#I may just come back to scream about this concept later

[pancake404]

Thoughts on Chapter 4 of Poppy Playtime

This isn't a drawing like I usually do but since I managed to play Chapter 4 blind without any spoilers, I felt inclined to share my thoughts about Chapter 4.

Right after I first played it, I, of course, a fan of the game, thought it was the best chapter in the series. But after the excitement died down a little, I put some more thought into it and read others' reviews on Chapter 4.

So here are my totally serious opinions you should absolutely think are facts as I am never wrong.

Insane Spoiler Alert for Chapter 4!

Pretty much the Chapter:

The Doctor bullies you and everyone else throughout the whole chapter.

Doey, the ally turned enemy as he tweaks out after we might've caused the Save Haven to blow up.

Every Smiling/Nightmare Critter watched JJK apparently because all they do is JUMP YOU.

We continue the trend of almost every toy we've encountered dying indirectly or directly by the player.

Prototype makes fun of everyone as he pulls the most epic prank and reveals he's been Ollie for presumingly a long time now(who would've guessed) so every plan Poppy discussed should be thrown out the window because he already knows about it.

Huggy is back to give us a warm reunion hug after we kind of unintentionally dropped him fifty stories.

Now starting with the central characters:

Player Character:

At this point, they are without a doubt, questioning their existence as all they came for(presumingly, I'll get to later) was to see if their coworkers were still in the factory by an unknown, vague note. Now, they're tied up in a conflict between the toys and they're helping out Poppy(semi-forcefully as there weren't many options) by killing the Prototype and freeing the..."still alive" human Orphans(X to Doubt) kept asleep by the Prototype.

Their name is still unofficial, where they worked in the factory is still not confirmed though hinted to be one with the lab coats, and even Dr. Sawyer is questioning why they even returned.

I do like how the Doctor questions the player's morals and reasons for coming back since these questions have been lingering in some people's heads as well. It's also been explicitly clear that there's something different about the capabilities of this unknown employee as the Doctor states that he was trying to figure out what made the player so different.

Speaking of the Doctor, Harley Sawyer.

I liked him.

He was a really cool villain with interesting dialogue and his views on the Player as he constantly tests them. His voice, the TVs, his behavior, it all made him terrifying and strangely attractive to certain people in the fanbase.

However, I do agree that there could've been a little more done with the Doctor and the concept they went with. The TVs could function like cameras alerting Yarnaby if we get spotted such as the trailer of Yarnaby implied, we can have optional dialogue from Harley depending on our actions throughout the game(or just more of it), or we could have one main controlled TV robot that Harley uses to defend the system holding his consciousness.

I also do agree that his death was a little sudden and underwhelming compared to the chase leading up to it. You just press a button after running a bit and he screams. Then no more.

But overall, a nice addition.

Yarnaby:

I like Yarnaby as well, it was a shame he died halfway through the game as I would've liked to see Yarnaby try to defend Harley when we tried to shut him down rather than him getting caught/stuck/bit on some chains and randomly combusting into fire...I think we may need some more visual clarity on how that happened unless I wasn't looking closely enough.

But the way he moved and functioned always put me on edge and it fit well to what he was described in the ARG.

Is it bad that I wished the Doctor killed Yarnaby instead to mirror the Prototype killing Catnap?

Pianosaurus:

Dude got cheated so hard.

Like actually, it's kind of funny.

I can see why people were disappointed when his one shot in the trailer was literally his whole screen time before Doey killed him a second later. I think most, myself included, would've preferred if Pianosaurus, someone they've hyped up to be an antagonist for Chapter 4, had an area where we have to survive from him and when he backs us up in a corner, then Doey would've saved us from death. Similar to Miss Delight except Doey is the executioner instead of the player.

Doey:

He was decent.

I have to admit, I don't often get attached to characters such as allies like Dogday, Kissy, Poppy(absolutely not), and Doey is no exception. In other words, I didn't care much when he died.

His story was objectively tragic and he was overall a cool character with cool concepts. The fact that he became hostile to the Player by snapping after the Save Haven was wiped out was also an interesting and yet another tragic twist where the only option now is to kill Doey.

Not surprised he died. I did notice that like Dogday, a lot of the fanbase wished to save Doey as well and some may have been angry about this turn out on him. My response to that would be...it's a horror game, killing characters you like would be the go-to move to ensure it is tragic, disturbing, and scary. It would also show that you can't hope for the best in anything because the game can kill anybody.

Advice: If you like a character in a game like this, just expect them to die...or make a fanfic of saving them as coping.

Baba Chops and the Nightmare Critters:

Clearly, they have a vendetta against the Player if they're this. Fucking. Hostile.

There are hardly any moments with them when they're not just jumping you. But I think a nice edition since you have to use the flare gun more. I had a neat idea where they climb on top of each other into a large mass like a hivemind to make a big monster made up of mini critters but that could still work with Chapter 5, we'll just have to see.

Kissy Missy:

I was kind of surprised she was alive but I do like how despite her survival, she was still badly injured and couldn't help much...not that she helped much in the previous chapters without injuries. But she did try to help the player proving her to be generally a good person trying to help us.

Then again, that also relates to how good of a person the Player is and/or something we don’t know about her.

I'm expecting her to die in Chapter 5.

But first, I was to see a fight between an injured Huggy and an injured Kissy.

Poppy:

So....she wasn't that helpful. She pretty much told us what to do, we did it, then we get blamed for it by Doey because someone(Prototype) screwed over the explosives, he tried to kill us, and we killed him, Poppy then blames us for things we both did and didn't do, Prototype call, and she runs off.

I think in one of the VHS tapes(there are two about Poppy), we see a conversation between her and Ollie which shows us directly that she isn't exactly a cunning, evil betrayer but more of a scared experiment like the rest of the orphans with a very... tunnel-visioned plan and mindset. Or very, very desperate to blow stuff up.

She does run off and abandons the player and Kissy because the case must've sucked that badly which is weird because I would rather prefer being asleep in the case than being anywhere outside of it where toys could rip me to shreds. But hey, it's her opinion I suppose.

I am surprised not a single character had not mentioned or tried to drop-kick her. Killing her shouldn't be that hard...right?

Right...I'm guessing the reason why is because she doesn't stick around enough near the player to even encounter any of the big villains.

Ollie/Prototype:

Let's face it. We all knew it. The only person who was surprised was Poppy herself.

I actually enjoyed the reveal though, I think it was intense but very funny on how it was done.

Poppy blames us and then Ollie calls, the first thing he does is do the Playtime Equivalent of doxxing our location. Dude might as well just said our address over a COD lobby.

Then he pretty much makes fun of Poppy by telling her she needs to stop pretending to be stronger than she actually is(which is true).

Then he makes fun of the player by saying, "I got the bombs, thanks for getting them for me BTW!" as we hear beeping sounds below us.

Does a whole speech before Poppy bolts, abandoning us and he proceeds to make fun of that.

Then the floor explodes and we're in the Labs now.

Either the Prototype is a (10/10) funny character or maybe my humor is broken.

Long Story Short:

It's an improvement in many ways from previous chapters but I, like many others, think there could've been just a couple of additions to make it Peak but there were some good moments. Some good lore drops and information that may or may not have screwed over a couple of Au's(depending on who's in it) but it could be worked around.

They dived way deeper into how terrible Playtime Co. in the inside from both the perspectives of the workers as well as the toys. I love that.

I will still say that Chapter 3 is my favorite even with all of this considered(Because I love Catnap) but I do hope that they truly take their complete time on Chapter 5 to make it the best possible.

Anyhow, I can't wait for Chapter 5 to bring back Catnap(yes, I AM coping), totally bring him back, if Huggy could survive a fifty-story fall, Catnap could either be shocked back alive and/or survive a stab to the head. These toys were able to tank bullets in tapes, they could survive a bit of brain damage(or piercing) and burns.

Man...the Player might not be an "angel”.

[chaotic-tired-bastard]

I HAVE BEEN THINKING THINKING THINKING AND JUST.

ROKU ACTUALLY GOING THROUGH WITH IT AND KILLING SOZIN. HE GETS HOME AND GETS A KNIFE AND CUTS OFF HIS TOPKNOT AND JUST SITS THERE, CRYING SILENTLY BECAUSE HE DID WHAT HAD TO BE DONE. BUT IT HURTS SO BAD. AND HE BETRAYED NOT ONLY HIS AND SOZIN'S FRIENDSHIP (WHICH HE DIDN'T, SOZIN DID, BUT HE'S TOO GRIEF-STRIKEN TO SEE THAT) BUT HE ALSO BETRAYED HIMSELF IN DOING SO

HE KILLED HIS BEST FRIEND. IT HAD TO HAPPEN. BUT HE SHOULD HAVE PREVENTED IT, MADE IT SO THAT SOZIN WOULD HAVE NEVER GOTTEN THAT BAD, BEEN FIRM AND KIND ENOUGH TO PREVENT SOZIN FROM GOING DOWN THAT PATH

AND IN FAILING TO DO SO. HE HAS LOST ALL OF HIS PERSONAL HONOUR. AND HE CUTS HIS HAIR TO LIKEN TO THAT. AND ALSO HE CAN'T BRING HIMSELF TO WEAR SOZIN'S CROWN AGAIN BECAUSE HE KILLED HIM, WHAT RIGHT DOES HE HAVE TO WEAR HIS CROWN!??!?!

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Born to Die (Supercorp half bake)

Lena's family must offer a maiden to sacrfice to protect the realm. Lena is raised for the slaughter, but the community and religion indoctrinates her to believe death is a friend, that it is a privilege for her to serve her community in such a way. She lives her life in service to others-- helping the ill and wounded, feeding the homeless, toys to schools, etc. The realm loves and reveres her.

The first time she doubts her life's purpose is three weeks before her 18th birthday, and the date of her welcome death. She and her brother are arguing, and he says something along the lines of "we won't have to worry about what you think for much longer".

It's the first time her role has been cast in such a light-- so dismissive and cruel. A punishment, rather than a purpose. In the days that follow, she sees her world and her life in a new light. She is honored, yes, but as little more than an ornament with a limited shelf life. She has no real impact, no power-- not even within her own family.

When the time comes, she is taken up to the crest of the sacred hill. She knows she is to be burned-- not a peaceful way to go, but part of the ritual is for her to sip from the chalice, willingly drinking the elixir that will spare her the pain.

Only one person is permitted to accompany her up the hill and light the pyre, long ago decided to be her brother Lex. But when Lena sips from the chalice, she only mimes the act of doing so-- her first act of rebellion, of doubt, to keep her mind sharp.

Lex leads her to the hill. From the crest her pyre would be seen for leagues... a concept that now strikes apprehension into her soul. Is this what fear feels like?

When the pyre comes into view, already prepared with fresh bushels of hay and reads and sticks, Lena stops short. She turns to her brother.

"I can't do this, Lex."

Lex turns to her. "Yes you can. You've got to."

Lena swallows thickly. "I don't want to." She takes a thick breath.

"You don't want to?" Lex's features turn cold, full of icy rage. He leans in close to her fact. "Your whole rotten life you've been treated like a saint, and this is how you repay us?"

"Let go of me," Lena says as his hand tightens painfully around hers. "Lex, let me go--!"

She barely registers the rush of displaced air before her brother's fist slams into the side of her head, knocking senseless.

Minutes later, when she blinks back into awareness, Lena is on the pyre, hands bound around the post pressing against her back. Panic grips her when she sees the lit torch in Lex's hand.

"Brother, please! Please don't do this! I don't want to die!!"

"All your exalted life, you've only ever been good for one thing," Lex says stonily. "And now you won't even do that much."

"Lex!" Lena shrieks, yanking sharply against her bonds. "Don't, please!"

"Time to die, sister."

With a casual toss he lobs the torch onto the pyre. He doesn't even stop to look back when Lena screeches as the first of the flames lick at her bare feet.

---

Unknown to either of the royal siblings, the hill isn't as empty as they believe it to be. A forager keen on scavenging uncommon herbs and plants overhears Lena's shrieks and immediately sprints towards them. She arrives just as the flames catch and climb Lena's shift, reaching almost to her hip as Lena's screams hit a ragged pitch.

Without thinking the forager leaps onto the last patch of uncaught pyre and uses her knife to slice away Lena's bonds. She grabs Lena and pitches them both backwards off the edge of the pyre. She moves quickly to smother the fire that comes with them, clinging to Lena's cloak, but it doesn't take long to know that it may yet be too little, too late.

Lena no longer screams, but her breath comes in short sharp rasps, her body wracking with tremors against the pain of the burns that have blistered her bare feet and legs.

"It's going to be okay," the forager stutters, panic making her own hands shake as violently as Lena's, which curl tightly into the woman's blouse. "I'll take you to someone who can help. Just stay with me."

---

True to her word, the woman manages to carry Lena down the far side of the hill to a small village in the valley beyond. Lena isn't aware of much of the journey nor their arrival. Just the shout of her savior's voice as she calls for another, and the disorientation of being deposited on a small cot.

The pain is all she knows, and the world around her fades in and out, but always a hand grasps hers in a solid, gentle grip. When she has the werewithal to wonder, she thinks this might be what death was supposed to be like: a stranger's hand extended in comfort.

One morning, Lena wakes fully. The pain is still there, low and throbbing and agonizing-- but she can think past it, and experience a world the world that still exists beyond it. She sees a woman next to her cot, slumped dozing in a chair with her ankles crossed and bandages on her hands.

Beyond her, a simple cabin takes shape, slowing coming into focus. Another woman with dark hair busies herself with setting dishes upon a wooden table, and a third, older woman stirs a pot hung above a hearthed fire.

The older woman turns to say something to the dark haired woman-- her daughter, perhaps?-- but stops short when she spots Lena watching.

"Oh! You're awake! Praise the gods..."

The bandaged woman at her bedside, presumably her savior, jolts awake at the exclamation. Clear blue eyes flash towards the older woman, then across to Lena.

"Wh--" Lena's questions dies in her parched throat, consumed by a deep, hacking cough that leaves her winded and gasping.

In an instant, her savior is at her side, lifting a wooden cup to Lena's lips. Cool, clear water coats her tongue and throat, making her sputter briefly before she begins to gulp.

Even that much saps most of Lena's strength. Her eyelids begin to droop even as clothbound palms cover Lena's hand.

"I'm Kara," her savior says, before motioning to her companions, "and this is Alex and Eliza."

Lena's brain struggles to make sense of the names, of her surroundings, of the events that have led her to this cot in a strange hut. Her eyes grow ever heavier, and struggles to remain awake.

"It's all right," Kara murmurs, stroking hair from Lena's sweat slicked forehead. "You're safe here."

Thus comforted, Lena slips back into the embrace of unconsciousness.

[lilacargent]

As im currently dealing with the loss of a loved one, this is my way of coping.

Grief

Grief is an interstellar concept. Almost every species in the galaxy has its own traditions and practices. Humans are no exception, like with most of their emotions their grief is all encompassing. Traditions vary from one culture to another, even people deal with it in different ways.

Kilare as part of a flocking species wonders about the human crewmates when one is lost in a battle. She knew the passed human Ellie very well. Turns out they grieve like a flock, huddled together weeping, almost giving into the urge to join she turns away, expecting this to last for a long time she leaves them be. When she checks next the little unit is drinking and laughing, she can hardly believe it, carefully stepping into the room “i am sorry, may i ask something?” The humans look up some still blotchy from crying, the human she knows as liz nods “you were all weeping just now, but you seem happy? Im confused…” fluffing her feathers Kilare backpedals “not to be insensitive, im just trying to understand your process.” Evan gets up and walks to her “that is okay, you knew Ellie well right? We are talking about her and how we miss her, laughing comes with the tears.” Motioning for the taller feathered woman to join the little group Moira makes eye contact and starts explaining “i know you are from a species that grieves as a group, if i remember correctly mostly weeping and spread ashes on the wind to join in every flight” impressed by the womans knowledge she nods Moira goes on “humans have many different traditions, but every one grieves their own way and time. Mostly in five stages, denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. No two people go through it the same or even through all of them. There is times we grieve as a collective, sometimes you need time and process as an individual. We are now reminiscing Ellie, but i already know im gonna have a cry later and ill never forget her.” Kamare could understand and respect that so she joined in. It soothed her soul.

It was years before she saw human grief again so up close.

When the Ri’ktil attacked they committed what humans called warcrimes without batting any of their eighteen eyes. The horror of the people quickly turned to fear. It was when they blew up a human colony Kimare saw the unified grief. Human governments trying to bargain with the Ri’ktil, families travelling to the floating remnants of the colony trying to find survivors, denying that what had happened killed everyone man, woman and child. A month passed and humanity had grown silent and passive, the Ri’ktal took this as victory and broad cast it to the rest of the species in the galactic counsel. A warning that they would stop at nothing and break them like they broke the humans. Kimare remembered her conversation all those years ago and realised that anger was still coming, she could almost seeing it brewing under the surface.

A month was what it took. A month for humans to start walking upright again. Not only humans on their planets but everyone, on every world and every ship seemed to have shared in the depression. So when the fog cleared the whispering began, then came the talking, when it turned to yelling the Ri’ktil took notice. It was too late for them though. Because humanity started screaming, unified rage became a spearhead of humans all over the galaxy, noone even considered not helping. The tsunami of humans that could not wait to tear their enemy apart surprised them, no matter their way too many eyes, this they did not see coming.

The counsel joined the humans in their fight, and quick as the Ri’ktil had invaded were they beat back aswell. The defeat of their enemies did not dismiss their grief. But instead of on a specie scale individuals began their own process. Four years later Kimare noticed a change, they had made a monument out of the destroyed colony, it seemed to signify an end point. Humans went there to process and make peace, they had accepted what had happened moved past it. But never forgotten.

Humans didn’t forget when they grieved, they remember and accept.

~~~~~~

Tadah

[princess-glassred]

This is probably one of the weirder IT ideas i've ever pitched but here:

Imagine all the losers are having a sleep over and they start talking about how much of a dick Henry is and how it'd be nice if they could get some kind of payback for all his misdeeds. So then everyone starts having these very elaborate fantasies of over the top revenge that fits their personalities/personal experience with him. They're all very silly and some are even quite cruel, but they're all in good fun and genuine healthy outlets for kids who have been bullied by him all year round.

Bill's is quite simple, he pulls up on Silver when Henry is in desperate need for a ride home and Bill, the kindly dude he is, offers his bully a ride. He also very gently tells Henry rider safety is top priority, so he hands him a helmet that is unfortunately very very girly (it's purple with sparkley flowers on it~). Henry gets on expecting a fairly gentle ride, but Bill is nuts and silver just happens to be the best damn bike in the world, so they proceed to have a ride of comically dangerous proportions. It's like they're in irl happy wheels, Bill is riding over spike pits, leaping through the air, rolling upside down, all while Henry screams like a little bitch and cries for his daddy.

Richie's is pretty great, his idea happens to take place at the dentist office where his father works. Henry's in here for his first check up in I don't know how long, but Richie comes in to inform him that Mr. Tozier just so happens to be out, BUUUUT he's seen his dad work on other peoples teeth before, so he's sure he can do an okay enough job. Richie turns on this little stereo his dad keeps in his office and starts playing weird al's "like a surgeon". He then proceeds to run around the room like Patrick bateman before doing an invasive and somewhat humiliating check up on his mouth. He brutally insults his teeth and informs him he will need braces and head gear, and not just any head gear either but "The dorkiest, biggest, stupidest, ugliest head gear ever made by human hands" and he HAS to wear it 24/7. But that's not all! Richie also informs him that he's very multitalented, not only is he an impressionist and not only is he a good dentist, but he's also a junior optometrist, so he can give him a good old eye exam. Turns out his eye sight is even worse than his teeth though, and the only obvious solution is to give Henry big ass coke bottle glasses. One painful dental exam later and Henry looks like a bigger dork than Richie ever did. :)

Mike is not a very vengeful person, so he's not super into the idea of humiliating Henry, however, he does like the idea of getting a one up on him a little. His revenge fantasy is really just the concept of Henry working for him. Mike's got a successful farm and Henry comes to him groveling as his little scrappy farmhand like "Mr. Hanlon, sir, my back hurts, may i please, perhaps, possibly, maybe, if it doesn't inconvenience you, take a break?😔" and Mike just shooes him back to work. Then, because he knows Henry is such a good little worker he hands him the bolt gun and tells him to crawl into one of the pens and kill one of heir massive hogs. When Henry shows hesitance because these hogs are lowkey terrifying, Mike shrugs it off with a little "Now Henry, you're a big boy, you can handle it." and then PUSHES him into it like how he pushed him down that well. He cannot, in fact, handle it, because the moment Mike turns his back Henry starts screaming for dear mercy while Mike doesn't give a single flying fuck.

Eddie's fantasy is quite similar to Richie's but it takes place in a doctors office and i imagine it's all black and white like a 1950's b movie. Henry comes in claiming to be suffering from some awful unknown disease that nobody but Eddie could possibly help him with. Eddie cackles like a mad scientist and calls in nurse Richie to help him do the phsyical check up. They do a very thorough examination that includes giving him like 20 different shots of "medicine" that's really just water. He then diagnosis Henry with an awful, terrible, absolutely terminal case of "I'matotaldouche-osis". The symptoms include "Bad hygiene, ugly hair, and being totally insufferable every day of your life.". There's sadly only one cure for this fatal disease, complete amputation, they'll have to amputate his legs, his arms, his ears, and possibly even his waste (Eddie's doesn't really know how he'll do that, but i'm sure he'll figure it out through trial and error). Cue the comically large buzz saw.

Stan's revenge starts out with him bird watching as per usual, when he spots an ultra rare breed of bird; the mullethaired prick, native only to Derry and commonly found in flocks of other species of prick. How wonderful. Unfortunately though it IS an invasive species, so Stan must take it out humanely. He shoots a blow dart at "it" which instantly paralyzes Henry, but of course the revenge is not quite over yet. Stan takes Henry's body and paints him grey with some very quick drying paint, then plops him right ontop of a new fountain for his bird buddies. He even poses him all mean and tough looking like he did before. All his bird buddies really like it, especially the pigeons, who think he makes a great bathroom. That's what we really need as a society, less bullies, more birdbaths, right?

Bev just thinks it would be nice if Henry could walk a mile in her shoes, so her revenge does just that. Henry shows up to school in like a blouse, a pencil skirt, and heels while Bev's dressed in stereotypically masculine clothes. She catcalls him, insists he's only dressing that way for attention, makes a bunch of comments on his appearance that makes him uncomfortable, lots of stereotypical sexism. Eventually he snaps and tells her he is not interested, but when he tries to leave she literally attacks him with a sling shot. Of course everyone acts like HENRY'S the freak in this situation, even though he politely told her no multiple times and she attacked him with a fucking slingshot. Anytime Henry tries to point out the fact Bev literally shot rocks at him everyone's like "well why'd you wear a blouse today if you didn't wanna get hit on? Sounds like some one was being a prude". Doesn't it just suck to be demeaned based on how you dress Henry? And doesn't it just suck not to be believed when somenone of the opposite gender attacks you? And doesn't it just suck when you get called a whore or a prude even though you KNOW you didn't do anything? Doesn't it?

Ben's idea of revenge is straight out of a stephen king story, literally, he just feeds Henry the pie from thinner. He uses his intellect and knowledge of Derry's history to find where he can get his hands on the coveted pie, and then the next time he sees Henry he makes sure to tease him with it. "Oh hey Henry, i was just sitting outside getting ready to eat this entire pie by myself because i'm such a disgusting fat tub of lard. I sure do hope you don't eat it in front of me because, you know, foods about the only thing I have going for me. My fat ass would just hate to see you eat it instead of me.". So obviously Henry eats it, and as everyone who has read or watched thinner would know, he begins to lose weight rapidly until he's practically just skin and bones. Henry is so weak and frail he can't eveb bully people anymore, he can barely even stand to be honest. This continues until Henry passes out mid lunch and falls face first into his mashed potatos.

At some point during each one of these little fantasies Henry takes a moment to ask "Wait, are you doing this to me being i'm a sexist, lying, racist, antisemetic, homophobic, hypocrotical bigot?" and without fail every member of the losers club would always respond with a very enthusiastic "Yep!!".

[slowd1ving]

IV. REVISED: THE CONCEPT OF FRIENDSHIP .・゜DAN HENG NSFW

One of the theories pushed forward in this universe—a common conjecture between scientists throughout the stars—is that there are disturbances in a system that is being observed, versus one that is not. This is astutely named the observer effect. And this situation is the first proper example he’s seen of that. Dan Heng feels that as soon as he takes his eyes off you, you’ll phase back to a space between these dimensions, like some specter there are only myths about. when data nerd Dan Heng finds the forbidden dictionary and masters the hidden art: synonyms male! engineer reader warnings: eventual nsfw, kind of but not really spoilers to dan heng's backstory, amab reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART

There’s a certain art that comes with avoiding people, and Dan Heng has practically mastered it by now. From evading the monsters that habitually trespass on his path, to eluding the red-eyed man from Dan Feng’s convoluted past—no one can deny his experience in these twisted matters. 

Unlike his predecessor, he has no qualms in ridding himself of problematic situations by simply taking his leave. And though he may be labelled a coward, he can’t find it within himself to care. Honour and dignity is important—he’ll acknowledge that gladly—but making the pragmatic decision is something he’ll continue to prioritise. 

When you’re a fugitive, it’s all you have left. 

So, why hasn’t he left the Express yet?

A week prior, the brief vacation finally reached its conclusion and he stepped back onto the train. It was easy at first—you were busy reading over the contract negotiated by Mr. Yang with Argo-II for their bronze. There was no time for you and him to be alone. Not even in that fateful kitchen. 

His nightmares had ceased temporarily due to the lingering effects of the Argonian booze, so there was an easy excuse to save him from the regular nightly rendezvous. But at what cost?

All the rational cells in his brain are urging him to leave the Express far behind. It’s a honey-trap, they scream—he’s becoming too dependent on its security. There is also the pressing issue of your presence, but he’s intentionally avoiding thinking about it. 

He should leave. 

Dan Heng has overstayed his welcome. 

“—oh, Dan Heng, perfect. Do you remember where the information for the Migrides Embassy legislature was, from when I asked for it a few weeks back?” Himeko’s request jolts him from his reverie, and before he’s even aware of it, his deft hands pick out the correct file from the archive shelves. “We’ll use their own courts against them to uphold our honour.”

He frowns. I’ve gotten too acclimated to living here. 

“Are you feeling alright?”

The man in question tears his eyes away from the small bag that sits in the corner. It’s a sharp reminder of his obligations—moving on before he lands himself in an even bigger mess. 

“Perfectly fine, Himeko,” he bites his tongue, afraid that his sour mood will taint his polite words with curtness. 

She tilts her head, and her blood-like hair spills from her shoulders in a clean decapitation. The action is an ominous prelude to her next words. 

“You didn’t have an argument with him, or anything?” 

Sometimes, she’s also annoyingly perceptive. 

“No,” he replies carefully. “We’ve just been busy with our respective lines of work.”

“...If you say so.” It’s clear she doesn’t believe him, and the long look she gives him only reinforces that notion. He can’t bring himself to meet her eyes; they seem like they’ll unearth his unease about being near you, forcibly prying any reason from him. Behind his back, his nails dig into his palms. “The tension doesn’t suit you. Talk to him sooner rather than later.”

She exits the archives then, and he’s left wondering about the meaning embedded deep within her words. 

What tension? That dream was an error; like the fields of ‘Asphodel’, he would’ve never dreamt about you had he been in his right mind. 

Sure, he might be avoiding you, but he’s not tense. He’s my friend. The awkward feeling will dissipate in due time, so Dan Heng’s making the tactful decision to elude you and get over himself. And Himeko’s right, he reluctantly accepts. If he wants to inoculate himself against making things even weirder than they normally are, it’s necessary to ease back into the regular back-and-forth of friendship with you. 

Friendship—the word’s bittersweet on his tongue, for some strange reason. 

It’s both fortunate and unfortunate that he’s unable to see you for the next few days. 

After all, you personally descend to the Migrides cluster alongside Himeko—an unlikely pair, but one that absolutely makes sense—in order to finally beat the Embassy at their own game. It’s strange, though. Where he should find relief in his chest, there’s only a heavier, tighter burden to carry. 

It hurts. There’s no rhyme nor reason to his erratic pulse, not any more. For those few days, there’s not a trace of your presence and he’s growing listless. 

Contradictions. He’s full of them, forcibly driving a wedge between the two of you, yet he can’t deal with the overwhelming lack of you.

“You’re spacing out,” Mr. Yang cuts into his thoughts. There’s only a wooden chequerboard between them, but it feels more like a chasm that simply cannot be bridged. “And losing.”

Check. His rook is promptly sacrificed in the bloody battle, but it’s not like he’ll win. With a drawn out sigh, he tips his king flat onto the board. 

“There’s something on your mind, I’d wager.” Mr. Yang stares long and hard at the easy victory he’d gained—one of Dan Heng’s most embarrassing moments in chess, but it’s not like he’s particularly engrossed in the game. 

“What gave that away?” 

It’s a curt response; he’s tired of the constant reminders of you. Still, he holds onto the hope that maybe—just maybe—the bespectacled man isn’t referring to you like Himeko had. 

Mr. Yang simply looks at him with that flat gaze, and he loses that kindled ember of hope he nurtured. 

“Forget it,” he shakes his head, and for a brief moment Dan Heng feels relief that the topic has been dropped. 

“I’m sure you’ve got it under control. I’m sure you’re not running away from communication.”

Sometimes, he’s reminded that Mr. Yang is more sardonic than he lets on. 

And there’s something so hilarious in the way he musters up his courage to approach you first, only for you to slide open the door to the archives first. 

Thump. For a heartbeat or two, he’s spellbound by your return—yet he can’t bring himself to say anything. He ducks his head back into his book when you look over: piercing eyes glaring right into his soul. There’s a faint rustling of plastic against plastic as you slide out several files, though not a singular word from your lips. 

Aeons. He can feel his face heat up as the rough mixture of soap and metal hits him. You’re here, but he can barely think, let alone formulate any sort of sentence. 

When he looks up after a few minutes, you’re still there—and noticing his eyes on you, you give him a brief nod whilst you read over your selection. 

It’s too much. It really is. 

Dan Heng leaves the small room with paper trailing behind him and a pulse too erratic to be considered healthy—the rushed action elicits a small noise of surprise as he brushes past you. He avoids your eyes, but can’t evade the mandarins still clinging to your clothes and now his. 

The bathroom door is locked, yet your presence is etched onto his skin. 

This is friendship?—he scoffs. Friendship shouldn’t taste so bitter, not when his stomach is writhing uncontrollably. Not when he feels his tongue go leaden and skull grow heavy. There’s something wrong with him. It’s clawing from his insides—raw scars are left on tender flesh. 

Even when he knows the coast is long clear, it takes more than a half-hour for him to slink back to the archives. Why? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know, not when the lingering remains of you still hover around the enclosed space. 

If he had one word to describe this feeling welling up inside, it would be torturous. 

Shameful. 

He can’t sleep. 

Long past the time he usually takes the first steps into the dream world—or in his case, the cacophony of nightmares—he’s still tossing and turning. It’s not the sticky heat that seems to plague him, but rather the anticipation of something finally happening that keeps him up. It’s stupid. His mind is hazy as he checks the time on his phone, yet not hazy enough to slip into that wreck of a slumber. 

00:34

His fingers tap mindlessly on the screen. Nothing. No messages, no mail, not even a scammer he could mess with for once. He’d work on finally updating and organising information about the smaller planets near Penacony, but even that’s barred from him via Pom-Pom’s stern insistence that there not be more than one sleep-deprived fool on this train. He doesn’t particularly wish to know the conductor’s wrath, so he does what they say. 

00:40

It’s a disgusting sort of lethargy. He can’t will his eyes to stay closed, yet he can’t bring himself to summon Cloud-Piercer either to numb his mind from his thoughts. 

He grits his teeth, and he can feel each molar grind against another. Bone against bone. 

Pathetic. 

He checks his phone one last time, and turns it off for good. Perhaps if he wasn’t so unlucky this night, he might have seen the message that came up just a few minutes after it powered off. 

01-04-XXXX

<Frankenstein & Co.> 02:59 > [robot.jpeg attached]  02:59 > Yeah this one looks like you lmao

<You> … < 03:04 Wow. You’re such a comedian. < 03:04 If you ever need a gig with the Masked Fools I’m sure they’ve got plenty of vacancies. < 03:05

03:05 > Cope bro 10:56 > Btw Welt picked up takeout from the Space Station 10:57 > Hurry up before I eat your share too

(+4 unread messages)

21-04-XXXX

<I’ll get you a satanic… mechanic> 00:55 > We’re both shit at communicating  00:55 > I’m coming to the archives in half an hour to put back the files, since I know you’re probably awake. Might as well talk it out.   00:56 > If you’re sleeping I won’t bother you  00:57 > We’ll just figure it out tomorrow I guess

Dan Heng has never been particularly fortuitous. Perhaps that’s why the message only gets delivered and not read. Perhaps that’s why he staves off the urge to check out his schedule for tomorrow in favour of rest. 

When they call him unapproachable, maybe luck also thinks of him that way. Sure, Dan Feng’s had his own share of misfortuned days, but tonight might just be the unluckiest night in this incarnation's life. 

When does it start?

In his memories, it might’ve been triggered by the gradual heat spreading across his limbs. His skin is molten across flesh: scorched to its very bones. Everything’s so tight—it’s no wonder that he throws his shirt into the corner next to him. He’s left breathing heavily in only sweatpants, and still they’re too cumbersome, too constricting. 

What’s the cause of it all?

It might’ve been catalysed by the dizzying feeling playing on his mind that started a while ago. He’s entranced: wandering through a fog that seems to have no end, all in the hopes of catching a glimpse of whatever’s making his heart flutter all hummingbird-like. 

Or maybe it’s the faint traces of you still clinging to the air. 

At first, he can’t quite pinpoint where it’s coming from. When he turns his head on his pillow, the strands of a clean soap grow stronger—so he reaches out. His fingers brush against soft fabric, and the man freezes with his fist clenched around your sweater. 

It’s yours. 

Somehow, your presence hasn’t yet been washed out from the threads. And for whatever damned reason, pressing it near his face is lulling him into a better stupor than that cursed drink ever did. 

It’s not enough. 

He buries his face in the material—by now, he’s practically drinking in all the intricacies of your scent. Inhale. Notes of orange peel, the subtle shift of soap, and the disorienting tang of diesel. Exhale. His mouth is half-open: too caught up in the throes of whatever this is to close. Unbearable. That’s what it is: a deep tension right below his navel that forces him to slowly lose his senses. 

One hand is firmly clenched around the fabric pressed to his face, while the other discards the stifling blanket that’s only suffocating him further. But as he does so, he accidentally brushes against the front of his sweatpants.

His heart skips a beat, then bangs against his ribcage particularly loudly. 

“Ah,” he gasps out. A chaotic pulse registers, deafening, along his ear canal. There’s a realisation that trickles honey-slow through his brain. It’s not like he’s explored this way of tiring himself out.

Aeons. 

He’s never felt so perverted. 

He’s never felt so conflicted. 

Was it not enough that he had that dream about you back on Argo-I? 

Aha must be gleefully orchestrating this twist of fate—he’s sure of it—as this defies rational thought. He should not be getting turned on to the smell of his friend that invades his senses and overwhelms him so completely. 

It’s not him, he justifies weakly. It’s just the feeling of there being another person. Well, with that sort of logic, Nous is itching to accept him into the folds of the Genius Society. 

There’s that strong, bubbling shame that lays heavy in his chest; however, the tightness in his lower abdomen is catalysing its destruction. It doesn’t help that he’s losing himself in the warm scent of you, and the shortness of breath that comes with covering one’s mouth and nose in thick fabric. No, it definitely helps. Shame aside, he somehow hasn’t crossed the precipice of perversion; the hand that isn’t lodged firmly against the material is merely resting atop his bare torso. 

He can’t bring himself to trail his fingers lower. 

It’ll help with sleeping, he rationalises once more. His head is heavy, and his self-control is slowly slipping as he keeps breathing you in. 

What would he say? If you saw him—face flushed, nuzzled into your clothing; chest bared with hardened nipples from both his arousal and the stream of cool air; sweatpants tight across his hips—what would you do? Would you leave in disgust (eyes trailing briefly across the body of what can only be called a pervert)? Would you curse him out in that rough voice of yours (then never speak to him ever again)?

Would you help him out?

The very thought of it makes his pulse bloom vibrant in his head—desperate to be heard, desperate to rip through his skull. It is also a sobering notion. 

He turns his body until he’s flat on his stomach with his face buried in the sweater currently draped over his pillow. The action is meant to rob his breath and calm his racing thoughts, but this really isn’t his lucky day. 

“Mmh,” he whines into the fabric when the pressure of his weight exerts itself right on his crotch. It was an accident, he later swears, but he can’t bring himself to move from this position. His mind is growing numb—not in the way he wants it to—but something so carnally perverse it brings an even greater flush to his face. 

Despite the futility of the gesture, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut in one last desperate bid for sleep. In his mind, he’s begging for slumber without having to resort to that. However, it’s fruitless: pointless in every sense of the word. Him attempting to relax even further just makes the warm sheets brush against his naked chest—and with his eyes closed, it feels more like hands gently cupping around the area. 

He gives up. 

He feels so much shame that he’s delirious on it as he grinds against the thick material of the futon. Dan Heng knows he shouldn’t be doing this—rutting himself against his bed desperately while his teeth leave small marks in your sweater—but the irrational part of his mind has long taken over. 

It’s not enough. It’s nothing more than a brief morsel of pleasure—far from being able to sate his hunger and quench his thirst. 

The hour is late enough that he doesn’t feel particularly cautious as he turns back to face the glimmering ceiling. There’s an unspoken rule on the Express: don’t step into the Archives once the light goes out. Therefore, he abandons the caution he usually employs in this small space and slips his cold fingers past the waistband. 

He hisses as his frigid hand wraps around himself, thumb brushing just past the leaking tip in a way that is simultaneously overbearing yet simply not enough. 

It’s not like he’s never done this before, but it was more of a perfunctory experiment rather than anything—and being chased by a homicidal maniac does little to get him off. 

His other hand abandons the plush material of your clothing to tug sharply at his nipples—jaw clamping down on the threads to prevent the rushed moan from leaving him as he rolls them with gelid fingers. He’s sensitive: every harsh application of pressure shoots straight through his neurons and into his brain, and that’s slowly frying. 

“Mmh—” he slurs around the fabric in his mouth, practically gagging on it as he paws at his tits. 

The garment obstructing his vision and airways feels so empty that he can’t help but assign some sort of meaning to it. What would it be like if it were replaced by him instead?—he thinks, and the very notion causes his cock to twitch within the confines of his fingers. Your hand might be twined through his hair just like this: tugging on the strands as you manoeuvre him to fit exactly against you. Your thighs might clamp around the sides of his face like this: locking him there while he takes you down his throat. 

It could be him, and the concept is shoved to some disused, forgotten corner of his mind with just a phrase. 

He’s just a friend, and the words taste bitter in his mind.  

As if to forget, his fist hastens its pace and he’s rocking his hips into the motion. It’s rough—nothing like how he usually would be so methodical with this. Then again, it’s clear that he’s not trying to emulate his own ways while his hand wraps around himself; but he doesn’t want to acknowledge exactly who he’s imitating. 

It’s still not enough.

The garment stretches taut across his motions: too constricting for him to reach that high that he senses clouding the edges of his consciousness. Before, these sorts of actions were experimental—not meant to induce pleasure or buzz his mind, but simply a perfunctory exploration of his own body. Yet now, it’s clearly evolved into him chasing the haze as though he’s nothing more than some slut. 

He hisses as he slips the waistband of his pants down with a tacky hand—the darkness enveloping him only makes the cold air sharp against his sensitive skin. 

The darkness also grants him reprieve; it reminds him that he’s alone in this moment, and no one will know of his sins come morning. 

An absence of light also leads to his other senses growing more profound. Neuroplasticity. The term refers to the nervous system and senses rewiring themselves due to various stimuli, such as losing a sense. 

Without sight, he can clearly hear the sticky shick-shick as he fucks into his fist. He can hear every shift of skin against skin—every lewd squelch when he pumps his hand downwards. He can hear the rustling of clothing as it adheres to the pre-cum spilling from his tip. He can hear each bitten groan as it leaves his lips, muffled against you. Or at least, your sweater. 

Most of all, he can hear the desperate drumming of his racing heart as it acclimates to his sudden hunger for ecstasy.

+8 unread messages

21-04-XXXX 

<I’ll get you a satanic… mechanic> 00:55 > We’re both shit at communicating  00:55 > I’m coming to the archives in half an hour to put back the files, since I know you’re probably awake. Might as well talk it out.   00:56 > If you’re sleeping I won’t bother you  00:57 > We’ll just figure it out tomorrow I guess 01:14 > You really should turn on your read receipts sometime 01:14 > I can’t tell if you’ve read these or not but I’ll assume you’ve seen them  01:14 > Since you’re usually still up and around at this time 01:15 > I’m almost done with writing up the Migrides report for the Society, so I’ll be there in like five to ten minutes? I’m turning right back if you’re asleep though 

His pulse damn near bursts out of his chests as he speeds the motions of his hands up: one clenched tight around himself, while the other draws crude circles into his hardened nipples. It’s not perfect, not by any means—it’s sloppy and undignified, so unlike how he is that he half-wonders what possessed him. 

But the rough, hurried pace allows him to dissociate from himself briefly. It’s not he who ravishes himself, but the careless approximation of you pressing hard against his weeping cock: jerking it this way and that as tears leak down his flushed cheeks. 

As he imagines you knelt between his legs, the debauchment—the shame—paints his cheeks a garish red. There’s no way to take it back; he’s already crossed a line he shouldn’t have, and he can’t stop himself from doing so. Every time he forces the image into the forgotten recesses of his mind, you’re there again: spreading his legs while you make a mess between them. 

He can’t stop. He can’t stop. You’re not allowed to stop, not when he’s almost trespassing the brink of pleasure. Hurriedly, he twists his hand—your hand—just so and his stomach heaves as though on a particularly rough starskiff. 

His skin feels feverish—on the very brink of delirium and madness—but there’s still something missing. 

More, his body begs. He’s so empty, and the feeling is so foreign he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Or, more accurately, he knows full well what to do, which is precisely why he’s so hesitant to even formulate the thoughts and go through the motions. 

Slowly, his fingers trail down the vertical dip in his stomach, past the valley of his waist, and nestle neatly between his spread legs. 

There are two crucial things that he’s unawares of, much to his detriment. One, that the time is precisely nineteen minutes past the system hour—the sand in the hourglass paves the path to your arrival. Two, the door to the archives isn’t nearly as soundproof as he thinks. Of course, he’s experienced this himself—hearing the bass thrum through the panels of your own door—but it’s not occurring to him that this applies to his own as well.

Instinctively, he muffles his whines and moans, just in case. But honestly, it’s hard to focus on cutting off his noises when he’s roughly jerking his palm while fucking himself on his fingers. 

It’s hard to focus on anything, except the faint trail of metal still lingering in the air. Human-loved liquor rarely weaves those blessed by Long into its viscous spell, yet somehow the merest whisper of your presence forces upon him unmatched drunkenness. 

And you’ll never know the effect you have on him. Not when he’s so painfully hard, not when he’s stuffing himself with his fingers and pretending it’s you. Sweat laves him tonight, and he is baptised in the filth of his own lust. 

“So close,” he slurs in his delirium. At least in the cover of the endless night, when the only light comes from the glow of data, his body is as honest as his thoughts. 

Which is to say, not very honest at all. 

There’s something missing—something so slight, yet profound enough to add a counterweight to his tipping into ecstasy. He can’t move past the precipice; blankness simply eludes him. Though, whenever he thinks of you, that path to hedonistic pleasure is that much clearer. 

The steady hum of data calibrating itself to Astral Express standards should be the primary sound washing over this enclosed space, but the low whir is delegated to the sidelines. He’s chanting your name in broken, garbled syllables; if it were any louder, there wouldn’t be any relative machine humming to speak of in the first place. 

In fact, the same word practically drowns out any other awareness he has of the environment. Maybe if he hadn’t been mindlessly spilling your name from his lips, he might’ve been just the tiniest bit luckier. 

Alas, Dan Heng’s soul is far less fortunate than one can imagine. 

This set of banal coincidences—a lack of soundproofing, his weakening senses, and his decision to turn his phone off for the night, him avoiding you—all culminate into his impending doom. 

In the first heartbeat following this revelation from fate, your footsteps slowly make their way from your room: feet sinking into plush carpet with a languorous sort of amble that doesn’t belie the neurotic twitch of your hands as you walk towards the person who’s avoided you successfully for however many days. In any other set of circumstances, he would’ve picked up on the tiniest of disturbances outside and nearby his door: down to the very buckles of your outfit clinking together, down to the creak in your boots as you shifted impatiently. 

In the second heartbeat, you pause outside the door—hand poised to knock in an awfully ironic mirror of him just a few months ago. 

How naive. If he saw this picture right now, he would’ve told himself to never board this Express. 

You pause outside the door, and it’s reached a point where the sounds escaping his parted lips are lulled. Or, more accurately, they escape with each exhale—natural as crying, to the point where one might think he’s having a particularly vivid nightmare. There’s nothing to suggest what’s actually going on.

This, therefore, is the last moment he has to not screw this up any further. 

But—

There is a very strong ‘but’.

—Dan Heng has already established his inaptitude for fortune. 

Had he seen you right now, he would’ve witnessed the turn in your shoulders as you accept the small noises as him just having a nightmare. Plausible explanation. There’s enough circumstantial evidence and midnight encounters to immediately come to that conclusion, then leave him to inevitably wake up on his own. 

However—however—you simply don’t turn away fast enough. Or, Dan Heng has the worst timing to ever exist. Maybe it’s the first reason for this calamity, maybe it’s both, but looking back on it, it was definitely the latter explanation. 

He’s so close. 

As he’s hastily sliding his hand up and down his weeping cock, while his fingers probe at unfamiliarity, your name slips from his mouth once more. These fateful sound waves ripple and poke past the wooden door, far enough to reach your ears and freeze your steps. 

“Dan Heng?”

He must’ve hallucinated it. But that’s your voice, so hushed and tender that his flesh throbs beneath his fingers. 

Shivers descend on his body—so profound his vision goes white for a brief moment—and thick ropes of cum spurt out onto his stomach. He’s so sensitive, but he needs so much more: rocking back onto his fingers while his slick walls clamp down onto them. 

“Ah,” he whines out, in tandem with the door opening. 

Finally. 

That grabs his attention, and his hips stutter to a grinding halt as his head turns to the side. Glossy eyes lined with unshed tears stare at the mirage to his right—it’s you, illuminated by the low glow of the data banks and the dim light in the background. 

No. 

You’re real. 

His breath hitches. Like a deer caught in headlights, he’s frozen; except in this scenario, it’s much worse than a quick hit-and-run. Dan Heng’s a mess right now. There’s globs of white pearled across his chest and stomach, there’s the fact that one hand is still cupping his hard dick, there’s still the image of the fingers of the other hand nestled deep between his legs. There’s the drool leaking from his parted lips; there’s his fucked-out, hazed expression complete with burning cheeks; and perhaps the most incriminating factor, there’s your sweatshirt still draped across his pillow.

Aeons. No amount of explanations will ever save him. It’s why he can’t bring himself to scramble to piece together his shredded dignity.

“Uh,” you begin intelligently. There’s some sadistic (wholly unconcerned with his own situation) part of him that notes that this is the first instance he’s seen of you being struck dumb like this. 

It’s dim enough that you need a moment to process it, but he watches your eyes adjust. You take in his half-naked state, exactly where his hands are still positioned, and finally, that damned sweatshirt. 

He swallows, but no words escape his mouth. And frighteningly enough, he can feel himself twitch against his cold palm. 

“I really wasn’t expecting this when I came to confront you about avoiding me,” you mutter, firmly looking elsewhere as he pulls the sheets so they cover his legs and sits upright. “Did I cause some crisis within you? Is your attraction to me the reason you’ve been so distant?”

“I’m not…” Distant? Avoidant? Attracted to you? 

“I’m not interested in my friend like that,” he replies thickly. “I just needed to sort myself—ah—out before I could continue that relationship.”

If this were anyone else, this conversation would’ve ended a few minutes ago. If he were any closer to you, he would’ve left this area as soon as possible. Maybe it’s because you’re so distant that it’s possible to keep talking like this, like he isn’t still getting off on your words and the texture of his sheets on his painfully hard dick. 

There’s the evidence of his shame on his cheeks—such a dark red he feels lightheaded. 

“Ah, right,” you nod in understanding. “Because I didn’t hear my name being called out, and that’s definitely not my jumper lying there. You’re not interested.”

“Exactly,” he lies. He can’t gauge what exactly you’re probing him for, but he knows that you’re offering a chance out of this mess. 

This was a mistake. He screwed up—letting his irrational mind entrance him with you. No doubt, this was all due to the strange dream he had back on Argo-I that catalysed this disaster. He’s not interested in you—his friend. 

“Dan Heng,” you breathe. “You’ve been evasive ever since we returned from the Argo.”

He stiffens, watching cautiously as you lean against the doorframe. 

“I’ll leave after you truthfully answer one question of mine.” Your cadence is casual enough that he can’t hear judgement nor disgust within. Just kick me out, he wants to say. If he could, he’d want to undergo rebirth this instant so he’d forget all about this. 

“Why aren’t you yelling at me?” he blurts out.

“Do you want me to yell at you?” you counter. “It’s natural behaviour for people, is it not, to release tension this way?”

And perhaps, it is your indifference that is the most galling facet of this situation. 

“What do you want to know?” he instead asks, rather coldly. Do anything other than look at me like that! But here you are, picking at your nails as if he’s not just bared his vulnerable body in your presence. 

It’s weird, so weird, and if the Masked Fools ever picked apart his memory and witnessed this scene… Well, he doesn’t even want to think about the numerous ways they’d publish it. This is perhaps the most humiliating and bizarre experience he’s ever had; worst of all, it appears completely one-sided. 

“Dan Heng.” You shake your head in disappointment. Slight mockery coats your tongue, and he flinches with the sudden heat in his abdomen. To think, you’ve never called his name in this realm before today—but the shame he’s experiencing has caused the sudden influx in your vocabulary. It’s hilariously, painfully ironic. “I was wondering why it was the Argo cluster in particular that triggered this.”

An ominous prelude to your question.

“You lied to me on the last day, didn’t you?”

The dream. The damned dream. You know. Somehow, you’re aware of what exactly it was that he’d dreamed. 

He holds his breath. 

“But I won’t be as cruel as to ask that just yet.” So what will you ask in its stead?

You shift until you’re at your full height, and he’s hyper aware of the piercing—knowing—glint in your eyes as you assess him. “Out of all your days at that bar, did you happen to spot the blinding red poster behind the counter?”

Now that you mention it, he does faintly recall the edge of crimson in the deep recesses of his memory. Mutely, he nods (after all, he doesn’t trust himself to not stick the final nail in his own coffin).

“Perfect,” you drawl sarcastically. “Then, can you tell me what was written on that poster?”

No. He finds that he can’t. And what is the reason for that? He doesn’t know. 

(He does know. For the same reason his blood chases the heaving gulps of oxygen, his gaze flitted only to you for that brief week—but that will go unacknowledged by him.)

“Archivist—” and it’s the first time you’ve used his title so callously, so bluntly. “—for someone whose job it is to collect information, you sure didn’t do a good job at knowing that overconsumption of anything is bad for your health.”

His fingers twitch. Shameful. How utterly shameful it is—how abhorrent—that even as your words cut through skin and flesh and reach tender marrow, his heart rate quickens with adrenaline. 

“Do remind me,” he mutters. Perhaps if he were a little wiser, he would’ve searched up the drink as soon as he left the Argo, ignoring the prickles of chagrin that pierced him as he thought about it. 

“Overconsumption of this particular drink can lead to migraines and hallucinations.” Yes, he faintly recalls the sound of those words as the bartender warned him about all those neatly lined coupe glasses. Just like a fool, he didn’t pay much heed to the warnings he heard as though it were mere alcohol. Easily handled, easily managed. Except it wasn’t. 

“That’s not all, is it?” For the first time, he can see your slight hesitation as you mull over the final consequence. 

“No. There’s also the ability to project into dreams that aren’t wholly your own.”

Oh. Oh. His mind reels. 

You were there, and you saw all of it. 

“You—” he cuts himself off as he notices you standing only a foot or so away, peering down at him as you reach for your sweater. Your scent invades his senses—so much more potent than the insignificant material bearing only traces of you. 

“I’ll be taking my leave.” You’re still leaning over him. The folds of your clothes brush just right past his naked torso, and he flinches back as though he’s been scalded by the proximity. “Thanks for confirming what I needed to know, friend.”

It happens as you’re beginning to move back. Unprompted, his hand reaches out to grab your wrist and you drop the sweater you were holding. 

Surprised, you stare at him with your lips parted. The distance is insignificant; in fact, he can feel the warm gusts of your breathing right on his collarbones. 

“So you do want me,” you comment smartly, and he averts his eyes to look anywhere but your laughing gaze. 

“I still don’t,” he mutters, but his voice quivers far too much to hold only truths. He’s my friend, and nothing else. 

“Then, should I go? Leave you to deal with this alone?” The words brush honey-sweet against raw skin—they brutally remind him of your position. You’re kneeling slightly on the futon, back bent a crude seventy degrees as you lean over his legs to grab your sweater once more. A rough palm is firmly planted by his side (he’s terribly conscious of the warmth it radiates) while the other is locked in his own grasp. 

“Are you offering?” he challenges: pure irreverence dulls his cadence. 

“If you ask nicely, I might help out my dear friend.” A crescent smile is present on your face; innocuous enough, but he can sense the sharpness just waiting to cut him. It was a mistake. Getting involved with the Express was a horrible mistake. Every time he inhales, he can smell those mandarins and the soapy scent of you—the metal, the caffeinated drinks, you. Even your terrible, doom-ridden smile has long turned sweet; the only danger it brings is the heated surge straight through his stomach. 

He’s willing to help. 

“And if I don’t ask nicely?” It’s not like him to be this brash, but Aeons know just how insane he’s feeling tonight. 

“Then I bid you good luck in whatever you were doing before,” you whisper, moving to disentangle your fist from his shaking fingers. 

And he admitted I’m just a friend too. 

Selfishly, he refuses to let your arm go. 

“Dan Heng?”

“If it’s just for tonight…” he exhales. After tonight, the regular back-and-forth would be reestablished, right? His bottom lip wobbles, and he catches your eyes flickering to the small motion. 

“You act like you’re doing me a favour,” you sneer. Is it normal for his pulse to accelerate as you look at him with such disdain? Is it normal for his heart to drop when you wrench yourself free of his grasp and stand to head to the door?

“Where are you going?” He hates how it sounds like he’s whining like some damn mutt, hates how hard he feels at the slightest hint of your displeasure, hates you for making him feel like this. 

“Locking the door,” you remark. “I’m not like you—so desperate that anyone can just walk in and see you with your legs spread.”

“Mmh,” he sighs out at each blunt syllable that leaves your cruel lips. He’s too far gone to feel shame about it; more accurately, you made him this way. Nothing’s in his head except you—his mind’s whirling as you kneel back down at his side, heart pounding desperately out of his chest. 

His eyes squeeze shut as you ghost closer; fear poisons his vessels as he moves back slightly. 

“No kissing,” he insists, since that will feel far too much like that dream. Something so intimate doesn’t belong here—his only goal is to break away from this night and resume his friendship as cleanly as possible. 

“Okay.” He can picture your raised brows as you wonder exactly what about a kiss is more amorous than the very act of intercourse. “Just the lips, or everywhere?”

Against his will, his face flushes a far deeper red than it had previously. Crimson is fading into your vision—as visible as his glossy, tear-lined eyes—and he knows you see it clearly. How can you not? After all, he can feel the heavy pressure of your gaze as you look directly at his face. Not his body, nor his clenched fists, but right at his face. Strangely, that feels far more intimate than anything else. 

“Just the lips,” he stammers. 

Aeons willing, his heart won’t stop anytime soon. While it feels like his very cells will collapse in on themselves with how hard his pulse thuds, he hopes they’ll continue enduring just a little bit longer. 

“Okay,” you breathe once more—except this time, he doesn’t hear it so much as feel it brush gently over his collarbone. Blooming like flowers, your mouth leaves a meadow behind on his clavicle; he can’t help but throw his head up to be closer to you, to allow you to mark him up more. 

Every place you suck a bruise into burns white-hot. He knows he should pragmatically stop you from claiming the base of his throat and above (if only to preserve his dignity when he faces the rest of the Express come morning) but he can’t bring himself to hide this: for one night, he lay in your arms. 

He knows that he should’ve limited you from placing your warm mouth anywhere. What will he do tomorrow? When he sees the blossoming violets seeping into his dermis in the morning, how will he look you in the eyes cordially while knowing it’s your fault? While he waits for his sore body to recover, how exactly will he maintain friendship?

“Don’t worry your pretty head so much,” you whisper, and oh, you must’ve seen the furrow in his brows while getting some air and admiring your handiwork in the dim light of data shelves. A palm splayed flat on his bare chest—warm, just like the man it’s attached to—pushes him firmly onto his futon once more, until his back hits his pillow and his elbows prop himself up. It’s a testament to your words: forget the turbulent thoughts, and just think about this moment. 

Pretty, he thinks drunkenly. He thinks I’m pretty. And though it’s, quite frankly, stupid to be flustered over that when there are plenty of better reasons to be flustered right now, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut even tighter at the word. 

Your mouth moves lower, teeth grazing the grooves of his abdomen—and his back arches into the sensation of soft lips. 

“Aeons— ah—” he moans as you lave your tongue across where the still-sticky rivulets of cum remain. To make matters worse, the rough pad of your thumb rubs callous circles against his nipple: sensitive from his earlier toying. But oh, it feels so much better than when he’d given them his amateur attention. He can’t help but shudder into the touch: so robotically precise he wonders whether you view people like your machines too. Does he do this with others as well?

The question creates a sickening, furious heat in his gut. One of his hands lifts and grips your shoulder, digging through the loose shirt you wear and into the firm skin beneath. 

He finally opens his eyes to look down at you—your brows slightly raised as you continue cleaning up the mess he made from the side, tongue darting out to catch every last drop—and his dick stiffens painfully from where it’s still covered. 

Salty, he thinks he hears you mutter to yourself. Maybe that’s the last straw, or maybe it’s you washing your tongue over your lips as if not to miss anything. Neither of those things matter—he needs you to expedite whatever you were going to do, now.

“Hurry– hurry up,” he gasps as your other hand brushes his hip bone, dangerously close to where the sheet covers. 

“So impolite,” you mock. Suddenly, that same hand wrenches the sheet down, and he lets out a groan as his naked flesh is bared to the cold air once more—he sees you don’t miss his reaction. “Not even a please.”

You’re the one who’s impolite, he thinks—ogling at him while you’re still fully clothed. 

“Sure have a lot of demands for someone who got caught calling out my name,” you reply, and it’s then he realises that maybe he didn’t think that at all. Still, with a fluid motion, you discard your shirt to the side and he’s left gazing at the expanse of your skin once more. Just like in that dream. 

“Now who’s ogling?” you continue quietly, but he’s much too fixated on seeing the bare flesh that unconsciously, his hand reaches back up to trace the plains of your shoulder. Then, his focus shifts as you reposition yourself so you’re practically straddling his legs, essentially trapping him under you. 

His tongue flickers out to wet his lips. 

Thankfully—thankfully—that’s not the thing you notice as your eyes finally trail down. 

“Mmh—” he whines as your calloused hand grasps his stiff cock. You’re gentler than he thought you’d be—though it’s precisely that sort of friction he’d been looking for in the first place. It’s almost cautious; you swipe your thumb across his leaking slit experimentally, and he can hear his own breathing become more rapid and shallow. 

“So pretty,” you murmur. “Just like the rest of you.”

He blinks, and suddenly he’s looking down to where your gaze lies: where your hand almost dwarfs his flesh, where his mushroom tip glistens from his earlier release, and where you’re slowly pumping it from shaft to base. 

Yes, he thinks, it is a pretty sight—but only because you’re in it too. 

He freezes. 

I can’t think that way. 

Dan Heng gasps as you remove your hand from him, shamelessly licking up the remaining liquid from your hand. The very sight causes his mind to go blank: body burning, stomach churning.  

“Why’d you stop—” he slurs his words, lids blinking slowly despite the scalding flush of adrenaline spreading through his limbs. “—not fair.”

Gently, you grab the hand that rests on your shoulder, pressing a small kiss to it while he hears the sound of a zipper. The sweet gesture forces his eyes open completely—if you moved any closer, you’d be able to hear his maddened heartbeat. 

“I’m not stopping,” you assure him. Warm fingers easily thread through his, and he gasps as your dick presses against his. His teary pupils can’t bear to look down—feel how you’re rubbing the pieces of flesh together in a dizzying rhythm.

Just like clockwork, he presses his freehand to the back of yours: stuck together in perpetual motion. He can hear the soft shick-shick as you move your palm up and down; feel the heat of your skin as it radiates into his own cold hands; see the faint smile as you stare at him beneath you. 

It feels so good—and normally, he’d never give in to the facetious pleasure that waits to slit his throat while he’s in its tender embrace. 

Pressing his lips together, he removes his hands from yours and loops them around your neck. If he feels closely, he can sense the steady race of your pulse—something that belies the surprise you hide in your languid expression. Like this, your body is forced closer to his (or more precisely, his body is forced closer to yours). 

You sigh out as his nails dig into your fragile human flesh; he’d think you were in pain had it not been for the small exhales you’d let out as you sped up your pace. When you hiss out—breathing shallow from him, from the man cursed to be Dan Heng—he can’t help but throb in your hold. 

He’s had that effect on you. Not anyone else, not those people pressed against you in the club who wanted your fragments, but him. 

“So infuriating,” you grind out with gritted teeth. He buries his face in the valley between neck and shoulder, breathing in the soapy scent from the juncture as your hands become harsher. Rougher. 

Dan Heng occupies his loud mouth by suckling right onto your neck—stealing his breath away while the pleasure builds up in the pit of his stomach. 

You lean back slightly, and suddenly the hand that was propping your weight up firmly grabs the side of his waist—and he thinks he can see the stars within the confines of these four walls. You notice—of course you do—the ragged panting coming from him, and he can see the grin forming on your face in his mind. 

How shameful. 

He stares back with crescent eyes and dark red cheeks lining them. 

“Pervert.” Two syllables. Two syllables, accompanied by a harsh squeeze of his side, before he comes undone. Arching into you with a choked cry, more strings of cum spurt from his tip: coating his stomach and yours with an unmistakable affirmation of your words. No, word (singular), because for whatever Aeon-forsaken reason, his body chose in particular to respond to your insult. 

Spit connects his mouth to your skin—face still in your shoulder as if to hide from you. His chest rises and falls rapidly: tits pressed against your own chest as he whines with the overstimulation. 

It’s no good. Your hands keep moving, and he’s still so painfully hard he can barely breathe. 

“‘M– I’m not,” he garbles, even as you poke at the sticky liquid dripping from his sides. 

“Are too,” you murmur, but the teasing doesn’t comfort him the way he thought it would. No, tomorrow when your regular back-and-forth is reestablished, he’ll only think of this night—how you feel on him, how well you touch his body. 

“Don’t stop,” he whimpers as you pause the movements that keep driving him to many brinks. 

“I’m not.” He’s putty under your hands as you twist his body with such deftness that he wonders where you get it from. Lugging around heavy machines certainly does leave you with some muscle there—he doesn’t realise the position he’s in until he feels your torso move against his plush ass. 

His chest presses down against the futon, face barely escaping the same fate as he turns it to the side to avoid suffocation. If he had to describe this situation, it would be humiliating—arched straight into the air with you kneading the soft expanse of flesh like it were fucking bread. 

It finally sets in. 

He’s about to get fucked by his closest friend in this cycle—and he hates how stiff the thought makes him. 

But surprisingly—since you’re so damn full of surprises—you instead part the sensitive flesh of his thighs and instead fill the gap there. He’s so empty, but in this position, your tip catches against his every time you drill into the space; that (begrudgingly) makes up for it. Somewhat. 

“Stop delaying it,” he groans as he feels more of his cum dribble down onto his sheets. What more do you want from him?

“Dan Heng,” you instead hover over him, grasping his waist like handlebars. He hates this so much—how easily you manoeuvre him, how good the pain of your nails feels against his touch-deprived skin. 

Most of all, he hates how depraved he feels—using his closest friend for this. 

“Has anyone ever told you how pretty your thighs are?” you groan above him, and he swears he can feel the vibrations right against his cock. “Or how gorgeous your waist is?”

It should be insulting. He’s a guard and archivist, not some object to ogle at under your heated gaze. Yet, contrary to his expectations, he can only suppress the violent urge to just cum on the spot from those words. You like his body. 

Not as a warrior, not as a weapon for the protection of the Luofu, but simply because he’s beautiful in your eyes. 

“No,” he replies through a breathy moan, clutching desperately at the shirt you discarded that’s lying right next to his face. You notice, of course. Nothing really escapes your sharp eyes, not even when it’s dark and he’s trying to hide. “I can’t say anyone has.”

“You’re so cute.” And when you say those three words, you press a quick kiss to the nape of his neck while one of your hands lazily jerks him off. 

However, that’s not what pushes him to the brink. It’s when you finish—hot streams dripping down his inner thighs as you let out a muffled groan right next to his ear. That’s when he shivers. That’s when his heart pulses extra loudly for one beat and his breath hitches. That’s when his body tightens and he spills once more onto his sheets. 

“Ah,” he gasps as he continues thrusting weakly into your hand. Your body’s heavy as you lean your forehead into his neck: warm breath tickling his nape and making his whole body shudder from the sensation. 

“Are— are you finally going to–” he’s cut off as you pull away from his thighs; scalding residue is left between them, and every time he shifts it squelches. 

“Man, your biology really is different.” He can feel you smile against his skin as you don’t let go of him. He’s practically caged in by your body at this point—but strangely, he doesn’t seem to mind. “Already eager to go?”

“Don’t avoid the question,” he grips the material of your shirt so tightly he can feel his nails dig into his palm. “Actually, don’t answer my question with a question of your own.”

“Still so vocal,” you shake your head slightly. Much too casually, you tighten your grip around him in a ring and he has to clamp his jaw shut so as to not let out any more wanton noises. He can’t give you the satisfaction of proving yourself right.

“You’re just too slow.” He doesn’t know why he’s provoking you. 

“You’re just too impatient,” you hiss. 

It’s worth it. It’s worth it when you nudge at his hole with your tip; worth it when you stretch him out just around the shaft. 

“Mmph— more,” he moans shamelessly at the burn. When he attempts to sink down further, your hands grip his waist in such a way that prevents him from moving an inch. It hurts, more than his fingers did—but he can’t help wanting to just take it. 

“You sure?” 

In one fell swoop, you bury yourself to the hilt in his tight hole—and he practically screams at the sudden intrusion. His body tightens almost immediately, yet the relief never comes when he feels your fingers tightly wrap around him to prevent release. 

Tears stream down his flushed cheeks, and he can clearly see the sadistic smile on your face as his glossy eyes meet yours—ruining his climax while there’s not a single speck of remorse in your ruthless gaze. 

“Fuck you–” he grits out. Stemming his tears is a futile attempt. 

“That’s your job,” you grin. Pulling out just so your tip remains, it doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure out what you’re going to next. “Remember, Dan Heng, patience is a virtue.”

He’s still reeling from the ruined orgasm when you slam into him again. The man swears he can feel you in his very throat as his chest tightens from the impact—and the broken moans he’s been suppressing come out once more at full volume. 

You don’t give him any time to adjust; rather, you set a pace so thorough that the gummy spot inside of him is hit every time. Still, there’s no mercy for him—your hand prevents his release on each occasion he gets close to it. 

He can feel your own body tense up. Maybe, as a gesture of goodwill, that’s when you finally let go of him and take hold of his waist once more. On his skin, your hand is tacky from a mixture of both you and him. 

Using both hands, you pull him into you just as your pelvis collides with his own flesh; with each plap of sticky skin against skin, he lets out a cut-off mewl that simply fades into the next. Over and over. 

This is a special form of madness. 

“Please, please—” he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, only that it’s the only thing he can say at this moment. 

It seems this has some effect on you—he can feel your abdomen stiffen as you grit out a question. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” he breathes. Perhaps that’s your last straw. Perhaps his voice like this is too much for you; not even a minute later, he can feel searing rivulets seep deep into him—so warm and slippery. 

“Hng–” he moans out. The feeling’s too much. With a desperate sob, he’s finally allowed to cum too: an awful, mind-numbing sensation that wracks his whole body with ruined pleasure. His chest heaves up and down—milking you for all you’re worth as he continues to ride it out. If you look closely, you’d see his legs practically giving out as you loosen your grip on his waist ever-so-slightly. 

Your body looms over his trembling one, pressing kiss after kiss to his spine as he cries it out. 

Discordant breaths slowly dissipate into calmer ones—your comforting weight grounds him firmly to the present. 

When… did I start thinking that way?

As he’s soothed into stupor, he notices how your scorching palms slip from his sides and hold down his clenched fists—twining finger against finger in such a tender gesture he can feel his very shoulders deepen into carmine. 

You’re half-hard inside him, but he still needs so much more. When his sniffles die down, he notices you staring unabashedly at him: a mess, he’s sure, but he sees how enraptured you are. That, for some reason, makes the comment die down in his throat and replaces it with a poignant question. 

What do you think about me?

(But that’s not a question you should be asking your close friend, not when he’s firmly lodged within you with his chest pressed against your back.)

You rub circles against the slight veins that line the backs of his hands—rough shapes that somehow retain the essence of your mechanical certainty. It’s so fucking intimate he can’t help but feel his whole face burn: to the bitter point where he’s pressing it right against his tear-stained, sweat-stained pillow. 

“Want more,” he slurs, hissing sharply as you lean back far enough on your heels that you manage to seat him firmly in your lap. It’s so much deeper that he has to stifle his whines while you gaze at him with that annoyingly perceptive look. 

He’s reminded of your strength when you tug at his legs and manoeuvre him so he’s facing you, on your lap, while still stuffed full of you and his cum. There’s fat globs of white dripping from him in a frothy ring, but you clearly don’t care about any of that as you lean back on your palms impassively. 

“Your turn,” you prompt. 

And oh, as he feels himself get split apart at this angle, it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall apart at that instant. It hurts, relying on his legs to rise and fall on your dick—over and over—but by the Aeons he can’t stop his tears from being shed and his mouth from letting out some of his most embarrassing sounds. 

He’s so dizzy he almost collapses—but his hands digging into your trapezius muscles provides a tentative support to his shaky frame. 

“Jerk,” he gasps out as you palm him callously, meeting each bounce of his hips with your pelvis thrusting upwards. He can’t stop the whines that leave his spit-shined lips; every sticky skin-on-skin sound is accompanied by such. 

He can’t go as fast as he wants, nor can he go as high as he wants, but that allows him to observe the irritated glint in your eyes as you duck your head. 

“What are you— ah—” he whimpers as your teeth graze his puffy nipple; his back curves into an arch unconsciously to press his tits more to your face, and he can’t help but feel embarrassed at how easily his body responds to your motions. 

As your tongue laves wet circles round the areola, while your hand roughly strokes him and you fill him up so, so good, he clutches at your body for dear life when he feels that familiar feeling building up in his stomach. 

“So close,” he bites out, shuddering in your grasp as you bite lightly around the nipple. Combined with the twisting motion of your hands, and the irresistible smell of sweat and metal bleeding from your skin, it’s no surprise that he cums in glistening ropes: painting your skin once more. 

More tears leak from his eyes as you don’t slow down. Well, you do, but only to use the tight grip he still has on your shoulders to push him down so he’s under you once more. You resume just as quickly; by this point, it’s clear you’re chasing your own release. 

Beautiful, he thinks through hazy eyes. 

He glances to the side briefly, spotting the bag he vowed he’d carry out of here in time—then back at you. 

There’ll be more passengers. More people, vying for your attention like this. Will you treat them like this? Like friends, as he’s so aptly put it?

He pulls himself closer to you, watching as your eyes widen in brief surprise at the sudden proximity. 

“What’s wrong?” you murmur. “Want me to–”

You’re so considerate it makes him sick. Is this how you view friendship too?

Where is the boundary?

Gradually, you bring your hips to a slow roll as he continues staring directly at you. He almost whines at the loss of motion, but the dilated look in your pupils is enough to keep him sated. 

Need him. He squeezes tight around you; as soon as your eyelids flutter shut, he kisses you on the lips chastely—the brief contact of your lips against his is enough to almost make his eyes roll back in delight. 

Your eyes practically flinch: blown open in abject surprise as you stare at his bashful, flushed expression. He definitely can’t leave, but Aeons this attention makes him want to retreat back into himself. 

“Dan Heng,” you whisper. “What happened to your rule?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “Not anymore.”

He’s not expecting you to immediately cup his face with a shaky hand, kissing him feverishly while you continue grinding against him languidly. The salt on your lips—the taste of himself—is enough to have him cum against you one last time in weak, watery spurts. 

He moans into your mouth: hands clutching at you for dear life while you shudder with your own climax. Never has he felt so spent; not even after hours-long battles. Sure, he’s felt cold detachment from the blood on his palms, but he’s burning at the moment. A veritable comet streaking right across the galaxies, made of all the cold ice he can imagine—but lit up as white-hot as a star. 

If he had to explain the feeling of prodding his tongue into your warm, wet mouth, it would most likely be the best sensation he’s ever experienced. He can’t stop: too drunk on your taste to think about anything else save you. 

When you have your best friend’s dick in you, it’s pretty hard to think of him as just a friend. 

“Not going anywhere,” he mumbles into the scalding skin of your neck. “I’ll stay right by your side.”

“What—changed your mind about us just being buddies?” you query mockingly, running your fingers into the valleys above his hips. This weight; it feels safe being caged in your arms like this, as though he’ll sleep without nightmares every night he’s entrapped like this. “Felt too good for a friends with benefits situation?”

“Shut up,” he huffs, weakly poking at your arm. “Don’t want you treating your other friends like this.”

He can feel you stifle your laugh. 

Perhaps, if he really looks at it, the standard TUL dialect definition of friendship applies to this situation. Mutual trust and affection. 

“Okay, okay,” you accede. There’s a fluttering sensation in his chest that accompanies his reddened cheeks, and it’s not due to the strenuous activities from a moment prior. “You’re mine, then.”

The clumsy framing somewhat fit at the beginning, but no longer. 

And if he really looks at it, he should reread the whole dictionary to make sure he doesn’t misunderstand any more of these concepts. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

[alice-after-dark]

A Dark Web Romance (Concept)

Just a fun concept that has been sitting in my drafts for a while.

@hiemaldesirae hope you feel better :)

TW for violence, abusive relationships, vaguely implied sexual abuse, cannibalism, gore, murder, implied NSFT, and other canon-typical triggers. Contains abusive StaticMoth.

Vincent Haynes, who goes by the online name "Vox," is an elite hacker who makes his money on the Dark Web doing jobs for the worst of the worst. It is through this work that he becomes acquainted with a user known as TheRadioDemon, a cannibalistic serial killer who hosts a podcast. Vox has never missed a show since discovering him and has developed a crush on the man. Sure, he may not have any interest in which parts of the human body are best suited for a stew, but he is more than willing to listen to that gorgeous voice explain it to him in graphic detail while he carves said flesh off his screaming victim.

When the host expresses difficulty with his website, Vox jumps at the opportunity and soon the two are exchanging private messages daily, even long after the problem has been fixed.

One day months later he meets Alastor Bourreau, a new resident in their apartment complex who has moved into the apartment across from Vox. Hailing from New Orleans, he has come to New York City for a change of scenery, a "change of flavor" as he puts it.

There is something...familiar about the man, but Vox can't put his finger on it.

Vox and Alastor become fast friends, something Vox's boyfriend, a jealous and unstable pimp named Valentino, does not approve of. Their relationship began after Valentino hired Vox to do some work for his snuff website and now Vox is trapped in Valentino's never ending cycle of love-bombing and abuse. He is too scared to leave the pimp, knowing full well that Valentino could have him killed if he wanted to.

He expresses these fears to TheRadioDemon during their nightly chat after a particularly bad fight that leaves Vox with two broken ribs and a sprained wrist.

And suddenly Valentino stops calling him. He stops showing up at his apartment unannounced over some perceived slight or another. He stops contacting him altogether. It's strange and confusing and Vox doesn't know what to make of it. Valentino won't answer his calls. In fact, they all go straight to voicemail until finally the inbox is full and he can't leave any more.

He decides Valentino is probably on another one of his binges and that he'll hear from him eventually.

But he doesn't. What he gets instead is a link to a livestream sent to him from TheRadioDemon. That's...strange. TheRadioDemon has never been a visual person, always sticking to his podcast format. Still, he clicks on it without hesitation.

Front and center is Valentino.

The man is strapped into a medical chair with his chest cut wide open. Vox can see the rise and fall of the man's lungs. A message pops into his inbox.

Do you like it, darling? He broke your ribs, so I took his. I also took the liberty of removing that foul tongue of his.

Another message.

What should I take next?

Vox already knows what he wants before the question even comes.

Cut off his fucking dick.

It's three hours before the video ends, the main chat alight with suggestions and comments. The video goes dark every time TheRadioDemon acts, broadcasting Valentino's agonized gurgles and wails and cutting back on to reveal the new damage done. Vox says no more, simply sits back and watches the show.

He is only half watching Valentino though. Instead, his gaze is constantly being drawn to the small red fawn plush sitting on the metal table, starkly innocent beside the bloodied instruments of torture and placed so purposefully.

He knows that plush. He bought that plush.

Moments after stream ends finds him in front of Alastor's door. He's barely had time to knock when it opens and he is yanked inside and subsequently slammed up against the door and kissed.

"I was so hoping you'd catch on," Alastor mumbles against his lips. "I've had my eyes on you ever since you first tuned into my broadcast. I could hardly contain myself when I finally found you. You looked so delicious."

Vox isn't sure if he means that literally or figuratively and he doesn't care. It might be both. It's probably both. He's okay with that.

[mythmerth]

from my November readings, I’ve collected a few more merlin fic recs for the people…

For favorite long (80k+) fic, I would have to choose Gladiator by Clea2011. It’s 115k and has some really intense moments followed with a wonderful growing love story woven in to it. arthur as a gladiator goes kind of hard even if he’s fighting for his life. also the dragons are very present in this and I do love my dragon content!

For favorite mid length (…40k-80k) fic, id have to choose Public Image by an orphaned account. As someone who has had a Great Deal of text/online friendships and relationships, I absolutely adored the type of text based development these two had. they’re just both obsessed with each other but trying and failing to hide it, LOVE that shit

For favorite short fic (<40k), you may have noticed that for this month I have changed the bar of short fic to less than 40k instead of 30k and it’s because I REALLY enjoyed this 39k apocalypse fic and wanted to put it here :’D Land of Ghouls by rotrude was so intense and had me clutching my chest but was exactly what I was looking for with zombie apocalypse merthur; not something I’ll fully sob about, but keeps me on my toes.

Here’s a few more rapid fire fics from this month! I read more long ones than usual tehe

Sunny in Camelot by foxy_mulder is a really silly quick read, just ridiculous and plays heavy on the “what the hell does Merlin do” gag! I don’t typically read super short fics but I love these type

Somewhere between the Sand and the Stardust by Cithara was a great canon era long read; merthur PARENTS 💞

I FINISHED LOADED MARCH! Do or Die and At the End We Begin Again by Footloose had me absolutely floored. I apologize because you can’t read these as standalone fics and yes there’s a million words that come before them, but if you like wartime modern magic merthur where Arthur’s a military mastermind and Merlin is a tech genius (and yes I mean those 100% seriously they are so badass), read loaded march. It’s got the most scream worthy merthur devotion I’ve ever read and that’s saying something. Do or Die was masterful and so action packed. We begin again was a perfect and beautiful ending that made me tear up. you won’t regret getting into this series!! and I may make a full post about my thoughts on each installation at a later date, it’s really that good.

With my loaded march plug out of the way, my favorite reread this month… would have to be ever popular The Crown of the Summer Court by astolat! It’s not long and such a fun read, I love imagining Merlin getting Arthur all ready for another kingdom to come only for them to be solely invested in Merlin, like what an excellent concept. lighthearted and so fun, if you haven’t checked it out I definitely recommend it!

It’s December… end of the year… and while everyone’s getting into their Spotify wrapped, I’m gonna be doing my 💫 2024 Merlin fic reading wrapped 💫 which is exactly as unhinged as it sounds. If you’ve ever wondered what my gay donut profile photo is here, stay tuned for it cause yes it is Merlin related in a very diabolical way. I’m excited to get into this insanity and I hope it’ll be as silly for you as it is for me.

I’ll be back in 2025 for my December recs and you can find my 2024 fic stats here 🫡

and if you’re still looking for more recs then check out my other posts ~

<< last month next month >>

[yanderes-galore]

HOW DID NOBODY ASK FOR THE LEGEND JOHNNY CAGE YET!? Imma do that then! I'd like to request a romantic concept for the man himself, Johnny Cage ;)

Sure, wasn't sure which MK you wanted so I decided to choose. So have the more younger cocky version of Johnny. Hope I got his character right!

Yandere! Johnny Cage/Jonathan Carlton Concept

(Younger Johnny - MK2011/MK11)

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Flirting/Persistence, Manipulation, Yandere feels bad for his behavior, Slight desperate yandere, Dubious/Forced relationship, Possessive behavior, Guilt tripping, Violence.

The version of Johnny Cage I'll talk about this was when he was still your typical movie star.

This variation of Johnny is arrogant, cocky, and egotistical.

He loves being the center of attention even if others find him annoying.

He's selfish but soon proves he's heroic and selfless.

He has good intentions at heart... if you look past all the ego.

Young Johnny Cage would certainly be a handful compared to his older counterpart, which is why I chose to write for him.

He'd be persistent.

This version of Cage is certainly some sort of flirtatious playboy who is popular in the Hollywood scene.

He'd be the type to, when he first encounters you, flirt with you and call you all sorts of sweet pet names.

He quickly becomes an annoyance hell-bent on impressing you.

He thinks his fighting style and acting is enough to make you adore him.

Honestly, a flirtatious playboy yandere is a type I haven't done often.

Johnny may actually be capable of emotional manipulation, too.

He's good at acting, isn't he?

He acts so confident and tough.

In reality he's probably desperate and fantasizing about you to the point it's destroying him.

He doesn't like that you ignore or reject him.

He convinces himself to push further and try to make you see he's a catch.

Yet deep down he's disappointed and a bit upset you won't even look at him.

He'd definitely be the type to take pictures of the two of you then hide the Polaroids in some sort of pocket and journal.

Then he looks back at them later with a smile.

He prefers sticking around you all the time compared to stalking.

Then everyone knows that he's interested.

Much to your chagrin.

I have a feeling his persistent yandere personality would shift if you lost it at him.

Maybe you've had enough of his flirting and attempts to impress you.

Which eventually leads to you screaming at him to take a hint.

Bruising this man's ego changes how he acts around you.

He starts to feel bad about coming off too strong.

Johnny doesn't like the idea of losing you and adamantly apologizes to you.

He doesn't want you to hate him or lose his chances with you.

So he tries to behave himself and tones things down.

Who knows? Maybe after that you get with him.

Or he just figures he needs to force things a bit more.

Now let's talk about how he's like in a relationship, be it mutual or not.

Johnny loves to be affectionate.

His favorite parts of you are probably your lips to kiss.

But I feel we can all agree he is your typical butt/chest dude... he has the vibes.

He likes to have his arms around you.

While he still flirts he apologizes if it's too much.

Once he feels he has you he'll calm down on his advances.

Johnny feels like the type of person to throw punches over someone being near you.

Someone else flirts with you? Punch.

Someone hurt your feelings? Punch.

He feels it also impresses you, like he's defending you.

In the end it really only causes problems.

He gets so defensive about you.

Like he's insecure and afraid to lose you.

Johnny, at least his younger counterpart, wouldn't kidnap you.

He prefers to just stick around enough it drives everyone off.

He's easily jealous and possessive at times.

You can catch in his words towards others that he feels threatened when others show interest in you.

Which then leads to him bragging about already being in a relationship with you... regardless on if you actually are or not.

Johnny would be more likely to socially isolate you then physically isolate you.

Others don't want to be near you because they don't want to hear Johnny try to be the tough guy.

If you tried to leave him then I imagine he'd play with your emotions.

He guilt trips you and makes you feel bad.

Johnny would cling to you, saying he can't live without you.

If you still try to leave then he'll have subtle threats in his tone.

Johnny is fully capable of lethal force.

He's unwilling to use it... but if pushed... maybe he could snap.

However, he'd only think of using such excessive force to defend you.

Won't stop him from breaking a few noses and kicking some crotches though.

Overall, Young Johnny would be a flirtatious playboy at first but if you break his ego he'll tone it down.

Despite this he'll still be persistent and won't leave you alone...

He thinks you'll love him if you just give him a shot, isn't it such an opportunity to date a movie star?

"Come on, baby... won't you just give me a shot? I promise you won't regret it!"

[horsegirlwarcrimes]

I have come back am I allowed to ask about more WIPs from your list. I am so so curious about "Shen Yuan Gets Two Daemons", the intersection of daemons with transmigration is so interesting to me. (I may be back again later but I am trying once again to not do So Many Asks At Once)

omg thank u for the continued asks!!

for this fic, the concept is that when shen yuan transmigrates into shen qingqiu, he takes over the OGs body but not his soul. therefore ergo, shen qingqiu is gone, but his daemon is still there. shen yuan reluctantly makes a deal with the og scum villain's daemon—xiu ya won't turn him in for the body snatching if shen yuan works on finding a way to resurrect shen qingqiu. shen yuan's own soul is very excited to suddenly have a body of her own AND a bonus brother.

Shen Yuan returns to the world of the living with a scream.  Not his own, as it turns out. He awakens laying in bed, something warm and soft and weighty laying in his chest. There’s a soft thump thump thump that beats in time with his heart. For a moment, he feels perfectly at peace—like the best ASMR ever, sending tingles through his whole body and making every muscle relax.  That’s when the screaming starts.  Shen Yuan shoots up and instantly regrets it. The weight on his chest goes flying off with a discontented noise, and the room spins around him. He’s caught between a need to get up, to find and soothe the source of the sound, and an arresting vertigo that steals the air from his lungs. The result is him flailing half way out of bed in a tangle of—silk?  Two large, firm hands catch him around the shoulders.  “Shidi, please, stay in bed. Everything will be alright. I’ve called for Mu Qingfang. A-Su is doing what she can. Just stay still.”  Shen Yuan doesn’t recognize the latter name, but the former pings something in the back of his mind. He looks up blearily as those hands gently press him back into the mattress.  The man leaning over him has a broad, handsome face that, combined with the dark eyes and gentle, worried crease to his brow, immediately puts Shen Yuan in mind of his older brothers. He allows this to be his excuse for folding right away, letting himself be manhandled back into bed even as half of his brain is clawing for him to move, to help. He looks over the man’s shoulder, searching for the source of the agonized screaming. It sounds like someone is being murdered. What he finds is a sight his mind can’t fully comprehend. There is a large dog in a corner of the room with its paw holding something down. The thing under its paw is a shifting mass, leaking strange golden dust. One moment there is fur, then feathers, then scales. It screams all the while.  “What’s wrong with him?” Shen Yuan asks blankly.  “I’m not sure,” the man says, “but we are going to fix it.” His eyes look sad.  There is a little scrabbling noise, barely audible over the creature in the corner’s yelling. A fluffy white cat jumps onto the mattress and climbs up onto Shen Yuan’s chest.  “Ah,” he says, and his hands instinctively come up around her. She must be what he accidentally flung away before.  She makes a sleepy grumble and gets comfortable. Shen Yuan finds his energy and his ability to comprehend his surroundings fading rapidly, now that she is there, warm and solid in his arms. He bats away the human hand that reaches for his wrist absently.  “Xiao Jiu, that—”  The man next to the bed looks strangely horrified as he drifts off. Shen Yuan has no idea who he was talking to.

[fatecolossal]

TWIN PEAKS (2017) Part 18 x Part 1 --- The sinister Experiment figure first materializes when Tracey is positioned at Sam's left ear in a manner that mirrors the pose of Laura's iconic whisper to Cooper. This seems intentional; in fact, Tracey even whispers in Sam's ear...

While Laura's whisper is inaudible, we can hear Tracey's whisper: she says, "What is it?" (Note: the OG subtitles, which Lynch/Frost have nothing to do with, incorrectly only say "What?"—so I correct them here.)

Now, of what significance is this seemingly innocuous question? First, note that the question, "What is it?", is identical to the very next full line of dialogue in the show...

...and is also repeated later in Part 1 as well. While it's a common enough phrase, the fact that it is repeated literally back-to-back here is seemingly no accident.

The phrase also is almost identical to the line that immediately precedes Laura's whisper near the beginning of Part 18: the Evolution of the Arm's question, "Is it?"

Each of these questions centers the definite pronoun "it," echoing the indefinite usage of "it" in the second (new) line of TWIN PEAKS (2017)...

...the Fireman's mysterious statement to Cooper at the beginning of Part 1, "It is in our house now."

Interestingly, much of Sam's dialogue with Tracey, who we are told has brought "it" with her, centers around whether she can come "in"...

...and it thus parallels the subject of the Fireman's line.

After Tracey whispers her question, "What is it?", Sam does provide a response, twice shushing her:

"Shh!"

Again, while this response may seem trivial, it is worthwhile to consider how it parallels the Fireman's other indefinite usage of "it"—"It all cannot be said aloud now"—as well as the theme of quietude surrounding "Judy" (and the very concept of a whisper).

This theme is further drawn out earlier in the scene, when Sam, echoing Jeffries' instructions about Judy, tells Tracey that they're "not supposed to say anything about this place."

Getting back to Tracey's whisper pose (and whisper itself): note that like Laura's TP:TR Red Room whisper, it's sandwiched between a kiss and a scream.

And very curiously, the way the Experiment's attack on Tracey and Sam is depicted—a close-up of frenetic shaking—closely mirrors the depiction of Laura's panicked scream and forceful exit from the Red Room. (Sadly, I can't post the video comparison here... See x.com/fatecolossal... )

In each, a gaping mouth—in one, Laura's, in the other, the Experiment's (just a gaping black hole)—is centered.

While that concludes the main portion of this post, there is one more minor (more tenuous?) parallel between the Glass Box Room and the Red Room that might be mentioned (see my earlier post from last week for many more! https://www.tumblr.com/fatecolossal/732266163941343232/twin-peaks-the-red-room-x-the-glass-box-room).

The Glass Box's lighting fixtures have red, striated backs that look familiar.

Okay, that's it! Thanks! (It's difficult to wade into pretty complicated discussions here given space & other limitations—some things def have to be omitted—so I realize the above may be inadequate by itself to be fully convincing of the intentionality behind some of the points...)

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

I Cherish You, Halcyon Days: prologue.

“You’re gonna die, kid. In the worst way possible.”

tags: afab!reader (she/her), angst, slow burn

pairing: gojou x reader + onesided!getou x reader

summary: You’re 15 years old when you’re told you’re going to die. You’re 17 years old when you realize who your killer will be. And you’re 17 years old when you make peace with the fact you wouldn’t want it any other way.

index | next chapter

In the summer of 1997 when I was 7, I almost drowned at the beach.

It was one of those summers where you watch a movie and things felt whimsical because you watched one movie about a group of kids going on a life-changing adventure you’d never go on yourself. You looked for magic in your daily life because even the smallest thing could be what led to you stumbling upon a new journey. My life-changing adventure movie? Free Willy, the movie about that foster kid and an orca. My aunt, a marine biologist, who showed me the movie always said the ocean was her greatest love. I got what she meant when I saw that movie. So that summer I spent at my aunt’s place in Enoshima was the summer I decided I’d go on some sort of adventure myself.

My expectation? Freeing Mina the beluga whale and swimming on her back to wherever the beluga whales came from. I would have even taken Kukki the dugong who I sometimes fed extra fish to when no one was looking.

What I actually got? Getting caught up in an undertow at Higashihama Beach.

Yeah, not my dream summer experience.

Undertow wasn’t a concept foreign to me at that time. Auntie warned me all about itー about how sometimes the currents below and above the surface went in separate directions.

“Don’t fight it when that happens,” she told me. “You’ll tire yourself out and drown. I know it’ll be scary but if you ever get caught in undertow, don’t fight. Go with the current and once it subsides, that’s when you swim back.”

That advice was far from my mind when I actually got caught in one though.

I screamed and thrashed and fought and fought, I probably pissed in the water twice too to boot.

And yet ー and I’m not entirely sure why ー a calm suddenly fell over me and I remembered Auntie’s words.

It would be scary, but don’t fight it.

Five minutes later, I swam back to shore and cried for ten minutes while my aunt held me.

Scary was one hell of an understatement.

I swore up and down I’d never go to the beach again. I never wanted to feel that scared again, never ever. My aunt didn’t disparage me for it, though. Didn’t tell me to toughen up. She simply took me to get shaved ice when I calmed down; said when you conquer your fear and come out on top, you should always treat yourself to something nice.

“It’s okay to be scared, [First],” she smiled softly. “Some people might say otherwise, but you know something, Auntie doesn’t think fear is a bad thing. Fear can be really good sometimes. Fear is what tells you not to do something that could lead to you getting hurt. It teaches you when not to do something stupid or dangerous. Sometimes, fear is what you should listen to instead of the ‘what if things actually go right’s. Fear only becomes bad when there’s too much of it. When you let being scared rule your life so you don’t live it.

“So it’s okay to be scared. Just promise auntie that you won’t let fear stop you from moving forward. Whether it’s rejection, worries a leap of faith will lead to you falling completely on your ass or that it might not be okay to say something when you know you should.

Live like you feel it and love like you mean it.

Don’t let the fear get to you.”

It took about a week before I was diving right back into the deep blue all over again.

Name: [Full Name] ♀ D/O/B: December 9, 1989 Age: 15

Sorcerer Lineage: Non-sorcerer lineage Enrollment method: Scouted

Recruiter: Yaga Masamichi

Notes: Student was encountered May 5, 2005

Testimony of the recruiter: At the site of Tsubame High School’s test of courage, a second grade curse appeared. [Last] activated her innate technique to protect herself and her fellow students and was able to keep the curse at a standstill until sorcerers arrived on the scene to exorcize the curse. While there were students injured, none of the injuries were fatal mostly due to [Last]’s quick application of her ability. According to the student, she began being able to utilize her innate technique around the age of 10.

Jujutsu

Student’s Innate Technique: Shields

“Rejection” Student’s abilities manifest as her cursed energy condensing into an object that rejects negative events outside of it effectively, creating shields of various sizes. This ability is one that is purely defensive and does not seem to have any offensive capabilities. As it stands, should the student make timely progress during the initial stages of her enrollment during this first year ー  should she not disenroll or meet an untimely end ー it isn’t recommended to give her solo assignments.

Notes: “Rejection” is what the student in question chooses to refer to this ability as.

Interview Question Answer: “Why I want to enroll? Because I’m scared of this curse stuff.”

index | next chapter

[la-pheacienne]

Rhaenicent truly gets the golden prize of queerbaiting. If you want to turn two women who hate each other into an unfulfilled love story, fine. Do it goddammit. But are you actually gonna do it? Do you have the guts to back this up in the narrative? If not, it comes across as a half-ass attempt at novelty. Where is Alicent's love for Rhaenyra, the very core of the show (!), in that episode? What, because she prayed for her son? But she doesn't need to be in love with her to pray for her son. Her two-faced pious book counterpart could have easily done exactly the same thing without being in love with Rhaenyra (book!Alicent was actually against Lucery's murder) and imagine how cool it would have been to have book!Alicent, this cold, calculating bitch, still keeping up with her cognitive dissonance and praying for Rhaenyra's dead child like a real psycho, as if she doesn't want that woman and her bastards dead since she was a little girl. You can't deny, this would have been hotter. But oh well. Also a fine specimen of tell not show, "Alicent holds love for Rhaenyra" says Aemond, right, but where? That's why she's fucking Criston every day while not showing one single emotion? Because she's heartbroken for her one true love losing her child?

Rhaenicent may have seemed hot to the writers, but the execution failed. A shift as major as this needs a very solid basis and narrative importance. It needs to hold actual weight in the plot. You can't have characters casually mentioning it whenever it suits the script and then forgetting it 5 seconds later. You can't have Alicent being terrified about the safety of her kids and herself and wanting to take revenge against that family for what she's been through and then "oh by the way she's in love with Rhaenyra bye" that is NOT how this works. The problem is, of course, that with so much going on Rhaenicent just cannot work. Because of logistics. There is literally no place for love and solidarity between those two women in this specific narrative with the stakes so high, with their families and their children involved, you can kick and scream and whine about it but the fact remains. As I've always said, the only way Rhaenicent could work is as a villain origin story for Alicent. Let Alicent hate Rhaenyra's guts out of sheer romantic jealousy, let her be blinded by rage where once there had been only love. Now that holds actual weight in the narrative. That is hot. That gives Alicent a clear purpose, a clear drive. Alicent now is just a lifeless, boneless, odorless shadow, and I say this in the most unbiased way possible. She truly is just a spectator of her life. The drama unwinds around her and she just... nothing. Now we all know people like that in real life. However, in fiction, a character needs to have a purpose. They need a drive, they need an inner logic. They need to do something, they need to strive for something. You can't introduce a character merely for representation. "It is important to show a woman dealing with lack of agency" right but "dealing with lack of agency" is not a character arc. How is she dealing with her lack of agency, what the fuck does she do with that? She's a character, not a concept.

It's a no for me, it will always be a no and it truly and irrevocably ruined this adaptation.

[holymaccaronii]

uh so I forgot which post this was now but you know the one where you were talking about developing the lore and you attached that one eggman meme where he says ,"I miss my wife tails, I miss her a lot" or something like that, and it was said in reference to how AM is in your AU

Is it in reference about AM towards BE or Ellen, Benny, Gorrister, Nimdok and (somewhat because dude got slugged) Ted? I can see it being both because I swear you've joked(?) in some posts about them being spouses, but I can also see it being about those five if he were to see BE's five and miss his.

My pea brain cannot understand which or neither it may be, too much Madcom hyperfixating slaughtered my brain and then IHNMAIMS came along and finished it off

(p.s - is it agreed that Ellison made - or at least had some involvement since he voiced AM - AM so cunty in the game, like the way AM calls Ted sweetheart and baby screams cunty)

Oah an ask I receive about this au :,], I'll gladly answer what I understood was asked! This au is still a wip, thus why I keep mentioning everything as a 'concept' , so thing's may change later.

First off, this AU is based off the ending where both all the original survivors (except Ted as he gets slugged) and the two other allied mastercomputers die. It's basically a continuation of what will happen with the Luna colony and AM in his considerable solitude, BUT with the addition of my Ocs.

The eggman post made reference to a route where AM slowly gets convinced by BE's survivors to reconcile with her, as the story itself is divided into a prologue (that explains the background of the moon colony, how BE escaped to Earth, met AM and eventually kinda had a relationship going on with him before their eventual separation), and the main story (where the humans arrive, this route OR the others happen, each leading to a different ending).

[More yapping below]

AM feels jealous towards BE's survivors because of two reasons: they resemble his just like you said, and they are being treated just like he once was by BE. So AM basically has a mindset of: "oh these humans that look just like the survivors I spent 109 years torturing are living in paradise AND being treated nicely by my ex (that a part of me still loves), how can this hell possibly get worse".

I'm not sure if this explanation was clear enough, as there's SO MANY details I didn't mention for this to make complete sense, but that's the idea the au follows so far.

In conclusion: evil computer fumbles his only possibility of a romantic interest ever, gets replaced by 5 young humans (ALL WITH MOM/DAD ISSUES) that help their new mom get thru grief + are given the chance to live their biggest dreams and be free in return. After a few years the evil computer reaches out to them, n they are given the chance to either help him with his evil plan, help him get his 'wife' back or act against him.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk and thank you for asking :3c. If something still doesn't make sense feel free to ask!!

(Also YEA AM IS DEFO CUNTY AAHHH!!! I know that it may seem like my AM is mischaracterizing the original, but since his program gets corrupted in the au to the point of letting him express love a bit easier, I envisioned him as a cunty, stressed and sassy villain that still holds all his original hate inside ofc. Harlan was so real bc of those lines 😩)

[proxylynn]

which zombie game has a cool zombie design to you?

[I like Left 4 Dead. I personally fell in love with a cut Special Infected. God, I haven't thought about it in ages, it was such a cool idea that would've made so many players pissed off and rage quit. I like Hunters. I like Smokers. But I fucking love the Screamer.]

The Screamer was a prototype for Special Infected formulated early in Left 4 Dead's development. As such, he is the progenitor of Special Infected like the Witch and Boomer. Screamers were presented in-game as Infected humans bound in a restraining psychiatric-style straitjacket.

The idea for the Screamer was for him to lurk in different areas, much like the Witch, paying no attention to his surroundings until coming in contact with a Survivor whereupon, if sufficiently agitated, he would run away from Survivors in an attempt to hide. If he succeeded in escaping, he emitted a loud scream that alerted a horde, causing an attack — thus, foreshadowing the later Boomer bile concept, and additionally helping to establish early on in production that the Common Infected are driven to extreme aggression as a response to loud noises. It was therefore important for the players to kill the Screamer before he could escape and call a horde. Since the Screamer was under physical restraint, he did not have the ability to mount any direct attack on Survivors.

{Think about it. Out of all the zombies that will attack you on sight or if you triggered them, this lone dude is minding his own business. He's just chilling. Living out as best as he can. Then suddenly, a group of 4 with weapons appear in his chill zone and scare the shit out of him! So he scurries off to hide because he may be undead but can still die and he so doesn't want that, almost like it's ingrained in his brain. And once he feels safe, he is filled with raw emotion that his current state can't display in any way other than a loud cry. A cry that he may or may not know summons masses of other infected to swarm. I think that's fucking adorable. He's my favorite and he isn't in the game. Lucky for me though, I'm not alone in loving him. Back in my Deviantart days, I found a wonderful artist who enjoys making L4D comics. So guess who I found getting some love? It's the boy!}

[non-cannon]

I may have come up with the saddest House of Anubis AU. It's based on the ancient Egyptian concept of a name having power and being part of someone's soul. And loosing your name and being forgotten was a bad thing (which is why so many pharaohs tried to literately erase the names of the pharaohs that came before them).

While I believe this was mostly in regards to the afterlife, what if you lost your name while still alive? What if Nina lost her name while she was alive? What if some demon stole her name the summer before season three, and everyone forgot her?

One day over the summer Nina gets into a fight with this demon, and loses. And the demon takes her name. Now she still remembers that her name is Nina Martin, so she doesn't really understand what it did to her until she gets home, and her gran doesn't recognize her. Her gran looks at her and sees a stranger. Nina tries to explain, but her gran insists that she never had a granddaughter, that her son and daughter-in-law tragically died before they could have kids.

Nina keeps trying, but every time she says her name, Evelyn forgets her all over again. Nina eventually gives up, and steals her stuff. Which is easy because every time Evelyn stops looking at the stuff she forgets it's existence.

Every email and message Nina tries to send her friends goes unread and only sometimes deleted because they don't know anyone with that name, and forget about the message the moment they stop looking. Every phone call goes to voicemail, on suspicion of being spam.

Nina tries to go to England directly in hopes that Sibuna could still help, and she is able to get her passport, but gets arrested for having a fake id. She walks out when they forget her. Her attempt to book a flight fail as the airline forgets her reservation.

For Sibuna's part they know something happened the last two years, but the details don't quite line up if they think about it too hard, but they never do. They still get involved in the mystery, though. Eddie can remember that a paragon/chosen one exists, but nothing else beyond that. And when the Osirian dies, he forgets that too. KT has too move Nina's stuff out of her room herself because she's the only one who can even remember the stuff exists after looking away. She asks about it, but no one understands.

Eventually Nina learns that she can use a fake name, and people will remember it and her. And after a couple of years she even manages to get a job and an apartment, but it's been a painful lonely struggle. She was only able to get the apartment with a roommate. Just to make it worse later, let's say the roommate is KT.

KT doesn't talk about Sibuna, and Nina doesn't talk about herself at all. Even with all the secrecy they fall in love anyway. KT knows Nina is hiding things from her, and isn't happy, but knows she would be a hypocrite to say anything, and lets it go. Or she does until KT meets up with some friends from high school (Sibuna) and Nina freaks out.

KT demands answers. Nina tells KT that she will forget if Nina explains. KT insists that she won't forget, and even if she forgets Nina's true name she won't forget everything that they had with the fake name. KT also insists that she and Sibuna can help. Nina breaks down crying, and whispers her names.

KT stares at her blinking for a couple of seconds, and then starts screaming, demanding to know why a strange woman is crying next to her on her couch. A heart broken Nina apologizes, and leaves, and gives KT her name again as she closes the door behind her. A confused KT doesn't remember standing up, or having anyone in her apartment at all.

A few more years later, Sibuna has reunited, and find themselves trying to solve a mystery involving the demon that took Nina's name. Nina is there, trying to get her name back. She only introduces herself as the Paragon to them. And does everything she can to not get close, to not let them know that while she's a stranger them, they're not strangers to her. It hurts though. It's not easy.

Eventually they come to the final confrontation. Nina realizes the only way to take down the demon would kill her too. And at she's fine with this, death would be better than being forgotten alive. But she doesn't want the others to be there, lest they try to stop it or get hurt. So she calls out her name, and then tells the others to run. And they don't know where they are, or how they got there, but this stranger just told them to run, so they do.

But they return, because they're Sibuna, of course they do. And they find Nina's body. And they remember her, and they remember forgetting her. They remember because the demon knew it was over and decided to do the cruelest thing it could think as its last action. It gave Nina her name back. It let her loved ones remember her, just in time to morn her.