But yeah this thought won't leave me alone and since I am sick right now and possibly delirious if this post makes no sense I apologize.

But really,realistically Kamado's wouldn't know what the damn breathing is and anyone else would have just called a random wasting sickness.

At the same time,they did live on a mountain so maybe the dad just caught pneumonia or something?

But like he was wrestling bears at one point and dancing the Hinokami for hours apparently,and Tanjiro describes that as actual debilitating pain and a stamina and strength sapping effort of only pulling one of the forms,imagine dancing it consecutively for hours?

Man no wonder Tanjiro just seems to be so good at this too!

He had the most difficult form of breathing as a yearly tradition!

No but really this damn breathing form and breathing in general was dropping people left and right and most of the Hashiras got their mark in the end but imagine being a normal man and pulling this superhuman bullshit as a yearly tradition that lasts hours?

Damn the entire Kamado family is something else.

It also gives credence to that whole adage about no hero ever had a happy life but thankfully we had the power of friendship on our side.

In other words Kamado's are crazy but that's nothing new.

On the side note,apparently the realest and smartest person here is evidently Tengen.

Man came there,saw,conquered and dipped.

No but really how pissed of would you be if you basically killed this world's version of basically Satan and then the very thing that gave you the strength to do it,kills you?

It's probably nothing and I hope it was just some random illness or something but jeez the coincidence and implications are not giving me any joy.

[americanghoststories]

At the end of the 19th century, during the heady days of Alaska’s gold rush, the subject of tonight’s story arrived at the Golden North Hotel in Skagway. Her name was Mary, young, beautiful, and so full of hope for a bright and prosperous future.  With her came her fiancé, a prospector by the name of Ike – though everyone called him Klondike Ike, because of course they did. Mary moved into Room 23 of the hotel, while Ike set off for his gold claim, promising to return laden with riches, at which point the two would marry. It would truly be a fairytale, happy ending to this story if he actually did.

But, of course, he didn’t.

We don’t know what happened, exactly – maybe he died, maybe he never found enough gold to satisfy…maybe some Canadian cutie caught his eye and lured the scoundrel off to the Yukon – but Klondike Ike would never return to his bride-to-be in Skagway.

Not that Mary stopped looking for him. Day after day, she’d stare out the windows, roam the halls, always looking out for her man’s return. Even when she fell ill (some say it was pneumonia,) she continued her watch. Hotel staff became used to her presence on her daily walks. So used to it, in fact, that they didn’t notice at first when she stopped.

It was only after many days that they realized that Mary was missing. They went to her room, but nobody answered their knocks. Finally, they forced their way into Room 23, and that’s where they found Mary, dressed in her wedding gown. She’d been dead for days, though whether her illness claimed her, or she died of a broken heart, nobody could be sure.

But even death wouldn’t stop her vigil.

From that day on, it was quite common for visitors to the Golden North to see a young woman in a wedding dress looking out the windows, as if she was waiting for someone. Still others would see her gliding down the halls. Some – mostly women - would wake in the dark and find her standing over them, watching them (some have suggested she was making sure they weren’t sleeping with Ike. Guess she was the jealous sort – then again, if the Canadian theory is true, maybe she had reason.) A few very unlucky guests staying in Room 23 would wake up gasping for air, as if they were suffering from pneumonia.

The Golden North Hotel still stands in Skagway, but it closed its doors in 2002, so sadly, you can’t check it out for yourself, at least from the inside. But many still see Mary – who they (rudely) call Scary Mary, because of course they do – watching through the windows, waiting for her man’s return.

[balancingpieces]

Geez it’s been hectic over here. A week and a half ago I had Ingrid in the ER and we found out she had pneumonia. Then Miriam caught it so we took her to urgent care. They are both on antibiotics and are almost done with them and about so much better. Yesterday I took Miriam to her 2 year check up. She’s growing perfectly. I made an appointment for Finley to be seen by the pediatrician at the same time because he was having a hard time catching his breath after coughing. She said he doesn’t have pneumonia (yet) but gave him the antibiotics to keep it from getting that bad. She diagnosed him with asthma and gave him an inhaler. He needed the spacer attachment for it and we had to drive all over to find it. But we finally did and he’s used it 2 times and it has helped so much! When he gets sick he always gets is worse than everyone else and now we know why. So hopefully we can prevent it with the inhaler now.

We also got a Great Pyrenees puppy! He’s 10 weeks old and he is the most laid back dog ever! He loves being outside and it has been nice these past 2 days so he’s in heaven. I got him to protect my chickens and kids. It’s so awesome how he knows what to do already! He was born in a barn with working parents so he’s been living like this since he was born. He is so smart! We named him Rocco.

I am so ready for everyone to be healthy! We leave for Disney in 33 days! So this needs to be gone ASAP!! I finally caught up on laundry because my dryer died and Lowe’s was finally able to deliver it yesterday. It’s supposed to be nice today so we finished school early and are going outside before the rain comes.

[the-haunted-office]

/* For Doom and Stanley (either) */

🧞

𝓦𝓲𝓼𝓱𝓮𝓼 — send 🧞 for my muse to reveal what they would wish for if given three wishes free of consequences.

Doomsday:

"Three wishes free of consequences, eh? Suppose wishing for infinite wishes is out. I think... I'd like to wish for my mother to have never gotten cancer, or to at least- have had a real, fighting chance against it, maybe that it was caught sooner. It wasn't fair, what happened to her. It was total fucking bullshit. The doctors all missed it, for well over a year, they missed all the signs, even when they checked her and saw the spot there, they just dismissed it, even though they knew she was a smoker, and my mom... I don't know why she didn't insist they check it out, I guess she just trusted them. Anyway. By the time they figured out what it really was, it was too late. She went into the hospital one day because she was really sick and having trouble breathing. They sent her home claiming it was pneumonia. A week later she was back, and then lo and behold, BOOM, stage IV lung cancer, metastasized, lymph nodes, liver, spine in two places, nothing they can do, six months to live. She made it five months, pretty much to the day. Yeah... I think she should have another shot at it, or to have never gotten cancer at all. She was only 52 when she died. Completely fucking unfair."

"Another wish? I wish for all incels to die and no more to ever be born, in any universe, ever. Period. Femcels included, yes. Anyone with this ideology that anyone owes you sex. DIE IN A FIRE FOREVER."

"And for my last wish, hmmmmm... I don't know. I want to fly, I guess? I've always wanted to do that. Can I do that? I don't care if I get wings or not. I just want to be able to fly. I miss that. I could do that as a ghost, but now that I'm alive again, I can't. Fuck, just let me fly again, please!"

Stanley Johnson:

"I wish... I could have my memories back, from before the Offices. I had them taken from me, against my will, when Arthur - my previous Narrator - ...did what he did. When he took me from... my life. It's because of him that I can't remember anything. Maybe my life was nothing before. Maybe it was something great. I don't know. He told me it wasn't anything to be missed, but... I want to have that choice. But he took it from me."

"I also wish that Cyrus could be cured of his agoraphobia. I think he can overcome it on his own, but I don't think he really wants to. I think... he thinks it's too difficult. It's psychological to him, in my opinion, even though it's a very real fear to him. I wish I knew how to help him, but I don't. I don't know the right words or the right... actions to take. I wish... Just... I wish I knew... how to help. So... I just wish he could be cured."

"My last wish, I want the whole... dimension-hopping thing in the Office to stop. I think it causes more harm than good. I've seen all the harmful people it brings in, and how much pain it causes my Officemates. It hasn't affected me as much yet, and I feel kind of bad about that. Somehow I manage to avoid it. I guess because I stay out of the way. I'm sorry about what happened to Thursday, and how James has now shifted his focus from me to Doomsday. I wish I could step up as a Protagonist, be stronger, and protect everyone. I just don't know how to... do any of it."