Chapter 1 - Insomnia (I'll Never Leave Your Side)
Summary: AGOTI is woken up by a nightmare and seeks comfort from his adoptive father. Solazar doesn't hesitate to attempt to make his child feel better but realizes the only way he can is quite... unconventional. Even after doing so, the night was filled with wonder as the two embark on an adventure...
Word count: 10,764
Character count: 60,904
Tobi talks: This was meant to come out much earlier so apologies for the late upload folks, I had to do some extra proof reading and corrections. This is a passionate project that took nearly two years to create (created back in 8/30/2021) and it's still ongoing! You won't have to wait such a long time as I have spent time on future chapters as well so those will be published much sooner rather than later. Be aware that just because this chapter is void of anything graphic or disturbing does not mean future chapters will not have mature themes present. Please enjoy the story and I thank you wholeheartedly for reading~♡
AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49247710/chapters/12426553
A love letter to the ENTITY crew and its creator @sugarratio1
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Vigorous winds blew within the small confinements of the city and it had everyone cooped up in their homes to escape the harsh weather. It was booming and traveled well into the night, spilling into everyone’s nightly routine as the tiny town quieted down. Life had become stagnant, branches were pulled by the wind, and small puddles accumulated on the roads, undisturbed by the lack of roaring vehicles that would quickly cause them chaos. Contrary to popular belief, thunderstorms weren’t as aesthetically pleasing to everyone.
Inside a humble house inhabited a family of three, both children of which were fast asleep. One struggled, however. He was the youngest out of the nest, squirming in his sleep to try to escape the uncomfortable heat taking over his body. The digidevil child, Agoti, had patterns of sweat stitched into his forehead. With his blanket held hostage, he had no clue where his consciousness had taken him.
“Get away…” He mewled, turning on his side.
Agoti’s dream was shrouded in black, himself being the only thing visible in his nightmare. But there were voices, impish voices taunting him . The child couldn’t even begin to think how the tormentors he met only a day ago got into his head. But that wasn’t very important as they belittled the digidevil, mocking him even more when he began to cry. No matter how frantically he searched for the source of the voices, they couldn't be found.
“Leave me alone!” He cried one final time.
Tears were beginning to leak from his eyes, his whimpers soft and anguished. Agoti fell to his knees and curled up into a ball. “Daddy...Aldie…help me.”
But nobody came. That was soon to change, Agoti was jolted out of his nightmare by the loud clap of lightning. He wrenched up from his bed with an audible gasp. The moment he opened his eyes, he felt afraid. The fear bubbling in his chest built up into a scream he shrieked into the night, his high-pitched and terrified wail muffled by the natural boom of thunder.
His eyes were wide with alarm and what would normally be rivers of salty water spilling from his eyes were strips of VHS film. He was in shock, sitting erect and still from the raw terror circulating his body. The images of his nightmare cycled through his mind and the violent thunderstorm distressing him more as the seconds ticked by drove his quivering lip to release the cries building up the painful lump in his throat.
The toddler’s weeps were loaded with whimpers and snotty hiccups. He tried so desperately to palm away the tears streaming down his face, but alas, they did not relent. His hazy vision stared into the darkness of his bedroom, flinching every time lightning struck and momentarily showed the stark white interior of the room before reverting back to black.
The glowing stars plastered on the ceiling above his bed brought him no level of comfort. Agoti's gaze flickered next to him to his tear-stained stuffed bear. Without hesitation, he grabbed the animal and sought protection under the covers. His face was buried into its soft fur while fresh, hot tears ran free. His sobbing was uncontrollable, squeaking when lightning roared outside as he could never brace himself in time.
Like many young children, Agoti would have trouble sleeping in the dark. His beloved father had noticed his struggles and gifted the boy a nightlight to help soothe him during the night. But right now he couldn’t handle it alone.
The digidevil waited for another minute, anxiously anticipating the sound of the door opening and being met by the gentle glow of his father. Or if he was lucky, his older sister would come through and snuggle under the sheets with him. Both options sounded lovely, so he waited. It soon became apparent after a few minutes none of that was happening. It was only a muffled rainstorm and teddy bear as his friends during this dire time. Terrified to death, he lifted his head out from under his sheets, his hot cheeks streaking with tears.
He wouldn’t get anywhere by calling for them again, the outside cacophony made that feat impossible. The 4-year-old, with shaky hands, slipped off his bed and plopped down on the carpet, leaving his animal friend behind.
Even at his young age, Agoti was unusually small, he couldn’t reach most things that children his age could. Most of what he couldn’t reach was doorknobs, so his father was committed to leaving the door ajar for him to leave at night less a situation similar to his current or if a late-night bathroom break was needed.
He stuck his hand in between the gap and slowly opened the wooden door, grimacing as it moaned along its hinges. Agoti peeked out slowly, feeling an overwhelming sense of dread that made his blood run once in contact with the darkness outside his room.
With this new revelation, Agoti knew he wouldn’t be able to enter the corridor without any… ‘reinforcements’.
The stars above his bed replaced the general use of his nightlight by a long shot and he didn’t have to use it much anymore. But he did keep it and remembered leaving it in his drawer. He turned his attention back inside to the piece of furniture on the other side of the room. The demon walked up to it and sorted through the top section of random junk, eventually hitting something firm and around.
He grabbed it and felt along its side to flick it to life, holding it with both hands. Agoti had to squint when its warm light hit his eyes but adjusted well enough to make out its features. Silk silicon layered the rotund exterior and two ears poked out the top to give it the authentic look of a rabbit.
He left the comfortable quarters of his bedroom after assuring himself his father was just down the hall. Unfortunately for him, he had unluckily directly stepped on a weak floorboard. The sharp squeal made the digidevil jump a foot into the air, snapping his head down so quickly it made him dizzy. Realizing it was just the floor made him sigh out in relief, not doing much to quell the anxieties that prickled at the nape of his neck.
Agoti began to trek down the hallway, it felt much longer than what he experienced during the day. His senses were running on overdrive, acutely aware of every sound surrounding him. Each breath that entered and exited his lungs, the rapid clattering of rain on their roof, the creaking sounds along the floor where he walked, all served to make the experience as sinister as possible.
Then he heard it.
A creak not from his own doing, coming from just behind him.
Agoti whipped around, holding the nightlight right in front of him. He hesitated but ultimately approached the weak floorboard where the noise had resonated.
There was nothing there.
His vision was superior to most species compared to his, but even he struggled to see what was in front of him. Agoti focused and scrutinized the darkest depth of the hallway, seeming to stretch infinitely from where he was standing.
He looked a little harder and that’s when he dropped the only thing that could protect him. He swore he saw a figure move in the dark.
Agoti grabbed it from the ground and quickened his pace, his little feet pattering across the ground. It was enough to finally make it, his hand trembling as he knocked and didn’t dare to move the light hovering over the patch of darkness. The wait was agonizing and the more he glanced back, the more threatened he felt, like a looming presence was steadily approaching him each time he briefly looked away.
Agoti knocked harder, beating his small fist into the wooden door, crying out for his father. The demon could only hope the man would come sooner. After all, who knows what was really in this hallway?
…
The chamber’s only nuance within the stygian and static environment was a bizarre blue figure sitting quietly, holy light shedding from their body. The man with every rapid and accurate keystroke of his fingertips connecting with the keyboard occasionally stopped to sip his coffee. The black kind was his favorite, it being his number-one assistant in getting through the hazy nights made of nothing but raw work ethic. But if he was feeling generous, he would add some cream or sugar to it.
The man lived this lifestyle for numerous decades and it still caused him to call into question how he got here. Sure, he could recall the precise events that landed him as an Earth dweller. But they felt so surreal, it was such an abrupt shift from who he was then.
That didn’t stop him from adapting, however.
Whilst taking out another paper to file and beginning to write on it, he stopped mid-stroke of his cursive handwriting. Solazar began to think, his thoughts were interfered by a flood of memories. It was practically routine at this point for him to take time out of every day to reflect.
Solazar descended from an ancient race named the Solarisapiens, densely populated with murderous, god-like star entities. They were the next of kin from the gods themselves and what they would do struck terror throughout the universes. And after eons of bloodshed, one of them suddenly becomes a father of two. If it had been during war, his high social standing as a commander created to lead these bloody crusades would sink to the furthest level. Solazar would be looked down upon and ridiculed, distinguished with a flaw that hadn’t been noticed by their oversight; it wasn’t in their programming to care about mortals. The brutal punishment afterward was something he had only personally witnessed, but it left an impression on his fellow warriors if they dared to be so incompetent in their purpose. He did train them to be merciless and obedient, but to be reduced to such putty was a fault he held against himself. Their fate was sealed the moment their betrayal came to light. It didn’t happen often but when it did, certain procedures would be initiated.
The ceremony that took place was meant to purge the warrior of the humanity they gained, to give them a second chance. But at a cost.
The Solarisapien would have their limbs dismembered and every single one of them was catapulted out into the deepest, most treacherous parts of the universe. They may only return after regaining the members of their body, to prove their loyalty to their purpose. Those days were cruel but over, the war was ended, and while the blood on his hands had washed away, he reminds himself often they haven’t faded. Not yet at least.
Solazar was aware of the risks of fathering mortals. He had grown fond of them and their antics, he had grown to even love them. This was despite his specific design created for being an unfeeling monster, Earth somehow changed him in such a way he had the ability to love. Solazar accepted their fates a long time ago; everything would die eventually, he just wouldn’t be a part of it. For each day the sun still shines, he would cherish the chaos and laughter his children have brought into his life.
Solazar despised self-pity, but even he had to admit his own fate was the worst out of any painful way to die. He is forced to walk along this mortal plane, created to fight for all eternity, and no longer supported the reason for it, so what were his goals now? The death of his children would strip him of his purpose as a father, foraging a path down an existential crisis-
What was he doing?
There were better things to worry about.
He blinked once, snapping him out of his trance, and realized the tip of his pen left stiff by his hand accumulated a glob of ink on his sheet, leaving a noticeable stain on his pristine handwriting. Solazar rubbed his eyes, sighing deeply. He blinked again, now putting down the pen to massage his face with both of his hands.
‘Goodness that stings,’ He thought to himself.
Needle-like sensations have been shanking into his eyes for the past several hours. Staring so hard at his screen because he was so adamant about his work wasn’t healthy. Yet again, he disregarded his doctor’s warning, it was no wonder why he was farsighted. Short spurts of shut eyes did the job of replenishing his drive, so the fiery being leaned back in his chair to take a deep breath and closed his eyes.
Infinite energy meant the man didn’t sleep, so ever since he crashed onto Earth, he would spend his time running errands. Even though the specimen was quite intelligent, it landed him a not so revered job as a music manager. The man admired music, how humans were able to craft a piece made with skill and passion was a beautiful thing to him. Unfortunately, many of the clients he had to work with have proven themselves as either incompetent in their jobs or bailouts. With his constant failures, it made creating a profit difficult so he would often live paycheck to paycheck. It was just enough for his children and their home so he didn’t dwell into it.
Solazar pushed himself back to give the desk and himself some space in between them. He folded his hands together and placed the interlocked hands on his lap after crossing his leg over the other. He closed his eyes and started to softly hum, mindlessly humming to no one in the room other than himself. It helped him relax.
That’s when the former warrior was interrupted by thumping on his door.
“Hm?” He pondered aloud, looking behind him to lock eyes with the wooden door. He knew exactly who it was based on the squeamish pleads on the other side. Solazar, with steady haste, got up on his two feet and opened the door. His gaze instantly dropped to the ground to see Agoti, his youngest, at his heels. Before he could react, the small child dropped what he was holding and hugged his leg, crying.
The incomprehensible blubber sputtering through his lips caused the man’s hardened gaze to soften. Agoti looked up at him with big, glossy eyes, stretching out his little arms and grabbing at the air, beckoning the man to hold him.
“Did the storm wake you?” He spoke in a low voice and kneeled down in front of him, opening his arms to give him access to his embrace. The demon was quick to fall into his arms, bawling so hard he could hardly say a word.
He nodded quickly, “M-mhm.” the toddler whined, clutching onto his torso. “I had a... *sniff* a really bad dream.”
“So you had a nightmare?”
“Uh- *hic* huh. I was scared, Daddy. No one was there…”
His father’s eyes slit into a sympathetic gaze and pulled the demon closer into his arms, “Shhshh, it’s okay. I’m here for you.” he hushed, slowly rubbing his back.
The warmth he had ached for crowned his body in a soothing heat and his nerves strayed once his flesh made contact, reminding him of the familiar buzz that came with his father’s touch. Solazar stayed there for a while, patting the back of his head while continuing to calm him down.
The child’s shivering slowed down to a halt when his body melted from the affection. He glanced at the glowy object on the ground and picked it up with one hand, holding Agoti in his other arm.
“Ah, you used the nightlight I gave you.” He mused, inspecting the tool in his hand.
He nodded, still sniffling.
“That’s alright, I gave it to you for a reason. Do you like it?”
Agoti seemed to hesitate before nodding his head again.
He peered at him, consumed in thought before speaking up. “Maybe it could be brighter next time?”
“Mhm.” He heard Agoti mumble into his chest.
“Then I’ll look for a special one, just for you.” The Solarisapien gave him a tight side hug, which had Agoti’s face squished up against his.
The warmth he had ached for crowned his body in a soothing heat and his nerves strayed once his flesh made contact, reminding him of the familiar buzz that came with his father’s touch. Solazar stayed there for a while, patting the back of his head while continuing to calm him down.
Solazar flicked it off and left the nightlight where it was, and stood up, holding the toddler as he walked back inside his room. He closed the door behind him and sat down on his unused bed and placed the digidemon on his lap. The room had been nearly pitch black at this point, minus his blue flames and still-illuminated laptop at his desk. He reached his hand toward the nightstand to pull the string hung under the hood of the lamp and gave it a tug, now able to properly see him.
“So tell me about this nightmare of yours.” He questioned calmly, looking thoughtfully at his adopted son.
“It was the b-boys from the playground.” Agoti mewled, “T-they were h-hurting me and-” he began to cry again, recalling the terrifying dream. “They said they would hurt me if I told anyone!” The Solarisapien quietly listened to his dilemma, stroking the top of his head to calm him.
“It was only a dream, okay? Anyone who tries to intimidate our family will have to go through me first,” He said assuringly, however, Agoti didn’t take much of a liking to this.
“They sounded like monsters and were really scary! D-don’t you remember yesterday?”
Solazar did in fact remember yesterday, it was an especially terrible day for Agoti. He managed to get cornered by two older children while at the playground with his sister. They went as far as to get physical and destroyed his favorite toy in front of him. This was the first time anything like this had ever happened to him, so it gave him quite the scare. Luckily Aldryx eventually found him and terrorized them both into submission and managed to escape before any on-sight parents got involved.
Solazar admits the outcome would have been much better if he was present, his poor son came home sobbing and he had to promise to get him another toy to stop the tears. But as expected, the parents of the bullies would come to his door, complaining about their ‘innocent’ children coming home mysteriously bruised. Solazar wasn’t having any of it and proceeded to verbally rip them to shreds, insulting every part of their subpar parenting, and with a wave of his hand, dismissed them off his property.
He tried to sympathize. "I remember, Agoti, and I know it was scary, but-”
“NO YOU- *hic* don’t!” Agoti started to fuss, his cries intertwined with a hiccuping fit. He mewled after his outcry, putting his face in his hands as Solazar rubbed his back.
“I do know, Agoti.” Solazar uttered, gingerly thumbing a tear off his face, “Try to calm down, okay? Breathe for me.” he said it in the softest tone he could muster, but it barely helped.
“I tried to find you but I couldn’t!” Agoti sobbed.
As if the situation couldn’t escalate anymore, the 4-year-old began to hyperventilate. Solazar could feel his VHS heart pounding against his ribs repeatedly. At this rate, the digidemon would have a panic attack.
“They said they would- they said they would- *hic* hurt me! And you weren’t there! *sniff* I-I thought you had forgotten about me.”
This struck a chord within him. “Agoti, I would never…”
“They said they would take big sis a-away from *hic* m-mehe.” He buried his face into his chest and lamented his sorrows. “I-I don’t want y-you and A-Aldie to go!”
His father only had to think for a second to know what to do next. Agoti’s distress after a nightmare wasn’t uncommon, but this time was especially bad. Anything he said to try and soothe him was a trigger word to his panic, he would have to approach this would a lot more grace. Solazar held onto his son’s shoulders to push him back, exposing his tear-stained face to him. His fingers brushed against his cheek and with his hand, he softly caressed the smooth skin. His index finger moved beneath his chin to angle up and have their gazes link, held together by his thumb. Solazar’s pure white scleras gently stared into his wide, terrified ones.
“Breathe, Agoti. I’m not going anywhere.” There was a ring in his voice that grabbed the attention of his son, gentle but firm in his words.
The digidevil ogled obliviously at Solazar, his words quite not processing.
“Follow my lead.” he demonstrated, his chest rising and falling as breathed deeply. Agoti stared at him for a while before attempting to mimic his actions. It took some effort through all the tears but not long after, his breathing evened out and he found himself synchronizing with his father. At this very moment, the pair silently bonded as his nerves were tamed and put to rest.
The room was quiet, save for the soft breathing and gentle praises from Solazar to keep going. His method of calming the child was successful, he wasn’t crying anymore and the film was hanging loosely from his eyes. The Solarisapien plucked off a strip and peered into the black squares, seeing from his perspective the void that his child was plunged into. He tore the rest away, grazing his hand over his face and creating a small pile of film onto the carpet below them both.
Solazar wrapped his arms around him in a loving embrace and said to him. "Listen to me when I say this, Agoti, I will always be with you. There’s no way I could leave someone as sweet as you behind.”
“Really?” He sniffled, a flicker of hope flashing behind his eyes.
Solazar raised a brow at the rhetorical question. “Do I really need to answer that?”
Agoti’s soft giggle hung in the air as he was lifted into the air under his arms, spreading a smile onto the Solarisapien’s face, his eyes curving to show the affection brewing behind his glasses. “Hehe, I don’t think so?” He giggled. He was placed on his lap again, to which the digidevil snuggled into his chest, listening closely to his father.
“You don’t ever have to be afraid of me leaving you. I would never do that to you, my child.”
“You promise?” The demon whispered, peering up at him with even more hopeful eyes.
The Solarisapien’s shoulders shook as he chuckled deeply and lovingly at the silly question. “Yes, Agoti, I promise.”
He held up his pinky, eyes glistening. “Pinky promise?”
Solazar held up his own. “I promise.”
There was a moment of silence between the pair.
“I love you, Daddy.”
He pressed his cheek against his forehead affectionately. “And I love you.”
Solazar readjusted the boy, laying him into the crook of his arm, and began to gently rock him. Agoti laid still, relaxing his muscles, and ascended to a sort of heaven with the coziness the heat gave. Solazar placed his hand on top of his head again and massaged each one of his tendrils, taking his time with each one to let his son know just how much he cared about him. To send this point home, his deep voice coaxed him closer to the cliff of slumber as he once again mindlessly hummed a berceuse.
The past warrior was massive and radiated warmth, so Agoti took it upon himself to take advantage of it and used him as a heat blanket. Agoti felt more than safe, he felt loved by the man that was carrying him oh so gently. Little did he know, Solazar was already aware of his neat little trick.
He would ‘coincidently’ pass out in places he knew his father would come across, the most ludicrous spot he discovered him in was the bathroom sink. It was all a ploy for Solazar to attempt to wake him up, fail, and eventually tuck him into bed himself. His father knew from the start what he was doing, he could even feel his chest quiver with suppressed giggles, proud that his plan had worked out so many times. Sometimes he would even peek an eye open to see if Sol was giving him the attention he desired. It amused him but he couldn’t find it within himself to point out the adorable quirk.
He stood up. “Let’s get you to bed now, alright?”
Agoti went stiff and paused, shocked that they had to depart so suddenly, “Can we please stay here?” he begged.
Solazar shook his head. “No, Agoti. You need to sleep in your own bed.”
“Pleeease? I don’t want you to go…” He whined, clinging onto his shirt tighter.
“No means no, Agoti.” He understood the child’s fear but also understood the child would have to get used to the dark eventually.
The digidevil’s expression turned sour and he puffed out his cheeks. Agoti’s calm breathing began to waver and his whines were quickly escalating.
Solazar sighed. “Don’t make that face, Agoti…”
Agoti pouted even more, his expression souring by the second.
“No!” He cried.
“What-”
“I’m not leaving you!”
The toddler grabbed handfuls of his turtleneck sweater and clung to the black fabric. Solazar was sure he was gripping hard enough to where he didn’t even have to hold him if he stood up. He quickly sat down again and hugged the digidevil just in time for him to let out a loud wail onto his chest. Sobbing ensued.
‘Goodness…’ he thought to himself.
Agoti was a stubborn child, once he believed something, it took a lot of convincing to reverse the effects it had. He was grieving at the thought of his father abandoning him. He would never of course, but his son’s recent nightmare clouded his innocence with pessimism. The only logical solution would be to inflict the opposite. Make him feel good about himself, cheerful even, but with what? A warm glass of milk? Retelling his favorite stories?
Solazar’s brainstorming landed him in the middle of yesterday where this whole incident started. Of course, Agoti was still very upset but then it jumped to later in the day with his sudden change of mood, he was acting like himself and graced anyone he was with a beaming smile. He found this very strange as not too long ago, the boy was distraught and now he was back to normal. What caused such sudden optimism finally jogged his memory into remembering why…
Oh no.
In practice, it could be very effective against Agoti considering his sensitivity to touch that came with his age. It wouldn’t be very hard to dish it out. If you were to ask Solazar about performing the action, however, he would call you ridiculous.
This activity that Solazar was so unsure about was tickling.
Aldryx, his older sister, had gotten tired of Agoti’s constant moping. He would drone on about how upset he was until she couldn’t take it anymore. Aldryx chased him down, and the duo scampered all around the house loudly enough to simulate an earthquake. None of Solazar’s warnings to tone it down stopped them. Once Agoti was cornered, instead of their usual roughhousing, she ruthlessly tickled him until he agreed to stop talking about it. The Solarisapien very vividly remembers the laughter and squealing that came from behind his door.
It persisted until the deal was made official, albeit breathlessly on Agoti’s part. After that, the younger demon continued his daily hijinks like nothing had ever happened.
That was until tonight, he was still haunted by the day before. Solazar wanted to feel frustrated, all of their best efforts have led to naught and even his sister couldn’t stop it from persisting. He stopped himself once he realized what he was thinking and stopped himself in the middle of his foolish thoughts. Was he really going to insinuate a 4-year-old was at fault here? He had no one else to go to other than his family, they lived in a world where anyone could be taken advantage of, a foreign concept to Solazar. However, Agoti had just experienced this firsthand a day before. He could only imagine what it was like and felt a sudden tide of compassion for the small boy.
He wasn’t well adjusted to give physical affection despite the years they had been under his custody. Sure he would hug them and overall, tried to be the father they needed. Tickling was even rarer. Majority of the time it was unintentional and he would be left confused why his daughter or son was giggling up a storm when touching them in certain places. Sometimes it was purposeful but was brief and lasted only a few seconds as a response to his little one’s mischief with a small bit of his own. Solazar either way was apprehensive at the idea, making Agoti uncomfortable was the last thing he wanted. He heard his muffled mewl, aching with sadness and wrought with pain. Finally, the man spoke up, he couldn’t bear to see his son so distraught any longer.
His arms were already wrapped around his body which could prevent him from squirming away. Solazar didn’t have much experience with the activity but knew along the torso solicited the biggest response. He mindlessly scribbled up his side, his massive hand could reach the entire area so no part was left untouched. The reaction was immediate, Agoti gasped at the sudden touch, which didn’t stop the fit of soft but bright giggles bubbling out of him. He did it again with his other hand, causing the boy to attempt to squirm away from his hand. The next spot he didn’t expect to be targeted was his back, he traced along the center of his spine slowly. Agoti arched his back with a light squeal, finally showing his face to his loving father as he expelled a flurry of happy giggles, shivering at his gentle touch, and looked up at him, confused but smiling.
“Pahapapa, what ahare you- eheehee!” The digidevil’s query was interrupted by another wave of bubbling laughter, this time much louder. The Solarisapien was stroking up and down his back with his entire hand, each digit crawling up and down his spine like a spider. It was sending fuzzy, warm feelings in his chest, so he didn’t hold back his laughter.
“Just relax, Agoti. Let me take care of you.” He sounded suave and mellow, not helping the fact he was being held against his will. Solazar picked up the boy and laid him down on his lap, keeping his body facing up.
Agoti wiggled on his thighs, tittering with anticipation and a giddiness he hadn’t quite felt before. “Dahahahaddy! Eeeheeheehee!” The boy was giggling like he was still being tickled, which confused the Solarisapien for a moment as he hadn’t touched him yet. It made him slightly chuckle in response once he realized why he was giggling so much.
“I’m guessing it's my hands doing this to you?” His children weren’t lying when they said his flames made their skin feel funny.
“That tihihickles!” Agoti cried.
Solazar patted the top of his head. “Don’t worry, I’ll be more gentle this time.”
He resumed his tickling, mostly letting his flames do the work, and only slightly grazed his fingertips over the torso, mostly targeting his back and sides like before. This left Agoti in a never-ending snorting mess as the warmth sent shocks of ticklish sensations up his body. The digidevil was squirming from left to right, never leaving the safe spot his father had placed him. Although he secretly enjoyed it, the instinct to protect himself by wrapping his arms around his body never faltered.
“Mweheeheehee *snort* ahahahahaah!” By then, the child was face down, still giggling up a storm. Warm fingers were tracing random shapes up and down his spine, eliciting the biggest response out of the boy. Solazar’s stern expression softened, gazing at his son with admiration and delight. Making his way to his lower back, he teased the skin where the shirt rode up from all the movement. Agoti wheezed and his laughter turned silent before he returned to his hysterical fit, sounding even more childish with a hint of femininity now that his voice was so high-pitched.
The Solarisapien’s eyes thinned, the bridge of his nose wrinkling as the invisible smile returned to spread across his face. The spot seemed too much for him as much of his laughter was starting to sound too breathy, so he slowed down. He calmed down, giggles still sputtering out of him and laced with unintelligible babbles for mercy. Using the other, he began to tap the side of his ribcage, the fabric of his shirt moving as he gently dug into the bones. With the size of his hand, five fingers were able to press into his entire side of bony flesh while the other hand titillated off his back. All ten of his fingers were doing their job of keeping the boy in stitches, belly laughing with his whole heart, Solazar could feel his stomach rumble and shake with unfiltered mirth.
“AhaHahAhah mweheHEHhehe- *snort* p-pahAhaHapa!” The demon howled, slightly kicking his legs. From where Solazar was, he could see the corner of the child’s wide smile.
“Do you need a break?” He asked.
“I doohoohoo! I dohoho!” The digidevil cried.
Solazar stopped and removed his hands, giving the boy time to recover from the tickling. He wasn’t outright gasping for air, but he definitely struggled to keep it stable. Agoti flipped onto his back to rub his eyes, removing the stripes of mirth that threatened to fall out. His smile was gleeful and his cheeks were a lovely crimson tint. The aftermath was pleasant, the tingling was not only present on his torso but throughout his entire body, reaching the tip of his tendrils to the top of his toes. It left him feeling purely euphoric.
“Hehe…ehehe…” He tittered, his energy was being depleted at a moment’s notice.
“Are you alright?” The digidevil looked at him with sleepy eyes and nodded slowly. His demeanor was exhausted and tired, but his tail was curling happily at the treatment he had received. Agoti moaned softly, worming his way into his chest.
The Solarisapien, without skipping a beat, carefully scooped him up and held him close. This night was.. longer than he expected, normally Solazar would already have the toddler in bed by now. But he thinks this night was needed, for the both of them to be together. He made sure to make the transition to the corridor as smooth as possible, swiftly getting up and closing the bedroom behind him in one fluid motion. With half-lidded eyes, Agoti’s blurry vision made it hard to see, but what was quickly made apparent to him now that they were in the hallway. His father shined brighter than ever, standing out from anything else in the corridor. Solazar began his stride deeper in, his glow bouncing off the walls.
Time slowed down as the pair traveled across the rooms, they were in no rush so Solazar took his time. They had made it and his father pushed the door open where it was left agape. Solazar stepped inside and began to slide his fingertips over the wall, guiding his hand to locate the light switch. Upon contact, he flicked it to life.
Solazar grimaced and squinted hard as he rubbed the burning that returned in his eyes. It didn’t help, he really needed to take a break after this. Once his vision came into view, it made his environment finally observable.
Unsurprisingly, the room looked as it had always been, but disturbed from what he could tell from the disheveled bed sheets. The walls were painted in pastel red and blue stripes, decorated with stickers of spaceships and stars, along with the mild scribbles that Agoti had drawn all over. There was even a box of toys in the corner of the room well over the max as other ones were scattered about the carpet. The shelves were occupied with books all about his favorite things, with one dedicated solely to his stuffed animal collection. Then there was the lone rocking chair placed in the corner of the room next to the window, masked by the dusty ruby-red curtain. Solazar didn’t really need to use it since his son’s infancy but left it there for old time's sake.
He made his way to the small bed and laid the demon on the mattress. He then pinched the corner of the comforter and draped the fluffy material over his body.
Solazar deeply stared at him with a certain gaze that would only belong to a father deeply fond of his children and stood up to leave.
He looked back at him. “Sweet dreams, Agoti. Rest well.”
As his hand lifted off the mattress to make his departure, a gentle tug pulled on his sleeve.
“Um, Daddy?” He heard the meek voice of Agoti say.
Just his luck.
“Yes? What is it?” Solazar sighed, kneeling back down.
Agoti tugged at his sleeve more, gesturing Solazar to lean over so he could say something in his ear.
“Can you sing me a lullaby?” He whispered.
Solazar thought for a moment and pulled down his sleeve to look at his watch. 1:48 AM. It was already extremely late and that could lead to some trouble falling back to sleep. Thinking about it more, a lullaby made a lot more sense; it could serve as a sort of encore to their already chaotic night.
“Sure.” He says.
His skills with the piano gave him a lot of time to practice his own singing too. All too often he was interrupted and teased by his children for it. Nowadays, both of them loved to serenade in music and often joined their father.
Agoti’s eyes lit up with joy, “Yay, papa’s singing!” he rhapsodized. His previous exhaustion seemed to vanish out of thin air and was replaced with his typical energetic self. Children were…odd. One moment they could be at the edge of passing out and the next they are seen bouncing off the wall, it was funny honestly.
The Solarisapien pulled the demon out under the covers, the comforter slothing off his body in the process. Solazar held him as got up and sat down on the rocking chair. He pushed aside the curtains and spread the blinds between his fingers to peek and looked up towards the sky. He hadn’t realized the thunderstorm had passed up until now, although many thick clouds had been left behind.
“Do you hear that?” Solazar said, still looking out the window.
“Hear what?”
“The rain, do you hear it?”
Come to think of it, he didn’t hear it anymore. He hadn’t realized when it stopped.
Solazar turned his body towards his window and pulled the string attached allowing them both to see the outside completely. The numerous clouds didn’t flood the sky anymore, occasionally dripping and enriching the dark sky like a great big canvas, acting as an impromptu portière to the doorway of the waning crescent that stood on the other side. Once exposed, it filled the sky with its eternal glory.
He pulled down his glasses to get a better view. Their view of the moon didn’t waver, Solazar was especially fixated on its beauty.
This gave him an idea.
He turned to his son, fixing the prescriptions back onto his eyes. “Agoti, I want to show you something. Something extraordinary…”
The cryptic tone caught his attention.
“Like what, papa?”
Solazar leaned in. “Something enchanting I know you will like.”
There was a solid three seconds of silence before Agoti stammered out excitedly. “I-is it magic?!”
Influenced by fantasy and the like, he would answer with that. “You could say that.”
His already bright and cheery smile widened and the anticipation warping his excited nerves morphed into butterflies flapping within the bowels of his gut.
His train of thought was interrupted when something bright brimmed in his peripheral vision. He looked directly at whatever it was but immediately had to look away as it was shining so brilliantly. Agoti had to squint to make out what it was, eventually making out the shape of his father's hand, now a glowing glob of light. Solazar snapped his fingers, triggering the glow to dispel, echoing around them with such bass, it startled him.
The digidevil’s eyes were wide with alarm and he hadn’t realized he was holding in his breath, itching for something to happen. Just as he was beginning to breathe, a sound resonated that he didn’t quite expect; a twinkle. The twinkling gradually grew, crystalline diamonds manifesting and briefly ascending above them before disappearing.
His time to process what was happening was cut short after a beacon of pure light engulfed them. When Agoti opened his eyes, their surroundings were now consumed in white, the only exception being the more pasteled variant of his father. Agoti looked down at his own body to realize he looked the same and this new environment had completely changed his natural color pallet.
A breeze formed under them and seemed to push them upwards as the more the winds increased. Agoti was about to ask Solazar what was going on when he noticed himself beginning to float. It was slow and hardly noticeable but when he did, he saw the way his clothes would air around his body, similar to a blanket in the ripples of gentle wind. Or how his short tendrils became independent of just resting on his scalp.
The digidevil was hardly off his lap but after some movement, he discovered he could move around the white space like a pool of water. He had fun experimenting with this new gravity, spinning, and doing all sorts of tricks as if he were a simple lost boy, ageless but youthful. Agoti, upside down, grasped his father’s face and joyfully greeted him, “Hi daddy!” his tail curling behind him with elation.
Solazar played along, allowing him to grab onto his glasses, “Hello, my child. How are you doing tonight?” he responded warmly. While still upside down, Agoti sloppily put them on, amusing the star being into a chuckle.
“You look silly without your glasses,” He simpered.
Agoti giggled when his nose was softly booped by his finger. “I beg to differ, little one.”
There was a noticeable pickup in speed, throwing off the demon since he was already adjusted to the new atmosphere. He found it harder to move in the empty space, stuck in his now upside-down position. Solazar did the honors for him and grabbed his shoulders to pull him back to his original position.
“That will happen the closer we get to our destination, just be sure to hold on.” Solazar said after he reclaimed his glasses. The demon pressed his face against his chest with a grip on his shirt and shut his eyes. Another shockwave pulsed through them as the new wave of speed was brought upon them, moving so quickly, it felt like they were traveling at light speed. Agoti whimpered, the feeling of his shirt whipping against his body made him realize just how quickly they were traveling. He fluttered his eyes open, fearful at first but dazzled by the way Solazar’s flames burned. It possessed a fierceness that would crumble his foes to their knees, he felt inspired by it. Like a candle in a snowstorm, it was on the cusp of burning out but its tiny blaze was determined to keep the night shining.
Then it all stopped.
His ears were no longer overburdened with fast winds and chimes akin to a chandelier being spun ceased to exist. The demon didn’t dare to open his eyes, afraid of what he might see. But of course, Solazar was there to mediate his fears.
"It’s ok, you can open your eyes now.”
The way his voice sounded surprised the toddler. His soft inside voice was replaced with a resounding chime as if they had traveled inside a cave.
"I-I don’t wanna look!” He whined.
“You will be fine. It isn’t anything that will scare you.” Solazar spoke with an assuring, confident voice.
Agoti, hesitant at first, obeyed his father and barely jarred his eyes open. But through the thin window of his vision realized there was no imminent threat, which finally gave him the courage to open them both completely.
He gasped loudly and a wide grin slowly crept up his lips…
“It’s- it’s space!” He gushed, his voice booming with astonishment, “How can we breathe? Aldie said there’s no air!” shouted Agoti, unable to contain his excitement.
Solazar lightly shrugged his shoulders. "You could say I brought a bit of home here with us.” Agoti didn’t question it and was still in awe, again not realizing he had been holding his breath this whole time.
He bounced with excitement. “I’m gonna tell everyone about this!” His enthusiasm for space was really touching and Solazar was honestly very flattered by this.
“Do tell, I’m sure your sister would be delighted, but on another note,” He cleared his throat. "You might be confused about why you’re here right now, yes? ”
“A little,” he responded.
“This place is peaceful and full of wonder, somewhere I visited where I needed to clear my head. When you would have trouble sleeping at night, I would bring us here to sing to you,” He was speaking faintly but fondly as he remembered the sweet yet chaotic times when the demon was just an infant.
Agoti was quiet for a moment. “I don’t remember that?”
“You were so young, nobody would.”
He pondered and glanced down at himself to see if he still possessed his pastel palette. It was gone, replaced by a shimmery aura that bounced off both his and his father’s bodies. Continuing to look around, everything he took in was so unfamiliar. Just somewhere in the cosmos, he guessed. None of the planets were from their own solar system and neither were they in one, but the planets dispersed about were close enough for them to personally observe. Around them were a multitude of worlds ranging in all colors and sizes.
Even the suns nearby looked remotely nothing like theirs. That wasn’t the only thing there, stars were obvious but from afar did Agoti see these sort of cloud-like accumulations of colorful speckles. Nebulas of course! He remembered that from the books he read with his sister and would definitely have a story to tell once morning arrived.
He looked to see his father gazing up at the space, eyes glinting with fascination.
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
Agoti’s quick babble was all he needed to know he agreed with him.
“What’s that star over there?” Agoti questioned, pointing to one particular star. It wasn’t like the other ones where they glowed a color that would be anomalous to their solar system. It was anomalous to every sun around it, aqua blue and yellow swirled within its core like a cauldron having its contents stirred, its surface shining a seafoam green. Despite the bizarre coloring, it fascinated Agoti and he was instantly entranced by its alluring appearance.
“I’m not sure. Do you like it?” He asked.
“Yeah! Can we name it?” The boy was enthused, standing up to get a better view.
Solazar kept him steady by planting his hands on his hips, for a few moments, he thought of a name for this unknown star. “Maybe Cerulean would be a good name? It goes well with the blue.”
“It’s perfect!”
There was always something new to see no matter where he looked. His adoptive father could indeed relate to this feeling.
Agoti for the next several minutes pointed out every detail and squealed over each new discovery to his father. He let him rant about it, he would get tired eventually. And as if on cue, a wave of exhaustion crashed over him. The digidevil felt his eyelids get a little heavy and his body’s muscles began to go limp at an unprecedented rate. He plopped back down before leaning back into his body.
“Dad I’m…tired,” He said in between a loud yawn.
Solazar pressed a finger to his intangible lips. “Shhh~ You’ve been awake long enough, close your eyes.”
Agoti’s eyelids succumbed to its weight, quicking shutting close.
“That’s it, just listen to my voice… ”
He lightly brushed his knuckles against his hair. He knew just the song to sing and looked forward to finally bringing his boy peace, just as he did all those years ago. Solazar's deep voice became smooth as he commenced his serenade, sounding much more divine as his cords echoed despite the heavens they were in being devoid of oxygen.
…
♪ Come little children
♬ I’ll take thee away
♩ Into a land of enchantment
♩ Come little children
♪ The time’s come to play
The digidevil was immediately dragged into a state of calm, helped by the Solarisapien who sang so handsomely. His carol fills the quiet around them.
Follow sweet children ♩
I’ll show thee the way♩
Through all the pain ♫
And the sorrows ♪
Weep not poor children ♫
For life is this way ♩
Murdering beauties and passions~ ♪
Agoti began to stir when he saw something bright form behind his eyelids and opened them just a tad. He witnessed their surroundings suddenly filled with glowing figures of the sort.
His vision cleared just enough to recognize that it was musical notes materializing. They danced in the air, reminding Agoti of the copies of sheet music he’d seen his father playing. They were blue like his dad and seemed to serve some sort of purpose with his solo, playing the instrumental to the song for further auxiliary.
“Papa, wass tha’?” He slurred, his speech ruined with spittle and weariness.
“This is one of the many gifts I was given when I came to exist.” Solazar stopped singing to answer his question.
“You yourself will be blessed one day,” he rubbed the back of his head with his hand, “Now then, try to go back to sleep.” his voice was rumbling with how low he was speaking.
♬ Hush now dear children
♩ It must be this way
♩ Too weary of life
♪ And deceptions
♫ Rest now my children
♬ For soon we’ll away
♪ Into the calm and the quiet
A symphony of woos slowly began to reveal themselves and surround them, varying in pitch and length, all were quite feminine voices but there was an underlying manly voice behind their delicate chorus. Agoti could start to see figures of people fading in above and around them. They appeared to be the same species as his father. None of them had their entire body showing, ending around the waist, and faded into faint sparkles as the outline of their bodies connected like constellations. One stood out, the man behind the guttural singing and the biggest out of them all, muscular and imposing yet seemingly at peace. The notes pranced around the duo, moving accordingly in a hypnotic fashion. Solazar wasn’t lying when he said this was highly effective. The honeyed voice dripping with affection singing the sweet song in his ear and enchanted infinity called space took a toll, succeeding in shutting his eyes permanently. He could no longer see the forms of the ancient race or the notes as he had finally fallen asleep.
Come little children…♫
I’ll take thee away…♪
Into a land of enchantment…♩
Come little children… ♬
The time’s come to play…♪
“Here in my garden of shadows ♪”
The ancient species sang one last beautiful chorus, singing with more vigor and more passion at the sight of the mortal child resting in his caretaker’s arms. They were merely souls, however, apparitions of warriors who faded eons ago, forever roaming the cosmos in silence.
The notes faded away, along with the spirits who had long since perished, leaving him alone with his son. Solazar sighed and relaxed his shoulders. He wanted to admire the sight of his beautiful boy one more time, he stood out among all the beauty that surrounded them. But was unfortunately interrupted by their aura beginning to dull. Solazar pulled up his sleeve to quickly look at the time, reading 2:27.
They had overstayed their visit, it was time to go home.
Before the aura could fizzle out, he had already snapped his fingers to send them home. Everything from before happened in reverse order, catapulting them to the ground. Agoti somehow remained asleep, a soft smile gracing his already darling expression. Solazar would love to bask in it but was too busy holding onto dear life, keeping the chair's armrest well clutched and silently praying the seat wouldn’t crash.
Once that beacon of light had collapsed and revealed the carpet floor of his room, Solazar braced. Shockingly, the chair bounced off the floor with ease, launching them both in the air before going down again. The momentum knocked them forward hard and fast, so hard he nearly face-planted into the floor but digging his foot in the ground stopped it. Solazar’s eyes were wide and when he looked down at the small boy; he was somehow in a deep sleep.
Solazar stared at his sleeping face, his gaze fueling the core inside of him to swell. A wet line of saliva was leaking from the corner of his slightly agape mouth and he gingerly wiped away the spittle with his thumb. Words couldn’t describe how he was feeling, he just wanted to preserve the scene.
The ancient being stood up from the rocking chair holding him in one arm, using his other to pull back his comforter and prepare the area for his son. Slowly and gently, he laid the digidevil in the empty spot and covered his body over the sheet. He snuggled into the warmth, stretching before falling still back to his sleep. He grabbed his teddy bear and tucked it in next to him. He witnessed him leisurely pull it closer to him. The Solarisapien stood over him and bowed his head.
He took a seat on the corner of his bed, creaking as his weight pressed down on the bolts holding it together. Solazar reached for his face but was stopped by Agoti’s tendrils, who somehow sensed his presence and curled the short hair around his hand sweetly. How long he sat there he didn’t know, but eventually, he knew it was time for his son to sleep alone.
His hand was already on the doorknob and he swung it open before exiting. Outside his room, Solazar couldn’t have felt more relieved and slid his back down the wall before his bottom met the wooden floor. He leaned his head against the wall and took off his glasses, rubbing them against his turtleneck sweater, getting rid of specks that were a nuisance to his vision.
Then he heard it.
A creak not from his own doing.
He turned to his right and saw a pair of disembodied eyes staring at him from the darkness. The creature stepped forward.
It was Luna, the family cat. She was immediately purring and rubbing up against Solazar’s legs and accepted being scratched behind her ears.
“Hello, Luna.”
Luna meowed and rubbed up against him, her black fur felt soft against his legs.
“Why don’t we go relax?”
She meowed, signaling her approval.
…
With the sun creeping up the horizon, it cast red and yellow clouds in the sky as a new day began. Birds sang their melody of dawn, golden light striking the green trees. Tiny flecks danced around the digidevil’s bedroom while gold luster brightened the room. He did not stir, Agoti had never slept so well in his life, the blanket felt so warm and the pillow was soft enough to melt into. The only thing he could hear was his soft snoring and the chirping of birds. He could stay here forever.
Agoti felt a dip further down his bed, but he didn’t dare open his eyes. It was too perfect to ruin this moment.
“Son, it’s time to get up.” Solazar’s voice was nearly in a whisper. His son was a light sleeper, it didn’t take much to wake him up.
He groaned and rotated his body, encasing himself in more of his soft blanket. “Too shleepy…”
Agoti believed he had won and breathed deeply into the layers, taking in their fresh scent. He was left sorely mistaken however once he felt something move under his comforter and attempt to grab him. His father was trying to pick him up out of his bed and he wouldn’t let that happen.
“Nurrr…” Agoti mewled, burrowing deeper into the sheets, dodging the hands trying to grasp him.
“Are you not going to get up?”
“Nuh-uh.” He pouted, upset his morning slumber had been interrupted.
Solazar was silent for a moment.
“Suit yourself.”
What he did next was something he hadn’t seen coming, catching him off guard greatly as two hands tweaked his sides. Solazar systematically targeted his torso, following his son’s every moment so he could never escape and was always first to prod away at his body. Agoti tried to suppress them at first but the laughter piling in his chest was getting harder to ignore. The barrier broke and he let out a flurry of bubbling giggles, doing his best to squirm away from his father’s wrath.
“Agoti, you know how to stop this.” He heard him say but didn’t relent, he really needed his sleep!
“Nohohoho!” The demon cried, encasing himself under the covers to protect himself, which only left him more vulnerable. Solazar proceeded to tickle up and down his son’s torso at random, never giving him a chance to get used to the sensation before moving again. It had a significant effect on his dear boy, who by now made it obvious with his sputtering laughter and silly little snorts in between. Agoti still persisted but still made no effort to bargain with his father.
Sol could clearly see he had inherited his own stubbornness. But what he didn’t have was patience and his father for all he knew could be here all day if he wanted, gently tormenting his boy until he gave in. But with their limited time, it wasn’t possible and he aimed for the final blow. Searching under the cover a bit and eventually landing on what he was looking for, his digits wiggled wildly all over.
Agoti shrieked and the thrashing increasing under the covers indicated he had found what he was looking for.
“Not my rihihihihibs!” The digidemon cried from under the sheets. With all his thrashing, it finally led up to Agoti wrestling the comforter off of him, finally releasing himself from his hiding place. He pushed at his hands, laughing brightly.
“Are you going to get up?” Sol asked, continuing his ministries as the digidevil giggled for mercy.
“Yehehehes pahahapa!” His laughter became girlish as the tickling continued.
His exterior remained hardened and stern, but on the inside, he struggled to keep up the facade.
“And I won’t have to return to your room and do this again, yes?”
A squeal was ripped out of Agoti’s throat once his lower ribs were targeted, warm fingers glazing over his clothed skin.
“Yehehes dahahaddy! I prohohomise!” He didn’t have to wiggle around much longer as Solazar had ceased his playful punishment.
Agoti hugged himself once his hands pulled away and giggled as the residual ghost tickles slowly sunk into his bone, fading into his skin feeling stimulated and sensitive. From all the laughing he had been doing, he thought he would be exhausted. Strangely enough, all of his fatigue from earlier ceased to exist and he felt rather energized.
The Solarisapien adjusted the glasses on his face. “I’ll start cooking breakfast then. How do pancakes sound?”
Agoti’s face lit up in excitement, pancakes were his favorite. “Yeah!”
“You think you can get dressed on your own?”
“Mhm!” He hummed excitedly, looking forward to the flavor of fluffy, buttery pancakes by his father.
“That’s my boy.” He ruffled his tendrils and left the demon to his devices, giving him the well-needed privacy to get dressed. As he left the door behind him ajar, Agoti got to work and directed his path toward his dressers.
He found the perfect t-shirt and while he struggled to clip on his overalls at first, he succeeded and slipped on a pair of socks before escaping his room through the considerately cracked door. Agoti ran out into the kitchen, finding his beloved family and the delicious wafts of butter circulated the air and satisfying crackles of oil smelling of grease got him excited.
If there was anything better in the mornings, it was the sight of bacon and his father’s famous pancakes. His sister and father had their backs turned to him, all focused on the stove as the former warrior instructed his daughter on making the pancakes. Aldryx seemed frustrated but as usual, their father was patient, guiding his child through the steps until she cheered for joy at her successful pancake. It was only then the pair noticed the youngest’s presence that they turned to warmly greet him.
“Nice to see you joined us this morning, Agoti. You look well.” Solazar hummed, drinking from a mug and wearing a chef’s apron.
Aldryx looked and grinned at her little brother, revealing all her sharp sets of teeth to the toddler. She was sitting on the counter, holding a bowl of batter and wearing her signature pink nightgown and pink slippers, swinging her legs in blissful innocence. Even Aldryx was excited at the sweet breakfast the two were going to have.
The flaming male beckoned the smaller child forward and hoisted him up, only this time to place him on his shoulders. Agoti’s legs were twigs compared to the tree trunk equivalent of his neck and when he wrapped his legs around it, they fit perfectly around the nape, giving the toddler the perfect amount of support.
“Would you like to help us make breakfast?” He asked calmly, slightly turning his head to make eye contact with the boy on him.
“Uh-huh!” Agoti was bouncing up and down as he was brought closer to the stovetop. He was struck with the delicious smells of both foods cooking, even more, potent now that he was closer. Solazar did the same with Agoti as he did with Aldryx, slowly teaching him his ways while lightly scolding him if he ate the raw batter. Time slowed down and the household was filled with laughter and chaos as their hijinks persisted.
All of a sudden, Agoti stopped, still holding the spatula. “Daddy, can we eat now? I’m hungry.”
Solazar nodded his head. “I suppose so, go sit down and I’ll bring your plates out to you.”
“Yay!” Both cried in unison, Aldryx jumped off the counter and scampered off with her little brother, who was already climbing up to his booster seat. Dishes clattered and cabinets opened here and there and soon enough, Solazar was walking toward them with their food. They both said their thanks as their father placed the plates with the appropriate silverware in front of them, the duo donning beaming smiles before digging in. Their father sat down with them, but stayed quiet, silently watching them gulp down their food with half-lidded eyes.
Hardly any time had passed and the two children were already begging for another helping. The Solarisapien obliged, picking up their plates yet again to go into the kitchen where the rest of the food lay warm. Unfortunately, in the Entity household, it was never short of calamity. Aldryx and Agoti were already beginning to goof off at the dinner table, flinging specks of food caught by their placemats at each other back and forth. Both were quietly snickering, doing their best to not attract his attention and ducking under the table as a shield against each other’s attacks.
Solazar came back with their second meal and wasn’t surprised at the scene, their faces were peppered with leftover pancake and grease from their bacon. He stared at them and just smiled, placing the plates back down in front of them.
“Enjoy your breakfast, children.”
Needless to say, it was a great morning.
He wouldn’t trade it for the world.
✿
✿
✿
✿
Fin~
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FORCE QUIT // EPISODE I: SCRAPS
you didn't have "anti-capitalist revolution" on this year's bingo card, but you never turn down a good time.
pairing: lee felix x reader | series masterlist (1/4) | next episode
series summary: it's 2077, and life's a fucking nightmare. corporate titans ate the state and shat it back out, leaving citizens of the new republic to fall in line, or fall to their knees. a reckoning is coming — where will you fall?
au: series — dystopian, cyberpunk; episode — childhood friends to strangers to something
➢insp. by: cyberpunk 2077 + the true lives of the fabulous killjoys
genre: smut + angst + some fluff
word count: 15.4k
rating: 18+— minors do not have my consent to interact.
series warnings: violence (hand-to-hand, firearms, explosives), depictions of injuries (blood/bruising/burns), some characters have cybernetic modifications, class conflict + poverty, surprise - corporations are bad!, unethical medical/tech experimentation, self-indulgent references to non-skz idols, reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns.
episode warnings: above + trainer!felix, edgerunner!reader, pov switches, time skips, reference to food insecurity + reader living check to check, reader has cybernetic retinal mods + one in her hand, reader experiences temporary vision loss after being knocked out, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v penetration.
a/n: each episode features a different member x reader pairing, but the plot is linear, so you'd need to read them (in order) to get the full picture! you can sign up for the taglist to be notified of the next uploads. thank you to my beloved @sailoryooons for beta'ing this and @jihopesjoint for being my emotional support internet wife even though she doesn't stan skz. ily both endlessly!
You don’t deal in absolutes, but you know two things for sure: vending-machine burritos are a crime against humanity; and Han Jisung is a dirty, rotten bastard.
The firm stance you’ve taken on the latter may or may not have something to do with the former, but you can’t draw that conclusion now — not with the abuse your taste buds are currently suffering, anyway.
“Who the fuck —”
You cut yourself off to spit a mouthful at the ground. Notably, the remnants of that half-chewed abomination look just as awful on the way out as they did on the way in.
“— Replaced this queso with battery acid?”
Chipmunk cheeks stuffed to bursting, Jisung blinks back at you. He says nothing — suddenly too polite to speak with his mouth full — and shrugs, unbothered. That’s when the realization hits you like a boot to the skull. Drenched in disbelief, your muttering comes out in slow-motion:
“You spent the last of our cash on these.”
He swallows, though you don’t know how he could bring himself to do it. That act alone makes the rage you’re simmering in bubble over.
You repeat yourself through gritted teeth, pausing emphatically between every word, “The — last — of — our — cash!”
“My bad?” He eventually offers. Tongue flicking out, he tries to gather the unidentified sauce that clings to the corner of his mouth. He fails. “Not sure what else I was supposed to find with that little money in this part of town, but go off, I guess.”
You bite your lips together to hold back the guttural yell you’re seconds from releasing. At your sides, your empty hands clench tightly. Instead of snapping — with your words or your fists — you close your eyes, inhaling slowly through your nose. Deep breaths won’t do you any fucking good in this smog, but your brain tends to work a little bit better without visual interference.
I can go another twenty-four hours, you think. Maybe.
It’s been a while since you’ve last eaten and even longer since your last job. This isn’t out of the ordinary; gaps are to be expected when you live on the fringe, jumping from thread to thread. Still, it isn’t like Changbin to leave you hanging the way he has been lately. It sure as shit isn’t like him to dodge your calls, either.
So, you figure, if you make an unsolicited visit to his office — the stock room of a bar you know better than to frequent — he won’t have a choice. He’ll have to look you in the eye and explain the dry spell, personally. He owes you at least that much.
With your plan finalized, you hold out your left hand to Jisung. In the few moments you’d taken your eyes off him, he’d apparently gone from sitting on the hood of your car to reclining fully with his own eyes closed. Basking like a little lizard in the sunlight, it’s a miracle the hot metal hasn’t burned a hole in his shirt.
“Come on.” You nudge his bent knee with your knuckles to no avail.
As Jisung is wont to do, he pouts. “But it’s so nice out — and your car still reeks, by the way.”
The absolute, rakish audacity.
If you didn’t love him, you’d probably kill him.
Strike that.
Love is irrelevant. You wouldn’t kill him unless and until there was a price on his head. After all, your mother taught you better than to do the things you’re good at for free.
“Do we want to talk about whose fault that is?” You ask with a roll of your eyes. The affection’s still there; you know he sees it. “If I recall correctly — and I think I do, having been the only sober person present — you were the one who got blasted and barfed on everything I love in this world.”
“I got blasted and barfed exclusively on the floor of your car.”
It’s your turn to shrug. “Exactly. End of list.”
Groaning, Jisung rolls his eyes as far back as they’ll go, but he still takes your hand. He always does, always has. With your help, he scoots his ass down the hood and lands with both boots — precisely where your ejected burrito bite did, not five minutes earlier. You can’t stop the satisfied grin from spreading when he whines again, this time louder and with twice as much despair.
After playfully shoving your passenger towards his door, you unlock your own. You don’t dump yourself into the seat, however; not yet. A wall of horrible heat is waiting for you the second the door opens, and you know better than to run into it, headlong.
Jisung is less patient. He’s also more regretful, face twisting in self-imposed anguish when he drops down onto the sun-scorched leather seat. And, to your delight, the hits keep coming. You watch with a smile when the consequences of last weekend’s actions hit his nostrils. The look he gives you falls somewhere between humbled, apologetic, and absolutely dead inside.
“Not one of my finer moments, I’ll admit it.” He acknowledges with a wave of his hand. Resigned, he sighs, “I’ll scrub the shit out of the floor mats the next time we can afford a wash.”
Satisfied, you finally climb behind the wheel. Pushing through the slightly-muted sting of the seat against the backs of your bare thighs, you put your foot on the brake and lift your right hand to press your thumb to the ignition port. The roar of the engine covers the way your breath hitches, but Jisung doesn’t have to hear it to notice the grimace that accompanies it.
“Still sore?” He asks.
To his credit, he looks genuinely concerned as he reaches across the center console and takes your hand in his. It’s gentle, the way he tilts your palm up, but the movement burns in every single one of your tendons. This time, you know you have a captive audience, so you don’t flinch.
Despite the trouble it’s giving you, you have to admit that the new enhancement looks beautiful in the sunlight. In the center of your palm, two rectangular, silver brackets refract iridescence. Their shine contrasts sharply with the matte, midnight black cybernetic plating that now covers the majority of your palm, spreading to the first knuckle of your fingers but coating the length of your thumb in its entirety.
More than beautiful, it’s deadly — and it aches like a motherfucker.
“I read a study about these ballistic co-processors last night while you were knocked out,” he hums.
Classic Jisung.
He has no medical or academic background whatsoever but wastes his time reading crank doctors’ research for fun. And, of course, he makes sure to mention it — casually and apropos of mostly nothing — in order to impress.
Gingerly, he runs his finger along the edge of the cyberware, mumbling, “It usually takes five days from installation for the musculoskeletal inflammation to chill.”
Your fingers twitch of their own volition, which prompts him to look up at you curiously.
“Yeah, well…” You grunt.
Less carefully than you should, you pull your hand from his, tap the gear shift, and throw the car into reverse. Peeling out of the lot, you scoff without even bothering to look his way:
“It’s been ten.”
When the War came and went, it took the old way of life with it on its way out. You might’ve been late to the party by fifty or so years, but you’ve got the gist now. It goes something like this:
Korea, as it was once known, crumpled like a beer can in the face of a corporate uprising and was quickly kicked curbside with the trash. In its place came the New Republic — in all its stolen, neon glory — promising technological revolution, profit in excess. Although the world’s eyes were trained on the peninsula then, not everyone stuck around to watch democracy die in real time.
Not up close, anyway.
Some people had enough cash to run but not enough to make staying worthwhile. With their tails between their legs and their life savings in hand, they left before the capitalist rot could set in fully; chose willful blindness and headed for countries where corporations rule from the shadows rather than broad daylight.
Most people, however, didn’t leave. People like your grandparents, who hadn’t looked up long enough to notice things going to hell in a hurry. And if they did — well, maybe they saw things for what they were: shitty, same as anywhere else.
Five decades later, that fact hasn’t changed much.
Regardless of why a person opts to stay in the New Republic, their options for survival are effectively limited to two. Simply put, a person can sell their soul to the very corporations that strangled the state, or they can starve.
Nobody ever chooses the latter.
You can safely assume everything you need to know about a person based on where their next steps take them.
For example, those who crave both chic, penthouse apartments and blood-soaked streets are most likely to fall in line with WraithCo.. The name suggests that it’s a criminal enterprise run by fucking ghouls because that’s essentially what it is. More than that, it’s the arms manufacturer monopoly that out-manned and out-gunned the national military without breaking a sweat.
The high-powered, highly-paid WraithCo. executives find joy in three things and three things only: designer suits; missiles that explode into clouds of fiberglass upon impact; and testing said missiles out on non-violent nomad encampments outside city limits.
Fucking ghouls.
Despite being the most openly violent of the major players, you find WraithCo. to be the most boring. They lack nuance, don’t bother with a false front or a positive PR spin — it’s all a little too predictable. Thanotech, on the other hand, is subtle; the perfect cover for those who like to convince themselves they’re doing more good than harm.
In furtherance of that delusion, Thanotech replaced all public hospitals with state-of-the-art, for-profit rejuvenation centers. Worse, their lobbyists ensured that medical licensure was limited to employees of those centers, outlawing the provision and receipt of medical care outside of authorized Thanotech facilities.
In short, those who can’t afford Thanotech’s astronomical rates — specifically, poor fucks like you — are left to fend for themselves in back alley clinics; to pray that they don’t wind up worse-off than they started, that the police don’t sniff them out, and that their new modifications aren’t just garbage-tier knock-offs.
Of course, some people give more of a shit about these designer mods than the patients who may or may not wind up with them. In that case, the last of the three titans has them covered.
It’s no fucking surprise that the Ulsan Corporation is the crown-jewel of the New Republic — it’s primarily responsible for killing the old one. As the world’s premier technology and cybernetics conglomerate, Ulsan is also primarily responsible for the research, development, and distribution of cybernetic enhancements.
Like the one your body is currently acclimating to.
No such thing as ethical consumption under capitalism, right?
Ulsan may be less obvious with its bastardry than its counterparts, but as far as you can tell, it’s not good guy behavior to eat an established state and shit it back out. Even if you can’t tie any specific, ongoing atrocities back to them, you have no qualms about adding the desperate state of the union to their indictment.
You can blame them for the desperate measures they’ve necessitated, although you won’t give them an ounce of credit for the spark of resistance they so recklessly lit.
Despite it all, there are still people out there who refuse to accept things for what they are. They find an alternative to the comply or die ultimatum — run along the razor’s edge, taking what they can get, whenever they can get it.
Like Changbin, one of Seoul’s best-connected fixers.
Like you, a gun for hire.
Like Jisung, sitting in your passenger seat as you drive across town, who’s just happy to be included.
Generally speaking, piss and vinegar don’t mix well with club security.
If you were anyone else, rolling up to The Crypt like you own the place would be ill-advised. More than that, it would be asking to get your teeth kicked in faster than you could say, “I’m on the list.”
Thankfully, as it often does, your reputation precedes you. Nobody in the block-long line bats an eye when you cut right to the front, a fact that has Jisung smirking in a way that might otherwise get him killed. Still, the bouncer shoots you a look that says you’re more trouble than you’re worth; and you agree.
Before your friend can change the muscle’s mind, you grab Jisung by the wrist and tug him through the front entrance. You don’t let go when the door shuts behind you, although it’s more for convenience than concern for his safety. He has a tendency to wander, and you don’t have the patience.
“Haven’t been here in a while,” he muses as you drag him towards the main bar, head turning to look in every direction except the one you’re moving in.
You don’t slow down.
Winding your way through the drunks at the counter, you inch closer to the large booths along the far wall. Inside, draped nonchalantly over the plush benches, sit the big guns — mercenaries with far more sway than you, far fatter wallets. They’re living the high life you’ve always dreamed of, and they don’t even notice you staring as you pass.
“Oh, shit!” Jisung waves overhead to one of them, reminding you without trying that he — unlike you — has other friends.“S.Coups, where have the fuck have you been, man?”
You still don’t slow down.
Not when you reach the stairwell at the far side of the main floor. Not when you shuffle down the steps to the employees only section. Not even when the security camera overhead silently demands that you do.
There’s only one locked door amongst the few; you fly to it like a homing pigeon and beat against the metal with your free hand. It isn’t until the burning ache sets in that you realize you chose your right.
“Goddamn it.” You growl down at it, as if your hand will apologize for hurting. Turning your vitriol towards the door, you kick it hard, steel-toed boot forcing out a thud. “Changbin, open this shit up!”
Jisung glares as he scolds you, “Manners, maybe?”
You roll your eyes, but his expectant expression doesn’t budge.
“Fucking — fine, okay? Fine.” Hands thrown up in defeat, you take a deep breath. Your next words come out saccharine, accompanied by fluttering lashes that can’t even be seen. “Changbin, darling, could you please open this shit up?”
The two of you wait in dead silence for several seconds before Jisung’s hands fly up to your hair, unprompted. Your surprised yelp doesn’t faze him. He grabs the bobby-pin from where you’ve stashed it under your ponytail, drops to his knees, and starts to work.
You snort, “Well, damn. Look at you!”
Truly, you’re impressed. Jisung normally leaves the dirty work to you, yet here he is — breaking and entering.
They grow up so fast.
He tries not to look proud of himself, but his cheeks blush a shade of sakura and rat him right out. Though you’re sure he’d love to, he can’t even lift a hand to wave you off before the lock clicks. With a quick twist of the knob, he pushes the door open.
Changbin’s office looks close to normal, with a few notable exceptions. For starters, he’s not in it. The man you’re dealing with never sees the light of day if he can help it.
Jisung pipes up first: “Okay, what the fuck?”
The office chair Changbin normally occupies is spun to the side, as if his ass left it in a hurry. Even odder than that is the small, green light which indicates that he didn’t shut off his computer before leaving it unattended. It’s not a decision someone like Changbin — neurotic and paranoid to a borderline clinical degree — makes on his own.
That, you know outright, is a problem.
Cautiously, you slip past Jisung and walk on eggshells towards Changbin’s desk. You know it’s stupid, that no one would bother rigging the floor tiles to blow under the weight of your boots, but you can’t ignore the way your gut twists with every step. That dread only gets worse, the closer you get.
To the right of his primary screen, there’s a half-eaten vending-machine burrito that’s so covered with ants, you almost mistake them for pepper flakes. That sight makes bile rise in your throat, in and of itself, but it’s the untouched cup of coffee that sends a tingle of panic down your spine. Around the base of the glass, hardly visible on the sheet of paper underneath, is a water ring.
That coffee — at one point, however long ago — was iced.
Changbin would kill you for it if he were here, but he isn’t, so you drop down into his chair. You pause as soon as your ass settles onto the leather, still not convinced that one wrong move won’t set off some sort of trap. The breath you’ve been holding leaks out slowly when your actions go without consequences.
A quick glance up at Jisung confirms that he looks exactly as spooked as you feel. You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows hard.
He knows the answer before he asks, but that doesn’t stop him. It comes out scratchy, riddled with hesitation that says he doesn’t really want to hear the response. “He hasn’t been here in days, has he?”
You shake your head, just barely, then turn to the desk. Bottom lip pinched between worried teeth, you scan the surface for anything you missed on your first pass.
Give me a hint, you motherfucker. All I need is a breadcrumb.
It’s the absence of something that grabs your attention. Eyes narrowing, you lean forward in your seat to get as close as possible to his monitors.
“Does that…?” You start to ask but your voice trails off before you finish; thoughts moving too quickly to inventory before the next one arrives.
Though black, the screens in front of you aren’t lifeless. If anything, they’re still backlit, glitching subtly in a way they shouldn’t — not if the system had been locked, powered off, or otherwise put to sleep. You don’t have to be a netrunner to know that someone is running an opp, fucking up the computer’s processing and leaving it brain dead.
It’s so small that you almost miss the minimized window at the bottom left-hand corner of his secondary monitor, screen otherwise barren. Hesitantly, you reach out your hand and press a trembling finger to it.
Jisung is hovering so closely over your shoulder that you can practically taste that burrito on his breath. You elbow him once in the chest, hard.
He coughs, pointing to the screen as he sputters, “What the hell are those?”
“Numbers, Jisung.” You deadpan. “They’re called numbers.”
Ignoring the way he grumbles in response, you grab your mobile from your pocket. It springs to life at your sudden touch and broadcasts a holographic home screen in the air just centimeters above the glass. Just as fast, it tracks the movement of your eyes flicking through the list of applications. With the faintest shudder, the GPS navigation consumes the screen.
You repeat what you hope are coordinates:
35.2029, 128.6001.
As the map loads, you and Jisung exchange glances that are underscored by tense swallows. He knows it, and so do you:
No matter where that pin ends up dropping, you have no choice but to go.
It takes three hours to drive from Seoul to Changwon. Although it’s not a route you’ve taken in years, or one you ever expected to take again, you still know it like the back of your hand. You can still navigate every turn — every crater and curve — with your eyes closed, even now.
Despite that fact, your decision to race to the southeast this time has nothing to do with sentimentality for the hometown you left five years ago.
This is just for Changbin, you repeat like a mantra, pressing harder on the accelerator.
With every stoplight and thought you race through, the background grows blurrier but the big picture gets clearer. Changbin himself has nothing to do with it; and you’re not as selfless as your inner monologue keeps claiming. You correct yourself:
This is for me and my empty bank account.
Really — who could blame you?
You need steady contracts in order to eat. Without Changbin, those get fewer and farther between. It’s the transitive property, or whatever; basic math. You might starve without him, and that is the one thing in this life that you’re unwilling to do.
In the passenger seat, Jisung stirs. When he speaks, his voice isn’t weighted down with exhaustion in the way it usually is, halfway through a car trip. For some reason, it makes your stomach turn to consider that — for what is probably the first time ever — he isn’t sleeping through a drive.
“He left in a hurry,” he quietly notes.
Out of the corner of your eye, you glance at him and confirm the presence of that worried crease between his eyebrows. It’s not accompanied by the usual, furiously-bouncing knee. That makes your stomach turn, too. Clearly, he’s vaulted over mere anxiety and landed somewhere close to shutting down.
You nod. “He did.”
It spooks him when you take your right hand off the steering wheel and give his elbow a brief squeeze. You’re not the affectionate type; you both know this. It always makes your rare touches more ominous than comforting.
“Do you think he was running to something, or running away from something?”
Leave it to Jisung to say the quiet part out loud.
Normally, you have an answer for his constant questions; and if you don’t, you resort to lying or guessing. This time, however, you don’t bother with either of those tactics because it doesn’t matter. Whatever the correct answer is, it’ll still feel wrong because Changbin doesn’t run.
Period.
Full stop.
So, the conclusion your brain keeps trying to come to is that he didn’t — he wouldn’t — if it came down to choice. The only reason Changbin would’ve disappeared like this, suddenly and wordlessly, is if he was taken.
Pulse hammering loudly in your ears, you don’t hear Jisung announce that your destination is only a few hundred meters down the road. Without his emphatic pointing out the windshield ahead, you simply would’ve continued racing forward, taking the speed limit as a suggestion to be ignored. Thankfully, your lead foot switches to the brake with enough time to make your turn. Tires hit dirt; your car fishtails as it transitions from the road to the worn-out path to your right.
“The fuck is this place?” You mutter, more to yourself than to Jisung.
It’s obsolete, you know that much.
Something akin to an industrial park, but one that clearly hasn’t been used since before the War. There are electrical towers dotting a perimeter around the space, none of which are operational; the grid system was replaced by wind power, then by solar energy no fewer than fifty years ago. The driveway below is so cracked that patches of weeds have overtaken most of what remained of the pavement. All the rest is weathered, reduced to broken bits of cement and dirt.
Your car slows to a stop halfway down the parkway, surrounded on both sides by empty storage units with doors either broken or missing entirely. Hair raising on the back of your neck, you park but don’t kill the engine. Slowly, you rest your right hand over top of the holster strapped to your thigh and open your car door with your left.
The sun set a few hours into your drive. Its absence hasn’t done a damn thing to break the thick heat waiting for you outside. Humid air settles on your skin and leaves a sheen of sweat behind like a handprint, sticky.
“These were the coordinates,” Jisung affirms with a sigh. He stays seated inside the vehicle, leaving you to wonder why. He’s either too panicked to move, or correct in assuming you’d tell him to sit his unarmed ass back down before you made him.
You don’t respond.
Instead, your eyes continue to scan the property for signs of — well, anything. Movement, a heat signature, whatever might register on your optical mods. There’s nothing, save for the stray tumbleweed somersaulting across the empty lot. You narrow your eyes to zoom in, heart pounding with anticipation.
You almost scream when you see it, but you swallow the urge. Fear won’t do you any good, but the semi-automatic strapped to your thigh might. It’s in your palm before you can blink, cocked and aimed at the figure ahead. At the bottom of your field of vision, your ammo count glows in translucent, block letters.
So, the ballistic co-processor is worth the pain.
Their posture is casual, legs dangling from the metal catwalk they sit on. Their elbows rest against the railing in front of them, as if they’re leaning on a counter in a bar and not spying on you from a scaffold four meters overhead. The way they’re watching in silence is unsettling enough; the wooden tal obscuring their face is fucking nightmare fuel, if you’ve ever seen it.
Head tilted curiously to the side, the stranger stares down at you through small eye holes, wooden mouth frozen in a hand-carved smile. Whoever they are, they’re immersed in the bit. They exaggerate every slow movement for their audience of two.
Good for them, you scoff to yourself.
Gloved hands come up to pantomime “don’t shoot” mere seconds before they grab hold of the railing in front of them. Just as quickly, they swing themselves underneath with a kick of their legs until they’re falling, falling, falling towards the ground below. They land easily on their feet without so much as a grunt. All the while, dust swirls in pirouettes around their ankles, spot-lit by your car’s headlamps.
“What — what the fuck?” Jisung squeaks.
You don’t answer, but that doesn’t stop him from repeating his question, over and over.
Hands still raised, the stranger slowly closes the distance between you. Their fingers wiggle slightly in some demented version of a wave; they’re taunting you. The unhealed part of you wants to shoot those fingers off, one by one.
You’ve never been fond of clowns.
“If you like having kneecaps without bullets in them, I suggest you stay still, chingu,” you scoff, now more annoyed than alarmed.
To your surprise, they listen. Their feet still, side by side; and their hands stay where you can see them. That is, until they curl all of their fingers into their palm, except for their right index finger. With it, they point silently over your shoulder.
As soon as you can whip your neck around, a gloved fist collides with your temple. The last thing you see before your vision goes black is a second, wooden smile looming over you.
A hushed tone manages to nudge you awake.
“You really can’t keep doing this. Seriously, your people skills are awful.”
The whole world’s blurry, and you can’t make out the source of the sound, but you’re coherent enough to know it when a second voice chimes in. It’s much less gentle than the first, higher in pitch and twice as exasperated. It snaps, “She was armed.”
“I had it under control,” the first voice huffs.
The two seem to be too lost in their argument to notice your eyelids fluttering or your fingers twitching. Your wrists aren’t bound, you realize, but that fact doesn’t help you much in your current state. Back resting heavily against the thin nylon cloth of a cot, it’d take more energy than you have to spare in order to get to your feet. Worse, your eyes don’t seem interested in cooperating.
They should be by now.
They’re open, you’re conscious, and —
Motherfucker.
The more awake you become, the more the ache in your temple reverberates down your jaw. You know without looking that the right side of your face is bruised to hell and back. Scraped up, too, if you had to guess; you hit the gravel like a bag of bricks.
They must’ve done it on purpose, hitting you exactly where they needed to in order to scramble your visual input. The most you get is shapes, black and white static. It wasn’t the hardest knock you’d ever taken to the head — not by a long shot — but it was perfectly targeted and timed.
Clearly, they’re no amateurs.
One such shadow kneels down next to you. Gentle fingers tuck a strand of hair behind your ear while their other hand tilts your drooping head to the side.
They tut, “Just look at what you did to her face.”
“From what I’ve heard, she’s been through worse,” the second voice scoffs. You watch the shadow’s shoulders as they shrug, wishing you could focus on their face well enough to bash it in.
The retort comes quickly, but it doesn’t come in Korean.
“That doesn’t mean you can’t do better.”
The hands that gently cradle your face pull away, leaving you cold. The action itself isn’t as jarring as the sudden use of English, though — especially the accent it’s spoken with. You may not be fluent, but you can sense what’s missing: the consonant on the end of that last word.
You sense something else, too, but you’re still too disoriented to follow that thought from start to finish. It’s on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach.
Who — ?
The bastard that broke your brain must notice your face scrunching in confusion because their next words seem to be aimed at you. Clipped and unapologetic, they mutter, “Should be fine within the hour. Already been out for —”
They suck in a breath through their teeth. You can’t tell if they’re stalling in order to toy with you, or if they’re genuinely doing the math.
“— Seven hours or so, now.”
Fuck!
One of the two snorts out a laugh; it’s the only reason you piece it together that you spoke out loud. Emboldened by the confirmed functionality of your voice, you speak again without thinking it through first.
You don’t care where you are or who you’re with. You only have one question:
“Is Changbin still alive? Because if he is, I’ll kill him myself.”
The man kneeling next to your cot chuckles, soft and low, but he doesn’t acknowledge your question beyond that. Instead, he addresses his hamfisted friend. “Can you please get her some water?”
“Am I a waiter now, Yongbok-ah?” The other snips, though his tone is devoid of any real heat. If his face wasn’t blurred out of existence, you’d likely find a sneer on it. “Should I roll some gimbap for her, too?”
“Actually, you should,” counters this Yongbok. His response is buried so deeply under his breath that his back talk may as well be a secret for your ears only. “Punched her clean into the next weekday — so, yeah. It’s the least you could do.��
It grows silent enough that you can hear every incredulous footstep as the waiter storms off.
The remainder says, “Sorry about him,” and for whatever little it’s worth, he sounds like he means it. You say nothing, simply marinating in your resentment.
Meanwhile, he shifts from his knees in order to sit fully on the ground next to your cot. Elbows extended, he leans back onto his palms and sighs gently, “Minho’s not as bad as the first impressions he makes.”
You scoff so forcefully that you feel it in your sinuses. “This is the second. His first is the reason I can’t see who’s holding me hostage.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” The shape beside you sits up suddenly. He sputters, “You’re not a hostage, and this isn’t a kidnapping —”
“Then what the fuck is it?” You snap, “Huh, Yongbok?”
Blindly, you throw out a half-balled fist in a half-baked attempt to even the score. It misses by a mile, nearly knocking you off balance in the process. Your wrist is encircled by the same warm fingers you felt before, doubling over but exerting no force.
“We were scouting you. You know, like, soccer?” He chuckles sheepishly. “Changbin mentioned that you were a free agent, so to speak, and we thought you might wanna join the team.”
What the fuck?
“And — it wasn’t supposed to wind up like this.” His shadow’s hands gesture vaguely at the room you can’t see. “I did try to warn you. You just didn’t turn around in time.”
There are too many questions swirling around in your skull to choose from. One of them must break free and nudge your retinal chip back into place because something turns the lights back on. Glitching wildly, your vision flickers from low contrast to high definition. It doesn’t hurt, but the surprised gasp you choke out could easily be interpreted that way.
The man next to you is back on his knees in a second, both hands finding your shoulders to either comfort you or immobilize you — and you aren’t sure which. Against your better judgment, you ignore the reflex that tells you to fight or flee. Instead, you reach out and touch his cheekbone to confirm that the faint spots you see are freckles and not lingering sensory damage on your part.
He doesn’t even blink, much less say a word. There’s no jerk to get away, and there’s not a single question asked about what the fuck you’re doing — just tolerance. Far more than you’d be extending if the roles were reversed.
Freckles.
You aren’t embarrassed, but you drop your hand quickly and scowl at him until he does the same. Once again, he raises them as he leans back. Notably, he doesn’t wiggle his fingers like the first time you crossed paths.
That reminds me —
Abruptly, you draw your arm back to deck him in earnest.
Just like the last time, he catches you before you can strike him; however, instead of capturing your wrist, it’s the entirety of your fist. His palm absorbs the shock, fingers closing around your hand. It’s the gentlest trap you’ve ever been ensnared in, which you hate.
Smart of you to prevent another attempt.
“Can I finish explaining myself?” He asks, voice soft.
Bright doe eyes scan over your face cautiously as he contemplates letting your hand go. It’s disarming, sure, but you’d rather die than admit it.
You give him absolutely nothing to work with, so he adds, “You can hit me when I’m done, if you still want to.”
All you give him in return is a glare, which he somehow correctly interprets as permission to keep going. The grip on your fist loosens, although it wasn’t constricting to begin with. Like nothing happened, you pull it away and cross your arms.
As if nonchalance has ever been your strong suit.
He stares at you, deep in thought, for longer than you know what to do with. Eyes sweeping over your features like he’ll be quizzed later, taking in every detail. It’s unsettling — what about you is even worth gawking at?
When he frowns, that spark of light in his eyes stays put. “You don’t remember me.”
It’s not a question because he isn’t asking; he’s telling. And you have no goddamn clue what he means, no matter how loudly the voice in your head screams that you should. The familiarity buzzing through your brain can’t place him — not the button of his nose, not even those fucking freckles.
“I don’t know anyone named Yongbok,” you counter, frustration evident.
You wouldn’t be this harsh if you know how not to be. Part of you feels guilty when you see the hurt flicker across his face, but both emotions — his and yours — are gone as quickly as they appear. Consequently, the walls stay up, refusing to give. Despite you, the corner of his mouth hitches up in a lopsided version of a smile.
That’s familiar, too.
“Never really went by it,” he chuckles. As he does, he tilts his head quizzically.
Another bell rings, yet you can’t name the note.
Shyly, he takes his half-smile with him and looks anywhere else. The anticipation is spinning cartwheels in your stomach, tingling down the back of your neck, and you’re seconds away from trying to smack the trapped words right out of him.
Who are you to me?
After a deep breath in and out, he glances back at you from the corner of his eye. His hesitation does nothing to prepare you for his response, which isn’t his name at all. It’s yours — a nickname, more specifically. One no one has used in damn near a decade.
“Been a while, Scraps. Hasn’t it?”
Felix has never seen anyone freeze the way you do when the realization finally hits. For a minute, he worries that Minho did more damage to your poor brain than either of them initially diagnosed; it wouldn’t be the first time. Minho’s never been known to be careful or tactful.
Your silence — and your total lack of physical response — doesn’t last, though. He nudges your kneecap with his knuckles just to make sure you can feel it. You blink rapidly, as if you’re just now remembering how.
He starts to ask, “Are you ok—?”, but your fist flies out, pops him right in the jaw, and he chokes on the rest of that question. Hands flying up to cover his face, he collapses back onto the floor with a groan. When the initial shock wears off, it dissolves into laughter that shakes his shoulders.
Honestly, what did he expect?
In a flash, you shove yourself off your cot. You’re on top of him before he can blink, pinning him down. You grip his shirt in one fist and raise the other. He braces himself for impact but doesn’t flinch, too taken aback by the fury you’re capable of communicating without a single word.
“You’re fucking with me,” you spit, breaking the silence.
Your glare is borderline feral — burning — and that makes him laugh even harder.
“You haven’t changed a bit, you know that?”
To both of your surprise, you don’t hit him again; you don’t even try. You freeze, but unlike the last time, your eyes are shaking. Your raised arm is, too, like it’s taking all you have to keep whatever you’re feeling to yourself.
Classic Scraps.
You mutter, “You’re dead,” and it’s not a threat.
Not even close, really. It’s a declaration, one accompanied by an expression that’s as close to vulnerable as he’s ever seen from you. All at once, you lower your arm; the rest of you slumps, too. Whispering, you repeat, “You’re dead.”
Something about your tone hurts worse than the burgeoning bruise near his mouth. It aches, even more so when he frowns. You deserve an explanation — an apology, too — but Felix doesn’t know where the fuck to start.
Maybe he should cash that reality check first.
“Is that what people are saying?” He asks.
He’s not sure what about that trips him up. It makes perfect sense that this is the conclusion people wound up jumping to. After all, he left without a word and never came back — didn’t leave a trace, either.
Felix wasn’t the first teenager to slip through the cracks, so he’d figured that his would be another run-of-the-mill disappearance. Sure, people tend to notice when kids go missing; but that doesn’t stop the world from turning. Sooner or later, people stop looking, either too busy or too hopeless to keep holding a torch.
Eventually, they forget.
At least, that was the reality Felix had subscribed to — that, after a while, he’d slipped through the cracks of collective consciousness. It was easier to tell himself that he wasn’t missed. His guilt couldn’t keep him up at night if nobody remembered that he existed in the first place; especially when a decade slipped past in his absence.
But you did remember.
You missed him.
You lift your knee so that you’re no longer straddling him and drop onto your back at his side.
It’s funny, he thinks as he stares up at the ceiling. The two of you spent years just like this, albeit on the hood of some junkyard sedan. Two pairs of wide eyes were always fixed on constellations, dreaming of something bigger than both of you. Of some future where you weren’t still stuck in the gutter.
“There was no trace of you anywhere.” You speak so softly that Felix is left to wonder whether you’re talking to him or yourself. “No records that you fled, no word from you, no hits on CCTV — nothing. The cops said there’d be a trail if…”
Your voice fades out before you can finish that thought, so Felix picks up where you left off: “If I was alive to leave one.”
There’s a long pause before you speak again.
“This is where you disappeared to?”
He feels a shift beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the way you’ve tilted your head to gaze at him. By the time he does the same, the moment is gone, and you’re taking in the room around you.
It’s not much, but it’s all he has: A small room in a decommissioned factory, smelling faintly of sawdust despite not containing any. The cot you just sprang from is where he’s spent most nights since he was fifteen.
The floor underneath it — underneath you — is more dirt than concrete now, no matter how many times he’s scrubbed it; and the few iron shelves that hang along each wall are just as gross. So are the knickknacks he’s set on them, but he doesn’t mind.
The site itself is long forgotten. It’d be an eyesore if anyone ever looked, but no one bothers.
Even satellites have stopped paying it any attention, leaving it to fade into dirt and obscurity, not even a shadow of what it used to be. Once plush and inviting, the surrounding forest was leveled in a firefight that ended with ninety-percent of the nearby buildings getting blown to shit.
The New Republic could’ve easily organized a relief team to dig through the shattered city. At any point in the last fifty years, they could’ve rebuilt what burned in that failed uprising, but they didn’t; and Felix knows they never will because that rubble has a function. Apart from burying one of the country’s most impoverished districts, it serves as a cautionary tale. A threat left behind to the masses: this is what happens when people pose risk to profits.
Still, flowers can grow within cracks in concrete. After all, his life with you started just a few kilometers away.
“Are we still in Changwon, or did you and that asshole drag me out of the province?”
That edge of yours is ever present, and Felix is glad. It’s one of the million things he’s missed about you; a feature on the long list of reasons he wishes he could’ve called — messaged, sent a smoke signal, anything — to keep you around in whatever capacity he could.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
Felix feels the weight of a lost decade sitting heavy on his chest, so he does what he always does: he chooses light. Smiling brightly, he asks, “D’you remember that junkyard we used to run away to after curfew?”
You roll your eyes. You don’t have to say it out loud; he knows you do. The two of you spent more time there than you did in your own homes, lining glass bottles along the wooden fence posts and firing stones at them with a homemade slingshot.
“We’re a few kilometers up the road, actually.”
At this, you sit up so that no part of your body stays pressed against his. Dead silence settles in the space between you like a brick wall. You bristle, then you snap, “All that time you were dead, you were still within spitting distance?”
Felix opens his mouth to respond, but your rigid posture makes it clear that you have no desire to listen. He closes it again without saying a word. It’s what he deserves, isn’t it?
“Traded in your family, your home, your — Me.” You clear your throat to hide the fact that your voice breaks. It’s too late. “And for what, Felix? To haunt some abandoned building like a ghost?”
You clench your fists, like a grip tight enough might keep you together. That part of you hasn’t changed either, it seems. Neither has the extremely unsettling way you get quieter, the more upset you are. Just like that, he’s reminded of what you used to say: the more it hurts, the less it shows.
“I couldn’t pick you out of a fucking lineup despite all of that history,” you whisper, deflated. “And you were here the whole time.”
Talking won’t do him much good, so Felix opts to show you. Palms pressed to the ground, he pushes himself to his feet, and he doesn’t bother dusting off the back of his pants once he stands. It won’t make a difference, anyway, when the whole damn city is covered in it.
Once he steadies himself, he extends his hand to you, half-expecting you to slap it away. You don’t budge. You never do, he recalls fondly.
“One chance?” His eyes are pleading, even though you don’t look up to meet them. “It’s hard to explain, but it’ll make more sense if you see it.”
Without looking, you lift your arm and slap your hand into his. A small concession, but it’s enough to make his smile reappear. He’s practically beaming when he hauls you to your feet, and you grip his forearms to keep steady.
“Fine,” you concede with a huff.
Then, you round on him with one pointed finger, jabbing him in the center of his chest with force. It’ll bruise, but he supposes that’s the whole point.
“This better be worth all the fucking theatrics, or I swear to god —”
“You’ll make me swallow my own teeth?” He rolls his eyes with a low chuckle and tugs you along after him on his way to the door. “Yeah, yeah, yeah — Heard that threat a thousand times, Scraps, and you’ve never once made good on it.”
Just to emphasize his point, he looks over his shoulder at you and grins with all thirty-two of them.
All things considered, you take everything in stride. You don’t react much at all when you discover that the abandoned building is anything but; refuse to bat an eye when the two people you woke up to are revealed to be a tiny fraction of the whole.
You even keep your hand in his as he ushers you from room to room — through the clinic, the makeshift and woefully under-equipped armory, the Hub — and introduces you to whoever you come across. He might even go so far as to call you friendly, which is a first. Receiving any kind of warmth from you typically requires high-level security clearance.
Or, at least, it used to. Felix has to remind himself more than once that, small echoes aside, there are parts of you he doesn’t know anymore. This could very well be one of them.
Halfway through the tour, you finally offer up more than a lukewarm greeting and your name. It’s just the two of you now; you don’t have to make yourself palatable anymore. Blunt as ever, you throw out, “This is a cult, right? You ran away from home to join a cult?”
There she is, he thinks.
Felix pulls a face in disapproval, which you either don’t catch or don’t care about. Instead, you turn your head in the opposite direction and let your gaze sweep over the loading dock you currently stand upon.
It’s the closest thing they’ve got to a sitting room, filled with the only comfortable furniture they could get their hands on — half-busted arm chairs, ratty old couches, tables held together with duct tape and a prayer. You drop suddenly onto one such couch, jerking him back until his ass winds up next to yours on a tattered cushion.
Felix can’t tell if you pulled him down on purpose, or if you simply forgot that you were holding onto him. Either way, he doesn’t mind, but part of him hopes it was the former.
“It’s a collective,” he corrects you, lips flattening into a firm, straight line.
“You don’t have to sugarcoat it. If it’s a sex cult, just say so.”
He tries not to laugh — really, he does — because the last thing you need is an enabler, but your deadpan delivery has always hit him where he’s weakest. He tries again while swallowing a chuckle: “It’s the Black Screen, home to the most talented and ungovernable motherfuckers on the peninsula.”
You don’t look impressed. Felix doesn’t take it to heart.
“We’ve got a reconnaissance team, netrunners —”
As if he’s doing a roll call, he points to nearby stragglers with every position he names.
“— corporate defectors, combat vets, medics, ex-fixers —”
He nudges you with his elbow, wiggles his eyebrows and murmurs, “— Edge runners —”
If that look in your eye is any indication, you still hate it when he does that.
“And a couple of wayward drunks who — well…” Felix pauses for a moment to think. It doesn’t help, so he shrugs, snickering, “I dunno how they got here, and they don’t contribute much, but they’re fun to have around!”
The corner of your mouth twitches, ever so slightly. He grins down at you, as if to say gotcha.
“So, it is a sex cult,” you repeat flatly after a beat.
Felix can’t beat your bit, so he may as well join you in it. Bested, he sighs, “Yeah, pretty much.”
You hum in acceptance of his defeat, clearly amused by how easily he still gives in to you.
With pursed lips, you continue to take in your surroundings. Your brow furrows while you process the information you’ve been bombarded with so far, but you don’t offer up any further questions or snide comments. Thankfully, the silence that falls over you both feels a lot less like lead than the previous one.
Felix’s gaze stays fixed on you, though you’re too busy looking elsewhere to notice. Maybe you couldn’t recognize him, but shit — he’d know you anywhere, anytime. You’ve gotten older, of course, finally grew into those features of yours. Still, there are hints of the kid he used to know hidden all over your face.
Original traits aside, the new additions — the tattoos, for starters — all read like you. In fact, Felix is fairly confident that he’d know who they belonged to, even if the other context was removed. After all, the cyberware installed into your hand can’t undermine the familiarity of it resting against his palm.
And it sure as shit still hits like it used to.
He considers it a blessing, really, that so much of you survived the years that flew by without him. That the scrawny girl next door — ready and willing to fight God over a single slight — still rolls her eyes the same way, still speaks in that satoori his non-native tongue could never mimic.
“Maybe I’m missing something,” you announce suddenly. The unexpected sound of your voice startles Felix so much that he jumps, knocking his shoulder into yours in the process. You ignore his reaction and continue, “This just looks like someone is collecting people as a hobby. What are you all doing here?”
Oh.
Yeah, that’s a fair question.
“We’re… starting a fire,” Felix muses.
You arch an eyebrow expectantly, although the rest of your face remains impassive. It’s less of a demand for him to continue than it is permission for him not to stop.
“And we’re going to burn it all down.” He hits you with a devilish grin, drops his voice low in a way that makes you shiver involuntarily. “The corpo-rats, the lies they sell — all of it.”
“Sounds like anarchy,” you say, tilting your head to the side. There’s a beat, then you grin to match his. “Sign me up.”
Felix stands at the far side of the dining area with his arms crossed and his head leaning back against the cinder blocks behind him. His legs are crossed at the ankles, knees aching from the sheer amount of time he’s been holding the wall up.
As much as his body wants to sit, the rest of him is out of options. The only table that isn’t full is the one you’re occupying with Changbin and Jisung. After the day you’ve had, you deserve time alone with something familiar. He recognizes that he isn’t that.
Not anymore — and not yet, either.
He finds it hard to stray too far, though. You’ve always been able to fend for yourself — that black-and-blue jaw of his is proof enough — but it’s a role he can’t help falling into, looking out for you. Muscle memory.
Although Felix can’t quite make out anything that the three of you are saying, it’s clear as a damn bell when you slam your palms down on the table. Just as obvious is the split second in which your anger gives way — when the pain in your right hand finally registers in your brain.
“That one going to be a problem?”
Hyunjin, as usual, seems to appear out of thin air. He sidles up to Felix and takes up the spot next to him along the wall. All it takes is one quick glance to confirm it — he’s exhausted. Dark half-moons sit in the wells beneath his eyes like ink, silently informing Felix of yet another all-nighter; still keeping secrets as to where he goes at night when everyone else is sleeping.
But Hyunjin isn’t a mystery Felix will ever be able to solve, so he looks back in your direction and asks, “Who, Scraps?” Then, with a shake of his head, he sighs, “No. She’s a cherry bomb, but she’s reliable. Far more than most, actually.”
It’s odd, Felix thinks, that Hyunjin didn’t already know the answer to that question. As the reconnaissance leader of the Black Screen, there isn’t much Hyunjin isn’t aware of. Felix doesn’t comment on that piece, however. Instead, he does his best to interpret your reaction.
“If I had to guess, Changbin just told her about the fake kidnapping.”
And Hyunjin doesn’t do a damn thing to conceal his smirk. That was his plan, after all.
Two weeks ago, Seo Changbin stumbled upon a lead by accident. While Felix isn’t privy to the details of what Changbin dug up, he knows it must’ve been significant. That’s the only explanation Felix can come up with as to how Changbin wound up at the rendezvous point. Nobody — not the corporate ghouls, their war dogs, or any other sorry soul — finds the Black Screen unless they want to be found.
Felix is privy to what happened next because it’s the only reason he wound up involved in this at all:
Whatever intel Changbin had was groundbreaking enough to score an invitation to the revolution, but he had more to offer the higher-ups than that. He dropped the name of someone who could be an asset, under the right circumstances. Someone who wouldn’t follow a breadcrumb trail for free but would tear the peninsula apart to find whoever owed them.
For what it’s worth, Felix disagreed with that characterization the second he heard it. Despite the mask you like to wear, you’re incapable of being self-centered. You’ve never been profit-driven, heartless, or attachment-avoidant. Just hellbent on survival for you and the people you feel responsible for, even as a kid.
The only reason Felix hasn’t asked you about your motive outright is because he knows you’d lie. The truth is simple: Unless it was for someone you care deeply about, you wouldn’t waste gasoline on speeding back to a place you hate.
Hyunjin clears his throat, pulling Felix out of the daze he’d fallen into. Given the pointed look on his face, Hyunjin must be repeating himself when he says, “She got you bad, huh?”
Confusion forces Felix’s brow to furrow.
“This?” He takes a wild guess and gestures to the bruise on his jaw before waving dismissively. “Nah, her form is terrible. Truly garbage-tier follow-through. I can teach her, though.”
Hyunjin pushes himself off the wall and moves to exit the dining area. As he passes by, he gives Felix a patronizing pat on his shoulder. “Not what I meant, Yongbokie.”
Felix frowns, unsure how to take what he’s being given.
The fuck?
“Not even close,” Hyunjin calls over his shoulder.
He shoots Felix a wink, and then he’s gone, disappearing out the door the same way he entered it — like a goddamn apparition.
“Wow. Recruited? That’s — wow.”
Jisung is doing a terrible job of pretending he isn’t blushing. He clears his throat to keep his voice even, but it’s useless. He’s not fooling anyone.
“I didn’t realize we were so sought after.”
“You’re not,” Changbin responds bluntly. He gestures across the table to you but maintains his eyes on Jisung. “She is. You just happened to be present, and they couldn’t leave a witness behind.”
Jisung doesn’t bother to hide the way his face falls. When he opens his mouth to whine, you raise your hand and silently demand that he spare you the earache. It seems to work; he slumps dejectedly and leans with his elbows against the tabletop. You proceed to ignore him.
Affect flat, you stare straight ahead at the source of all your fucking problems. The half of you that wants to hug Changbin for being alive and well is significantly quieter than the half of you that wants to grab him by the nape of his neck and shove his face into his yukgaejang.
Bastard.
“I no longer give a shit how I ended up here,” you state coolly. Liar. “That ship has sailed, and to keep it a buck with you, Binnie —”
He cringes at the nickname, which is exactly the reaction you sought.
“— I’m not interested in stroking your ego for getting one over on me. It won’t happen again. What I’m still waiting on —”
The only reason you leave that clause hanging in mid-air is to see the anticipation stir in his eyes. From where you’re sitting, it’s what he deserves: a little bit of unnecessary suspense. Really, it’s a form of reparations for the giant fucking inconvenience he’s been lately. His balance is way past due.
Jisung, perpetually along for the ride, shovels shrimp chips into his mouth while his eyes dart back and forth between your face and Changbin’s.
You shoot Changbin a sly smile and grab his beer, tilting the can his way in lieu of a bow. His eyes narrow, visibly annoyed with your stalling, but he doesn’t audibly complain when you down the rest of his drink. Resigned, he accepts the empty can that you hand it back to him
At long last, you clear your throat.
“— is an explanation for why you’re here,” you finally sigh.
Changbin rolls his eyes so hard that they go all-white for a moment. Then, to your surprise, he glares across the table at Jisung.
“You know, my life was way more pleasant before you dragged this one,” he huffs, gesturing to you with his chopsticks, “Into my bar.”
Just for a moment, Changbin sits with his annoyance. He’s entitled to some of it, you’ll concede. You’re not easy to love — you never have been — and you’re occasionally even harder to like. Despite that, he’s been known to look out for you in his own, mostly useless way; even in moments like this, when you’re being a fucking gash simply because you can.
But the fact remains that you dragged your ass across a peninsula for him. He knows damn well that you accept payment in the form of secrets when cash is too hard to come by, so….
“Spill,” you demand.
That tough exterior of his collapses like wet cardboard, just like you knew it would. He glances around the room quickly to confirm that no one is listening in, then he pushes his empty bowl out of the way. With the threat of staining his white t-shirt neutralized, Changbin leans in and asks, “Do either of you know Jung Wooyoung?”
Simultaneously, you and Jisung respond:
“The boxer?”
“The biter.”
Just the same, your friends turn to you with identical looks of bewilderment. You shrug, declining to elaborate because Changbin asked if you knew him, not how or how intimately. Truth be told, you’re not sure that he’s prepared for that answer.
“Anyways,” Changbin segues after clearing his throat. “He’s not up to either of those tasks these days.”
Genuinely curious, Jisung asks with a frown, “Did someone finally kill him?”
Fair question, you think.
With the way Wooyoung runs his mouth, it’s a wonder he’s lived as long as he has — assuming, of course, that he’s still alive. Beyond picking fights with people three times’ his size, his specialties include fixing matches and swiping other fighters’ significant others. If he’s not dead yet, you figure, it’s only a matter of time until the consequences of his antics come calling.
Changbin shakes his head, and the look on his face seems weirdly solemn, like the answer is even worse than that. It’s sobering; it knocks the smirk right off your face.
“He was short on cash, so he signed up for some clinical trial promising a million won for participants.”
Jisung, the resident non-doctor, sits up at this development. “Thanotech?”
You’re in the middle of rolling your eyes when Changbin intercepts, grimacing: “No, that’s the fucked up part. Well, one of the fucked up parts.”
Two pairs of expectant eyes lock on him.
“It’s Ulsan running the trial.”
You don’t pretend to be well-versed in any of the biomedical, cybernetic shit going on around you, but you do know that this particular corporation never leaks details of its research and development — not ever. Doing so would run the risk of a lesser titan swooping in to try and to dupe it.
But that’s not the only revelation that smacks you upside the head.
“Ulsan pays for lab rats now?” You scoff, surprised by your own interest. “Here I was, thinking they used ex-employees for that shit.”
It sounds callous when you say it out loud, but it’s a universal assumption. Part of the New Republic’s mythology, so to speak.
In your lifetime, you’ve never come across a single person who used to work for the Ulsan Corporation — not one. Just the same, you’ve never heard about anyone leaving; no one you’ve ever met has. It’s beyond the realm of possibility that a corporation like that has no turnover, so where do people go when their turn is over?
The dumpster out back, some say. According to others, they wind up in a secret mass grave in the oil fields.
“When he came back, I didn’t know where he’d been or why; I just saw him wandering around like a fucking zombie.” Changbin shivers. “He’s empty now, all sucked dry.”
Jisung looks pointedly at you, shit-eatin grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Is that what happened when you —?”
An elbow to the center of his chest stops his question before he can finish asking it. He yelps instead, scooting his chair further down the table to get away from you, your sharp edges, and your even sharper glare.
“It freaked me the fuck out, and I didn’t have any answers, so I started poking around for something — anything — that might make sense of it.”
“So, that’s how you got pulled into the web.”
The voice from nowhere makes all three of you jump. You whip around to find yet another stranger.
How many fucking people do I have to meet today?
This particular wild card sits on top of the table directly behind yours with arms gently crossed over her chest; not closed off but cold, judging by the goosebumps making themselves known across her bare arms. Her boots rest on the chair in front of her, one chrome leg shining next to flesh-and-blood.
Whoever she is, she’s beaming. That fact confuses the shit out of you because you’re not often met with friendliness, especially from unknowns. Or maybe, you think, it’s a well-concealed effort to disarm you. Whatever it is, it’s working; the urge to snap at her for intruding is dead on arrival.
You open your mouth to ask what she means, but you can’t get the words out before someone else interjects.
Minho, that bastard, shouts from across the room, “Spider! Got a minute?”
Her eyes light up in a way that says she has several, so long as he’s the one asking. Without another word, she hops to her feet and pushes the chair that held them back under the table. As she heads his way, she sends you an apologetic smile, like she somehow owes you anything.
“I don’t know what they unraveled by pulling that thread,” Changbin sighs, nodding towards the pair exiting the room. “But this place has been buzzing since I got here.”
You need something to chew on that isn’t this, so you reach over and grab the bag of shrimp chips from Jisung’s unsuspecting hands. The frown he gives you is cartoonish, but as usual, he doesn’t put up a fight. Your version of an apology is holding a spare chip out to him, which he happily accepts.
After shoveling a handful into your mouth, you mumble, “So now what?”
“I don’t know about you, but if these guys —” Changbin gestures vaguely around the room with his index finger pointed. “— Give me a target to point at, I’ll pull the trigger.”
You snort, “That’s a lot of trust.”
It doesn’t mean much, coming from you. Your metric is beyond fucked, and you know it. That word is foreign, though; so far out of your grasp that you can’t wrap your brain around it.
“Maybe it is,” Changbin mutters while he looks down at the empty can in his grip.
For a moment, that’s all he says. All he does is stare into the black hole of its opening, as if there’s some answer lurking in the emptiness below it. He must not find it, though, because he crumples the aluminum like a piece of scrap paper.
When he glances back up at you, you see the uncertainty in his eyes. It reads like fear, which manages to unsettle you.
“I just — I can’t see what I saw and do nothing.”
Your second month in the compound starts with a bang — no, a thud.
With your body being forcibly ejected from your cot, crashing onto the ground, and your jaw clenching shut quickly with a click of gritted teeth.
“How many fucking times are we doing this?” You growl, less than half-awake.
Already past today’s quota for rage, you form a fist and swing your arm back violently against the capsized cot; it scrapes along the cement floor and skitters further away from you. The sudden burst of movement doesn’t do anything to make you feel better, but it was worth a shot, you suppose.
Felix, whose sunshine smile is too goddamn bright for this hour, crouches down in front of you. He at least has the decency to look apologetic when he lilts, “Until you learn to wake up to an alarm, I fear.”
He pauses, eyes scanning for any genuine distress beyond your shitty mood.
“Does that hurt?” He frowns.
Bleary eyes follow his pointed finger to your elbow, now prickling with blood where you skinned it against the floor. It doesn’t; and you’re not even remotely concerned about it, so you swat his hand away without answering his question and shove yourself to your feet. Once standing, you wander over to your steamer trunk to grab something clean enough to wear.
The shadowy one, Hyunjin, brought your shit to you a week ago — thank god. He provided no explanation whatsoever for how he knew where you lived or how he managed to get inside your building, but you’re a beggar, not a chooser. You’d rather enable his burglary than keep wearing the same, re-washed clothes you came here with or borrowing from people you still don’t know well.
As you peel yesterday’s tank-top up and over your head, your gravelly voice flies out to Felix, who stands and moves to lean against the wall. “You at least going to feed me breakfast before you bore me with more target practice?”
That’s most of what your time together has been so far, anyway. The chain of command is sorting out details above your pay grade; and you condition yourself to jump as high as they may eventually ask you to.
Felix doesn’t answer you, which isn’t like him. You look at him out of the corner of your eye and find him staring up at the ceiling, like his life depends on it.
“What are you —?”
Oh.
You glance down, cutting your question off midway through. He’s giving you and your semi-exposed body privacy, that’s what.
Sensing blood in the water, you swim in to scoff, “You have no problem flipping my bed when I’m in it, but bras are where you draw the line? What kind of gentleman are you?”
Still averting his eyes, he rolls them. You do him the favor of tugging on a different, slightly wrinkled tank-top; but you don’t give him the courtesy of letting up.
“Where do you stand on ass, Felix?”
“Are you always this annoying, first thing in the morning?”
Amusement slips through the cracks despite his efforts to conceal it. You slip out of the cotton shorts you slept in, dip your toes under the fabric pooled around your ankles, and flick them at him. He concedes his staring contest to the panels overhead in order to catch them.
Impressive reflexes.
“I’m this annoying at all hours of the day.” You grin impishly for just a second, then shrug. “You’re just less able to handle it, first thing in the morning.”
Bending back over your trunk, you dig through for something denim. You land on black, high-waisted shorts with a triumphant, “Aha!”, and make a big show of raising your trophy overhead. Once again, you glance at Felix to see if your attempt to get a rise out of him was successful. In a way, yes, it was — just not in the way you expected.
Based on the way his gaze lingers on your thighs and the curve of your ass, you don’t think Felix even noticed your theatrics. You don’t think he means to stare, either. As far as you can see, it’s the perfect opportunity to fuck with him further.
“Admiring the tattoos?” You arch an eyebrow and wait for him to blush out of panic at being caught. “I can recommend the artist, if you want to hit them up.”
To your surprise, you don’t rattle him. Dark eyes flick up from your body to your face, and they don’t seem ashamed of where they’ve been. Your plan backfires. More than that, it blows up right in your face, which is starting to heat up.
“The cantine closes in five minutes. Training starts in ten,” he states matter-of-factly, holding your gaze. “So, you can either eat, or you can keep pretending you’re not trying to flirt with me.”
Your mouth drops open, but you can’t even snap back at him before he chirps, “The choice is yours, Scraps,” with a playful smile.
With nothing more to say, Felix leans away from the wall. On his way out the door, he gives you a lazy, two-finger salute. Dumbstruck, you stand there, watching him leave; wondering where the hell your bumbling, sweetly shy friend from back home managed to disappear to.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” Felix waggles his finger at you. A smug smile toys at his lips when you let out a frustrated grunt. “That’s the problem.”
He takes a step away from you, raises his fists to mimic your posture, and throws a right jab out into the air ahead of him. When he draws it back, he pauses with his shoulders even.
“D’you see the issue with this?” He asks, loosening one fist so that he can gesture from shoulder to shoulder.
You roll your eyes. “Is it that nobody’s currently hitting you?”
Felix, to his credit, is completely unbothered by the attitude you keep giving him. He’s far more patient than he should be with you. You, however, do not take criticism well.
“You square yourself off instead of retriggering an attack,” he gently corrects you. “By not turning and leading with your shoulder —” He twists slightly backwards, so that his body is angled similarly to the way it was when he struck in the first place. “— you leave all this surface area open.”
Okay, fine.
You’ll concede that this makes sense, but you will not admit to poor blocking. In fact, deflecting is what you’re best at, so that’s precisely what you do.
“And how exactly am I supposed to block hits that aren’t coming?”
Felix relaxes his stance with confusion scribbled all over his face. You don’t wait for him to ask what you mean, plunging right into your notes for him:
“This sparring shit doesn’t feel real because you refuse to hit me. It’s been weeks, and there still aren’t any stakes. If you’re going to insist that I learn this — which, by the way, feels pointless when I’m already armed —”
You gesture down to your thigh, where your pistol is normally strapped.
“— then you have to make me care.”
He doesn’t say anything for a minute, opting instead to quietly chew on the challenge you’ve raised. For a split second, you think you’ve finally grasped the straw that’ll break his back. He turns towards the door and walks away, seemingly giving up on trying to teach a rabid dog new tricks.
But Felix defies your expectations yet again, grabs your gear off the counter at the far side of the room, and heads back to you. As he walks, he pulls back the slide to fish out the round that waits in its chamber. Bullet still in hand, his focus shifts to the magazine, which he easily removes from the base of your pistol’s grip. After tucking your ammunition into the back pocket of his jeans for safekeeping, he holds your now-empty firearm and thigh strap out to you.
“Gear up.”
Now, it’s your turn to be confused. You accept the items he pushes into your hands with both eyebrows raised.
“Are we giving up on hand-to-hand, then?”
“Absolutely not,” Felix snorts with a shake of his head. “I’m just going to prove the necessity.” When you don’t budge, he waves his hand to hurry you along. “C’mon, Scraps. Strap in.”
Eyeing him suspiciously, you slip the vertical strap over your belt loop and fasten it before doing the same to the horizontal piece around your thigh. Once it’s nestled snugly against your skin, you slide your weapon into its resting place.
Holding your hands up, you fire off a saccharine smile like the brat you are. “All done,” you chirp.
The smirk that appears on his face makes your stomach flip for two reasons, the least of which is the anticipation of his next move.
“You want it to feel real, right?” His voice drops so low that you feel it deep in your abdomen. “Fine by me.”
Like before, Felix steps slightly backwards. With a nod of his head towards your firearm, he challenges you, “Draw.”
It’s unfamiliar, seeing him counter you like this. Growing up, he was content to go in whichever direction you nudged him in. The version of Felix you knew back then was passive, agreeable to fault. You may not know what the fuck he’s planning now, but he radiates newfound authority that you almost want to respect, so you listen.
“Fine,” you demur while your fingertips trail over the cool, metal grip. “Make your point and move onto something useful.”
The next sequence of events flashes by so quickly that your brain can hardly keep up.
Just as soon as you pull the gun from its holster, Felix turns in his spot, channeling the momentum into a strong push off the ground. He’s in the air before you can even level the barrel; and in the blink of an eye, the side of his boot collides with your hand, forcefully ejecting the gun from your grip. The power behind his kick sends the weapon flying several meters away, where it clatters to the floor with a smack amidst the quiet.
Gasping more so out of surprise than pain, you recoil your stinging fist and clutch it to your chest. He reads your expression incorrectly, if his widened eyes are any indication. Immediately, Felix breaks his stance to step across the distance in between you.
Worried hands come to rest on your biceps, squeezing gently. He urgently asks, “You alright?”
You blink back at him, throughly stunned by how fucking fast his reflexes are, and he misinterprets that, too.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he sputters. His next words come out so frantically that they bleed together over the course of one breath. “I really didn’t want to hurt you; I just needed you to understand that your gun can’t always save you. Sometimes, you have to —”
“That was insane,” you blurt out.
Felix’s eyes widen, caught completely off-guard by your interruption. It’s understandable, you think. After all, it’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve given him over the past few weeks.
He peeps, “Oh?”
You nod vigorously — and there’s that sweetly shy boy from down the block, blushing slightly under the weight of your attention.
Somehow, seeing him this way feels like home; the one you knew before he disappeared, that you might actually admit to missing. Acting solely on instinct, you unfurl your right hand and seek out the warmth of his cheek, like it’ll flip a switch and turn the clock back.
It doesn’t. Of course, it doesn’t — but you can’t help feeling like this is fine, too.
Until you realize what the fuck you’re doing, and you see the starry-eyed look he’s giving you. Then, you do what you always do.
You dodge.
Patting his cheek patronizingly, you breeze, “I guess I’ll let you train me, then,” before turning to retrieve your gun.
“Oh, really now?” He laughs, like he’s already forgotten the way your mask just cracked. You can’t tell if you’re grateful for this, or disappointed. “Is violence all it takes to win you over?”
Disappointed.
You wish he’d called your bluff again, like he did so long ago in that closet you’re currently calling a bedroom. Once wasn’t enough; you want to be caught out, to have someone refuse to let you get away with the bullshit you’re always trying to pull. For some proof that you’re not the bulldozer you pretend to be.
Felix raises an eyebrow as he tilts his head teasingly to the side. “Are you actually going to shut up and take instruction this time?”
Like that.
“Maybe.” You crouch down to grab your discarded pistol off the ground, lips pursed to keep the satisfied smile off your face. “Are you going to stop pulling punches?”
Three weeks of sparring tick by before you manage to clean his fucking clock.
It came as a surprise to both of you; not just that Felix slipped up in the first place, but that you were fast enough to capitalize on an opening he’s otherwise never created. You might’ve gasped even louder than he did when you managed to seize the opportunity — but that memory is fuzzy already. It doesn’t matter, anyway, not to him. Either way, the point stands:
You actually learned from the shit he’s been trying to instill in you.
Having hobbled from the training room to his bedroom, Felix now sits on top of the old, metal counter that once served as a workbench. It’s not comfortable by any means, but he’d rather die than move from his current position. Between his knees, you stand close to him, holding a frozen sponge to his left eye with your right hand.
Funnily enough, that particular hand is the reason he needs an ice pack in the first place.
For a while, the pair of you exist in comfortable quiet. It’s nice, he thinks, just being present. He would’ve been happy to carry on that way for as long as possible, but the shitty voice in the back of his brain keeps yelling that he’s letting more moments slip by than he has to spare. Wasting time that he should be making up.
He clears his throat to shake off the rust, prompting you to glance down from his forehead to his eyes. Your expression is hard to read, but there’s anxiety in there, somewhere. Felix worries that you’re worried; you’re searching for a sign that you’ve somehow injured him further.
“You’re a quick study — if and when you want to be.” His teasing sounds pathetic because his voice is barely more than a groan. Still, he smirks, “Those corporate mercenaries won’t stand a chance.”
With his good eye, Felix watches as your mask cracks a little further in the shape of a smile.
For once, you simply nod in acknowledgement and let the compliment slip through your defenses without trying to deflect it. He wants to compliment you for that progress, too, but he’s hesitant to push his luck when he’s already flying half-blind by the seat of his pants.
Then again, it might be worth the risk to push the envelope — even if you succeed in punching his goddamn lights out for good. He doubts that he’d complain, if that were the case. You’d be an incredible last sight to ever see, wouldn’t you?
His internal monologue pipes up again, demanding that he gamble.
Every single muscle he has aches after spending hours sparring with you, but that’s not at all what he’s talking about when he says, “You’re a knockout, Scraps.”
It’s a cop out, but it’s something.
Just for a second, Felix wonders if you heard what he meant, and not just what he said. All his doubt disappears when that shy smile tugs even harder at the corners of your mouth.
“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, chuckling quietly. “If you want to get technical, you didn’t even lose consciousness —”
Carefully, you bring your free hand up to his forehead and brush flyaway strands of hair out of the way of the makeshift ice pack. By contrast, your fingertips are warm enough to simmer on his skin.
“— so you’ll have to try that joke again when you actually do.”
Although you could, you don’t take your hand back after unsticking his hair from the condensation on his skin. You lower it gently, let it rest on his shoulder, and leave Felix to wonder if it’s a choice, a convenience, or a reflex.
This eats at him.
A long time ago, this little gesture wouldn’t be something he’d have to guess at. He used to just understand, never once needed to be told. So far out of practice, he’s no longer fluent in your body language — and he hates it.
Unwilling to leave anything else up to interpretation, Felix looks up at you with one, unobstructed eye. “Wasn’t joking,” he murmurs.
You freeze without meeting his eyes.
If he didn’t know better, he might think your retinal mods had been knocked loose again. You don’t seem to see him, and that’s all he wants. All he gets is quiet, so he tries again: “And I’m not bullshitting you, either.”
It’s his low voice speaking your real name that finally draws you out of hiding. Surprised for just a moment, your expression softens when you notice the way he’s studying your reactions. You don’t speak at first, but your bottom lip is pinched between your teeth; a telltale sign that you’re trying to.
“Since this is apparently honesty hour,” you start with an exhale.
Felix braces himself for whatever evasive maneuver you’re going to throw next.
Shockingly, you don’t throw out a joke to change the subject. You take the ice pack off his eye so he can see you properly, set it down next to his thigh on the counter, and scrub your hands sheepishly over your face.
“You freak me the fuck out.”
You laugh despite yourself, and then you pause just like that; like you’re waiting on him to laugh at you, too. When he doesn’t, you take it as your cue to keep going: “Am I insane, or does this feel easy?
“I think both things can be true.” You shoot him a look that could — and might — kill him. He holds his hands up in surrender, but he keeps his eyes locked on you. “And I know you’re not used to easy.”
Felix doesn’t know what he expects you to do next, but your next move isn’t one he would’ve guessed. In the end, it’s your still-chilled palms reaching up to meet him, and your fingers filling the empty spaces between his. Brow furrowed, you study the way you fit together, like the words you’re searching for are hidden somewhere in the gaps of your chain-linked knuckles.
“I’m not used to it because I avoid it,” you correct him, frowning. “Easy scares the shit out of me. It just feels like a trap, you know? Like, the second you stop looking out for it, the other shoe will drop and knock your unsuspecting ass to the dirt.”
Keeping his fingers interlaced with yours, he lowers your joined hands until they rest against the tops of his thighs. You watch them go; he watches you, and he can’t help thinking that he’s the reason you armored up in the first place. That him leaving was the blow to the head that taught you to wear a helmet.
“I’ve got good reflexes,” Felix whispers, squeezing your hand.
At this, your eyes flick upwards. A microscopic crease forms between your eyebrows, and he knows exactly what’s coming next, so he says it first: “Excluding today, obviously.”
When you smile, it hits him even harder than your right hook did.
“What are you saying, exactly?” You ask, head tilting to the side as you narrow your eyes.
“Fuck the shoe.”
The look on your face suggests that he can’t possibly be serious, but he’s never been more so. Maybe he can’t promise you easy in a world like this one; and he can’t keep that fucking shoe from dropping, but he swears he’ll catch it when it does.
Felix has to let go of your hands to hold you properly. You lean into his touch when he snakes his arms around your waist; and you rest your forehead against his, careful not to press into the bruise that borders his eyebrow.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he whispers. You hum in reply, confirming your willingness to trade. “Kiss me now, and we’ll batten down the hatches later.”
Felix may have called you a quick learner, but you have to wonder what his basis for comparison is. From your vantage point, it’s him that catches on in a heartbeat, like nothing unexperienced is truly new to him.
Coincidentally, it’s also him that’s kneeling between your thighs, bearing the weight of your hinged knees over his shoulders and making you shake with his tongue alone.
“Fuck, fuck — nngh — fuck!”
It’s all you can say because it’s the best you can do.
Over and over, too drunk on the sensation of his mouth, you let profanity spill out of yours. He has you dripping in more ways than one, pooling on that godforsaken counter, and you can’t spare a single thought about the mess you’re making.
Every neuron fixates on him, the cotton-candy blue strands gripped tight between your fingers, and the way he devours you, like he’s making up for skipped meals.
“F-Felix,” you beg, breathless.
Looking up at you from under his lashes, he feigns innocence. It’s bullshit — he knows you’re on the brink of death, knows your whole damn body is buzzing — and his sweet smile doesn’t match his actions. You jolt, wailing, when another kitten lick trails over your clit.
“Hmm?” That low timbre of his vibrates through you when he pulls back, panting.
God, you’re spent already, but you can’t collapse until you know what he feels like, buried to the hilt in you. Something about that need makes you shiver; has your bottom lip quivering when you manage to squeak, “Please.”
Absolutely boneless, you slump against the wall behind you. With far more grace than you, Felix maneuvers his way out from under the tangle of your legs. He ensures that they fall gently back into place on the countertop.
“Gotta work on that stamina if you’re gonna help wage a war,” he teases.
The half-powered glare you shoot at him doesn’t stop him from leaning in and pressing a kiss to your forehead. It doesn’t keep his fingertips from tracing languid lines down the lengths of your bare thighs, either.
Your voice is fucked out and weightless, far softer than you’ve ever heard yourself sound. “Is that what this is? Conditioning?”
The hand not caressing your thigh comes up to cradle your jaw, like it’s something fragile. It’s the first time anyone’s touched you as if you’re breakable, worth protecting — and motherfucker, you’re one soft smile away from crying.
“No.”
He states it much more firmly than he kisses you. So gentle that you can’t believe it’s real until you taste yourself on him, so warm that you dissolve like a sugar cube on his tongue.
Fuck any other person that’s ever pressed their lips to yours and called it a kiss. They’re liars, all of them. One by one, their names disappear with every passing second in which you know better.
“Need you,” you moan into his mouth.
Fistfuls of his shirt can’t bring him close enough. Even when his head dips down and his lips are at your throat, the ache wins out. You crave him anywhere — everywhere — all over you.
“Going crazy —” You gasp when his teeth nip at your collarbone. “— waiting on you.”
Greedy hands drop to the button of his jeans, fumbling to no avail. Apparently, your dexterity flew out the window two orgasms ago. A frustrated whine jumps out after it, pushing your head back as it goes.
Felix’s low chuckle soothes you, but it’s nothing compared to the relief you feel when his hands nudge yours out of the way. That, too, is a drop in the bucket; bliss crashes in waves when there’s no denim left to separate you. His hands land on your hips, fingertips pressing into your flesh as he guides you further down his length.
Never — not fucking ever — have you made a sound quite as pathetic as the one you bury into the crook of his neck. You can’t classify it, not as a moan or a whimper. It’s desperate — loud. It’s an air raid siren; every fucking barricade you’ve built over the years being blown to smithereens.
This is it, you think.
Fuck your bank account.
Fuck staring at the sky and waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Fuck your contracts, your shithole apartment, and the million different ways you were set up to lose in this life.
This isn’t about you at all. It’s about you and him; all the space and time you’re dead set on reclaiming.
This is for us.
a/n: thank you so much for reading! i’ve been working on this since JUNE, and it’s a much bigger undertaking (creatively and….. mentally) than anything else i’ve done before, so i’m scared and also excited to start sharing it with y’all.
while likes are appreciated, comments/tags/reblogs with your thoughts are really what make my brain go brrrtt.
tagging: @saintriots, @mal-lunar-28, @dabiscrustyfeet
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