#Scaffold Rack

[phagodyke]

I slept rly deeply last night even tho it took me a while to get to sleep but I think that was bc I had acid reflux and I'd been playing videogames too late not anything else.... still only got 6 hrs but doing pretty okay all things considered 😚

[tianjinwellmadescaffold]

Big Scaffold Pallets & Racks to Europe - Wellmade China - Scaffolding M...

[jezebelblues]

𝐋𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 | 𝐇.𝐒 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐦 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐘𝐍 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐫��𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭.

𝐂𝐖: requested exrry blurb (thank u anon!), slight angst, happy ending, fem!reader, actress!reader, unedited.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 5k

❏ HI ! it’s been such a long time :( but i’m hoping i’m finally through with writers block. i feel like this doesn’t exactlyyyy fit anon’s request but i hope u liked it even a lil bit! i’m not 100% happy w this but i really wanna get something out so this will just have to suffice. missed yall <3

masterlist

there are moments in every love story when the world rearranges itself, tilts just enough to change the course of everything. it's the way a cigarette burns unevenly when the wind interferes, how a misplaced step shifts the dancer's rhythm, or the way a train leaves the station one minute too soon. for harry and YN, their love had been both a symphony and a storm, a masterpiece constructed on fragile scaffolding. in its final act, it had unraveled quietly, with only the sound of two hearts breaking in unison.

they hadn’t spoken in two years. two years of silences punctuated only by the occasional headline, the brush of a photo on a magazine rack, his voice threading through the speakers of a café. the world, it seemed, refused to let her forget him. but there he was now, not a photograph or a memory, but him. real, palpable, standing at the edge of her periphery like a ghost who hadn’t yet decided if it would haunt her or let her go.

YN leaned against the balustrade, clutching a glass of something that tasted more sour than it should have. the event itself was a haze of champagne flutes and low conversations, an industry soirée dripping in muted opulence. her dress was a deep shade of dusk, clinging to her like a second skin, and she felt beautiful in it—had felt beautiful in it—until she saw him.

harry was dressed as he always was: an effortless mosaic of contradictions. the suit was tailored to perfection, but his hair, unruly curls with the hint of rebellion, softened the sharp edges. there was no mistaking the tilt of his head, the way his eyes skimmed the room with an almost reluctant ease. she wondered if he’d seen her yet, if he’d feel that same quiet thrum in his chest when he did.

as if on cue, his eyes met hers.

the evening wasn’t designed for heartache. the sky, opalescent and blushing, rippled with the soft hues of twilight. lights strung through the manicured gardens of the estate flickered like fireflies caught in some eternal dance, glasses catching the shimmer like constellations in orbit. laughter rippled through the space, every corner alive with movement and conversation, yet harry could feel only the staccato of his pulse, sharp and relentless.

he wasn't supposed to see her tonight. it wasn't part of the plan—then again, plans were always shaky things when it came to them, built on the hope that tomorrow wouldn't bring a gust strong enough to dismantle it all.

it wasn’t a moment of cinematic epiphany. there was no gasp, no clinking glass slipping from trembling fingers. it was quieter than that, heavier. their eyes had met, and the weight of two years folded between them like a tide coming in—inevitable, undeniable.

his gaze dropped to her hands, searching for a ring, as though her life might have accelerated in the time since they'd parted. nothing. his chest tightened with something unnamable—relief? regret? both?

the last time they’d been in the same room, the air had been filled with shouting and static. their words had ricocheted off walls that had once heard laughter. they had been too much and not enough, two meteors colliding, destroying everything they touched in their desperate attempt to remain whole.

she loved him. god, how she had loved him. loves.

their love had been big. not in the way people tell stories about epic romances, but in the way it consumed everything around it. they fought like gods waging war. they loved like the first spring after a century of winter. they tore each other apart and put each other back together, over and over, until they couldn't remember what they had looked like before.

they stood like that for what felt like hours but must've been seconds, suspended in a quiet kind of agony. the people around them blurred into shapes, the air alive with the hum of champagne-fueled conversations and the laughter of people who had no concept of loss beyond the polite kind—misplaced keys, a delayed flight, the end of a film they'd rather not have finished. the only thing that seemed real was the chasm between them—filled with every moment they'd ever shared, every word spoken and unspoken, every touch and tear and promise.

he was walking toward her now. she could feel it in her chest before she saw it—the air shifting, the atoms around her realigning themselves to make room for his presence.

YN was radiant, in the way she always had been— light incarnate. her eyes, the same shade of longing he remembered, tried not to meet his own, but of course, they did. she's only human, and humans have always been drawn to the things that ruin them.

“YN.” he breathed when he was close enough, her name falling from his lips like a prayer he wasn’t sure he was allowed to utter.

“harry.” his name tasted unfamiliar on her tongue, like a word spoken in a foreign language after years of disuse.

there were too many things she wanted to say, too many memories fighting to rise to the surface. she remembered the way his hands had once mapped her skin like a cartographer desperate to chart every inch. she remembered mornings spent tangled in sheets, the sunlight spilling over their laughter. she remembered the fights, the nights spent in separate rooms, the echoes of their own voices loud in the spaces between them.

“you look—” he started, then stopped, as though the right words had slipped through his fingers.

“so do you.”

silence bloomed between them, heavy and awkward, like a third presence neither of them invited. she takes a sip of her drink to fill it, but the taste is sour, bitter. or maybe that's just her.

he couldn’t tell how long they just stood there. time had a way of folding in on itself since her, the days bleeding into nights, the minutes stretching and collapsing all at once. einstein once said time was relative, but harry was sure he hadn't meant this.

his lips parted, “i didn’t think you’d be here.”

“neither did i.”

the truth was, she almost hadn’t come. it was only her publicist’s insistence that had dragged her out of her apartment and into this room filled with people who didn’t really know her. but now, standing here in front of him, she wondered if some part of her had known—had hoped.

there was a question hanging in the air between them, not uttered, but loud enough to fill the silence. had they made a mistake?

he remembers how they agreed it was for the best—right person, wrong time. they'd parted with a kiss that tasted of salt and regret, a mutual agreement born not out of lack of love, but out of too much of it.

but how could it be for the best when the air at home still smelled like her, when her name was stitched into the fabric of every song he wrote? he thought of the way she used to rest her head against his chest at night, the way her fingers traced lazy patterns along his skin, as if she were memorizing him in braille. the intimacy of it—the quiet kind, the kind that felt like forever—had undone him. no one ever teaches you how to live without forever.

the first time they met, they were children pretending to be adults. a festival in the desert, both of them younger and wilder, sweat-soaked and sunburnt and drunk on music. they danced in a crowd of thousands, but it felt like the earth shrank to the size of a postage stamp, and they were the only two people left. he had kissed her that night, tequila and the promise of something infinite lingering on his tongue.

“i’ve missed you,” he admitted, so softly she almost didn’t hear it.

her heart stuttered, the words settling into the cracks she hadn’t known were still there. “me too.”

and just like that, the world rearranged itself again.

it had been three days, but the memory of her face still lingered on the edges of harry’s consciousness like the afterimage of a camera flash. no matter how many times he blinked, it refused to fade. he felt haunted—not in the dramatic sense of ghosts rattling chains, but in the quiet, insidious way grief lingers, reshaping the air around it. she had looked beautiful, devastatingly so. and when their eyes had met, he swore he felt time buckle under the weight of something he couldn’t acknowledge, not yet.

it was morning now, or what passed for it in january—a hesitant kind of light filtering through the clouds, pale and thin like it didn’t quite belong. harry sat at his kitchen table, a cup of tea cooling between his hands. the mug had been a gift from gemma years ago, the words world’s okayest brother faded from too many cycles through the dishwasher. he liked its imperfection, the way it felt worn and familiar. it reminded him of things that didn’t change, which was a comfort on days like these.

the newspapers were spread out in front of him, though he wasn’t reading them. his eyes kept drifting to the same headline over and over: YN stuns at charity gala, sparking reunion rumors. there was a picture, of course. she was outside, her dress a shadow clinging to her frame, her gaze distant and heavy with thoughts he couldn’t begin to guess at.

it was cruel, he thought, how the world always seemed to capture her in a way that felt so achingly intimate. even in the stillness of a photograph, she looked alive, as though she might step off the page and straight into his arms.

but she wouldn’t.

he hadn’t expected to see her, not after all this time. the last two years had been a lesson in avoidance—of places she might be, of mutual friends who still spoke her name with a fondness that made his chest ache. he had buried himself in work, in music, in anything that might fill the spaces she had left behind. and for a while, it had worked. or at least, it had felt like it did.

until three days ago.

“you’re brooding.”

the voice startled him, and he looked up to find jeff standing in the doorway, a coffee cup in one hand and a knowing look in the other.

“morning to you, too,” harry muttered, running a hand through his hair.

he raised an eyebrow. “you’ve been staring at that paper for the better part of an hour. do you want to talk about it, or should i just pretend i don’t notice?”

“not much to talk about, yeah?”

“uh-huh.” he set his coffee down and slid into the chair opposite him. “you saw her.”

“yeah.”

“and?”

harry sighed, “i dunno. s’like… seeing her again made everything i’ve been trying to forget just resurface. two fucking years of nothing and then—” he gestured vaguely, another sigh falling from his lips.

“you still care about her.”

“‘course i do,” harry said, almost sharply. “but that doesn’t mean it changes anything. timing wasn’t right—we missed out.”

jeff studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “you know, timing’s a funny thing. but things do change, harry. don’t lose something you never needed to lose in the first place.”

the words hit harder than harry wanted to admit. he didn’t respond, instead lifting his mug to his lips and taking a long sip.

the tea had gone cold.

–

the email arrived in the late afternoon, slipping into her inbox like an intruder she hadn’t invited. YN stared at the screen for a long time, her tea cooling on the windowsill beside her. she didn’t open it right away; instead, she just sat there, the glow of her laptop casting faint shadows on the walls of her living room.

harry’s name stared back at her, bold and impossible to ignore. two years of silence, and now this.

the day had started out quiet. she’d spent the morning working through a script, her highlighter uncapping and capping in time with the low hum of the music she had on in the background. a storm had rolled in sometime around noon, the sky turning the color of damp stone. she liked storms—their chaos, the way they reminded her of things bigger than herself.

she didn’t like this.

her thumb hovered over the trackpad, indecisive. opening the email felt like a betrayal of all the walls she’d built, but leaving it unread felt equally unbearable. the memory of seeing him at the gala, standing there like something carved out of memory and moonlight, tugged at her resolve.

so, she clicked.

subject: reaching out

from: hs@—

to: YN@—

i wasn’t sure if this was still your email. if it’s not, i guess someone else is reading this, which would be… awkward. but if it is you, then: hey.

i know it’s been a while. seeing you the other night caught me off guard. in a good way. you looked beautiful. not that that’s news or anything, but still. it felt worth saying.

i’ve been thinking about you. not in a way that expects anything, just thinking. like in the way you’re in the lyrics i write without thinking. or when i see a blank sheet of paper i think of the origami you’d make on a whim.

this probably sounds ridiculous. i don’t really know what i’m trying to say. maybe just that it was good to see you.

for old times sake: all my stars and moons,

H.

all my stars and moons.

he used to say it with a lopsided smile, his voice soft, reverent, like it was the only way he could capture what she meant to him.

it wasn't just an i love you—it was a promise, a vow that she had been his beginning and his end. her reply had always been equally unorthodox, a kind of shared language only they understood.

she read the email twice, then a third time, the words tumbling through her mind like loose change in a pocket.

it wasn’t much. it wasn’t an apology or an admission or even an invitation. but it was something—a crack in the silence, a thread pulled loose from fabric.

her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her mind a cacophony of what-ifs. she didn’t know what to say—didn’t know if she should say anything.

the cursor blinked at her, patient and unyielding. YN rested her chin in her hand, staring at the blank reply box as if it might conjure the words for her. the storm outside continued its symphony, wind rattling the windowpanes in uneven bursts. it felt fitting—this chaotic, uncertain moment mirrored by the world beyond her walls.

she had typed and deleted half a dozen responses already, each one feeling either too much or not enough.

harry, she’d started, but even his name felt loaded, like a weight she couldn’t quite lift.

it’s good to hear from you. no, too polite, too distant, too not them.

why now? the most honest question, but also the one she didn’t have the courage to ask outright.

she leaned back in her chair, exhaling sharply. part of her wanted to ignore it. to close her laptop, pour another cup of tea, and pretend she hadn’t read it. but that wasn’t who she was—not with him.

because no matter how much time had passed, no matter how much they had broken each other, there was still that small, stubborn part of her that believed in the rightness of them.

she let her fingers hover over the keyboard, her thoughts coalescing into something that felt almost like clarity.

harry,

it is still my email. though if it weren’t, i’d like to think whoever got this would’ve found it endearing.

i don’t know how to describe how it felt seeing you again. unexpected doesn’t feel like enough. i wasn’t ready for it, i guess. not that anyone’s ever really ready to run into their past like that. believe me when i say that you looked even more beautiful.

your email was nice to read, though i’m not sure how to respond to it. i don’t know if i have the right words anymore, or if i ever did. but i’ve been thinking about you too. i’m not sure that ever really stopped, if i’m honest. it’s strange, isn’t it? how someone can take up so much space in your mind, even after so much time has passed.

it’s hard to know what else to say. part of me wonders if we made a mistake. you’re making me remember paper cranes on your coffee table, of mornings where the sunlight always seemed brighter on your side of the bed. remembering makes it harder to pretend like none of it mattered.

but it did. it still does. in ways i can't always explain, and maybe that's why i don't know how to respond. anyway, i guess i just wanted to say that it was good to see you, too.

forever and a day,

YN.

her finger hovered over the send button, her heart hammering in her chest. there was no taking it back once it was gone, no undoing the vulnerability she had laid bare. but she clicked it anyway, the whoosh of the email sending ringing loud in the quiet of her apartment.

forever and a day.

it had been her answer to him, her way of telling him that love wasn't bound by time or space, that it was infinite. it had been their secret, the thread woven through the chaos of their lives.

she didn’t know what would come next. maybe nothing. maybe everything. so, she waited—which only let things unravel further.

the emails became their lifeline over the past few days, a tenuous thread bridging the gap between the past and whatever they were doing now. it had started cautiously—polite acknowledgments, carefully chosen words that skirted too close to old wounds. but as the hours and days wore on, their messages grew longer, softer, laced with the quiet intimacy of people rediscovering the shape of each other.

harry had spent more time staring at his screen than he cared to admit, his fingers hovering over the keys as he tried to balance honesty with restraint. they wrote about everything and nothing—her latest film, a quiet piece shot in the polish countryside, his afternoons spent in the studio, the strange emptiness of passing the time during a break.

sometimes, they slipped into the past. little anecdotes laced with humor or wistfulness, as though they were tiptoeing around the weight of what they’d once shared. he’d told her about the tulips he passed by in the shop one evening, how it made him think of her, if he’d ever buy such a thing for her again—and she’d replied with a teasing remark about how he’d always overthought these things.

it felt natural in a way neither of them had anticipated, like a rhythm they’d rediscovered without meaning to. but beneath the easy flow of words, there was a tension—an unspoken question threading its way through every sentence: what now?

and then, her last email.

he’d read it three times before he noticed the address tucked neatly at the bottom, like an afterthought.

subject: RE: late night thoughts

from: YN@—

to: hs@—

h,

i don’t know why i’m telling you this, but the tulips? i would’ve liked them :)

anyway, you’re right! it’s easier to write like this, but it also feels a bit ridiculous, doesn’t it? like we’re pen pals in some old novel. maybe we should talk.

here’s my address. i’ve moved since before everything happened between us. if you’re ever around, stop by. no pressure though.

YN

harry had laughed aloud when he saw it, shaking his head in disbelief. she hadn’t given him her number, but her address? it was such a maddeningly her thing to do.

he stared at the screen for a while afterward, debating what it meant, whether he should go, what he’d say if he did. and then, as if fate had decided for him, he found himself standing in another flower shop the next afternoon, staring at a display of tulips.

the shopkeeper had been kind, if a bit amused by his indecision. “you can’t go wrong with red,” she’d said, handing him a bunch wrapped in simple brown paper. “everyone likes red, yeah?”

he’d nodded, though his mind had been elsewhere, spiraling through a thousand scenarios of how this meeting might go.

and now, here he was, standing outside her building with the flowers clutched in one hand, his other hand shoved into the pocket of his coat.

he felt ridiculous. what was he doing here, showing up like this? but the thought of turning back felt worse. he buzzed her apartment, his heart pounding as he waited for her voice to crackle through the intercom.

“hello?”

“oh, YN. hi! it’s harry.”

a pause and the breathiest giggle, so quiet harry wasn’t sure if it was her or the crackle of the intercom. “come up.”

once up, she opened the door before he could knock, her silhouette framed by the soft glow of her apartment. she looked different and yet entirely the same—her hair pulled back, her sweater falling loosely over her frame, the kind of effortless beauty that had always undone him.

“hi.”

“hi,” he echoed, offering her a tentative smile.

she glanced at the tulips in his hand, her lips twitching into a small, knowing grin. “you brought flowers.”

“yeah,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “thought about daisies. or lilies. but tulips–”

“you overthought it.”

“probably,” he said, handing them to her. “but you said you would’ve liked them.”

she took the flowers, her fingers brushing his briefly. “i do.”

he hesitated, shifting on his feet. “you didn’t give me your number, but you gave me your address. thought that was funny.”

her laugh was soft, almost shy. “guess i figured if you wanted to talk, you’d show up.”

“and here i am.”

“here you are.”

she stepped aside, letting him in, her apartment warm and inviting in contrast to the chill outside. the space was a bit small but full of character—books stacked haphazardly on shelves, a record player in the corner, the faint scent of tea lingering in the air.

“s’bigger than the last one.”

she hummed, setting the tulips on the counter and reaching for a vase. “it’s cozy.”

he watched her move, his chest tightening at the familiarity of it all—the way she tilted her head when she was concentrating, the slight curve of her mouth as she arranged the flowers.

“i’m surprised you actually came over.”

“‘course i did,” he said, his gaze steady. “you asked.”

“i didn’t think you would.”

he frowned slightly, “oh,” he paused, “why not?”

she shrugged, turning back to the flowers. “it’s been a long time, i guess. people change.”

“how much d’you think changes in two years?”

her hands stilled, her fingers brushing against the edge of a petal. she didn’t look at him, but he could see the way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath caught.

“i don’t know what this is,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“s’just us talking. that’s all.”

they settled at the island in her kitchen eventually, stools drawn close but not close enough. it wasn’t purposeful—not exactly—but the gap between them felt intentional in its own way, a hesitation they hadn’t yet learned how to breach.

the space was quiet, save for the soft hum of the rain outside and the faint creak of the wood beneath them. the overhead light pooled in warm, golden tones across the countertop, casting long shadows that blurred the edges of the moment.

YN fit into the space like she always did—carefully, like she was trying to take up less room than she was owed. one knee tucked against her chest, her arms wrapped loosely around it, while her other leg dangled from the stool, her toes brushing just lightly against the floor. she turned slightly, her side leaning against the edge of the island, her eyes steady but unreadable.

his own body had never been built for this kind of furniture—too long limbs, too much of him for the delicate frame of the stool. he had to spread his legs wide, one foot braced against the floor to keep himself steady, his elbows resting on the countertop. his fingers toyed with the lip of a glass left abandoned,something to keep them occupied, something to keep them from reaching for her.

and then she said it.

“you’ve written songs about me.”

a statement, not a question. a fact pulled from the quiet places of their past, dusted off and placed between them like an offering.

harry felt the heat climb his neck before he could stop it, the corners of his mouth betraying him with the telltale pull of a smile. a man of twenty-nine reduced to something pink-cheeked and bashful, like a schoolboy caught in the act. his dimples carved deep, his fingers tightening around the glass as if he could pour all of his flustered energy into the curve of it.

“see that head of yours hasn’t gotten any smaller.”

his voice came easy, light with humor, a well-aimed deflection meant to soften the truth. but the truth was written all over him, in the way his gaze lingered, in the way his body angled toward hers as if he couldn’t help but close the distance.

she laughed, and the sound curled into his chest, tucked itself between his ribs like something meant to live there. her cheeks had gone pink too, though whether from the warmth of the room or the warmth of his attention, he wasn’t sure.

she pressed her temple against her knee, a slow, knowing smile stretching across her lips before she murmured—“red wine and ginger ale.”

it was enough to knock the breath from him, to make something stir deep in his gut, something familiar, aching, unshakable.

his grip tightened around the glass, knuckles going white. because of course she remembered. of course she had caught that line, plucked it from the verse and turned it over in her palm like a rare coin.

it had been a memory—hers, theirs, tucked into the lyrics like a secret, hidden in plain sight.

a dinner in chiswick, years ago, where he had ordered exactly that, red wine with ginger ale, because he liked the way the bitterness and sweetness met on his tongue. she had looked at him like he’d just confessed to some great crime, her nose scrunching, her lips parting in that wide-eyed, incredulous way.

“you’re disgusting.”

he had laughed, offered her a sip, only for her to recoil in mock horror. and later, in the taxi home, when he had kissed her, her lips had curled into a smile against his, and she had whispered against his mouth—

“m’never letting you live it down, baby.”

and she hadn’t. for months. for years. because she had hated the drink, but she had loved him, and that was enough.

and now, here she was, saying it back to him, plucking the words from a song meant for millions and holding them up to the light, a knowing glint in her gaze.

“you remember that?” he asked, his voice quieter now, almost disbelieving.

“i remember everything.”

the words settled in his stomach, warm and heavy. he stared at her for a long moment, the air between them stretching thin.

he could still taste the memory of her, even now. and he wonders if she knows she’s still his favorite lyric.

time continued to stretch around them, hesitated words and heavy pauses, stolen glances and knuckles that barely grazed each other in fleeting touches.

they moved after that, standing from the stools as if a forced step back would be enough space to stop what hummed between them.

she turned to face him, her eyes searching his. for a moment, the air felt electric, heavy with everything they weren’t saying.

she lingered there, before her body angled toward the window as though she might drift outside. the soft light overhead caught the lines of her face, the curve of her shoulders.

she was beautiful in the way the stars were—distant but unmistakably present, a quiet inevitability against the darkness.

and just like the stars, she had always been there, even when he couldn't see her.

he crossed the room slowly, as though afraid that the floor might give out beneath him. his hands were empty now, his thoughts stripped bare. she turned slightly as he came closer, her eyes meeting his, and he could feel the pull of her, the way she seemed to realign the very fabric of the air between them.

YN could feel it, the frequency only the two of them could hear, a static that crackles in the air between bodies too familiar to be strangers, too distant to be anything else. the static that translated into pins and needles along their lips. the static, buzzing heat in their chest, not fire, not yet—but the ember that never fully died, flickering in the place where love was buried but never truly laid to rest.

"you came back.” she echoed from before, though it was less saturated in disbelief but rather dripping with solace.

he looked up, his throat tightening—the ache of déjà vu wrapped in silk. his body remembers before his mind does—remembers the press of his palm against the small of her back, the weight of his mouth against hers, the way her breath used to tremble when she whispered his name.

you never left he wanted to say, but the syllables tangled in his throat, thick as honey, heavy as grief. because she hadn’t—not really. she lingered in each pause between heartbeats, in the empty quiet of rooms too big and beds too cold.

so, he keeps his mouth shut. he leans in, nose barely grazing hers. she can feel the flutter of his eyelashes against her cheek as his head tilts, he can feel the tremble of her breath.

he was merely a shipwreck, his body leaning toward the tide even as his mind screamed to stay ashore. but the tide is warm, and the tide is her, and oh—how easy it would be to drown again.

the collapse of distance, the death of restraint.

the air between them is thick with ruin and remembrance, a graveyard of every night they spent apart, every moment they spent pretending this wasn’t inevitable.

but the body is merciless in its remembering.

her breath stutters again as his fingertips ghost over her jaw, tracing the path of old devotion, the map of a love that never truly faded. it’s not a hesitation, not a question—it’s reverence, the final breath before a prayer is spoken. and then—

then he kisses her.

it’s not soft, not gentle. it’s every unsaid word, every agonizing hour, every night spent staring at the ceiling wondering if the she felt it too. it’s the pull of gravity, of fate, of something written into constellations.

his mouth slants over hers like a plea, like an apology, like a man succumbing. and she—she meets him with a hunger that borders on violent, fingers fisting in his collar, dragging him closer, closer, as if she could consume him, as if she could crawl inside his ribs and carve her name there all over again.

it tasted like champagne and ripe fruit, like summer bursting behind teeth and getting stuck there. peaches, maybe, or strawberries picked in the height of july. his tongue slid against hers like silk against satin, heady—red wine drunk too quickly, the dizzied sweetness of berries crushed between thumb and forefinger.

it didn’t seek, did not demand; it reclaimed, a vow remade in flesh.

his tongue curled, coaxed, tangled in the wet heat of her mouth. it was slow, decadent—the first pull of opium in the lungs, the hush of velvet being drawn through greedy fingers.

and when he deepened it—when he pulled her flush, let the kiss bleed into something savored, something syrup-thick, cursive against the roof of her mouth—she tasted it:

forgiveness, the hands of a clock rewinding.

not spoken, not granted, but exchanged in the language of tongue and teeth. of breath shared between gasps, of bodies rediscovering the art of belonging.

when they part, it is not for lack of wanting.

it’s for breath, for sanity, for the simple fear that if they do not stop now, they never will. she licked her lips—not to rid herself of him, but to commit him to memory.

"YN.” he murmured, her name nothing more than a breath, a vow, a benediction.

she swallowed, throat tight, her pulse a bird trapped beneath her skin. she wanted to say something, anything—wanted to capture this moment in words before it slipped through her fingers like sand.

but there was no language for this.

there was no word for what it meant to be kissed like that—like time had never moved forward, like they had never parted, like the years apart were nothing more than a cruel trick of the universe. no word for the way his tongue had found hers, the way he had kissed her not just with his lips, but with the sum of his longing, the marrow-deep ache of missing her. no word for the way she had melted into him, the way her mouth had answered his like it had been waiting all this time.

so she didn’t speak.

instead, she pressed her fingers against his mouth, feeling the shape of his lips beneath them, like trying to hold onto a dream before waking. and maybe he understood, because he only smiled—soft, knowing, his hands still firm against her skin.

all my stars and moons, he had said once.

forever and a day, she had answered.

[agbpaints]

Oh the Hellspawn. Another 'mech brought to us by FASA Interactive which was later ported back into the construction rules of Classic Battletech, basically all of the discussion I've found online about the HSN-xx is largely negative, and while I don't necessarily disagree with a lot of the criticism I do think it's a design worth taking a look at.

In the late 3050s the Armed Forces of the Federated Suns determined that their aging fleet of Dervish fast fire support mechs was due for a replacement, having served since the times of the Star League and grown quite obsolete in the intervening centuries. General Motors won the contract to produce the new 'mech in 3060 with their Hellspawn concept, a design that promised to excede the capabilities of the existing DV marks significantly as both a lightweight fire support unit and an interdictor to handle light mechs and C3 spotters used by the Combine. The first 'mechs walked off of the line on Talcott in 3062 into the looming clusterfuck of the FedCom Civil War.

The initial HSN-7D that GM produced on Talcott sets a strong design language regrettably followed by the majority of Hellspawn variants. Weighing 45 tons, the 7D is scaffolded with a GM M-type endosteel chassis and powered by an in-house produced 270 XL fusion engine with 6 jump jets mounted between the side torsos. Dalban provided the electronics system, including an Guardian ECM suite to allow the HSN to add e-war missions to its repertoire. The offensive payload is actually pretty impressive for its weight class- the HSN-7D is armed with a pair of LRM-10s split between the right arm and left torso and supplied by 2 tons of ammunition, supported by three medium pulse lasers mounted on the arms and torso.

Of course, this level of mobility and weaponry comes at a cost- the original production Hellspawn only mounts 6.5 tons of armor. This is less than 70% of the total possible belt and dangerously close to Hellbringer levels of protection. All three torsos can be breached by a gauss rifle slug immediately. GM also neglected th mount CASE on their design, making the already fragile mech highly susceptible to total loss from ammo explosions in the field.

Reactions in the field from AFFS units were... poor. It was immediately apparent that the brass had handed GM the deal without actually considering what was being proposed to them. The Hellspawn's added interdiction capabilities did not offset the 'mech's abysmal protection and the fiddly engine and electronics suites required constant maintenance and parts to keep operational. The 15 year old Dervish 7D was generally favored by pilots and quartermasters- the standard fusion engine meant replacement parts were less expensive and the thicker armor and CASE-protected ammunition bays meant that mechwarriors were less likely to come to understand the workings of their ride's ejector seats personally.

In the face of their product's poor reputation, GM did no soul searching in the following years and instead chose to double down. Introduced in 3068, the HSN-8E did nothing to alter the mech's survivability, instead opting to exchange the arm-mounted pulse lasers for ER models in order to add Artemis firce control systems to the missile launchers. This nominally improves the 'mech's long range damage but in the leadup to the e-war spaked battlefields of the Jihad spending two tons on a 'mech with questionable armor to improve its direct fire capabilities is questionable. The same year GM also released the 9F, a worse than useless refit that removes the ECM suite, a laser, both of the LRM racks, and a half ton of armor (bringing us to 63% belt capacity) in exchange for a pair of MRM-20s. Again, *these are factory refit options from GM*. Someone at the Talcott plant must've been a plant by LOKI because I have no explanation for the AFFS deciding to take delivery of this shit except for a Lyran spy ring.

Luckily worse fortunes for the Inner Sphere led to better mechs. The Talcott plant was bombed by the Blakists during the early stages of the Jihad and presumably one of the casualties in that tragedy was the original design team for the Hellspawn. Shame. When production resumed in 3076, GM introduced a new variant that finally addressed the concerns of the original HSN models, the 10G. One jump jet and the ECM suite have been removed, the LRM launchers have been replaced by a pair of MML-7 variable missile launch systems fed by 3 tons of ammunition and the torso laser has been replaced by a light PPC. While CASE is still absent, light ferro-fibrous armor has been mounted and total protection has been increased to 7.5 tons--this gauss-proofs the torsos and brings the total belt to 83% protection. This is the variant I'm personally most familiar with and I find it a pleasant design to use: the long range damage is similar to the original 7D model but the short range potential throw weight of the MMLs and pulse lasers is brutal and the 3rd ton of ammo allows the 10G to mount inferno munitions alongside standard SRMs and LRMs, making it a general menace to heat hogs and conventional forces.

The final production variant is the 10SR, which focuses on developing the Hellspawn's role as a fast scout. The missiles have been removed completely in favor of paired ER medium lasers and light PPCs in the arms, a light active probe and TAG artillery designator have been added to support the ECM suite, the standard jump jets have been replaced with 8 improved models, and the armor belt has been increased to 9 tons. The 10SR is an incredibly slippery forward scout, combining the durability of a medium mech with the air mobility of a Spider

Overall, discussion focuses on the pre-3070 designs of the Hellspawn, which is understandable given the aversion many Battletech players have to the Jihad and Dark Ages, but a shame because it overlooks a very nice little chassis. With the proliferation of mixed tech designs a "modern" 315x variant of the HSN could likely do some very interesting stuff with the Chassis, possibly flipping the script and mounting clan ER lasers as the long range weapons while turning the missiles into a close-up compliment. If nothing else I hope more people do decide to pick up the 10G- it's a legitimately fanrastic little bodyguard and bully and I've thoroughly enjoyed running it.

[godsfavoritescientist]

An as-of-yet unnamed AU where instead of being Ford's muse, Bill appears to Fiddleford and convinces him to build the portal.

The conversation in the last 2 images continues under the cut:

Fiddleford relaxed all at once, giving Ford a too-wide smile. Then, he opened his eyes one eyelid at a time. “You’ve been a real good friend! And I have a lot of friends, so that’s saying something!” He let out a short laugh. “You wanna know what I’m working on? It’s something that’s gonna usher in an era of world peace! You might not believe it, but no one else would believe you if you told them you’ve just uncovered an ancient alien crash site, would they now? So be a pal and suspend your disbelief!”

Ford felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. There was something… something he couldn’t put his finger on… something that flashed in the corner of his eye…

Ford swallowed. “Okay. It’s religious project. But what is it?”

Fiddleford threw a casual arm around Ford. “I think it’ll be easier if I show you!”

~

They walked down a corridor lined wall to wall, floor to ceiling with computers running endless calculations. They bathed the whole room in flickering green light, as words scrolled rapidly across screen after screen after screen, their glowing surfaces reflecting in Fiddleford’s glasses as he walked ahead of Ford, with a confidently uncoordinated stride that made Ford wonder if he was drunk. Ford glanced at the screens, catching bits and pieces of words as Fiddleford rushed by in the black-and-green light. “Probability of Event 4.23A, Probability of Event 23.652C, Probability of Event 1.9C…” dozens of numbers that looked like coordinates… thousands of statistical probability equations being run over and over again…

Fiddleford punched in a seven-digit code on the front of a huge metal door at the end of the corridor. When he swung it open, it revealed a room that looked like something out of a movie, or a nightmare. He stood before a sea of gigantic red raising platforms that Fiddleford effortlessly jumped around on, inputting some kind of code based on the symbols on the squares, until the moving platforms went still.

They moved on into a simple, warmly-lit room with coat racks full of red robes lining the walls, and foam mats stacked in the corner with eyes embroidered on them.

And then, at last, they entered what appeared to be their destination. This room was gigantic, and frigidly cold. The walls and floors were all made of metal. And at the center of the room, a machine towered over them. It was part metal and part unfinished scaffolding. A huge upside-down triangle with a hole in the middle of it, like a great big maw.

Fiddleford gestured at it with a grin. “My magnum opus! A portal directly to god.”

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #509

You are not in my house, lounging on the sofa in warm, comfy pajamas and watching Steven Universe while enjoying the cool, lilac-scented breeze coming in through the screen door, drinking a mug of delicious tea, and eating a plate full of your favorite kinds of sushi.

Today, this is much more upsetting than usual. I'm not entirely sure why.

...And before you ask, yes, I am, in fact, perfectly aware that the situation described above is the status quo. Painfully aware, day in and day out. You have never been my house. I know you never will be in my house. I bear no ill will towards the fact that this will never be corrected. Nonetheless, this continues to be a very sad thing that, as far as I know, I can do absolutely nothing about (much like the state of everything else in my world at large; go fucking figure). So you know what?

Today I played Vahleim. Because sometimes when you can't get your mind off of something that is bothering you, the only thing for it is to put your mind elsewhere in a way that is non-harmful.

As promised, I grabbed up a picture of my fully-grown turnips.

This is the spice rack I was able to make with it.

Now I can make better food items. Yay.

I also made a GIANT FREAKING BOAT.

...And with that boat, I sailed north. I sailed north until I found a new continent. And wouldn't you know, on that new continent is Hildir, who makes clothes. And also on this continent are at least 4 biomes: Meadows, Black Forest, Swamp, and Plains. I suspect there may be a mountain somewhere on this continent, too; it'd be weird if there wasn't.

With so much available within walking-ish distance, I decided that this continent is where I am going to set up a more permanent base than my starting one (which you are familiar with, if you've been reading). So I set out to build the finest house I could, with the materials available to me.

I wanted this one to have a dock that actually looks nice, so I tried to build some scaffolding so I could lay a stone foundation in the water; stone structures, unlike wooden structures, don't decay in the presence of water. But... building in the water is difficult. For whatever reason, the developers have decided that you can neither dive nor use any of your equipment in the water. Also, swimming drains a ridiculous amount of stamina, and currently, getting out of water is buggy at best; they don't let you pull yourself up on any surface, so you can drown even while you're right next to a surface that should be climbable.

...I ended up needing to scrap most of this and start fresh; it didn't work like I thought it would. But then it worked out, and I was able to, slowly but surely, begin building a house. Learning from my experience working with stone at the old base, I understood that stone comes with a lot of weird clipping issues, and... just generally doesn't look nice. So I thought to build the exterior out of stone, and line the interior with wood:

I discovered partway through that the stone walls still clip through the wood.

So I went out to replace the stone walls, pictured here:

...With stone pillars, pictured here:

...And it worked. The walls are smooth. Delightful.

I then began working on the dock. I built this house pretty much directly on the seaside, so it's a straight drop to the water, and between the stamina cost and the buggy water exit mechanics, that is very dangerous, goodness me! So I expanded the foundation where I could, which was hard, not only because you can't dive and can't use tools while swimming, but also because it's hard to see in the water. I put stone steps where I could, and wooden ones everywhere else.

...I still have to do the other side, though:

...But that's fine. J is home from work now, and we'll play together soon. I'll keep working on it until I'm satisfied, and then I'll go tromp-tromp-trompin' through the Swamp on this continent; we are in desperate need of more iron.

...I wish you could play with us. I wish you were here.

I guess that's it for today. Kind of in a funky brain rot of some kind, so... not much in the way of flowing thoughts today. Like my character in Valheim today, it's everything I can do just to keep my head above water, so to speak.

I love you. And I hope you're okay, wherever you are. I hope you're reflecting on all your things that happened. I hope you're making new friends. Hope you're treating yourself and the others around you kindly. Hope, hope, hope, all for you.

Oh, speaking of which...

...Have some wishes to go with those hopes. Breathed them to life, just for you.

I'll write again tomorrow. Please stay safe.

Your friend, Lumine

[trooper1023]

The Train to Tyranny

By Tony Pentimalli

On April 17, 2025, America changed.

Not with a bang, not with a broadcast, but with the quiet, booted steps of ICE agents boarding a train in Montana—dressed in military-style tactical gear, rifles strapped to their chests, eyes scanning faces like searchlights in the night. Their mission? Not to apprehend a wanted criminal. Not to respond to a credible threat. No—just to ask every passenger, one by one, where they were born.

This is not a scene from Children of Men. This is Havre, Montana, in the United States of America. This happened to a sitting judge’s colleague—someone who assumed, like most of us, that our freedoms weren’t something ICE could rifle through like luggage on a baggage rack. But Judith Roberts, Chief Judge of the Fort Berthold District Court, saw it differently. She had the courage to say so. Her account is not alarmist—it is a factual, firsthand chronicle of what it looks like when constitutional norms are eroded not by revolution, but by routine.

Let’s be clear about what happened.

ICE agents, empowered by a loosely defined interpretation of the so-called “100-mile border zone” authority, boarded a domestic train and interrogated passengers without a warrant or probable cause. They did so solely based on geography. According to the conductor—who has worked that route for nearly 40 years—this was the first time he had ever seen such a display of force. Think about that: four decades of rail travel, and never once did armed agents march the aisles demanding proof of citizenship. Until now.

This wasn’t about immigration enforcement. This was about conditioning compliance. This was about planting fear. About sending a message that borders aren’t lines on a map—they’re everywhere. They’re around your children’s school. Around your hospital. Around your courthouse. Your train. Your home.

This is not theoretical. We have seen the normalization of this authoritarian creep elsewhere:

In Tucson, migrants were shackled and denied water as part of a deliberate show of power.

In Florida, a U.S. citizen was illegally detained by ICE for nearly a month.

In California, a 14-year-old was tackled in front of his classmates when agents raided a bus.

In Texas, the border has become a live-action movie set for Greg Abbott’s political theater—razor wire, floating barriers, and now military checkpoints well inland.

The legal scaffolding for these abuses is weak, but the fear is effective. That’s the point. We are being taught to accept these intrusions as “security.” But they are not security—they are signs of a soft fascism, one that comes not with a coup, but with a clipboard and a badge.

And let’s talk about the 100-mile border zone for a moment. This legal gray area—established decades ago under different circumstances—was never meant to become a permanent state of exception. But under Trump, and with the ideological backing of the Heritage Foundation’s Project 2025, it has become the staging ground for a domestic surveillance state. Two-thirds of Americans live within that zone, including entire cities like New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles. You could be questioned, searched, detained—not because you did anything wrong, but because of where you happen to be.

If that doesn’t chill you, it should.

This is not about whether you support immigration reform. It’s not about whether you’re conservative or liberal. It’s about whether you believe in the rule of law or the rule of men with guns. It’s about whether we’re okay letting our country be run by fear, suspicion, and racial profiling—just because we’ve been told it’s “necessary.”

The most dangerous part of all this isn’t the agents themselves. It’s our willingness to accept it. Our silence. Our fatigue. Our belief that this is “just how things are now.”

But it doesn’t have to be.

Judge Roberts was right to speak out. And we must follow her lead. We must ask ourselves: How many rights are we willing to lose before we stop calling this a free society? How long before ICE is no longer checking papers on trains—but dragging people off them? How long before “Show me your ID” turns into “Get off now or be arrested”?

History has taught us that when authoritarianism comes, it often doesn’t announce itself with flags and fanfare. It shows up quietly. On a train platform. In an unmarked van. On a dusty stop between Montana and North Dakota.

If we are not willing to stand up now—loudly, urgently, unapologetically—we may wake up one day to find we’ve ridden that train too far.

And there’s no coming back.

*Tony Pentimalli is a political analyst and commentator fighting for democracy, economic justice, and social equity. Follow him for sharp analysis and hard-hitting critiques on Facebook and BlueSky

@tonywriteshere.bsky.social

[edupunkn00b]

Meus ex Machina, Chapter 19: Silvertongue and Hesper

Edited public domain image of two hands reaching for each other, lit in deep blue and neon green.

Prev - Silvertongue and Hesper - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

WC: 2689 - Rated: T - CW: non-graphic torture, blood

Where Janus went in the pre-dawn hours. But first, what happened to Lucas after he left HQ on Remus and Roman's 21st birthday. If you haven’t yet read Progression, stop here and read it now for maximum impact. The flashback at the start of this chapter takes place two days after the end of that story.

For at least the hundredth time and for the second time in the past 72 hours, Lucas punched in the coordinates to The Inn. This time, though, he made the trip out to their old watering hole alone.

The ghost of Re’s giddy nervousness bounced around the ship. 

Really? You’re gonna let me have a drink tonight?

Sure, Re. You only turn twenty-one once…

Banking around the scaffold of the Newland Towers, Lucas jumped at the static he picked up from the construction site. For the past three days, Lucas had stayed up, listening, waiting. He’d kept the aircar radio open the whole way out, childishly hoping Jan or Pat or anyone else would reach out. Tell him it was all a mistake. Ask him to come home.

No-one did.

He set down behind the bar and circled his and Jan’s old haunt. A flashing ‘closed’ sign shone in the darkness, and the landing pads out front were vacant, but Andrew’s movement behind the bar cast long shadows in the back windows. The gate was down in front so Lucas returned to the alleyway.

Shiny, new, and with five layers of encryption, the deadbolt on the backdoor was impressive. The rusted screws holding it in place, however, were not and one swift kick opened the door.

“What the hell—” Andrew’s tough guy shout from the bar dropped to a whisper when Lucas came into view. His eyes darted side to side, searching for someone in the empty bar to rescue him.

“Lucas! Hey… hey, um, no hard feelings, right? You know I didn’t call the feds on Re… they just… they just showed up and took care of the body, I…” He stepped back, fumbling along the railing under the taps for his emergency call switch. “But y—you got outta here way before they got here, right?”

“The call button’s two meters to your left,” Lucas responded, flipping a bottle sealer at the powerbank just above the switch. It exploded, sparks raining down on Andrew’s hand. “You wouldn’t want the corpos to just show up coincidentally again, now would you?”

“No, Lucas, no…” He shook his head. “Of course not. C’mon, man… You know it’s not like that. You and Jay have been coming here for years… You all are like family to me.”

Lucas’ voice was quiet. “You took my family from me.” He unbuttoned his coat and peeled it off, revealing a harness with an antique taser and five extra charge canisters. “You took my brother.” Gaze focused on his coat, Lucas walked to the rack next to the front doors and hung it on the closest hook before drawing down the window shade and checking the locks on the door. 

“You took my boys.” Andrew’s eyes widened and he slowly straightened, shaking hands raised near his head. Lucas snapped a fresh charge into place and watched the standby light stutter to life. “You took my love.”

Finally he looked up, eyes ablaze. “I’ve lost everything.” Andrew began to tremble, sympathetic nervous system rooting him in place, full freeze mode. As though that could do anything to help him now. Lucas absorbed the fear pouring out with his rank sweat and smiled. “Just as you’re about to.”

Lucas unlocked the taser and flicked it on. A sharp buzzy whine filled the room, followed by the trickling sound of urine dripping from Andrew’s pant leg. Lucas tsked. “So soon? Very well.”

“No, no, no… Lucas… You don—you—you don’t wanna do this… This—this isn’t you.” Lucas aimed the taser and the man’s words jumbled, hands out as though he could stop the assault. “Wha—what would Jan think if he—”

Lucas’ eyes brightened, orange fire pushing away his doubt. “Jan already thinks I’ve been purchased. He already thinks I betrayed him. To you.” He grinned, his smile broad and easy. And empty as the bar. “Let’s show him who I really answer to, shall we?”

“No… no, please, Lucas, no—” With a bang, refurbished guidewires shot out and embedded in the man’s neck. 50,000 volts cut short his pleas, the bright white glow rivaled only by Lucas’ orange eyes.

~

The slow death of Andrew’s brain ripped away the last shreds of Lucas’ control. Eyes squeezed shut, he doubled over, arms crossed over his head as the bartender’s dying cries shot through his heart. Seared flesh set fire to his nerves. Andrew’s fear his pain would never end. The fear of what would happen when it did.

And Andrew’s last thoughts, the tiny spark of relief that it was finally over.

Lucas slumped to the floor, barely noticing the knot on the side of his own head. He lay there for as long as he dared before pulling himself to his feet and staggering to the toilets.

The lukewarm recycled tap did a poor job on his hands and no matter how hard he scrubbed with the bar’s watered down soap, bits of Andrew’s blood clung to his knuckles and under his nails. In the engraving on his ring.

He took it off, twisting to get it past the callouses, and held it up to the light. Dingy rust filled in the swooping cursive ‘Ja’ on the engraving. Shoulders slumped, he fought the tightening in his throat, the burning behind his eyes. 

But he was spent. His eyes flickered weakly under the dingy bathroom lights. A sob ripped up from his throat and hot tears spilled over, dripping down his cheeks and his neck as he rubbed at his stained wedding ring under the faucet.

His wrist buzzed and hope sparked in his chest.

Hope quickly doused by the message on his comm. Instead of a message from Jan, from Pat, from the boys, a bold proximity warning scrolled across the tiny screen. 

CORPORATE POLICE ACTIVITY 100 YARDS AND CLOSING…

CORPORATE POLICE ACTIVITY 50 YARDS AND CLOSING…

CORPORATE POLICE ACTIVITY 10 YA—

A small blast was followed by the crash of the front door coming off its hinges. His ring hit the basin, rattling as it rolled around and down the open drain.

“Come out with your hands up! Come out—shit! Look what they did to him! Dear god…” The buzz of a dozen tazers more advanced than his own couldn’t cover the tremor in the pig’s voice. “Arms up! That’s an order!” 

Lucas’ comm hummed quietly, a constant vibration against his wrist now.

Auto-distress alert enabled. Contacting HQ in 30… 29… 28… 27…

“We have you surrounded!” Jackboots tromped down the old hardwood floors and came to a stop outside the locked bathroom door. Dust sprinkled from the hinges as they banged on it. “Come out or we’re coming in!”

Lucas turned off the water and watched the numbers tick before tapping Disable just as the distress call countdown hit 1.

His comm screen went dark and he wiped his hands on his pants. “Be out in just a mo’!” he sing-songed. Only Jan would’ve caught the hitch in his voice. Well, Pat, too, most likely. But they weren’t here to care.

He checked the mirror, drying his face and smoothing back his hair. He smiled at the dim but growing amber rings around his eyes, then turned and opened the door.

~

Rain and hail drummed against the hull, a syncopated beat that dragged Lucas from a deep sleep. He’d been dreaming of home again, of the boys chasing each other through the halls. Pat’s more Teddy Bear-than-Papa Bear warnings to slow down. Re promising Pat they’d try before erupting in laughter with Ro, a soft, calm laugh, nothing like his laughter the last time he’d seen him. 

Jan’s smooth hot toddy voice, spice and heat and comfort. His hand, ungloved, unshielded, carding through his hair. 

Lucas leaned back and shook his head to clear away the clingy wisps of dream from his mind.

But Jan’s voice only grew louder. 

-”We need to talk, Hesper. Where can I find you?”-

Amber light bled through his eyelashes and he smiled. -”Mmm… So formal, ma cheri,”- he purred back. -”And yet so rude! Not even a ‘good morning, how did you sleep? How would you like your tea?”-

Jan’s shield was strong, nothing but a faint buzz was his answer.

He was close. Lucas checked the local time. Technically morning, though the sun wouldn’t be up for hours. It had been winter when they’d met, too. He shook off the thought and lit up the room with his eyes. 

-”Is it actually morning where you are?”- Jan asked as though he didn’t know. As though he wasn’t close enough for Lucas to smell his cologne.

Or maybe he just imagined it.

-”I have risen with the light…” Lucas pushed a memory of Jan’s smiling face back at him, hair mussed and splayed out on his pillow. He wasn’t sure how much got through Jan’s shield. Or who he was trying to hurt more. -”Does that count as morning in your calculation?”-

-”I wish to speak with you, Hesper,”- he sent, dull and flat and cold.

Lucas checked the sensors. The others weren’t with him. Jan had actually come alone. He chewed at his lip. Whatever this was, the platform was already dotted with intent detonators. If this was some surprise attack, Lucas would soon know. He sighed, his curiosity getting the better of him, and he lowered the gangway. 

“Welcome aboard, ma cheri,” he called down the open ramp. An elegant shadow in grey and yellow stepped into view and Lucas bowed, one arm sweeping out. “Wipe your feet before you come up, s’il vous plaît. It’s simply filthy out there.”

Hurrying back to his bunk, he pushed up the platform to hide his bedding and flipped down both benches on either side of the little table where he ate and planned and built most of his tools. He started to sit, then rose again and dispensed two cups of hot water for tea, dropping in sachets from his dwindling stash and set them down across from each other.

By the time Jan turned the corner into the main area of the ship, Lucas was sat back, right arm hooked over the back rest, left leg crossed over the other, ankle to knee. He lowered orange-tinted lenses over his eyes and smiled.

“Welcome aboard,” he repeated, biting his cheek when he realized he’d already run through his script.

“You already said that,” Jan replied, voice smooth. Well, mostly smooth, with only a tiny catch at the end which could just be a bit of his old morning hoarseness. Jan’s mind was completely shielded—fuck he’d gotten good at that—but there was a twitch in his left pinkie and he hesitated before sitting. “I appreciate the hospitality,” he nodded before switching their cups and taking a slow sip from the one that had been in front of Lucas.

“Ah, ma cheri, you wound me…” He shook his head and took the other tea cup, blowing away the steam. “You still don’t trust me.” Lucas clucked his tongue, grateful he’d thought to don his glasses as his eyes burned in the attempt to keep his voice light. “Well?” He looked up over the lip of his cup between sips. “While your company is a pleasure as always…” They could both pretend Jan’s cheeks warmed from the heat of his tea. “You said you had something to discuss with me.”

Jan set down his cup and watched the steam rise. “To be completely honest with you, Luc, I’m not entirely sure why I’m here.”

All Lucas’ powers couldn’t stifle how much he wanted Jan to say his name again, how much he needed Jan to say his name again. He hid his face behind his cup and took another sip to buy time to settle his heart. “Interesting,” he murmured, cracked voice betraying him. Jan’s eyes shot up.

Lucas sat, silent and pinned down by his gaze, until Jan finally continued. “I suppose given everything that’s happened, I…” Jan addressed his cup, lifting it up for another slow sip. “I was so sure we’d done everything we could do to help Re. That we’d given him every safeguard, every protection possible. But…” He shook his head. “If I was wrong about that,” he whispered, more to himself than to Lucas. “What else have I been wrong about?”

“What’s happened?” Lucas leaned forward, reaching for Jan before he could even think to stop himself. “What’s wrong with Re?”

Jan leaned back, eyebrow raised, and sipped his tea. -”You don’t hear him?”- he asked silently.

Brow furrowed, Lucas closed his eyes and reached out. There was the buzz of Jan’s shield, a dark, staticy hole where his feelings should be. A couple asleep in their ship two platforms down. The rumble of families in the surrounding shelters. A little boy crying from a nightmare. And then…

Lucas gasped. Like finally noticing a song playing in the background, he suddenly registered the touch of Re’s mind in the distance. His cup clattered to the table and he leapt to his feet. Re! “You left him alone? Unshielded and alone and—”

“And happy,” Jan murmured to his cup, seated serenely across from him. “And not alone.”

Lucas slowly took his seat, stretching, feeling for any sense he could detect of Re’s thoughts over the distance. He’d moored this ship on the knife’s edge of his own abilities, near enough to hear everyone in HQ. Far enough he wouldn’t be too tempted to listen.

Re was completely unshielded but… he was calm. His thoughts rippled around him, gentle and rhythmic drops on a pond. Sleeping? Given the hour and the wordlessness of his thoughts, probably. A light sleep, no dreams yet, nothing that would trigger a strong emotional response at least. He was calm and content and… happy.

And Jan was right. Re was not alone.

“Is Ro—” He shook his head, answering his own question. No, if Ro had been with him, the boys most certainly would be up and making good trouble around—or outside—the house. No, he was with…

“He’s with Machina,” Jan answered.

“You left him alone with your twitchy bot?” Again, Lucas was on his feet, stomping toward the controls. “You trust him not to hurt him? I know you remember what hap—”

Jan followed and caught his arm, pulling him away from the pilot’s seat. His hand was warm through his gloves, gentle as it lingered on his forearm. “The Muse would never hurt Machina. Never intentionally.”

“I’m not talking about your fucking robot getting hurt! How do you know it won’t hurt Re?”

He never got to answer.

Lucas’ wrist buzzed half a second before a charge rocked the ship. “Get down!” he ordered and pushed Jan to the deck. Another blast hit the other side of the ship. 

The glow of his comm screen peeked out from under Jan’s sleeve and he pushed it back. Jan swore. “They’re close. Too many to count.”

Lucas nodded, shifting to tap at his own wrist. Bright white dots surrounded their location. The hull clanked, hurricane clamps tearing at the fuselage. “Damn.” 

Jan twisted beneath him, eyes wide and staring at his wrist. “You still wear your—”

He ignored the question and pushed to his feet before offering a hand to Jan. “You turned off your proximity alarm.”

“Had to,” he muttered, brushing imagined dust off his cloak. “It went off every day at the DC. Don’t avoid the question. Why do you still wear—”

Another blast rocked the ship. The corpos were getting bolder. And closer. A second blast was followed by a pained cry. They were now near enough to trigger the intent charges.

Lucas shook his head, eyeing the roof hatch. “We need to get out of here.”

The outer hull blew and jackboots tromped up the gangway, comms crackling. Lucas dropped the inner blast door just before they reached the top, then grabbed Jan and a pack. He sealed off the corridor from the inside just before the corpos entered the main control room.

They were now trapped inside the ship.

-“We need help,”- Jan corrected and pressed the HQ alert on his wrist. -“Now.”-

[neurotypical-karen]

Growing up in a small flooring store genuinely shaped me on a fundamental level. like I cannot express what it was like to wriggle inside of a display rack to take a nap or climb 30 feet of scaffold over a bare concrete floor as an 8-year-old.

[hamsterbellbelle]

CC list #2 for Shady Ripperdoc Center🎦:

CC list #1 HERE

Panel with spark || Pharmacy sign || Plants || Plants || Plants || Plastic chair || Poker table || Police line/body outline/blood puddle || Police line ||

Ramen neon sign || Recycle bin/trashes || Ripper table clutter - A - B || Rug (long) || Scaffolding || Sci-fi decal || Sci-fi panels || Signs || Sofa || Sticky notes || Stool || Street light || String of photos ||

Toilet paper - A - B || Toilet stall || Tool board || Towel rack - A - B || Towel || Trash (decor) - A - B - C || Trashcan || Urinal || Vent || Waiting room sign || Wall dirt || Wall flyers || Wall tube lights || Wallpaper/ladder || Wallpaper - A - B - C ||

Water bucket/dipper/faucet with hose || Water bucket || Water puddle || Window || Window || Wires with spark ||

🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹             🐹   

Animated text scroll || Arch || Arch || Astray with smoke || Batuu boxes separated || Ceiling crane || Chair with clothes || Cyberpunk 2077 billboard || Cyberpunk divider || Cyberpunk neons || Cyberpunk posters || Cyberpunk wall decal || Dirty curtain || Floor ||

Medical stool || Metal panel || Metal table || Monitor - chart - data || Ripperdoc (hospital) functional objects || Ripperdoc monitor || Suitcase laptop || Transparent grate floor || Wall duct || Warning scroll || Window (red) || Wires || Zone number light ||

[arcane-fanfic]

Beneath the Crown - Act X

Chapter 1 – "The Matchstick"

The applause from Caitlyn's press conference still echoed across news broadcasts, social feeds, headlines. But in the margins and far from the podium, the lights and the clean words, Vi moved differently.

She didn’t want cameras. She didn’t want speeches. She wanted faces. Names. The people left behind.

So she went back underground.

She returned to the burned-out remains of The Pit, then walked past it. Into the neighborhoods where police had rounded up protestors and never filed the paperwork. Into shelters where missing persons flyers faded on corkboards. Into corners of the city where the rebellion had sparked... then vanished.

They remembered her. Scarred lip. Cocky smile. Quiet now. Listening more than she spoke.

She met a woman named Joy, whose daughter disappeared after joining a Crown rehabilitation program. A teenager named Yusuf, who’d filmed riot officers beating his brother (footage confiscated, never seen again). A former Palace staffer who told Vi she wasn’t the only one who had seen Aline Moreau vanish. Others had, too. Many stayed quiet.

All stories. All pain. All silenced.

Vi recorded every name, every date, every quote. She brought it to Juliette in a single envelope.

"You want more than a confession?" she said. "Then print this. Let them see the whole machine."

Juliette flipped through the notes, eyes narrowing.

"This is dangerous, Vi."

"So was the truth Caitlyn told. This isn’t just about her family anymore. It never was."

Juliette looked at her, quiet. "You’re not doing this for her."

"No," Vi said. "I’m doing this for the ones who didn’t get a stage."

The article dropped three days later.

“The Hidden Engine: How the Crown Maintains Control”

It wasn’t poetic. It was surgical. Names. Photos. First-hand accounts. The systems that had enabled Caitlyn’s family to hide the truth for decades had also crushed hundreds of others.

It spread like wildfire.

This time, the protests returned.

But they were smarter. More organized. The people weren’t just angry, they were informed. They weren’t shouting for a name. They were shouting for change.

Caitlyn saw the article late that night, sitting alone on the balcony of her temporary flat.

She read every word. Every testimony. Her name wasn’t in the piece. Neither was Vi’s.

But she knew.

She folded the paper slowly, placed it on the table beside her tea, and whispered into the dark:

"Thank you."

Somewhere across the city, Vi sat in the back room of a community center, a young protestor asleep beside her. There was no camera. No speech. Just her voice reading a story out loud to whoever still listened.

The match had been struck again. But this time, the fire belonged to the people.

Chapter 2 – "Ash and Pulse"

The tunnels beneath Southbank still breathed with the low hum of forgotten machines. Damp brick. Rusted scaffolding. Memories pressed into concrete.

Vi stepped through the service gate behind the old train station. No guards. No passwords. Just an old whistle blown three times. The door opened.

Ekko stood in the dark, leaner now, but all fire in the eyes.

"You came late," he said.

"Wasn’t sure you'd still be running things," Vi replied.

He grinned, tired and sharp. "I'm not running anything. I'm holding it together. That's different."

The Firelights had become something new now. Not graffiti-tag kids on bikes, but a communication network buried beneath the city. Runners. Hackers. Smugglers. Organizers. All young. All angry.

Ekko walked Vi past a row of repurposed server racks and sleeping mats. "They think things are changing. They saw Caitlyn’s speech. They think justice is trending."

Vi raised an eyebrow. "Isn't it?"

Ekko shook his head. "Justice doesn't trend. People forget fast. Especially once the Crown finds a new scapegoat."

They stopped outside a rusted side room. A whiteboard was covered in names and places. In the corner: printed stills from a video.

Vi stepped closer. A chemical spill. A protest. Riot police. A boy in the hospital.

"South Wharf," Ekko said. "Refinery owned by a Crown-adjacent investor. Leaks, cover-ups, forced displacement. The story’s buried."

Vi felt something twist in her gut. This wasn’t a ghost from the past. This was now.

"Why haven’t you gone public?"

Ekko shrugged. "We don’t have reach. Just facts. And pain."

Vi turned toward him slowly. "I do."

Chapter 3 – "The Quiet One"

The door creaked open with the kind of reluctance that came from habit. Vi stepped into a low-ceilinged flat tucked into an old library wing, repurposed, almost invisible. She found Viktor hunched over a desk, his frame thinner, his limbs lined with old burns and scars.

"I thought you were a ghost," he said without turning.

"I might be," Vi replied.

He turned, finally. His face was older. So was his silence.

"You didn’t come to reminisce," Viktor said.

Vi shook her head. "I came because I need something only you have. Truth. Tech. Names. Data that still matters."

Viktor motioned to the corner of the room. A stack of hard drives. Folders. Photos.

"I’ve been collecting. Quietly. I can’t undo what I was part of. But I can show you what no one else wants to see."

Vi sat beside him. "Why now?"

Viktor looked at her, eyes hollow. "Because you’re not hiding anymore. And because Caitlyn made it possible to remember."

He picked up a small drive. Labeled only: EVIDENCE. SOUTH WHARF.

"Inside is footage from internal surveillance servers I cracked a year ago," Viktor said. "A tech contractor for the refinery contacted me anonymously. They were forced to install thermal sensors. Not to prevent accidents, but to track heat signatures... human ones."

Vi frowned. "What for?"

"To detect protests forming before they became visible. The Crown used it to send riot teams preemptively, before anyone even shouted."

Viktor’s voice was razor-thin now. "There’s also footage of officers dragging injured protestors into unmarked vans. No medical aid. Some never reappeared. And there are documents: contracts, purchase orders, encryption logs showing the entire system was funded through a quiet subsidiary, directly linked to the Royal Department of Civic Order."

Vi’s blood went cold.

Viktor handed her the drive. "This is the part they’ll kill to keep buried."

"Then we better make it too loud to bury," Vi said.

"I was never brave enough to speak," he added. "So give them my voice."

Vi nodded, swallowing the weight in her throat.

Chapter 4 – "Signal Fire"

The next morning, the city didn't wake so much as jolt to life.

Juliette's article dropped just after dawn. No soft rollout. Just truth—raw and blistering.

"The Eyes Behind the Smoke: Inside the Crown's Covert Suppression Network."

Screens lit up. Streets rippled. A single scream became a crowd. Then a march. Then cities. It spread not like a headline but like fire through dry timber.

But fire, Vi knew, could just as easily burn the innocent.

She stood in the war room of an abandoned courthouse turned resistance hub, surrounded by old maps, glowing monitors, and live feeds from street drones. Ekko sat cross-legged on the floor, headset on, speaking in clipped tones to underground teams across the boroughs. Viktor had set up a relay system to amplify crowd-safe signals. Juliette updated their allies through encrypted news hubs and private forums.

"It’s too fast," Juliette murmured, eyes wide at the dashboards of growing protest zones. "This could spiral. We need a message. We need structure."

Vi looked out at the screen, there was a sea of people surging in front of Parliament, fists raised, signs like wounds stitched with names. One sign read: “We remember South Wharf.” Another: “No more shadows.”

"We don’t stop them," Vi said. "We guide them."

She turned to Ekko. "You get the kids into position. Medics. Exit routes. Supply chains. Keep the marchers safe."

To Viktor: "You jam riot frequencies, but don’t interfere unless it turns. You hear me? No escalation."

To Juliette: "Push the live streams. But cut anything that shows faces unless they’ve consented."

And then she walked outside.

Just Vi. No mic. No crown. No guards.

She stood atop the broken steps of what once was a city hall and raised her hand. Not to command. To join.

They quieted, slowly. Tens of thousands. London’s heart beating in pause.

"I don’t have a title," she called. Her voice was rough, cracked from use. "I don’t have bloodlines or birthrights. What I’ve got is this..."

She pointed behind her. At the building. At the city.

"...a place that should belong to all of us. Not just the ones with the keys."

She held up a copy of the South Wharf files. Shaking in her grip.

"We’ve been watched. Tracked. Beaten. Lied to. They used our pain to polish their image. That ends now. Not with violence. With vision. With power that we hold, together."

There were no cheers. Just something heavier. A silence that sank in. A collective breath.

And then the march moved.

Orderly. Massive. Unstoppable.

Chapter 5 – "Quiet Witness"

Everything was broadcast live from every angle, and Caitlyn, watching from the television in her hotel room, didn’t miss a thing.

She hadn't spoken to Vi since the letter.

She hadn't needed to.

Because this...this...was louder than any apology.

She was no longer just a lover or a rebel. She was a conductor. Turning grief into purpose. Chaos into harmony. Rage into change.

Juliette's broadcast fed to every screen. Viktor's encrypted networks rerouted resources. Ekko’s people protected the front lines.

But it was Vi who gave the movement direction.

Caitlyn pressed a hand to the windowpane. She felt her heart lift and crack open.

Her mother stepped beside her, silent.

"She did it," Caitlyn whispered.

Elisabeth nodded slowly. "She is doing it."

And for the first time in weeks, Caitlyn let the tears fall. Not from despair.

From awe.

[tianjinwellmadescaffold]

Steel Pallet Manufacturing - Wellmade China -European Standard Steel Sti...

[indecisivemuch]

Time wasn't in our favor - Part 3

Pairing: TASM Peter Parker (Andrew Garfield) x Female!Reader

Summary: What if...your soulmate is from another universe but you didn't know? Soulmate AU. Set during NWH, fluff.

Note: So...ended up making part 3 before the two endings. Also, I apologize for the long wait. I went from "University makes me want to die" to writers block, so that was not great.

Word count: 1.5k

Series Masterlist: Prologue, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Happy Ending, Sad Ending.

"Any closer to finding out who that is?" MJ asked, gesturing to the photo booth pictures in front of Y/N as she slid Y/N her favorite doughnut.

It has been a week after the incident - the day that Y/N found herself crying near the Statue of Liberty out in the middle of nowhere; the day that she, Ned and MJ sported several injuries for no apparent reason; the day that her life felt oddly empty, as if it was missing something essential; the day that her tattoo turned red, yet she had no recollection of how or when it did.

"No...and I don't know who I kissed either. Was I that drunk? Did we sneak into some college party and drink to the point we blacked out?" Y/N theoreticized. Ned, who sat next to her, patted her back in empathy, "It's okay...you'll figure it out." Y/N stared down at her photo again, ignoring the sound of the store's doorbell ringing.

"Hi, anything I can get for you?" MJ asked the customer while Y/N racked her brain for possible explanations. It was clear that she was intimate with this stranger. She scowled at herself, flipping the photo around.

I don't even know anybody with the initial "P.P.", mayb-

"Hi, I'm Peter Parker and-" Y/N snapped her head at the boy, but her excitement died as soon as it came.

He was not the boy in her photo.

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

"Okay so...crying....down there," she muttered to herself, as if it would help. It was crazy that she was standing up here, but something about it felt compelling enough. Currently, Y/N was standing on the scaffolding next to the Statue of Liberty, peering down at the spot she was previously crying at. Y/N scrunched her eyes as she leaned a little outwards to look at the shield. Upon seeing what looked like blood, her foot instinctively took a step forward to get a better look, though her hand clinging onto a pipe to ensure she was being somewhat safe. 

Against her calculation, the already leaning section of the scaffolding let out a loud sound before rapidly crumbling down. As she tipped along with the construction falling outwards, her hands automatically wrapped around the pipe they were already clinging to. A scream left her lips as she could feel gravity pulling her downwards. 

The scaffolding stopped. 

It didn’t completely fall apart. Instead, it was hanging her outwards with a chance of falling to her death. The adrenaline pumped as she could feel her heartbeat tripling its speed. It was foolish, but Y/N looked down and shut her eyes immediately after. She knew it was high up, but seeing no ground touching her feet made her panic even more. Upon opening her eyes, Y/N’s mind tugged at an idea as she spotted the level below her that looked somewhat stable enough.

It was risky, but at that point, what other choice does she have? With all her might, Y/N swung herself forward and landed in the level below. Her body fully collided with the metal ground, hitting the air out of her. The impact definitely left a bruise.

It was moments of silence, before Y/N felt tears emerging and free falling down her cheeks. It had only sunken in now how it felt almost too familiar hanging like that. Y/N slowly sat up as she registered what just happened. Using her hand and wrist, she wiped away the tears and covered her eyes, ignoring the sting on her soul mark as soon as it made contact with her tears. She sniffed before removing her hand from her eyes. However, the girl was caught off-guard upon seeing yellow sparks on her hands and wrist. They illuminated, shining brighter and brighter. Slowly, they multiplied before rising from her hand and floating around her. Y/N stood up in shock, unable to utter a word as she glanced at the floating sparks around her. 

Before she knew it, they all evaporated.

“After you save my New York City.”

Y/N gasped as she turned around to the source of the voice, only to see sparks shaping like a human being - the shape of her. Opposite to it was a spark version of the guy from her photo. He was hung upside down, wearing a spiderman suit which made Y/N mouth fall slightly open. Both of them evaporated again.

Then her world was sent into a whirl.

Y/N turned around as she heard another voice. This time she saw the two in a lab sitting next to each other. Her ears started buzzing as noises of mutters from different conversations took over. Meanwhile, the sparks multiplied again, jumping everywhere and displaying different moments between her and the stranger. 

“I think you need it more than me,” she spun around again, seeing herself holding a dandelion while the guy peered down at her. Y/N stumbled slightly as she tried to take a look at every little scene, feeling overwhelmed as more conversations popped up. Then she heard a scream, which made her look in that direction.

“No!” she shouted, hands reaching outwards as she saw the spark version of herself fall from the scaffolding. Y/N ran forward and towards the fence, peering down at a reflection of herself. What surprised her was a figure that dove from above her, his sparkled form shooting straight forward at her falling spark-figure. 

Both her hands covered her mouth as Y/N watched the scene unfold. As soon as the figures’ fingers touched, a breath of relief left her mouth before the memories came colliding inside her brain, knocking her backward and onto her knees as the sparkles all gathered around her.

It felt like a hurricane as the memories flooded back - the moment she met him, the moments they spent together, including the moment he left her. She remembered it all. She remembered crying as she clung onto the sparks that slowly evaporated as he returned to his universe. 

However, she never noticed until now how some of the sparks clung to her and stayed behind. It sunk into her while she cried and mourned for a love she never had the chance to explore, before her memories of him were pulled. 

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

“Doctor Strange. Please.”

“You were never meant to remember in the first place.”

“Do you know how it feels to be away from your soulmate? Knowing you may potentially never see them again? It hurts, Doctor Strange. Please,” he somehow halted at this, causing Y/N to abruptly stop behind him as well. She watched as he turned around to look at her. She could see the battle that was going on in his mind as he contemplated her wish.

“Fine. One visit.”

“Thank you,” she breathed out in relief.

A couple of grumbles escaped from the man. Even though she couldn't hear, Y/N knew they were complaints about her. Doctor Strange settled his coffee mug onto a table before turning back to the girl. With ease, the man opened up a portal. The sight was similar to the alleyway she saw Peter Parker enter from, but it was daylight instead.

“Thank you so much, Dr Strange,” the girl repeated once again as she walked out of the portal that the man had just conjured up for her.

“Avoid yourself in this universe and don’t cause any trouble, alright?” Dr Strange lectured sternly, knowing that his actions were wrong and could potentially cause a multiverse problem. But he empathized with the girl. A part of him did it because he knew how it felt to not be with your soulmate. Despite the unbothered exterior he had set up, his heart ached every morning as he put on the watch that his soulmate had gifted him while they were still together. His eyes glanced down at his soul mark, which was covered by the pre-mentioned watch, except it was cracked. Then he looked back at the girl again.

“Come back in two hours, yeah?” though his voice made the question come out as more of a command than anything. But the girl knew it was all with good intentions, so she nodded and watched as the man closed the magic portal.

The girl ran through the portal without any hesitation, jumping slightly when she saw it closed straight away. Cautiously exiting the alley, the girl gulped as she realized how reckless she was being - entering another universe with no plan beforehand. How was she going to find Peter?

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

Series Masterlist: Prologue, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Happy Ending, Sad Ending.

[dearlyd3parted]

the bed wars hacker (˚0˚)!!- 01 chat he's hacking (written parts)

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

the stream starts, viewers and donors already going up, as the thousands of viewers start to flow in. yn is smiling in her usual streaming place, a cozy background behind her as she adjusts her headphones and sakuya is connected into the stream.

y/n: "hi guys!" -reading the chat as it goes by, when sakuya connects smiling into the camera- "saku!! hi!!"

sakuya: (waves to camera) "hi ynnie and ynniecraft! it's been so long since i've been guest by myself!"

chat:

randomfan1: THEY ARE SO CUTE IM IN TEARS

mincraftluvr donated $5

randomfan2: WE ARE SOOOO BACK

randomfan3: ARE THEY STARTING SOON?

★gojofanboy gained top donor title!

randomfan4: GOJO FAN BOY ALREADY TOP DONOR IM CRYING

y/n: "saku, i think it needs to be like this more often. your brother causes too much uproar when he's here. i asked him if he wanted to join but he rejected me pretty hard..."

sakuya: "is it because i'm here? how mean..." -sakuya pouts, his eyebrows furrowing a bit- "i'll have to confront him for that..." -sakuya says with a small grin-

y/n: -you stare at him a little intrigued, slightly concerned before laughing it off. "okay...! let's join hypixel, yeah?"

you both join a server, making your ways into bed wars duos, where the both of you will be competing against other teams of two. a few eager fans trickle in who join in hopes of competing against you, but nonetheless it's looking to be a fun stream. especially when you and sakuya get assigned the color pink and get reasonably excited about it.

the game begins, with you and sakuya splitting up. his goal is to protect your own pink bed, while yours is to destroy other team's beds to eliminate them from the game.

as the game begins you make your way through the map, fighting with opposing teams and taking out beds as usual, commenting back and forth with sakuya.

that is until you see a player from the green team fall from their island, all on their lonesome.

"um...someone's new here...," you say through giggles to sakuya. watching from the distance as the player regenerates.

the player, penguinkai, as his gamertag reads runs straight out of his base, equipped with a mere wooden sword as they still make their way to you regardless. you watch in a mixture of shock and amusement as they slowly build a bridge over to you, falling a few more times in the process, and it's clear to you they have never played bed wars, or possibly, minecraft in general.

"it's like he doesn't even know how to jump!" you tell sakuya, deciding to have fun with it as opposing teams kept themselves busy in eliminating each other.

penguinkai finally reaches you, but misses almost every hit as you take him out, and you continue to kill him for nearly the next 5 minutes (but mostly, he's taking out himself, somehow giving you his own sward in the process). your live chat finds it as entertaining as you slowly close in on him, all his efforts to stop you going in vain.

with his teammate fighting with another team, his green bed is left defenseless in his care. you're about to start to break into the protecting blocks surrounding it, when penguinkai regenerates again, but this time he returns with armor and a weapon and...he kills you?

you are brought back to your base, and stare in confusion at the webcam, sakuya noticing that you had died for the first time in the whole match. "ynnie...what happened?" he questions with a shock in his voice.

"the noob that sucks, he...killed me?" you say, gathering items and running back to the green base only to find penguinkai has managed to rack up a few kills, and is now holding a much better sword in his hand, even using a scaffolding a method to bridge over to you much faster.

for the next few minutes, a battle unfolds between the two of you, with penguinkai not letting you get close. somehow, the player who could hardly jump or walk properly, was using techniques that took you time to master when you first started playing. and it was hurting your ego knowing all your viewers were seeing it. it is then that you finally look closely at his ranking, and discover he has an amethyst prestige, levels 900-999...only one rank under you. the gears instantly align in your head as you speak.

"chat...is he hacking?"

sakuya immediately gasps, and the chat bursts into an agreement as the battle continues. after a bit more, you are able to break into his base, and eliminate his bed, eliminating the green team from the game.

you quickly move on to fight with the only remaining team, leading to a win for you and sakuya. but for some reason, it tasted sour knowing you almost lost it to an alleged hacker. you and sakuya started running over the match, all the signs leading to him being a hacker.

"that was so embarrasing," you say with a sheepish smile, "one minute i was saying he sucks and then he actually kills me. even if it was only once."

sakuya nods, the chat still blowing up. "players like him always get banned eventually, we'll have to look into him after stream."

the stream continued, but the buzz of the hacker never died down and you had a feeling that it wasn't the last you'd be hearing of penguinkai.

______________⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ⋆_______________

soobin watched as the server number was leaked for the night's stream, and he had a sinister, sinister, idea.

normally, his best friend/roommate/minecraft addict, huening kai, would never let him play any online minecraft game. seeing one of his favorite streamers play it always made him want to as well, but kai claimed it was too difficult and soobin wasn't ready considering he could barely handle survival mode (with cheats on), and kai's answer never changed despite any begs.

before he knew it, he was up and in kai's room opening minecraft on his pc and typing in the server number. kai not being home yet was the perfect opportunity, and truly, how hard could it be?

he managed to be lucky enough to get in, and as the game began, he waited anxiously, reminding himself what the W A S D keys did, and pulling up the ynniecraft stream on the second monitor.

low and behold, it was that difficult. not only was the map and all its details foreign to him, playing the game as good as he watches you doing it proved to be a lot more complicated than it appeared on stream. his other teammate was nowhere to be found as soobin fumbled around in the base, no clue where to begin as his heart raced at the thought of you being in the same map, but his heart really raced when he heard you laugh at someone falling off the map and turned to the stream to find his base in view.

he swallowed his fears and figured this was his chance to play with his favorite streamer as well as impress you. using some building blocks and a wooden sword, he prepared to go to battle, hoping to at least get one hit in but...a manslaughter ensued. every key he pressed did the exact opposite of what he wanted to do, and it was so damn difficult to not fall off the map.

he became a sweating, focused, mess as he tried his best, listening to your quips and bickers about him, not even daring to read through the chat. he hadn't even noticed how long he had been playing until.

"soobin! what are you doing?!" kai asked as he burst inside his room.

soobin backed away from the computer, his chair getting pulled back as kai watched his monitors in horror. "i...she was playing bed wars, i wanted to join..." soobin confessed.

kai's face went pale as he looked at the viewer count, a total of 400,000+ watching the twitch stream. "oh god, don't tell me that many people have been watching you get murdered on MY account..." kai dreadfully said, his eyes trailing back to soobin.

"i didn't know it was that hard!" soobin said as kai pulled him from the chair, sitting down to start playing himself. "i'm sorry! it's not that bad!"

"maybe not that bad for you, people think this is me!" kai said. quickly taking control of the game and managing to barely protect the bed in time.

they both watched in silence, a thick tension in the room before your voice broke through...."chat, is he hacking?," and it was all it took for kai to look at soobin with a dark expression.

none of them could say much, but eventually you beat kai, listening to the entire conversation that followed before moving onto the next game, before kai finally turned around in his chair to look at soobin white as a ghost.

"choi soobin, i'm gonna kill you."

______________⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ⋆_______________

[sigilmint]

Curious about 🥑, 🎨, & 🪲

🥑 ⇢ you accidentally killed somebody, which mutual(s) do you text for help?

@illmetkismet to get my head on straight though being in a different country might not be the most helpful :P @intimesnewhomo i feel like i could rely on to like, come figure it all out with me irl

🎨 ⇢ link your favourite piece of fanart and explain why you like it

wait fave of mine or fave piece of fanart EVER?? I guess I'll post both!!

my fave piece of mine at the moment:

faves of others':

@eiramew's art is so lovely and it's hard to choose a fave, but I find myself thinking about this specific set of renders fairly often:

whenever i'm in need of inspiration, i pick up @jaradraws' huevember zine and my whole brain lights up:

of course, @shoomlah has been a huge inspiration to me since ~2013, here's one of my faves from her:

all of @harpaax's egor stuff is!! chef's kiss:

I could go on and on for a million years recc'ing artists that I adore, but there's a taste~ So many amazing and inspiring artists out there :')

🪲 ⇢ add 50 words to your current wip and share the paragraph here

OMG SPOILERS okay I will write 50 words in my current WIP (CMWL) but I will also cherry-pick a paragraph that isn't super spoilery:

Letting himself down onto the rock, he keeps hold of the scaffolding for balance, the structure holding up the huge rack of lights displaying a good morning graphic for all to see. It’s only a short slip into icy oblivion from here, but he manages to keep close to the wall of stone fortifying his manor until his feet are on solid ground.

[lostinthewalls]

ONESHOT #1

Mynx's Dilemma

Summary: A borrower and their friend go out on a mission. An accident occurs which leads to quite an odd series of events.

Word count: 1,519

TW: Panic attack, slight gore

STORY UNDER THE CUT

“Haven’t gone out in a while, huh?” The overly-cheerful voice called from the next room. Mynx looked up with a sigh, standing up and stretching their legs just as their unwanted roommate, an outtie-turned-innie borrower named Bramble walked into the room.

“Yes, yes. I know that. But are you sure it’s safe to go borrowing with the ah- new human around here? They seem aggressive…” Mynx fretted, tugging on their newly-crafted borrower bag, wrapping their rope up into a ring.

Bramble scoffed, crossing his arms as he leaned against the matchbox table, “I’m sure it’s fine, M! It’s just a new human moving in. Plus, there’s boxes galore that we can hide behind, anyway.”

Bramble was always the overly-confident one. Of course. Mynx heaved a sigh, but forced a nod and smile, tying their hair up with a piece of string. They snatched their patchwork jacket from the fishhook in the wall and swung it over their shoulders as Bramble began getting himself ready as well.

Mynx wouldn’t call the two of them friends. They were far from it. The only reason Bramble was even here in the first place was because of an…accident he never spoke about. It was easier if he didn’t speak about it anyway, though. One, because Mynx didn’t exactly care, and two, whenever they did rack up the courage to ask about it, Bramble’s mood would suddenly turn sour and the man would sulk into another room.

Besides that, however, they were on equal terms. After all, the code said to take in and welcome any stragglers with open arms. They had the same enemy, after all, didn’t they? Mynx shook their head with a sigh, pinching the bridge of their nose and kneeling to search in a lower drawer.

“Say- speaking of the new human here- ever wonder what happened to the old one?” Bramble perked up, boosting himself up to sit on the matchbox, kicking his feet absently,

“I don’t know. Died, or something. He was old…” Mynx replied, barely focusing. They put their hands on their knees and shoved themselves up, zipping up their bag, “But that doesn’t matter. Get ready. Your the one who wanted to do this.”

“Right, right.” Bramble thankfully slid off the table and skittered into the other room, rounding the corner with nothing more than a wave. Mynx was glad he was gone for now. It gave them time to think.

About what? They didn’t know. They stretched one final time, their tail swaying on the ground like a feather duster behind them. They kept staring into space until finally, after what felt like an eternity, Bramble finally showed back up ready to go.

“Well? Are you going to stand there sulking all day or are we going to get going??” Bramble called. Mynx did a double take and found him halfway out the door. They ran to catch up, shutting the door just as the two crossed the threshold into the walls. 

Bramble obviously took the lead, ever-confident as he was, while Mynx stayed back and took in the ‘amusing’ scenery. It wasn’t much. Just scaffolding, nails, the usual. They trailed their hand along the wall as Bramble led the way, both of their lamps lighting the path forwards.

They kept walking for a while before something caught on their hand. They winced, stopping suddenly as a sharp scent of blood filled the small corrider. Bramble turned, looking puzzled himself.

“What the hell?” Mynx mumbled, bringing their hand close to their face and squinting. Bramble walked over and held up his lamp, providing a decent amount of light. They both cringed when they saw it.

A fresh, rather deep cut on Mynx’s palm. It trickled blood down the borrower’s wrist, staining the sleeve of their jacket. It was blood mixed with something…else. 

Something strange. A black, gooey substance, a lot like tar, actually. Mynx had heard of what tar was. They knew it could be dangerous but- they’d worry about it later.

“Yeesh…thats a pretty nasty cut, M..” Bramble mumbled, already grabbing some scraps of gauze from his backpack.

“No- no, Bram, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.” Mynx huffed, but took the gauze anyways and wrapped their hand up, “It’s probably nothing, anyway.”

Bramble wisel didn’t say anything and continued on. Mynx followed after him, although oddly a tad lethargic since the cut made them feel…odd. Like their limbs were locked up or something. That wasn’t good at all.

They shook the feeling off as just plain old exhaustion- as it always was- and eventually, the two emerged from the walls and into a livingroom, where unpacked boxes lined every single open wall.

There was a TV left on the ground, along with a punching bag set up in a corner near the entrance to another room. Mynx and Bramble exchanged cautious looks before starting their mission.

“Don’t do anything risky this time, Bram- it’s not- not worth it.” Mynx was alarmed at how hard it was to speak all of a sudden, but thankfully, Bramble gave a nod and helped them jump across a pile of blankets left on the floor. They stumbled a bit, their tail straightening like a ruler as they struggled to stay on their feet.

“Should be saying the same to you, M. What’s with this whole act all of a sudden? Your not being dramatic, are you?”

Mynx could only shake their head with a small groan. The whole room was spinning but- they couldn’t go back. They had a job to do, after all. Both them and Bramble.

There was walking in the next room and Bramble paused. Mynx however, did not. They kept walking…they couldn’t stop now. The throbbing in their legs would certainly grow worse if they did. Their vision began darkening along the edges. They shoved through it. This couldn’t be happening. It was just some stupid cut, right!?

Right. They kept going even when the muffled voice of Bramble called for them to stop. They keot going even when they stumbled and fell to their knees. They kept going even when that strange, black tar substance eagerly snaked up their arm and caressed their cheek. Why did they feel like they were stretching?

“MYNX-” The final shout of Bramble finally got through to them just as their head slammed against something hard. They looked up, startled. The…ceiling fan!? What?

They stumbled backwards, trying to determine what was happening. They looked around. Everything was..smaller. Too small. They cringed and crashed into the punching bag in the corner of the room.

“BRAMBLE!? WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME?” They cried desperately, their voice gargled from panic. This- they felt horrid. They felt…human. This…this was a dream. They had to wake up any minute now, right!?

They crashed to their knees, clawing desprately at the carpet with nails that had turned into pitch-black claws. Blood pulsed in their ears as they heard someone moving in the next room. They felt behind them, reaching behind to pin their lashing tail against the ground, using their other hand to claw at their face, struggling to get the substance off.

“BRAMBLE!!” They screamed again. No response. They looked up as a stranger burst into the room.

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE!?” A woman screeched. She had balled fists and an angry expression as she stormed in, grabbing Mynx by the collar faster than they could react and slamming the suddenly much taller borrower into the wall. They winced at the contact, eyes going wide with instinctive fear.

“I- I UHM- ER-” Mynx stumbled for a response as the short, burly woman took in their appearance and took a step back, releasing them as they coughed, sucking in some much needed air.

“Actually- what the hell are you?” She scowled, standing in front of them with a scrutinizing gaze. They reached up to their face again, pulling at the substance which had now hardened. It peeled off easily, like dried glue, and fell in deep, ashen piles on the carpet.

“I- please ma’am I don’t intend you any harm it’s just- I never expected this to happen-” Mynx managed. Clearly talking to a human can’t be that hardnow that he was a few heads taller than her, right?

“Riiight. Like breaking and entering wasn’t ‘intentional’.” She scoffed, watching as the stranger continued to pull off that odd black stuff covering them.

Eventually, it was mostly off after a while of sitting in awkward silence. They breathed a heavy sigh of relief, suddenlt falling backwards, being caught before they could hit the ground.

They glanced up drowsily to be met with Bramble, then stared up at the ceiling fan that was once again, far above their head. They felt faint, now, staring at the human woman who was now quite literally looming over them both.

The womans expression shifted from anger, to confusion, to utter shock like a carasoul before managing a response that didn’t make her sound like a phsycopath.

“I’ll ah- I’ll ask this again, I guess. What the hell are you. Both of you.”

—————

ENDING NOTES: sizeshifting curse my beloved....Mynx is having quite a TIME TODAY. FYI there WILL be another part. And yes this totally serves as a intro peice to my new oc(Mynx I love you such a goober).

But anyway I BEG YOU to ignore the wonderous plot holes and lore gaps. Not much DIRECT G/T interaction in this part, oopsie. But more will come!! (Bramble will be fighting for his life now that his roomie is like a monster now)