#air pollution imagery

[meteorologistaustenlonek]

Worldview Adds New Data Layers from NASA's TEMPO Mission

"NASA Worldview, an interactive mapping and visualization tool, now offers air pollution data imagery layers for North America from NASA's TEMPO mission— including data and imagery for clouds, formaldehyde, nitrogen dioxide, and ozone" #NASAEarthData

[troublesomesnitch]

Make Your Hands Unclean

Aemond x Wife!Reader - Period sex drabble

Premise and bits of dialogue shamelessly stolen from The Borgias.

Contents: drabble, pure filth. Menstrual sex, p in v, anal touching, graphic imagery. Internalised misogyny and harmful attitudes towards menstruation. Aemond is an asshole. Porn with weird plottish vibes.

Words: 2300

idk what this even is, this thing kind of wrote itself and I just went with it. It is kind of a mess tbh.

You were supposed to marry a lord.

That is what you were raised for, and those are the skills you were taught. To sing, to dance, to play the harp; to make yourself look pleasant. Your septa taught you to sew, and a woman from Essos taught you to weave, and in the afternoons the maester taught you history and linguistics, astronomy and arithmetic, and other things that ladies rarely speak about, but nevertheless must learn. 

For it is the lady, not the lord, who runs the castle. Who manages the household, and oversees the people it employs. Such a lady must ideally be both kind and commanding, generous and frugal. She must know how to handle serfs and noblemen alike, and she must be proficient in numeracy; able to record expenses and perform difficult calculations. 

To be a prince’s wife requires no such skills. 

This castle already has two queens, and besides it is not for royal women to concern themselves with practical matters. There are ladies-in-waiting for that, and stewards, chamberlains, maids and matrons; an army of servants hundreds strong to ensure that you may always be spoiled and idle. More than a lady, but less than a queen, left to twiddle your thumbs and wonder when, if ever, the oppressive walls of Maegor’s Holdfast will begin to feel like home.

You do not like it here. 

The days are long in King’s Landing, and the air is foul, polluted by the smoke of ten thousand hearths, by the stench of filth and unwashed bodies. It seeps through every crack and crevice, and you like the early mornings the most, when a cleansing mist blows in from the sea, and the ship’s bells ring over Blackwater Bay. 

Your husband rises early too, though it is for different reasons. Prince Aemond adheres to strict routines, to noble pursuits and rigorous discipline. He is exactly as people say: a stoic, severe in both temper and countenance, condemning indulgence and deriding depravity. 

Yet for all of his moral posturing, he does seem to have developed a taste for it rather quickly. 

You couldn’t say the exact number of times the prince has had you, but it has been many, and often, and in every position imaginable, and you dutifully report it all back to your family. As they have instructed you to do.

Before you were sent off to the capital, you were relentlessly reminded that there will never again be an opportunity such as this. That a marriage to a royal prince is a rare honour for your family, and one that was only made possible because the crown finds itself at war. Your house is not a great one, and your father is not the noblest lord, but he is very wealthy. And on the field of battle, wealth does tend to triumph. 

You do not know what other promises were made, what lands or titles were negotiated. Only that so much now depends on you; on your ability to please your husband and give him healthy children. Preferably male, but even a daughter would markedly strengthen your position. So you play your part as best as you can , and you pen your secret letters, divulging all the details of your intimate affairs. That the prince sleeps with you frequently, and seems to find great pleasure in it. That he performs his movements to completion, and expends his semen inside your body. 

It is a grave responsibility to have on your shoulders, and you were utterly crushed when you woke to find your insides churning, and your sheets stained with blood. 

They will be most displeased, your mother and father. Your brothers and uncles, and your cousins too. Prince Aemond's seed has not yet taken. 

-

In the evening he knocks on your door. Two determined raps, and you are thoroughly surprised. Your maid will have told his mother of your ailment, and she will have told him, and he too must be disappointed. But you know it is the prince, for there is no one else who would visit you at this hour. 

You know very well what he has come for, too. 

“We can’t tonight,” you sigh. 

“And why is that?” he says, amused, as if the idea that you would refuse him is ridiculous. 

“My blood - I am bleeding.”

Prince Aemond hums, but he walks to your couch and begins to undress himself, unbuckling his doublet and unlacing his breeches, tugging off his boots while you wring your hands. 

He can’t be serious. He can’t mean to take you like this. 

“It’s not - it isn’t proper,” you protest. “Our maester said it is ill-advised - most men find it unclean - “

“I am not most men,” he scoffs. 

There is no arguing against that, and he says it with all the confidence of someone who knows it to be true. Aemond is a royal prince. A dragonlord, a scion of a greater people. Second to no one but his king and brother, and if he wants to get himself all bloodied, then you suppose that is his right. 

He rids himself of his undershirt, and you reluctantly move to the side to let him join you in bed. It isn’t proper, but your insides flutter when he pulls you against his naked body, letting you feel the warmth of his skin, his manhood against the back of your thigh. It is hard, and twitching when he runs his hands over your figure, your breasts and your stomach, your waist, your hips, the tops of your thighs -

“No, you mustn’t - ” you squeak, but he rucks your gown up anyway and slips his hand in between your legs.

You are wet there, with blood as well as with desire, and you can feel the stickiness when he spreads your lips, curving his fingers and sliding them back and forth along your slit. His breathing is hoarse just from caressing you, from feeling your wet, your warmth, your little swollen nub begging to be touched. You whimper when he circles it with the gentlest of strokes, light and teasing, until you arch your hips up in frustration and breathe oh please. 

Prince Aemond likes it when you beg. Only then does he press down, but not enough to bring you to a peak. Just enough to make your insides tighten, and more blood gush from your womb.

You always did find it strangely beautiful, the blood of your cycle. Deep maroon, and scarlet red - but you are ashamed to see it coating the prince’s fingers when he withdraws them. It is thick, and clotted, and he takes a moment to study it before he wipes his hand clean on your shift. 

“Are you not displeased with me?” you whisper. He should be, given that you have failed to conceive. That there is no way of knowing if you can bear children at all. 

“One mere month is not cause for concern,” the prince says. 

You breathe a faint sigh of relief. It is a comfort to know that at least your husband doesn’t hold your failure against you - yet. 

He tugs on your shift, eager to expose your body, but you cross your hands over your chest.

“Let me keep it for tonight,” you plead. 

You can’t rid yourself of the thought that you are unclean, and you would feel so much more at ease if he didn’t see your heavy, aching body. But you don’t want to entirely deny him access to it, either. Seeing as you are bleeding, the chances of begetting a child are small, which means that his wish to sleep with you must come from genuine desire rather than obligation. And that makes you very happy, as you imagine it would any wife. 

You will make sure to include it in the next letter you send back home. Hopefully it will lessen their disappointment. 

The prince looks somewhat displeased, but he lets you keep your dress, resorting instead to bunching it up around your waist. He is stern, but never cruel to you, even if he does pull at the neck to bare more of your breasts. He pinches your nipple, and then his hand moves downward again, and you throw your leg over his hip to give him more room to touch you. 

This time he does it properly. His fingers find your pleasure right away, and he swiftly brings you to your rapture, impatient as he is to have you. It leaves his hand stained and tainted, and once again he wipes it off on your shift, but this time you don’t care. 

With the position you’re in, it is easy for him to crawl over your leg and take his place between them, and he kisses you as he presses against you, deeply and hungrily, rocking his hips, his manhood throbbing and leaking between your legs. 

Your parts are soaked, but he is careful when he pushes inside. Despite the prince’s relentless pursuit of knowledge, he must not know all that much about a woman’s blood, at least not in practical terms. Where it hurts, and how much, and whether this intrusion will make it worse. You can’t hold it against him - you don’t believe there are many scholars who would want to write about the topic, and how then was he supposed to learn?

“Harder,” you pant, and he obliges, moving faster and pushing deep inside. 

You let him find a steady rhythm, hooking your legs over his hips, and letting your hands wander over his body while he has his way with you. You stroke his balls, imagining that what he keeps inside will take root in you. You pinch his nipples, all hard with pleasure, and you slide your hands down to his lower back, to the base of his spine, where the skin is dusted with downy hairs. Where you can feel each of his thrusts; the rolling movements of his hips, the rhythmic clenching of his buttocks. 

Your dainty touch makes him shudder, and you move your hands to his arse, and then further still, slipping your fingers in between his buttocks. To where he is warm and tender, and where his skin starts to pucker. 

It is filthy, the way he twitches there. The way he throbs. A dirty place to touch, and a sinful thing to do, but you have found that the prince likes it. No added pressure or attempts at entry, just gentle strokes with the tips of your fingers. Soft caresses over his opening. 

He buries his face in your neck and groans, and you can feel that he is nearing his peak. His movements are fast and shallow, his chest heaving and slick with sweat. 

“Yes, my prince,” you whisper. “Fill me with your seed, put a son inside me - “

He likes that. He hisses loudly, gripping the headboard for purchase, and you look up at him when his hips stutter. Prince Aemond’s face is always handsome, but never more than when he is on top of you, in the throes of ecstasy. His brow is furrowed and his eye squeezed shut, and the tension in his body makes the damaged side of his face convulse, his lip twitching up towards the scar. 

He wouldn’t like for you to see that, but in this state he does not feel it happening. 

You lie still as he peaks, allowing him to rut into you wildly, groaning and grunting as he spills his seed. Hot, and wet, and adding to the mess inside you. He lies limp on top of you to catch his breath, and when he finally withdraws, the blood is everywhere. On his softening organ, on his sack, and crusted to the soft hairs on his thighs. 

“I’ve made you dirty,” you state. 

“Yes, you have,” he says. “In more ways than one.” 

You look the other way to give him some privacy when he rises to tidy and dress himself. On your wedding night he stayed with you until the morning, and he has done it a few times since, but it is not a common occurrence. Prince Aemond prefers to sleep alone, and your mother chastises you for that too. She says that to rouse a man’s desire is less than half the battle, and that you must make your husband love you.

Of course if it were really that simple, then there would be no unhappy marriages and no children born as bastards, and if you knew how to make a man fall in love, you would be the richest woman in all the world. 

But you must at least try. 

“Won’t you stay with me?” You ask. “It is - important, for a woman to be embraced - to be treated gently, afterwards…”

“Next time, I will,” he says. And that is the end of that, for you will not stoop so low as to beg for his company. 

He smoothes out his shirt and pulls on his breeches, and you sit up and comb your fingers through your tangled hair. When you look down there are stains on your sheets, and a thick rosy fluid trickling out between your legs. 

“You may want to abstain from riding,” the prince says over his shoulder. “It is known to upset the balance of the womb.”

You nod, bound to obey what is clearly a command posing as a suggestion. 

“Did you know,” you muse, “that the blood of the womb is the only blood that is not born from violence?”

Prince Aemond looks at you with a thoughtful expression, one that suggests he had in fact not considered that before. 

“Quite the philosopher you are,” he remarks, with a little raise of his brow. Coming from him, that is the highest praise. 

It does not change his mind about staying, but he does press a noble kiss to your temple before he leaves you. Sore and bloodied, but content. 

You did well tonight. 

Notes

“Most men find it unclean/I am not most men” is from S1E7 of the Borgias. 

“Menstruation is the only blood that is not born from violence and yet it’s the one that disgusts you the most” is a quote by artist Maia Schwartz. I couldn’t find any more information about her unfortunately. 

Tags. @arcielee, @targaryen-madness.

[probablyasocialecologist]

The full extent of the damage in Gaza has not yet been documented, but analysis of satellite imagery provided to the Guardian shows the destruction of about 38-48% of tree cover and farmland. Olive groves and farms have been reduced to packed earth; soil and groundwater have been contaminated by munitions and toxins; the sea is choked with sewage and waste; the air polluted by smoke and particulate matter. Researchers and environmental organisations say the destruction will have enormous effects on Gaza’s ecosystems and biodiversity. The scale and potential long-term impact of the damage have led to calls for it to be regarded as “ecocide” and investigated as a possible war crime.

[...]

He Yin, an assistant professor of geography at Kent State University in the US, who studied the damage to agricultural land in Syria during the 2011 civil war, analysed satellite imagery showing that up to 48% of Gaza’s tree cover had been lost or damaged between 7 October and 21 March. As well as direct destruction from the military onslaught, the lack of fuel has led to people in Gaza having to cut down trees wherever they can find them to burn for cooking or heating. “It’s whole orchards gone, only soil left; you don’t see a single thing,” Yin says. Independent satellite analysis by Forensic Architecture (FA), a London-based research group that investigates state violence, found similar results. Before 7 October, farms and orchards covered about 170 sq km (65 sq miles), or 47% of Gaza’s total land area. By the end of February, FA estimates from satellite data that Israeli military activity had destroyed more than 65 sq km, or 38% of that land. As well as cultivated land, more than 7,500 greenhouses formed a vital part of the territory’s agricultural infrastructure. Almost a third have been destroyed entirely, according to FA’s analysis, ranging from up to 90% in the north of Gaza to about 40% around Khan Younis.

[dailyoverview]

Santiago is the capital and largest city of Chile, as well as one of the largest cities in the Americas. Situated in a valley between the Andes Mountains and the Chilean Coast Range, the city is home to more than 5.2 million people. As Santiago has grown, its position in this valley — known as the Santiago Basin — has caused it to experience high levels of trapped air pollution and smog.

-33.450000°, -70.666667°

Source imagery: Maxar

[writingcold]

Finally! It's starting.

Greetings! I’m so glad to start sharing this story with you - it’s been nearly a year that it started haunting my thoughts. There were a lot of wipeouts, restarts, fist fights against it, tears - before it finally started to come together in a way that made sense. Today’s start harkens back to October ‘23 and a Halloween fic challenge to which was the catalyst for the whole story. The blurb has been updated and has become the prologue to this love story.

Content Warnings:  I need to put this here - this is a work of fiction. There will be imagery of violence, character deaths, inequities, poverty, heavy angst, and adult sexual situations throughout the story. Please read at your own discretion. All characters are fictional, though some of the big events that are shown are historical, but may not be historically accurate. 

Thank you to @edgingthedarkness for all of her help as my all mighty beta for this fiction. She listened to me drone on and on about it for months on end. She really took a bullet for this one! She created the banner for this story as well! Also thank you to @katuschka for her amazing skills in bringing our hero Jakub to life. Divider art by @ firefly-graphics.

The Dead

Jake X Fem!Reader

Prologue word count: approximately 3200

Warnings in this part: None, just a ghost lamenting.

Prologue: The Entity in the Graveyard

     It was a season of newness. Rebirth. I had slumbered for a spell. I was certain. My body, for lack of a better term, swam in the dirt and filth of my grave, feeding off the sludge that allowed for me to rekindle my being. I was aware of the substance and colors around me, more than I was able to see. My vision was as blurred as a newly borne babe. The sounds of life beyond my plot kept me company - the wind in the trees, the stirrings of small animals and perhaps even a deer or two. The hum of a modern vehicle whizzing by polluted the air at times, and even the trod of one who was visiting my graveyard prickled in my ears as if willing my form to rise and be part of the world.

      I slithered from the ground to huddle before my stone. Human time held little meaning. It was more a marker to seasons, but even those had little sway over my attention. That’s not to say that I did not appreciate the tender greens of Spring, nor the long, hazy heated air of Summer. I found myself lingering across thoughts that cherished the crispness of the Autumn and the indiscriminate viciousness of Winter. A swish of lilacs frilled with dew was the first shadow of form I took in. I could almost smell the fragrance as it tumbled across days and weeks. 

      The air did not welcome my presence. Why had I stirred? I should have slept through the years until the time of the Thinning. I climbed up onto my headstone, perching myself like a gargoyle to force my form into the shade of the kingdom. I was alone at the time - the lone wraith inhabiting the space of the dead. The music of the cosmos twisted and twirled amongst the stars. My senses finally began to stretch across the craggy grounds. No new flesh inhabited the land. But there was something…  I felt a metallic bite against my tongue. There was a vibration against my…  How strange. A normal person would say they could feel it in their skin. I stepped from the top of the stone and hovered, allowing my boots to drift across the overgrown blades of weeds and wild grasses. I am aware there had been a time when my feet planted themselves squarely on the Earth. I’m sure I knew at one time the weight of a human form around this construct of a soul - or whatever one would consider me to be in the present.

      I paused to look up at the glow of the moon above. I pretended to breathe in and felt it again - that vibration. Iron. Metallic. Bold. Life. It was life that I could feel beckoning me. It was not far from my plot. It was upon the path. I soared across what I supposed would be no more than ten paces and froze my visage upon the bordering stones - one in particular claimed my attention. I stooped low, passing my wispy digits over an odd stain upon the dull colored mass. I moved my face closer and realized the stain carried the rapacity of cells; the heaviness of iron. It carried life. I became solid enough to touch it with a glee that I seldom felt. There had been life amongst the dead. My body did a little jitter as I recoiled back to the path, eyes cast down as if willing the cells to join me. My vision danced across the cruel looking rock, taking in the faint glow of what once was living.

      My thoughts swirled across who could’ve been visiting upon my plane of existence. Surely it was not him - the caretaker. He would not be so careless. Unless in his age riddled body, he was finally beginning to break. How odd that the idea of him coming to harm made me giddy. A memory that was diminished surely could explain the reaction, but more often than not, those memories refused to return. It had been years since anyone new had been planted in the grounds, and all of the families of the rotten in the graves were long since healed from the loss. So why would… I paused when I reached my stone once more. Youth. The remnants of the stain felt young. Strange.

     I pushed my hand through the headstone that anchored me every day of the human year. The pad of my index finger traced the deep cut ‘J’ in the polished stormy granite that marked the first letter of my name. The letters no longer held the same meaning as they once did. No one was left to mourn me, no matter what form I took. No one was left for me to remember through faded fondness and cooled over warm memories.

      It was an odd feeling whenever it struck. No one was left to remember me. How many ancient cultures believed that if the soul was remembered by those of the living, then in fact the one who was dead lived on? And wasn’t it also believed if the one who was dead, and not remembered, the soul would simply not exist? And yet, I lingered on the grounds of my original death. Chained to the stone my long melted corpse resided beneath. Imprisoned on the grounds that only the dead could dare to know on such an intimate level.

      I was not always alone. So many disappeared; embracing the light or welcoming the fire when the solitude gripped too tightly for too long, or perhaps when their patch of ground grew too putrid and obnoxious that either eternal joy or damnation would be accepted readily. Not for myself, however. The radiance was never offered, while the hellfire never beckoned either. I am what is known as an in-between. Not that it bothered me. The Thinning time was my glory, even though it was rare and erratic.  Each Thinning, she would appear. She was neither of the living nor that of the dead. I wondered if she was a goddess - eternal like time, ethereal like nature. Perhaps she was a forgotten entity, purged to make way for man and his foolish and mostly stupid beliefs that he was any better, any smarter, any stronger.

      Time flowed beyond my attention. The grass began to push through the patches of stubborn snow that clung to the hope that the cold would remain. There was a brightness that curled and sweetened the sky with a life’s breath that only the dead and those of the in-between could appreciate enough to see. Vibrant peach and lavender of the sun’s trail caught my eyes long enough to push wildflowers from the earth to bring forth the swarming of the crickets and bugs of early summer.

      ‘A’. The letter had a chink in the cross where the stone cutter botched it up. I dragged my finger across the flaw for human hours at a time, grimacing over the tortured frame of what it meant to be the letter ‘A’. The fog was growing thicker as the supposed witching hour of the night drew forth. What was the purpose of such an hour? Time never affected the dead or those of the in-between. The so-called witches that the time was meant for never were concerned to wait for the practice of their sacred rituals. Perhaps it was used for those who were of the veil but not of my own likeness. I smiled as my sight passed over those who were my incognizant companions in the graveyard. They never acknowledged my presence, nor that of each other for that matter. It was a point of contention when I first discovered my grounds had been deemed a cemetery. Why would there be such division beyond the veil of the living? Was it the casting of purgatory to punish those who were arrested in the frozen state of death before the larger powers to claim their own dead beings? Baffling.

      I lazed before my stone, my thoughts stretched out beyond the land I was bound to, images of lives I had lived projecting out of me like a film, though I scarcely could remember what I could only identify as vague memories. How could I have sailed the Great Lakes and built ships, and know of the plight felt in a great war of independence? How could I have painted the intimacy of the land, and stained my hands in a vineyard as a farmer and strum the frets of a guitar for the enjoyment of so many? Surely not just in one lifetime. There were overwhelming moments of fragility, pain, love and… ugliness.

      The toil of thoughts became stabbing torture. I moved across the fractured landscape to the wrought iron gates. The chain of my headstone gave me a gentle tug with each inch that I progressed away from it. The air of the living billowing on the other side of the fencing, dancing in the sunlight of the day. Wasn’t it just night? I glanced back to find indeed the sun had risen and passed overhead. A wanton expression tickled at my otherwise unmoving lips.

      I drifted north, following the breaks and twists and flaws of the aging fence as if I could ever leave the boundary of my world. I paused at the edge and forced my vision to dim to darkness so that I might feel nothing. It would be easy enough as only fields of early crops and a singular road stretched out before me in an endless roll of land. 

     A light on the horizon sparkled like a star, but cooled as it drew closer until it faded into a mortal form. A human-shaped woman in all her delicacy and vigor was walking along the broken asphalt of the road. Dressed in a flowing fabric drenched in light, she demanded my attention through her silence. I trailed behind her until finally, we stood face to face as she reached for the cemetery gate. For a moment, I thought she was reaching out for me. Her skin, smooth and without the tarnish of age, shimmered with a perfume that I’m sure smelled of apple blossoms, or perhaps delicate lilacs. Her graceful gait made her appear to be floating over the hidden rocks and fissures of the ground. I was enthralled by the creature as the corners of her eyes began to fade and signs of aging began to whisper across the skin of her hands and throat. Her hair began to thin and lose its luster. I had never come across such a human as to grow old before me. Perhaps she was wraith, untethered and unseeing of my own being.

     I followed her step for step through the graveyard. Her body grew small and bent by gravity. Her face dwindled, becoming ancient and heavily marred by time. Her eyes clouded over as is always the case of the elderly, as if they can take in no more of the world around them. And yet - she was beautiful. Delicate. Alluring. Her light was like light beaconing me towards shore.

      “What are you?”  I whispered into the scraggle of her hair that had loosened from its tether.

     She appeared to nearly tumble across the stone path as I stood in awe as she came to a stop before my own headstone. Her body was fully aged. Her clouded eyes blurred and closed as her breath labored to enter and leave her body. A badly twisted hand snaked out from her shroud and landed against my name. I watched silently as she lowered herself to her knees, resting her forehead to the granite before her. Her breath became shallow…  unmeasured.

     “Are you dying?”  I asked, my eyes wide as I drifted down next to her.

     She stretched out onto the hardness of the ground, her cheek resting upon her brittle arm. I laid down beside her as if I could be of comfort to her. I found myself longing to touch her. To caress the soft satin of her skin; to breathe in the perfume of her hair; to…  to ease her pain as she mumbled a sting of ache. For a span of minutes, there was nothing. No breath stirred within her. No sound slid through her relaxed lips. No life seemed to be before me. I watched in utter fascination as I brought my flaccid digits up to trace along her wisdom battered face, and felt the solid mass of her. I touched her. I felt her flesh beneath my fingertips. 

      “Are you…?”

     My words failed in the mess of shock that I could feel this creature. I could move this being that lay next to me. A note of gauzy familiarity clawed and scratched at my mind like it was trying to force me to remember something that refused to be revealed. I stared at how my hand pressed to her face and was rewarded with a wealth of human emotions that washed up and drowned my brain. The creature gasped and sputtered and choked, startling me to lose my connection with her. One gnarled hand, followed by the other, began to push against the earth. I rose up over her, stunned as in painfully slow fashion, she gathered her knees beneath her once more. Her noises were guttural and deep as she used my headstone to make her way back to standing. I moved around to the back of the monument as she paused to capture her breath once more. I looked into her face and a pang of awareness crashed upon me. I knew her. I knew this woman but all of that knowledge was gone.

     Achingly slow, she began her journey back towards the gate. I drifted around her, unsure if I needed to have her at least acknowledge me, but honestly, I needed to know if she could see me. The breeze tickled shades of blush and orange against her hair and I noticed that the age that had bit and battered her skin was reversing. Her back became straighter with each step. The deep lines of wisdom and life were fading. The full curve of her lip and striking beauty of her skin bloomed before me and fully returned by the time her hand pulled open the heavy gate.

     For the briefest of moments, I stood before her. Her eyes appeared to be locked upon me. I wondered if she saw me as I once was - wisps of chestnut strands that floated across my shoulders and curled around its tie that fell between my shoulder blades. Did she see the coyness of my smile? Did she see the dark swirl of earth tones in my eyes? Or did she see what lay six feet below my headstone, mottled and riddled with decay?

      Her eyes shimmered as I dared to reach my hand out to brush against the plump of her cheek. I pressed my palm to her face and passed the pad of my thumb across the ridge of her cheekbone. For a fraction of a second, she seemed to lean into my hand like a welcomed lover. And then…

.

.

.

     She walked away from me, dragging a light that grew brighter the further away she moved. I watched the glow, beaming like a star until it disappeared beyond the horizon.

     The ‘C’ of my name was the most elaborate, but most shallow of the cuts into the stone. It was scrolled with a flourish that left me to wonder if it was created to remind me of a flamboyant moment that I once lived. Or perhaps the stone cutter thought he was being funny, perhaps cryptic with such a deliberate act. Regardless, it could keep me enthralled for days, tracing the intricate loops and noticing how quickly the craftsmanship faded over the years.

     There was not much of my human self that I remembered. Shades of the larger pieces of life I knew, but the fine details were long gone. I could not recount the number of spirits who cried over their being, only to wail as their loved ones drifted through the tall grass and treacherously uneven earth to mourn their passing. I wondered if time had given me so much distance from my human nature to no longer realize that simple magic of the world and thus, have I been released from mortal memory to allow the wonderment of the dead in.

      The days were stretched to the limit, gobbling up each extra second like a greedy tick. I felt the air shimmering fat around me with a heat and kiss of life that I seldom took the chance to relish. My fingers pressed into the center swirl of the ‘C’ as my thoughts bent towards the creature. She was not present on the mortal daily, but her appearance had become fixture - stretching from the horizon, her light bellowed in like a tidal wave. I could not help but to follow her as she tread through her aging process to stoop before my headstone, lay down, only to rise again and leave me behind. I tried to grab her attention. I tried to test to see if she could see me. Each time, I was left to wonder. Her reaction was always the same, one that could be construed as the human tilt of her head, a longing look to join me, maybe. There was no definitive proof that she knew of my existence that she offered in her visits.

      ‘O’. Never ending. No beginning. No ending. Maybe the ‘O’ was like myself in that manner. How in a blink of an eye I could find myself removed and forwarded by whole earthly seasons. The air had turned. It no longer held the breath of warmth and sunshine of summer. Instead it held the darkening, faded breath of life. The line between those of the living and those of the dead was growing tired. I could feel it where my skin once resided. If I had been amongst the living, I would inhale this air until my lungs could hold no more. I would take it in to the point of it burning and almost painful but the perfume is too beautiful to not relish in such a manner. Alas, my body required no lungs, nor that of skin.

      The creature’s visits were sporadic. I watched her from up close and from afar. I tried to touch and tried to ignore. It did not matter. Her tread was always the same. Her return to the horizon was unfettered by whatever antics I would attempt. To say that it was maddening would be to admit to feeling something of my residual humanness. Was it impatience? Curiosity felt more correct. Whatever it was, I did not like being centered around this being that could come and go, taking my attention and thoughts with it.

      ‘B’. My final letter allowed me to return and finish my own name. The letter resided just as deep as the ‘J’, but the flag at the top bent backwards in a trail that wove through the loop of the ‘O’ and tangled with the flair of the ‘C’, like a tree branch. It skewed the ‘A’ and hovered over the ‘J’, providing a fancy little cap to the name I had known as my own for all my time. Jacob.

      It was not the first incarnation of my name. There were older forms of the epithet that I had known. All meaning the same thing - the supplanter. I wondered if I had been a good man. Or possibly, had I been evil in a good world? The fuzziness of my memories were mere echoes of what could have been but never concrete. Certainly, they were never accurate. 

      The brittle leaves of the few poplars and birch that dotted across the grounds rattled like an old sick man’s breath and were yellowed like his teeth. I tilted my chin upwards, looking into the gray sky beyond the canopy above and caught sight of the swirl of the cosmos that only those beyond the veil were privy to. The stars were dancing and singing, though no human could ever hear the beauty that was always wrapped around them in their ignorance. And yet, I tapped my toe and hummed along like a human would to their most favorite melody. The crinkles at the corners of my eyes deepened over the idiocy of the moment, but then, who was I not to enjoy a little morsel of what it was like to be the human I once was? Music stirred deep within me like nothing else. The notes touched and twirled something within that still could feel emotions and a longing for memories that always seemed to be just beyond my grasp. Had I been dead so long that life was no longer allowed to be remembered? It was then that I realized, I had no idea how long I had indeed been dead.

      The days were shortening. They were becoming like a careworn silk belt on a robe. I enjoyed sitting on my headstone, watching the wind play against the grass. Humans couldn’t see the colors that are pushed around, flying like dandelion fluff, carrying the fallen leaves and bits of life that survived upon its host. Perhaps it was one of those things that were put forth to mesmerize the eyes of the dead to distract from the living. I didn’t much care. If the colors of the world and cosmos of the sky were placed there to keep me from terrorizing the grander scale of being, so be it.

Here we goooooo! I will be posting every Thursday - you can find a sign up for my tag list here.

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[quirkle2]

[zombie au] the written version of this post but like.way more harrowing (3.5k words)

It’s been a long time since Ritsu has seen the stars.

When he and his brother were little, stars were very important to them. An obsession from one brother meant it was an obsession by association for the other—Shigeo would listen to Ritsu ramble about types of stars and facts about comets for hours. He’d always be so patient about it, even if Ritsu stumbled over the big words.

Ritsu has always loved space, and the imagery that comes with it—his favorite planet has always been Neptune ever since he learned of the existence of its rings. He finds supernovas fascinating, nebulae even more so; the cycle of life for bodies so beyond his understanding had never failed to capture his attention and hold it until its last breath.

At six years old, his father had taken him and Shigeo on a camping trip. His brother had gotten carsick on the way there, their father’s card had been declined when trying to pay for gas, and Ritsu had nearly caused a crash the way he suddenly screamed about a spider in the seat with him. Looking back, he’s sure the journey had been about eighty percent stress for his father.

For Ritsu, it had rewired him.

It’d been the first time he’d ever seen so many stars in the sky. It’d been the first time he’d ever been outside the city to begin with, the first time he could look out over the horizon and not see the treeline replaced with geometric, manmade light. He’d been so enamored by it his neck hurt the next morning from straining to drink everything in.

His brother gave it all that subtle smile, that surface-level spark of appreciation, and then he’d gone to bother their father about s’mores—he’d left him there in front of their tent to gawk at the expanse, at the majesty. Their voices had been far away, and the stars had felt so close.

That same majesty had blanketed him when they’d escaped the city, after the start of the apocalypse, but despite his lifelong love for all things space, he hadn’t found it in himself to enjoy it. Before, it’d been light pollution to fog his obsession.

Now, it’s… well, it’s a lot of things.

The air is crisp in his lungs, and dry against his cold fingers. The plastic of the truck bed against his back creaks and wobbles when Tome shifts in her spot. The crickets are loud in the absence of conversation, but Ritsu appreciates the songs they play—he taps his collarbone with two fingers to the beat of their melody, never having been much of a music lover in the past, but slowly learning its importance.

He senses Tome lean and angles his head down to watch her loom over his brother, squished against his side. She observes him for a moment, studying, and then her eyes flick to Ritsu’s and she’s mouthing something to him in the quiet.

He catches something like sleep and it’s all he really needs to get the gist. Ritsu lifts his head from the bed of the truck, double-chinned, to peek at his brother’s face.

Cheek smooshed up to his hip, limply hugging his thigh, and probably drooling on his t-shirt. He eyes the edges of his silhouette in the dark, watches the rise and fall of his chest and notes how it’s slower, and steady.

For the past few days, everything about him has been… droopy. The lids, the nonsensical speech, the sloppy movements, the slurred cracks of saliva in his throat when Ritsu takes something out of his mouth. Before they’d found this truck, abandoned on a dirt backroad they’d been walking along for hours, Ritsu had seen the pure, glassy exhaustion in Shigeo’s eyes and prayed for a decent place to settle down.

The bed of a truck that has a bloodied backseat and bullet holes in the rear windshield isn’t necessarily a decent place, but it’s passable.

Shigeo’s eyes are closed, and when Ritsu shifts his leg, his brother does not rise. He breathes out a sigh that feels heavy on his soul, but the sound is made of relief and Tome sags too.

The tension pressing down on the truck bed releases, and Ritsu assumes it’s his imagination when they seem to lift an inch from the weight taken off the flat wheels. They’re left in a silence that, for once, feels empty in a calming way. There is little substance to it, little to complain about in the moment, and Ritsu can tell he’s not the only one basking in that shallowness.

“Thank God,” Tome mumbles into the dark. Neither of them are particularly afraid of waking him up—once he’s out, he’s out for a while and dead to the world during it. “It was starting to make me tired just looking at him.”

Ritsu cannot help but agree, but somewhere in his own long-lived exhaustion he forgets he’s supposed to respond and instead just stares while Tome adjusts. She wraps her knees with her arms and stilts them up to make an X, stares out over the truck siding and traces the edges of the cornfield around them.

The crickets fill his lack of reply with croaks and chirps, and Tome seems used to his odd stints of silence. It’s a bit of a lullaby, and Ritsu finds himself drooping too, yet he’s unable to close his eyes and give into it.

Instead, he stares with a fuzzy gaze at the stars directly in his line of sight, and realizes they’ve been there the whole time. Of course they have, he thinks, and it’s one of those obvious things that hits him much too late to even stifle it, and he’s left with a thrum in his mind that’s of a vaguely embarrassed timbre.

He sees the stars every night. It’s just been quite a long time since he’s seen them.

There is something about the quiet, modest glint to them that funnels all that nostalgia to the forefront. The smell of s’mores and campfire smoke, the dust on old library books and the ache in his muscles that came with carrying too many nonfiction copies in his little arms. The cold, factual tone of documentary narrators over the coolest computer animations Ritsu’s ever seen, no matter how low quality the textures were.

His mother leaning over his shoulder, kissing his scalp and humming out a laugh when he pointed at all the comets crudely drawn into his looseleaf. His father bringing home science books that’d get more and more complicated as Ritsu grew older, but he soaked them up and memorized each paragraph like it was his duty to recite them perfectly.

Shigeo, eyes seemingly sparkling whenever Ritsu even opened his mouth and so, so incredibly patient, nodding in those little excited bursts when he’d explained how stars were born. Giggling when Ritsu threw his arms out under their little blanket fort in his bedroom, reenacting those supernovas he loves so much and spilling the blankets on their heads.

Ritsu realizes that maybe it isn’t nostalgia, because it feels quite bitter on the tongue. It’s something close, but it’s too… aggrieved to be nostalgia.

“So what’s your take?” Tome speaks over the crickets, over the crisp air that makes her shiver as she scoots down the truck bed to lie on her back. One of her arms is pinned under Shigeo. She doesn’t bother to yank it out from under him.

“On…?” he mumbles lazily, exhaustion peeling at his patience. He fights the urge to close his eyes because if he does he knows he’ll pass out on her instantly and he needs her on his good side.

Tome’s hair pillows under her head in a spiraled, jumbled mess while she loosely copies his position. He just knows she’s going to complain about the knots in it for the sixtieth time tomorrow morning, and he starts mentally preparing for that.

“How the apocalypse started.” She tilts her head toward him while she talks, but her eyes stay glued to the stars. “Got any good theories?” 

Ritsu slowly slogs through the question, wishing he were asleep instead. Maybe he should just pass out. “Mh… I dunno,” he shrugs noncommittally. His legs ache, and he shuffles them around to press his calves against the rough plastic of the bed. “I don’t really think about that stuff.”

A partial lie; he occasionally feels ungodly amounts of hatred toward whoever started it—if a human being even started it at all—and occasionally wanders if it would be morally incorrect to shoot the fucker between the eyes if he ever meets them.

“Oh c’moooon,” Tome drawls, tilting her head as far back as it’ll go against the rivets underneath them and finally looking his way. There’s an odd weight to her gaze, like she’s looking for something in his face a little too closely, and he suddenly, inexplicably feels vulnerable.

Her free hand comes up to gesture just above her stomach, flippant. “You’ve gotta have something!”

He considers fabricating some ridiculous answer, but he finds he doesn’t have the energy to. That knowing glint in her eyes has him backstepping a little bit, and he scratches at his neck habitually and shrugs out a reply. “Not really.”

Ritsu moves the hand on his collarbone and flops it above his head, the zippers of his backpack sliding along his knuckles. He searches for the dangling pull to fidget with, and he senses Tome look away from him and back to the sky.

She then says, quietly in the air, “Well I think it’s aliens.”

Ritsu blinks slowly at the stars, lagging a little, and then the words catch up to him and he can’t stop himself from side-eyeing her hard.

“Aliens?” he echoes, a disbelieving lilt to his voice that borders on hilarity.

Tome nods matter-of-factly, comically genuine about it, and for a moment he doesn’t know whether he should openly be a dick and brick her dreams, let her down softly, or allow her to float.

There are a lot of things he could say to this, and he decides to settle for somewhere in the middle of all three. “You need to be medicated.”

It’s poured out over a tired grin and lazy, wandering eyes that trail the sky, soft and a little prudent. Tome grins back, like she was expecting that answer. It’s sharper than his fuzzy, weary edges.

“You need way more medication than me,” Tome teases, “I’m serious about it and it’s true.”

“Nevermind,” Ritsu breathes, lifting his head to pillow it under a hand, “I actually don’t think medicine can fix you.”

“Aliens are real.”

“Okay,” is calmly fed back, unperturbed but not convinced.

“Nobody ever takes me seriously after I say that,” Tome rolls onto her side, facing him, hair draping over the hand that’s propped against her head. Shigeo is jostled, but stays still and silent.

“Wonder why,” Ritsu deadpans.

“They’re scared of the truth!”

“Mmmmh. Sure.”

“They don’t wanna admit it.”

“They don’t.”

“And neither do you.”

“And neither do I.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Doing that—stop just agreeing with me.”

“Okay. You’re wrong.”

Tome tsks in a funny gauh sound, gesturing to the sky and shaking her head as if it’ll help her, and then, “Shigeo would believe me.”

Ritsu can feel her freeze up, even if they’re not touching. He can feel the way the air gets a degree colder and that weight comes back down to press against the truck bed and their chests. He breathes through it—he doesn’t think Tome even tries to.

She waits, breath baited, balancing on those eggshells she usually stomps on. She’s never been one to shy away from kicking him while he’s down, at least in the past. Those little pokes and jabs are something he simply had to get used to, if he wanted that much-needed help.

He thinks about the look she gave him earlier, the one that left him feeling centered in her claws while he stared at the stars and reminisced. He wonders what changed her demeanor. He wonders if his increasingly exhausted eyes lately have anything to do with it.

She’s waiting to see if she’s toeing a line, studying his face with sharp basil and calculating exactly how many eggshells she’s stepping on, listening to the crackles. Ritsu counts with her and finds it odd that he doesn’t already know the answer.

“No he wouldn’t,” he hears himself say, just to have something in the air between them that isn’t tension. He’s unsure if it’s true—it’s so silly he doesn’t even bother fact checking it. He’s too focused on the fact that Tome seems more attuned to what he’s feeling than he does. “You know nothing about him, you’re walking right into failure here.”

Something like relief flashes there in her irises, and the substance to the air dissipates a fraction. A brief moment of mischief and a close cousin of anger follows it, and then she swallows back the righteousness and smoothes out that sharp edge to her smile. “Okay, Mr. Genius. Maybe it’s time I ask The Question, then.”

Ritsu’s grin disappears, quickly at first, and then it floats down into a numb line and they’re suddenly in a much different kind of quiet. It’s still, almost suffocatingly so, but the crickets carry that old, childhood sense of safety with their song. The world loses that presently sharp, shiny finish and everything in existence suddenly feels matte against his atoms, flat and smooth and dry. Distant, and unreal.

She says it with a capital T and a capital Q, and despite how bold the statement is in the world of their little war between each other, she looks at him with an invitation to back down. It’s offered up like a challenge at first, but as she leaves the implications of it to marinate he can feel her confidence slipping. Her gaze is open and curious, but it’s poised for disappointment and acceptance of the fact.

If he searches, he can almost see the apologetic look hidden beneath it all, like she’s sorry she even asked him of such a thing.

The Question has gone unspoken, until now, but Tome continues once she feels she’s given him ample time to cut the cord on it all, and then she lets it out. “What was he like?” Quiet words, with such deafening reminders.

Ritsu stares, and he tries to think about how to summarize somebody he loves so much.

To Tome, he has been nothing but a kid who was bitten a long while ago. To her, he’s a husk, of a stranger, of a boy who’d often been a stranger even to people close to him. To this girl, Shigeo is one zombie in a crowd of billions, and the little sparks of personality in that dying flame of his core probably seem quite feeble and unimpressive.

To Ritsu, that all means everything.

“He was,” he stutters out, stilted and slow, as his racing mind jams every messy thought to the forefront, “quiet. He was really quiet, in everything he did, to most people. Sometimes you’d have to strain to hear him.”

He keeps his eyes on the edge of the truck bed, because if he doesn’t, he’d have to meet Tome’s gaze and he doesn’t think he’s capable of that anymore. “Really soft-spoken. Really gentle, but he could get intense when he wanted.”

In the silence, he’s very aware of his breathing, and the slow, steady bobbing of his own hand resting on his diaphragm. He works to keep it that way. “People ignored him a lot—said they barely registered his presence,” he says, with just a touch of sourness to his tone, “A lotta people would say most of him felt… ‘muted.’

“But I never understood that, cuz…” Because it was so wrong. “Cuz everything he did, he did it with all he had. And that was loud to me.

“He’d stay up all night in calls with our friend Teru, when he was upset. He’d bring home cookies for me if he knew I had a long day.” The twinge of a smile on his face is despairingly bittersweet. His breaths are steady. “All of the kids at school thought it was cool to hate your parents, but Shige looked sad when they said stuff like that and he came home and hugged them longer than usual.

“He’d cry if he accidentally stepped on a ladybug. He’d wave to frogs he saw on the sidewalk like they were his best friends,” he chuckles, and it brings a delicate little grin from Tome. It all feels very brittle. “He was the gentlest guy you could ever meet, and he loved everything.”

Ritsu swivels his head to look at the stars, and wonders why they’re staring at him so innocently. Wonders why it makes him want to cry. “Everything, even the stuff nobody else did,” he mumbles, voice small, “He picked bruised fruits from the store baskets cuz ‘nobody else will want them.’ He forgave his bullies instantly, even if they didn’t deserve it, even if Shige was still mad at them. He was too nice, sometimes. He let people walk all over him.”

He lets his teeth show a little, bares them in a shaky display. He remembers a day in class where Shigeo defended a kid from a couple brats, and then they all turned on him instead, including the kid he was defending. The next week Shigeo had helped that same boy pick up his books, and he’d been shoved to the tiled floor instead of thanked. Ritsu couldn’t decide whether to be mad about the cruelty, or mad about Shigeo’s selfless, stubborn character who didn’t seem to learn any lessons.

His throat feels sore. There is something sweltering and lumpy forming in the back of his mouth and he swallows it down. “He was really shy and talking to people was hard for him, but he stood up to people when others were being made fun of, even if his voice shook.”

A little Shigeo’s tiny words, trembling just like his hands. Feeling everything on Earth when they all said he couldn’t. Quietly, silently bearing it when the world kicked him down, and all he ever did back was be kind to it.

Ritsu learned from Shigeo’s mistakes, and he never defended any bullied kids, never tried to be kind for the simple act of being kind. Shigeo didn’t view them as mistakes at all. Maybe he’d been right about that.

“He was the only kid I’d ever known to be genuine about stuff. Compared to Shige, everybody else’s achievements seemed… shallow,” Ritsu bares his teeth again, at the world, at the stars, and they stare flatly back, “People told him to ‘get a clue,’ ‘get a personality,’ and I never understood why they did that, because Shige seemed like the smartest one there, to me. The richest in personality.

“Maybe not in an academic sense, but he already knew how to love things.” The hand on his chest bobs unsteadily. “He knew how to love life before he was taught how to walk. And above that, ya’know… what else matters?”

He’s too afraid to glance at Tome, because she is eerily silent and he doesn’t have the bravery to tear his gaze away from the sky. It hurts to look at that too, but he doesn’t know what else to stare at.

His breaths are steady. His breaths are steady, and the bottom of his vision is clear. He smiles again, bittersweet. The bottom of his vision is clear.

“You know what his favorite planet was?” he asks with a little voice, stifles a sniffle.

Tome takes a few beats to respond. “Mh… he seems like a Jupiter kinda guy.”

Ritsu shakes his head, and the smile he gives is not happy. “Planet Earth,” he croaks.

It sits for a beat, and in the air he can feel it, the common hesitance. “Yeah. When people first hear that, they usually go… ‘really? Earth?’” he chuckles wetly, moving his hands to copy their gestures, “Like… of all the cool, alien planets in our solar system, you chose Earth? The one we already know so much of, the one we’ve already studied inside and out? The one that feels so… mundane, to us?”

Ritsu’s favorite planet is Neptune, for its rings and its blue coat of paint. Shigeo’s was Earth, for its everything.

“But he loved the mundane. He showed love to the things people took for granted, to the uglier sides of them,” he breathes. It is not steady. His vision smears the stars into streaks. “He always did that.”

The crickets do nothing to cover his unsteady, long inhales, and the wetness of his cheeks and along his temples is cold against the air. Tome speaks after a few long, long beats, and her voice is quiet.

“... sounds like he’s got a heart of gold,” she whispers, and when Ritsu swivels his head to look at her, something like a supernova goes off in his own chest.

He cannot help but notice that she refers to Shigeo Kageyama in the present tense, and Ritsu does not.

[the-kr8tor]

Ahem...bestie likes someone else.. ouch:( WHY AM I HURT I DON'T EVEN HAVE ANY FEELINGS FOR THEM WH- ANYWAYS ANGST- Daily Hobie HC! Lets start at the beginning, shall we? Hobie Brown, the youngest sibling of 9. Of course, with such a large and unstable household, there was never enough food to go around. His older siblings would often give him food, starving themselves in the process. Even if it was a tiny bit, Hobie would find a way to share the scraps he got. Although none of it was ever enough, at least stomachs are not completely empty. Probably living in the slums and being quite poor with an unstable household would never leave Hobie's mind as fists slammed down on his battered and bruised body, blood seeping into the dirty pavement as rain plummeted down, carrying the mocking laughter of the other kids in his ears as they kicked and poked and cut him. He always tried so hard not to cry, not to give them what they wanted. At some points, Hobie tried to attack back, only to be pushed into the wall, or the trash, or the ground again. He was too weak to endure the physical abuse, and would be left gasping for air. Even if he came home beaten up, no doubt some of his siblings would try to help him the best they could. They'd dry the tears that fell as they cleaned up the blood, using some spare cloths to wrap up his severe injuries. No doubt he would have to steal to even try to take care of his family. Even at a young age, Hobie was on the streets begging and stealing just so that he could help his older siblings and mother. Although Hobie's life was rough from the start, he always loved his mother. She wasn't the best mother, often sometimes getting a little too drunk and taking it out on the older siblings, resulting in yelling matches that would go on for hours..but she was good enough. She still tried her best to provide for her many children, trying not to drink so much but sometimes the sorrow was too painful. She loved her children deeply, though. And she made sure they knew it, even if it didn't look like it. A year older, and Hobie's mother was gone, having passed away from alcoholism. And that was the first time Hobie's eyes remained tearless. He just looked solemn as his siblings broke the news, sorrow flooding his mind, yet his eyes were dull with no tears left to spare anymore. After his mother's death, everyone was all gone. Everyone for themselves, as they slowly disappeared out onto the streets one by one, until it was only Hobie returning back to the abandoned house in the slums. He felt numb. Not only did he lose the only thing keeping the family together, but he lost everyone he had to lean on. His sisters and brothers had all left him on his own, out to survive in the harsh, polluted world. Hobie lived out on the streets for a long time, sleeping in alleyways, hidden away from everyone else. He dug around, fought, stole, did anything to even get his hands on a bit of food..if he was lucky that day. And when a spider, crawling out of toxic dump, bites him? Hobie's thoughts reel. He kills the spider immediately, trying to possibly slice away the venom before it got too deep with a shard of glass he found. He feels his chest tighten, as if someone was sandwiching him in between two brick walls. Hobie clawed at his clothes, trying to breath, but nothing seemed to enter his lungs.

And even as SpiderMan, he never caught a break. His life still weighing upon him. He flinches away whenever someone raises their hand too fast around him. Yelling causes him to shut down completely. It's been years since tears flowed down his face, disguising his pain with defiance. Hobie once had even reunited with his sister, second youngest apart from him. Only to see her killed in a protest against Osborne. And then..his canon event. Osbornes death. Or rather, his murder. Ever since that day, Hobie avoids to ever slam his guitar that hard ever again, the imagery of brain and blood spluttering everywhere forever burned into his memory. His sleep is often plagued by nightmares, his own mind tormenting him. Osbornes death, his sister's, his mother's. His own siblings leaving him to die, echoing after their father. Hobie's life was never fucking easy, and what was the point anymore? He's lost everyone he was ever close with. He doesn't even feel real, like he's supposed to be here. Was he really chosen to walk the earth, or was he just an accident? Scars burned into his skin remind him of the life that will be in his tainted, continuously spilled blood. Bullies, glass bottles being smashed, the smell of alcohol, loud sounds, bruises, the spider, his self-inflicted injuries. He has no regret of Osbornes death, but sometimes some things are as to remain unseen. He's not just a knife, since they have a blunt side. He's a broken piece of glass, sharp on every edge, the cause of something being shattered. Was he the reason his dad left? That his siblings left? If he wasn't born..would they still have been happy? Hobie's thoughts ran wild as he stood on the edge of a building, watching the sky darken through the thick smog of pollution as the sun disappeared. A semi-colon, hidden within a lotus flower. A tattoo which meant more than he'd like to admit. -🐦‍⬛

Noooo my otp :(

Oh i get what you mean! Like how dare u not like me lol but dw that feeling will go away bc they're still your friend through and through

Daily Hobie HC ‼️‼️

Oh 🥲😭 this is fine, I'm great whew that's 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Someone help me I've been murdered in broad daylight and the murderer is 🐦‍⬛ anon 😭

I need to hug him and no one can stop me (he needs a vacation asap)

[thoughtlessarse]

In a dilapidated warehouse in Rafah, Soha Abu Diab is living with her three young daughters and more than 20 other family members. They have no running water, no fuel and are surrounded by running sewage and waste piling up. Like the rest of Gaza’s residents, they fear the air they breathe is heavy with pollutants and that the water carries disease. Beyond the city streets lie razed orchards and olive groves, and farmland destroyed by bombs and bulldozers. “This life is not life,” says Abu Diab, who was displaced from Gaza City. “There is pollution everywhere – in the air, in the water we bathe in, in the water we drink, in the food we eat, in the area around us.” For her family and thousands of others, the human cost of Israel’s invasion of Gaza, launched after the Hamas attack on 7 October, is being compounded by an environmental crisis. The full extent of the damage in Gaza has not yet been documented, but analysis of satellite imagery provided to the Guardian shows the destruction of about 38-48% of tree cover and farmland. Olive groves and farms have been reduced to packed earth; soil and groundwater have been contaminated by munitions and toxins; the sea is choked with sewage and waste; the air polluted by smoke and particulate matter. Researchers and environmental organisations say the destruction will have enormous effects on Gaza’s ecosystems and biodiversity. The scale and potential long-term impact of the damage have led to calls for it to be regarded as “ecocide” and investigated as a possible war crime.

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[herdsworldbuilding]

City Grime.

so world building a city.

It’s a complicated subject, involving things of how the city came to be, who made it and why? Where is it located and why is it located there? A city trends to thrive on trade or defense. Where dose the city get it’s food and water and where dose it’s waste go? Who holds the power, who are its people? what shapes it’s streets? Is it planed down or did it grow naturally over time? These are all good things to ask about world building a city… but that’s not what this is about.

I’m here to ask about some small scale things you can ask yourself about these cites. 

Specifically about Graffiti

- what is graffiti in the city like?  cities have a lot of graffiti, sometimes its small, sometimes its rare, in some places graffiti mainly takes the form of writing. in other places in the form of drawings.

Is graffiti big and bold or is it small and intimate? Is it both? Is it generally found out in the air or indoors? Graffiti out in allies and on walls vs the small stuff you find in bathroom stalls, school desks and on benches.

what sort of writing is favored? is it short phrases, “like Gorgeio was here.”  is it Tags (small words or names written on objects to claim something in some sort of competition, used by individuals or groups, to show territory or just to show off by getting them in the oddest places.) or perhaps graffiti is away to spread news about something, a bit like how graffiti in Pompeii was used. is grafiety used as markers and cyphers for people in the know?

Do people use graffiti to communicate in an indirect manner?

Think phone numbers written on toilet doors.

Is graffiti used as a more direct form of communication? Such as hobo signs that where used to tell eachother where it was safe to rest, or perhaps thieves guilds to quietly signal to eachother where a target or safe house is. Or perhaps it’s used by magic users for instructions or tests or pointing out the local supernatural hot spot. or wandering cultures telling eachother stories and warnings about the city they are passing through or even as sighn posts that only they can read. Like trail trees.

street art.

stickers, posters, and flyers.

Sometimes more physical things like a wall of gum, flags, shoes hung up places, necklaces strung up high where no one can easily reach them or locks chained to bridges.

I have even heard of small constructions; like fairy or mouse doors and little statues glued to trash cans or in cracks in the wall.

It can be a drawing and paintings or even something more physical like scraps of cloth tide to poles, yarn woven around trees or stickers slapped onto trashcans and signs.

In one place I have lived most graffiti is in the form of spray painted tags on everything and stickers. While in another place tags are rare as the buildings are painted with murals and art and trees with knitting tied around the branches. In another place most of the buildings where wood so graffiti was carved into it.

What kind of things are often drawn? What imagery do people use?

Graffiti will look different depending on what era of history it is, but it will still be around. It might be smaller in earlier time periods.

Is all the graffiti in this city you are building visual? Perhaps some of it is auditory, like wind chimes in a park, or poles carved to whistle as the wind blows through it, or perhaps it invokes a sense of smell or touch? Is the graffiti only able to be sensed or seen by the magical?

-what dose your city smell like? Do different districts in the city have different smells?

-what dose your city sound like? Is it mostly quiet humming of conversation and rustling of leaves, is it car horns and loud construction, is it water lapping on brigades and electricity buzzing through wires. Is it street musicians and local bird? Are some areas of the city different in sound pollution and how dose that contribute to graffiti?

Dose a certain kind of graffiti have a certain kind of well known meaning? Like initials carved into a tree surrounded by a heart, meaning romantic or sensual love.

- is there a code of conduct for graffiti? 

note that I am far from an expert in graffiti, I know like shiltz about it. im simply going off my observations.

I know that there is a loose hierarchy of tags.

If you can’t outdo it don’t tag over it, and if it is a memorial then do not tag over it. These guidelines are not enforced in the same way everywhere, but breaking them will get the other people that tag to come after your tags with a vengeance.

Or at least that’s what I have heard…

Another guideline that might exist is what can and cannot be tagged.

Street signs, utility walls, underpasses, abandoned buildings, train cars are free game.

While things like windows, cars and residential homes are often off limits (though I have seen plenty of exceptions to this too)

Trees and natural rocks seem to me a hit of miss on if they are in limits or off limits. - how dose the city deal with graffiti? 

Do they paint over it? Wash it away? Leave it to be.

Is it the city or private residents who deal with it? Dose the city even think it worth dealing with or do they let it alone?

Are there certain things that get graffiti more than other thing? Such as benches, utility boxes, lampposts, under bridges or one specific wall.

Dose the city do something to prevent this graffiti such as have anti graffiti seats in tram and rail carts.

If a city doesn’t have graffiti why is that? Are punishments so harsh that no one dares or are things allowed elsewhere so no one bothers or is it covered up as soon as it’s thrown up?

Dose the city install public works of art? And if so for what purpose? Public art is usually political in some form or another, be it from a statue to commemorate some historical event or another statue to be an ego bust to a certain people in political power or as a pice to try appease one group or another. It can also be used to hide things that the city dose not want it’s citizens paying attention too. Either in a benign way such as hiding vents or utility wires from view or more malicious things like Anti-vagrancy architecture hidden as “art”.

Dose the city encourage certain kinds of graffiti in certain places. Think street art vs graffiti Tags. Or the before mention news walls in Pompeii.

Is some graffiti seen as vulgar while other kinds of graffiti are tolerable or even encouraged?

What is the legal punishment for graffiti, if any?

Is some graffiti seasonal? Such as graffiti that occurs during certain festivals. For example beads caught in things after Mardi Gras or toilet paper during Halloween.

Do cities see vandalism in the same light as graffiti or are they viewed in a different way?

Is morality ascribed to graffiti? Is it seen as a symbol the degradation of civilization or is it just an active that is seen as fun? Is it something in between?

- how dose the graffiti interact with the citizens?

Is graffiti used in political messaging? Who in your world or city tends to use it that way?

Dose graffiti contain hate speech? Are there other groups who go around covering up the other groups messaging?

What groups tend to make what certain graffiti and who is the other group that tries to cover it up? Is it a gang? A secret society? A political activist group? A cult? Or just a group of petty artist trying to one up each-other?

Dose advertisement interact with graffiti? In example posters that advertise an event or painted art and words on a cross walk advertising a local concert.

Do people steal posters or graffiti when they can? Are there collectors of graffiti or is it seen as only something vulgar?

For example Alphonse mucha the most recognizable artist in the art nouveau movement did a lot of work in advertising. The main form his advertisement took was posters. I have heard that these posters where stollen at such a high rate it was difficult to actually get the advertisement out… though that may have been for an other artist. I also know some people who steal advertisement posters.

Are there any famous graffiti artists or is it an anonymous work for fear of harsh legal action.

How much attention do the average person walking the street notice the graffiti or pay attention too it?

Is there a specific pice or tag that everyone in the city knows about or is especially well known for one reason or another. Like wings painted on a city wall.

Is there a certain graffiti that is found in multiple cities or even travels to multiple countries.

In example; Kilroy was here, a small pice of ww2 graffiti that is still making its was across the world.

(I will not be confirming or denying if I have added to the collections of world wide Kilroys)

Is there graffiti that a person from one city in your setting wouldn’t recognize as graffiti if they traveled to another city?

Are there certain areas of the city that has more graffiti than others? Is there a city district know for its murals or a famous ally or street. Or something seen as a curiosity like the island of dolls in Mexico City.

Is there a certain group of people in your world known for a specific type of graffiti? If so why do they make this graffiti?

Is there religious graffiti? Either invoking or dameing one group or another?

Is religious motifs used in graffiti?

Is there graffiti involving superstitions?

For example (blue) bottles hung up in order to trap spirits, copper coins wedged into wood to ward against good luck. Pices of paper tacked to walls or posts with the wishes of the citizens.

What about public memorials? Do people make small plaques or remembrance? Do people create make-shift shrines? Have candle lit vigils? Or paint a mural? Do different communities in the city grive different ways?

How do the different cultures of your world, especially those living in any given city influences the kinds of graffiti found there? Do the patterns and styles of art change depending on what culture is more dominant in any given area of the city?

What kind of vibe dose the cities graffiti give? Is it chill and relaxed? Is it rebellious and provocative? Is it artistic and hopefully? Is it desperate and territorial? Hostile and hateful? Helpful and fun? Dose the over all vide of the graffiti change from one city district to another or is the city rather harmonious in its cloterr?

After all a sticker for a favored sports team slapped on a sighn post has a very different vibe from a sigh post littered with bullet holes.

-is there magical graffiti?

If you have a magic system, would people use it to make graffiti? Would there be something unique about graffiti made using the magic system?

Is there enchanted graffiti that changes and moves? Graffiti that looks different for everyone who sees it? Paintings of laughing women, chalk fish that swim on sidewalks or tags that translate themselves into many languages?

Can graffiti be organic in nature? Living pods and biological bits used as gag inducing decoration or bones hung up carved in runes? Sculpture made of feathers and fur.

Are magic users used to get rid of graffiti? Or are they the ones who make the most graffiti?

Is it used as protective wards? As a way to put a curse on someone?

And so much more!

As I mentioned I am no expert in graffiti, I don’t even know a lot about it.

But I hope I could at least make you consider about thinking of the very small details of your world, the slight and insignificant.

[seriousbrat]

omg this is so fun I have to do it. i was tagged by @juniperpyre thank you!!

Rules: List the first line of your last 10 (or however many you have) posted fics and see if there’s a pattern!

not all of these are marauders and some of them are like.. a decade old but still

Falls the Shadow (canon compliant marauders era, james/lily)

Cokeworth, the little smoggy blot of nothing on the map just northwest of Leicester.

2. Lippy Kids (marauders muggle AU where everyone is a girl, james/sirius)

"Oh, fuck me!" shouted the girl, slamming the palm of her hand against the door.

3. Pretty Girls Make Graves (canon compliant one-sided severus/lily)

Like so many polluted, dismal summer days in Cokeworth, this one seems to stretch endlessly on as Sev drags himself wearily up Dorlcote Close towards Lily’s.

4. From the Ashes (canon compliant marauders era, james/lily)

The room is dank, stale, clogged with smoke and shadow.

5. The Silence of Another (next gen, Teddy/James Sirius)

The ghosts stare at him from above, from all sides, calling him coward and disappointment.

6. The Night Will Always Win (canon compliant marauders era, james/lily)

The world is dark, he can perceive nothing but a sharp metallic taste in his mouth and pounding in his ears.

7. Paradise Circus (dragon age, modern thedas AU, fhawke/isabela)

“Look, Mum, just—” Marian Hawke jerked the steering wheel violently to the right.

8. Something Like Love (life is strange, chloe/max)

When you think of Chloe, you see her sleeping at her desk.

9. Gold on the Ceiling (dragon age, lavellan/dorian)

“Inquisitor, may I introduce Madame Violette?” Vivienne said, describing a genteel arc in the air with her hand towards the seamstress, a spindly woman with— in Dorian’s opinion— an altogether too enthusiastic proclivity for rouge.

10. Sea Legs (dragon age, fhawke/isabela)

“You know,” said Isabela, tossing the rope over the side and stepping onto the deck.

I am aware that I like to start things off with dialogue... some of these I haven't thought about in many years haha. Especially the LiS fic- there was a period when I was obsessed with second person lol. Otherwise I do think I like a brief, punchy opening line full of imagery.

I'm honestly not sure who here writes fanfiction rip but I'd love to see this from @artemisia-black and @firefeufuego if u want!

[abhainnwhump]

IMYM: Chapter 19 Rainbows Over Shadows: Dream

(Content Warnings: Death, body horror, disturbing imagery, mind control, serious Cream/Xunshine angst because I can’t leave Dream alone. To everyone who saw me accidently post the unfinished draft, no you didn't.)

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Catching him off guard, Dream felt a shudder down to his bones. He was simply walking through the Omega Timeline, on a calm quiet day, before it struck. Another Code Purple happened somewhere in the multiverse and it needed his help. He sighed, holding his hand to his face for a moment before creating a portal and dashing through. They didn’t bother telling Core because they didn’t believe there was time. Something inside him knew this one was more serious than the ones prior, more dangerous. Something changed from the period Nightmare didn’t attack at all.

Dream arrived in the Doodlesphere faster than the feeling spawned in his chest. He jumped from island to island until he spotted the signature signs of corruption. Dark clouds, purple and black liquid on the ground, cracking, and a strong negative feeling. The original portal had four sets of wings, four on each side, and they dripped with malice.

“Birdtale . . . oh, Aviar! Aviar, no!” Dream would’ve gone closer, but he couldn’t. The smog was so thick it blocked the entrance like a wall. His hand wouldn’t even phase through it. None of the AUs, none of the twenty-one AUs infected by this curse, forbid his entry. Dream shot a positive arrow at the door, but it did nothing.

The pollution entered his nonexistent lungs and he choked, but he wasn’t going to give up. Dream pressed his nails into his palm as he tried to think of a new plan. He wasn’t going to let them die. He could sense the sheer terror emitting from the inside.

“Havin’ some issues, brah?”

Dream screamed and turned around with his bow. He lowered it once he saw who it was, Fresh. He was almost twice as tall as they were, excluding the heelies and propeller. His jaw worked on a piece of bubblegum.

“Yes. No. I don’t know anymore.” Dream sighed, pointing at the portal. He could hear the screaming of innocents in the back of his mind. His bones chilled him. “I can’t go in. Innocents are dying and I have to help! Can you help me break it down?”

“I could give it a shot. Move outta da way.” Fresh swung his baseball bat at the entryway and it barely cracked. He tried again. Still nothing. He snapped his fingers and formed a Gaster Blaster, firing it to break the black.

Dream watched the corruption spread from where the blast hit. He summoned a bit of his positivity magic on it. Sparks exploded like a firecracker, but the negative shield didn’t budge. Fresh stepped back and snapped his fingers to rid the Gaster Blaster.

“What? What is going on here . . . ?” Dream narrowed his eye sockets, staring at his hand. They looked back up at the corrupted arch. Part of the entrance was still open, a blue swirling portal darkening more by the second. He had a chance. Dream readied his dual swords and made a run for it.

“Broski! What d~a heck are ya doin’? Duck!” Fresh caught Dream’s arm and pulled him away from the portal.

“Fresh? What was that for-!” Dream gasped and dropped to the ground. A bolt of teal magic shot at him. If Dream had continued his path, the lightning would have incinerated him on the spot.

From the bolt, it started another phase of corruption. Liquid malice seeped from the bottom of the door. It crept up the stone archway, turning the gray stones black. The blast of negativity sucked the air from Dream’s nonexistent lungs and he crumpled to the ground. Well, almost. It felt as so. Fresh jumped back as a tendril of negativity tried to grab him by the leg.

“Oh . . . thank you then. I’m sorry.” Dream took a breath, looking at Fresh.

The parasite blinked at the destruction and kept an arm around Dream so he wouldn't try running again. "Listen . . . I know ya not gonna be chill with dis, but ya not gonna help anyone by tryin' and failin'. You're trippin' if you think ya gonna try and go there. So come on and let's bounce."

Dream looked between Fresh and the archway. He wanted to run back in. His instincts urged him to save them, but he knew Fresh had a point. Blue's words about the danger of risking himself came back to his head. Dream's body slacked in Fresh's grip. He knew the regret would hit him later. The smartest thing to do was wait until tomorrow when the malice left.

Birdtale would still be there, he knew it would be.

==============================================================================

When Dream told his boyfriend about his plan with Fresh, he wanted to join. Cross insisted on acting as their bodyguard in case something went wrong. And he wanted to see what Nightmare’s plan was. The extra support took a weight off Dream’s shoulders and he accepted.

Dream teleported the three to Birdtale’s portal in the Doodlesphere. It was still dark and corrupted, but it was calm and silent now. The malice lay still and the arch was dark. One of the side wings fell off and crumbled on the ground.

Cross looked at the two and readied his daggers. “Are you dudes, ready?”

“Ready, brah.” Fresh said. Dream nodded as his response and squeezed Cross’s hand. They all walked through the portal.

Dream opened his eye sockets and stared at the AU. He gasped in horror. Fresh’s determination slightly slid off his face.

Cross’s stance tensed and he prepared himself for any possible battle. “What happened here?”

Birdtale’s beautiful scenery turned into something from a nightmare. Black clouds covered a muddy orange sky streaked with crimson and purple. The once bountiful plants withered until trees lost their leaves. The flowers lost their colors and drooped to the ground. Polluted water corrupted the streams and waterfalls, leaving chunks in the liquid. The sticky air was humid, hot and cold at the same time. And with the horrid stench of blood and rotten apples, it was a miracle they stayed conscious.

The easy-going monsters . . . changed. Their bodies were covered in black malice with eyes piercing red or violet. Their wings, if they even still had them, were torn and matted and dust-stained. Two winged monsters scratched at each other in the sky. The one on the left tore the right’s wing off. The victim screeched and sunk their teeth into the other’s neck, causing them both to fall into the abyss below. Dream took a shaky breath.

If it wasn’t for his friends’ positivity at his side, Dream would have passed out, possibly with a seizure. So much hatred . . .

Fresh touched one of the grayed trees. His glasses shifted to OUCH. The leaf crumbled to the ground. Dead, gone.

“My brother happened,” Dream said, answering Cross’s question. His voice was quiet. He’s seen several Code Purples, but none of them . . . none of them were this tragic, or destructive. And they could usually stop them before they reached this level, what could’ve made them unable to enter this AU?

Dream stood back up and closed his eye sockets. He took a deep breath and his body tingled with golden light. It was difficult to explain how his positivity-sensing powers worked. The closest comparison he could make was to heat vision. Souls with positive auras would have a yellow glow and the negative ones would glow purple. He couldn’t sense a single positive aura that wasn’t corrupted.

“This may not be the best idea but . . . I think we should split up. If anyone finds something strange or helpful, take it. I need to know what the difference is between Birdtale and the other Code Purples.” Dream stated, unsure of himself.

Cross narrowed his eye sockets. He looked around and unsheathed his daggers. He spoke in his commander voice. “I don’t trust this, but fine. I’ll take the right wing. Fresh, take the left. Dream, go directly into the town. Be careful and we’ll meet back in an hour.”

They split up. Cross dashed right and Fresh started to the left. Dream prepared himself and went down the middle, exploring the main town and mountain.

It didn’t feel like too long ago when the Star Sanses fought here and ate nice cream with Aviar and Lark. Dream looked to the sky where the flight platform lay. It was snapped down the middle. Boards hung loose and malice covered them, crawling with black, purple, red, and teal. The rest of the town didn’t fare better. Dream couldn’t tell which were fallen buildings and which were fallen monsters. Their colors and shapes all blended into one. Or some could have been monsters who had the fate of fusing with the buildings. Only their muffled wails and incoherent words were any sign they were there. Shadows shuffled behind him, along with moaning. Dream looked to his side and spotted Birdtale Toriel, dragging herself along. Her body was a mutilated mess with a disfigured melted mouth, black melted eyes, and a body torn with malice.

Dream’s soul beat faster in his chest. He regretted the decision to split up. He wanted Cross at his side, Fresh, Blue, someone. The voices in the walls surrounded him, taking over his mind.

Save us. Free us. It hurts. Let us die.

They felt like a terrible person for running, but they did. Dream ran through the village. He couldn’t take the negativity and he knew that despite all his power, there was nothing he could do. He jumped over piles of corruption, destruction, and bodies. Dream felt if he lingered too long there, he would go mad. The more distinct the voices grew, the worse he felt. He made out Papion’s distinct voice, the brother of Aviar. Where was he? He hoped he had the relief of death and was not turned into . . . one of these creatures.

Dream dashed down the left until he found a cleared space. The only malice was in pockets across the ground, the rest was dead grass. Dream looked into the sky, catching his breath. He hoped to find Cross and Fresh, he hoped they were safe. The field where he stood was the remains of a battlefield. A body lay bleeding, a head and an arm missing. The blood has long dried and developed an unpleasant odor. Dream crouched down and grabbed a stick to flip it over with. He gasped and covered his mouth at the sight. It was Lark. Their severed arm and left waist appeared as if something or someone was eating at it. Their other hand loosely held a knife. Dream recognized it as Horror’s damage.

The body was covered in less malice than the rest of the monsters, so Dream could touch it. He picked the body up, looked around, and lay it in a burnt hole. He wasn’t sure where their head was, it could have been under some rubble. He pushed nearby dirt over it with his hand. The poor child didn’t deserve this.

Dream looked over the body and listened to the bitter whistle of the wind. No, wait. That wasn’t a whistle. It sounded too alive to be the wind. Dream turned around.

The monster that crawled on the ground was a grotesque mess. Its wings stood straight up with no feathers, bones creaking and reaching into the sky. The left side of its mouth was caved in; a massive slash lay across his forehead. His goggles were cracked and lopsided, barely hanging on. Yet despite the scars, Dream saw the person underneath. And according to the response, the monster did the same.

“Help . . . me,” Aviar moaned. “It hurts . . .”

“Aviar!” Dream hurried towards his friend. He kneeled in front of him, coaxing his soul from his corrupted chest. It was pitch black, burning with so much negativity he couldn’t hold it. Dream let it go and gave it back to him. “What happened here?”

The hate-filled monster coughed up malice. “He did . . . stop, pain . . .”

Dream eye sockets pricked with tears. More than anything he wanted to heal his pain, this fate worse than death, but he didn’t know how. “I don’t understand. Who’s ‘he’? Nightmare?”

“Yes. Nightmare . . did this. He, Horror, Dust, Killer, and . . .” Aviar groaned again.

“And who? Aviar, who?”

The raven opened his mouth, but instead of words, a fountain of black sludge spewed. Dream jumped back. Aviar arched his back and growled at the back of his throat. He crawled closer, clawing at the ground. Dream kneeled back down, slow, steady, and cautious. He moved as close as he could without touching the malice. He waited, hoping to get an answer out of Aviar if he was motionless and patient.

Yet, Dream didn’t. Aviar looked like his body and mind were hanging on by the thinnest of threads. He looked at the guardian with hunger. “Too . . . too much positivity. Need it.”

Confused and concerned by his tone, Dream grabbed his sword out of instinct. “What are you talking about? What-”

Aviar lunged. Dream summoned a positivity shield as his defense senses kicked. The bird monster bounced back with a hiss. But then he started to claw at it. The screaming and wailing made it obvious it hurt, but Aviar needed the positivity. His current aura didn’t have a drop of it. Dream felt less fear and more pity. No one deserved to be put in a state like this. The most merciful thing to do was . . .

He didn’t want to, but Dream readied and aimed his short sword. It was the best option. He closed his eye sockets and stabbed the weapon through his torso. He swung Aviar around and stabbed him into the ground. Aviar screeched in a high-pitched decrescendo and his body melted into the ground. Then silence.

“Rest well, Aviar, and may you go to a better place,” Dream said, sighing as he pulled out his sword. He rested his forehead on his hand, curling his fingers until they hurt. They could’ve saved him. They could’ve saved all of them. If only he arrived a little sooner. He was always too late. He failed, he was supposed to save people and he didn't.

Dream listened as confetti popped behind him and Fresh appeared. He seemed fine, albeit with a few minor scratches. Fresh looked down at the shaken guardian. “You good, brah?”

Dream smiled to not worry him and stood up. “I’m fine.” He glanced down at the one thing left of Aviar. His pair of cracked goggles. Dream picked them up, shook off the sludge, and held them against his chest. He would find a way to avenge him. They stood up and brushed the remaining malice off their clothes. “Come on, let’s go. I . . . there’s nothing left to save. Everyone is gone.” Dream spoke with defeat in his voice, the exact opposite of what he wanted going into this.

Despite Fresh's glasses flashing to LIAR for a brief moment, they walked back. It was far more pleasant than the walk through the town, less violence, fear, and blood. Dream flipped Aviar’s goggles in his hands. He put them around his neck.

They made it to the starting point. Cross arrived first, holding a dark banner. Dream couldn’t see the design from where he stood, but Cross furrowed his brow at it. He looked up at them and rolled the banner into a cylinder. He walked, being careful not to step in the malice. “Did you guys find anything?”

Dream thought about his answer and held up Aviar’s goggles. “We did.” Their head tilted at the banner in his hand. “What is that?”

Cross held up a banner to them. It was teal with a gold outline. A crescent moon lay in the center, surrounded by four other images. A red target, ripped red fabric, a silver ax, and a pink bow. “Nightmare sometimes marked AUs with these banners if he was proud of what he's done. He usually did it with the AUs he got more power from. It's the same as I remember, but he changed part of the design. I used to have an X right here, but I don’t know why there's a bow. It means Nightmare got a new member on his team, but why a pink bow out of all things?"

“Wait.” Dream put the pieces together in his mind. “Aviar said Nightmare had a new member on his team. That must be who the bow represents. Do you have any ideas on who it might be?” He wracked his mind, but thought of no Sans that was known for a pink bow. If it was only symbolic, that would make things much harder. Dream had to prepare for whoever this new Villian Sans Squad member was. Maybe he could even convince them to leave and join his side, the same way with Cross . . .

Cross took the banner again and narrowed his eyes at it. “I don’t know. I’ll try to figure it out. I can’t remember everything and every AU Nightmare has taken interest in, but I know a few. I still have my journal from when I worked for them.”

“We’re gonna need dat,” Fresh said.

Dream was about to comment, but the sound of desperate groaning made him turn around. Three of the malice-corrupted monsters, each in varying stages of damage. They all wanted one thing, positivity. Their red, black, and purple eyes tore into Dream. The guardian held out his swords and guarded his friends, holding back his fear.

"Shed." Fresh's magic censored Cross's swear. Cross pulled his dagger. “Everyone listen, I would suggest fighting, but these are practically zombies. We're easier to attack as a group! We have to leave, now!" Cross slashed one of the ones nearby, melting off their arm. He summoned a wall of bones to block them off.

“I know. Hold on, I'll teleport us out!” Dream snapped his swords together to summon a portal. But unlike so many times prior, nothing happened. Dream snapped again. Nothing, fruitless. Dream kept snapping and he started to panic.

“Fresh! You have to make a portal. I’m sorry, my magic isn’t working!” Dream wasn’t paying attention. From the piles of malice by his feet, one of them split from the pile. It squirmed across the ground until it stopped on a rock. But luckily or not, someone else saw it first.

“Flower- FLOWER! LOOK OUT!” The air flew out of Dream as Cross pushed him to the ground. Dream fell face-first into the dirt and turned around. He stood up and ran to his boyfriend. Cross screamed as the black malice went into his eye sockets.

Cross stumbled, looking around like he was blind. His body slacked, and his eye lights turned into purple swirls. He blinked and they disappeared. They could still be seen at certain angles. He stared straight ahead, body twitching. He clutched the sides of his skull in agony as the negativity broke two sharp horns out of his skull. He looked up and around, settling on Dream. He scowled at him. Dream covered his mouth. He didn't understand why it was affecting Cross so severely compared to the others.

Dream stepped back a few steps as Cross's aura grew angry. Dream off. “Cross, it’s me, Dream-”

“Get AWAY FROM ME!” Cross cut a line down Dream's hand. Blood spilled from the spot and Dream's eye sockets were wide with shock. Cross stormed ahead, body twitching. He glared at Fresh instead. "And you, parasite-"

“Fresh,” he corrected.

“I don't care.” Cross’s voice was deeper than it should have been. He grabbed his head and screamed. He removed his dagger and stared at Fresh.

Dream held his short sword and raised it, but Fresh blocked him with his baseball. “Nah, brah. I want dis one. You lay low.” Fresh spun his baseball bat. Dream was too exhausted to argue, though his heart was pounding in worry for his boyfriend. The negativity was going to kill him.

Cross charged at him with his daggers. Fresh pushed his glasses up and disappeared in a puff of confetti. Cross looked around. A baseball bat appeared behind him and swung, he barely dodged.

Fuzzy objects surrounded Cross, Furbies. Cross looked around in confusion before the toys exploded in balls of rainbow gas and force. The force from the explosion blew Cross to the ground and covered him in colors across the rainbow. Fresh teleported in front of Cross, but the corrupted one was faster and stabbed bones into his arms. Fresh fell to the ground withs blood soaking his jacket as he pulled each one out.

The move snapped Dream out of his trance and he grabbed his swords, running to help. Cross summoned his bone attacks and shot them at Dream. His swings and slashes were slow; his nonexistent ears rang. The negative energy kept building and eating at his strength, but he had to save his love.

Cross stopped attacking and focused all of his attention on Dream. His body lurched and cracked. He was still fighting it. Dream took his chance and ran at Cross while he was distracted. He tackled him to the ground. Cross fought and screamed to push him off, but Dream didn't move. He held Cross in a hug, squeezing his eye sockets shut. His nonexistent ears rang with the stress and the screams.

Dream pressed their foreskulls together as golden magic seeped from his fingertips. “Shh, shh. It’s us. You’re in a hallucination, cookie dough. I don’t know where you are, but you’re not there. Come back to us, Cross. Come back to me. Don't let Nightmare win!

The purple in Cross's eye sockets faded. He blinked up at Dream, his look of anger turning into guilt over the blood dripping down his cheekbone. The guardian gave him a small smile as he swayed and passed out in his arms.

==============================================================================

Dream blinked awake to the smell of herbal tea. He lay on the couch of the Star Sanses' living room, covered with a checkered blanket. He rubbed his eye sockets as he sat up, still groggy and numb. It took a long time to recall what happened.

Birdtale . . . Nightmare’s magic corrupted Cross . . . he attacked him . . . then everything went dark. Oh stars . . .

His crown, cape, boots, and gloves were neatly folded on the nearby coffee table. Dream snapped his fingers to summon light, but nothing formed.

“Dream, you’re okay!” Blue exclaimed as he came over with a tea tray. He set it on the table and wrapped Dream in a tight hug. Dream hugged him back, even though it made his arms ache. “You were asleep for over three days! I had to force Cross to leave because he wouldn’t stop worrying about you! I know it wasn't your fault, but don't scare us like that ever again!"

"I won't," Dream promised. Blue poured himself and Dream cups of tea, blowing on it before drinking. “How did you know I was awake?” Dream asked.

“You were fidgeting and talking in your sleep. Like-” Blue’s look softened. His aura turned sad and he looked into his glass. “Like you-know-who used to.”

“What was I saying?” Dream asked in an attempt to change the subject.

“‘My fault, my fault, it’s all my fault’.” Blue said. “It’s not your fault, whatever you were referring to. You did your best, I know you did.”

Dream blushed in embarrassment and looked away. They couldn't remember what they dreamed about, but it must have been serious. At least it was only a dream and no one was hurt. “Think you. It was nothing important. What is important is how did I get here? All I remember is overusing my magic to save Cross and I passed out.”

Blue took a sip of his tea. “Cross and Fresh broke open the door and they both looked beat up. Cross was carrying you and we've all been healing you and hoping you would get better. They explained what happened in Birdtale and . . . stars, I’m so sorry about Aviar. I'm sorry about all of Birdtale.”

Dream hummed. “There’s something you should know. Nightmare has a new member on his team. I don’t know their name or even what monster they are, but they were represented with a pink bow. More like a hair ribbon really.”

“That’s a question for Core. I can’t name every alternate me out there, I don't even know most of them.” Blue looked concerned. “Something else happened when you were out. It was so weird. The creative AUs? They lost their colors. They're still there, but I think it’s because of Ink being gone, it's finally causing problems.”

"Wait, what? When did that happen . . . nevermind." Dream sighed. “We need a new Guardian of Creativity. We can’t- I can’t keep putting it off. Someone has to be able to live up to Ink’s name.” Dream tapped his fingers against his palm. They didn’t want to rush it, but they couldn’t put it off much longer. They had to do what was best for the multiverse. He looked out the window. It was an obvious choice.

Dream felt a new surge of energy and power in his chest. It must have been Sea Tea, it would explain how it healed his magic. “Do you know where Core is? I have to talk to them."

Blue blinked in confusion. “Properly in their tower in Omega Central. But you are not going anywhere until-"

Before Blue could finish his sentence, Dream had teleported off. His tea still steamed. Blue huffed. He was getting tired of Dream running off to work and helping people twenty-four-seven. It was noble and all, but he couldn't help but feel neglected and a little angry. He wasn't as strong as the others, but he was a hero too! It barely felt like they were a team anymore. It made him wonder how much longer the Star Sanses would stand without Ink.

==============================================================================

Dream collapsed from his power usage, but he got up. He felt bad for leaving Blue, but he had to do this. He was sure he would understand. He ran down the shiny wood hallway until they sensed Core's aura and walked into the room. Three windows lined the back, shining daylight onto a massive wood-long table. The walls had marble details and burgundy backings, along with the cool smell of polish.

As expected, Core sat at the very end of it. They studied the banner Cross found in Birdtale, thinking in silence. A list lay beside them. As soon as Dream walked in, they looked up and waved him over. "Hello, Dream. Cross told me everything and I've spent the last hour trying to figure out who's working for Nightmare. I'm about to try Lust now, one second."

Core closed their eyes and reopened them to galaxies. They didn’t blink, didn’t speak, didn’t even move for a full minute. Dream stared at the design again until the finished. He felt as if he did know who the bow was, but he couldn't place a name. When the stars faded away, Core shook their head and crossed the name on the list. “It’s not Lust. He doesn’t know anything about this. For now, let’s call this person ‘Bow’. That's what I've been calling them."

“Sure.” Dream sighed. "Core, we need to talk about the Guardian of Creativity. I know who we should choose and we can't keep putting it off.

The child looked up and blinked their empty eyes. It reminded Dream too much of Aviar's and he held back a shudder. "I know, I've been thinking the same thing. I even came up with a little plan to transfer the magic over. Let me explain." Core gave them a mischievous grin and gestured for Dream to come closer. They whispered it into the side of their skull and Dream smiled.

==============================================================================

“Whatcha need me for again, broskis?”

Fresh leaned against the wall as Core and Dream stared at him. This was something Core Frisk came up with a while ago according to them. Passing guardianship has never been done before. Yet they were one of the wisest souls in the multiverse, despite being a child, so Dream trusted their plan.

Core walked over to Fresh with their hands behind their back. "Dream and I have chosen you to take Ink's former role as Guardian of Creativity."

Fresh stopped leaning against the wall and stood straight up. "Really? Ya want me to do it for ya?"

"Mm hm." Core cleared their throat and spoke. “Fresh, do you accept the role? Do you swear to dedicate your life to encouraging the Creators, protect the AUs as is, and defend the Creative-Destruction balance?”

Fresh's expression was still of shock, but he nodded. “I swear to all dat and take dah role of Guardian of Creativity.”

Core looked at Dream and held out their hand. Dream took it and summoned a ball of swirling gold magic. Core followed, creating similar energy out of galaxy magic. Fresh looked between the glowing spears in confusion. This was Core’s idea. If two guardians harnessed their magic and energy, they could grant guardianship. Their magic drifted from out of their hands and merged into a stream of color.

Rainbow magic flowed from Dream and Core’s fingers. Fresh stepped back as it began to swirl around him. Dream had a tug in the pit of his soul. Core’s surprise frown told him he wasn’t alone in the feeling. He couldn’t place his finger on it, it felt like it was telling him to stop, but that didn’t make sense. Fresh was the best person to pass the torch to. Ink would choose him, Dream knew he would.

Then why did they feel so horrible?

The magic faded into sparkles, then into nothing. Core held out their hand to Fresh. “Congratulations, Fresh. You are the new Guardian of Creativity. Remember your oath, it’s your life now. The Doodlesphere needs you.”

“Sweet!” Fresh shook their hand and his glasses flashed the same word. Dream smiled and walked over. He hugged Fresh close to him. Despite the odd feeling, it felt good to have a new Guardian of Creativity. The multiverse was a little safer now. Once he shook off the surprise, Fresh hugged him back. Dream wasn’t sure if he would be interested in joining the Star Sanses, but he wouldn’t deny it. The disquieting feeling in his chest was still there.

Core stared at their hand for a moment. They waved their fingers. Dream sensed their apprehension, confusion, and concern. Without letting go of Fresh, Dream looked at Core. “Is everything okay? Did something go wrong?”

The child hummed and nodded. “The spell worked, but something doesn’t feel right. The Guardian of Creativity should have had stronger magic. I think it's because it's so weak and a new holder will return the power but . . . Fresh, speak with me if something weird happens with your new powers or you feel sick."

"Hold up." Fresh let go of Dream. "Ya mean these powers could kill me?"

"No, not quite. But not even I have ever seen something like this, so I can't be sure." Core stared into nothing, as if they were doubting themselves. Their aura confirmed it.

Dream's tone was of pure confidence, though he was more cautious inside. "Both of you, it's okay, things can only get better from here. We'll find out what's happening to the multiverse, find out who Bow is, and stop Nightmare. We will, we'll fix all of this. Believe me."

Leave it to me.

[aparticularbandit]

Of A Fatal Captivity: Day One (I)

Summary: When do they decide that she can’t leave? That they’re going to keep her there no matter what she wants? That’s the day her captivity begins. Is that today?

Some of you will think that this beginning is a gimmick. Up to you! Think what you want! (It’s not a gimmick more than anything else in writing is a gimmick, which is to say, of course, it’s a gimmick, because that’s all writing is, really, isn’t it? A bunch of gimmicks? Some of them more successful than others? Isn’t that why we have tropes? The trappings of a Tragedy to tell us whether that’s really what the story is or not? (Do you know the story you’re in?))

Enough games.

You’re here for something better than that.

Or: Junko Enoshima’s factory reset may or may not be going as planned, and Ryoko Otonashi has plenty of things to say about that. Or will, once she realizes what’s going on.

Chapter Rating: M for Graphic Imagery. Fic Rating: M for Danganronpa reasons.

TW for Graphic Imagery.

AO3

previous chapter

Book One

Four FIVE Days Ago.

Day Ten (of an….  Oh, who cares anymore?  It’s over.  It’s over.)

Kyoko stares up at stars winking at her through a sky far blacker than anything she has ever known and takes a deep breath of thickly polluted air and feels despair.

It’s an odd sort of feeling.

Not that she’s never felt it before – she has – but it’s different this time.  Like something ice cold – the way a corpse feels, maybe, when she comes across it far later than she should, when all of the warmth has drained from its body and it’s just starting to turn – pools in the center of her chest, just where her heart should be, and spreads out slowly through her veins, as though it might reach her already aching fingertips.  She can’t breathe through the ice beneath her skin, can’t breathe staring up at a sky she’d thought she would never see again, can’t breathe as the rocket-fueled mecha Monokuma disappears like the twinle of a winking star into that same sky, black on black on black.

Despair.

Kyoko knew she couldn’t save Junko from Byakuya’s mind wipe.  She arrived too late for that; she and Toko both knew Byakuya would already have started whatever literal mind game he was playing with Junko before they made it, before Kyoko even got through the door.  That was expected. It wasn’t an acceptable loss, but it was at least an expected one, one from which they could recover.

What wasn’t expected was a giant mecha Monokuma exploding through the roof.

What wasn’t expected was a girl Kyoko barely remembers stealing Junko away.

What wasn’t expected was—

Interfering with the memory erasure could lead to permanent brain damage.  Wasn’t that what Byakuya said?  And what could be more interference than a giant mecha Monokuma dropping down from the sky and literally ripping Junko out of her cradle?  There’s no coming back from that, there’s no regaining Junko from that, there’s no hope that they might possibly have her back to something even remotely approaching normal – they stole her, and now they can do whatever they want with her when she wakes (if she wakes!), and—

The worst is the realization that Junko….  Junko planned this.  She’d known it would happen even before wiping Kyoko’s memories.  She’d—

“I really did love you.  I really did.”

Kyoko’s throat cuts off.  It burns, raw.  She doesn’t cry because she doesn’t cry (not since Yui), because even if he’s been knocked out, Byakuya is still right there, and Hina’s….  Hina’s somewhere.  Besides, if she didn’t cry over Makoto, she sure isn’t going to cry over Junko Enoshima.  That would be so stupid.

So stupid.

Kyoko clenches her hand into a fist so tight that the leather of her glove creaks.  Her gaze drops from the sky, and she forces herself to draw another smoke-filled breath.

Junko said she was going to die.

Fair enough.

She died.

Just like she wanted.

“...maybe, eventually, you’ll see me again, too.  If you keep your promise, anyway.”

Kyoko can’t think about that right now.

Right now, she needs to get out of the wreckage Junko and her Ultimate Despair left behind.

Right now, she needs to find Hina.

Right now, she—

“M-M-Master!”

Toko races into the room, indestructible, sprints across the misshapen bits of concrete, dances around sparks and machinery that is somehow on fire, and cradles Byakuya in her arms.  There’s a sharp cut across his forehead and blood (red blood) smeared across it, only growing more smeared as Toko brushes his hair out of his face.  His glasses are gone, smashed under debris.  Like this, he almost looks normal.

Almost.

Toko’s gaze doesn’t leave Byakuya to glare at Kyoko as she desperately tries to lift his body with her noodle arms, but there’s venom in her voice when she says, “What. did. you. do?”

“Look around you, Toko.”  Kyoko stumbles away from her, closer to the door, closer to where she’d been standing with Hina when the Monokuma dropped.  Her eyes sweep the wreckage as she does. “Do you really think I could do something like this?”

“I-I-I wasn’t here!  I don’t know!”  Toko struggles with Byakuya, unable to move him.  She tucks her arms under his armpits and tries to drag him backwards, making it only a few steps back before she catches sight of the nearest broken wire still shooting sparks and gives up.  (There’s a soft crack as she drags him.  But there are a lot of sounds around them right now.)  “A little help?” she calls out.  “Please?”

But Kyoko isn’t paying attention to her.  Kyoko’s paying attention to the other cracks, the shifts in the concrete, the wires and the sparks and the bits of flame, and the singular hand outstretched from beneath a huge, huge piece of—

Kyoko isn’t strong.  She has never been strong, and the nerve damage in her hands hasn’t helped with that.  But something in her snaps, something in her rips her own muscles as she grabs the chunk of concrete, as she heaves, as she digs in her broken heels, as she shoves it off of Hina’s body.  (She’s done this before, and it tore her hands apart, and it’s tearing them apart again, and she was supposed to learn from it, and she didn’t learn anything at all, and it’s happening again, and it’s happening worse, and it’s—)  The cold within her spreads, another numb stronger than the disconnect she normally needs for examining bodies, as she sees Hina, broken, before her.

(She doesn’t see Hina.  She sees Yui.  She—)

Blood trickles dark and red from one corner of Hina’s lips.  Even from a non-medical professional, it’s clear that her spine has been shattered from the crooked way she lays along the ground, not that it matters much when her right arm has been smashed off, shards of bone sticking out through shorn muscle into nothing, not that that matters when Hina’s eyes are already starting to glaze over, their light fading.  And yet still, she speaks, her voice a rasping creak, “K…K…Kyo…ko…?”

She shuts off.

She has to shut off.

To survive, she has to shut off.

(She can’t do this again.  Not again.)

It isn’t fair to Hina.  It isn’t.

But it’s not like she has any control over this sort of thing.

(She does.  She does.)

“I’m here.”  Kyoko kneels down in the debris, takes Hina’s remaining hand in her own broken one, and gives it as gentle a squeeze as she can.  “I’m here.”

Hina searches above her, either not seeing Kyoko or not able to focus on her.  “I…I…I didn’t…I didn’t think…I didn’t….”

Kyoko brushes a hand through Hina’s hair, torn from its ponytail, and traces her fingers along her face.  “It’s okay,” she murmurs, even though it isn’t, even though it hasn��t been for a very long time, even though it might never be again.  “You’re okay.”

That’s another lie.

“We couldn’t have known.”

That’s not.

Hina laughs – or tries to – but it turns into coughing.  So much blood.  So much blood, enough that it spatters a bit onto Kyoko’s face.  (She doesn’t wipe it off.)  “It…it…it was…was nice,” she struggles to say, her voice fading with every word, “to see…the…the stars….”

She doesn’t say anything else.

For a moment, Kyoko doesn’t move.  She just kneels, holding Hina’s remaining hand in her own, running her thumb comfortingly along her skin, as Hina takes in that halting, stuttering sharp last breath emblematic of death – once, twice, then no more – as her body struggles to maintain what her brain has already given up.  (Habit.  Muscle memory.  A refusal of belief.)  Then Hina’s jaw hangs open, gravity pulling it down now that she doesn’t have anything to hold it in place.  Someone else might reach over to close her eyes, but Kyoko leaves them open.

So she can see the stars.

(A body has been discovered!)

Then Kyoko stands, brushes the dirt from her skirt, smearing the deep red blood spattered across it, and turns to Toko, who continues to struggle with Byakuya.  She hears another crack, sharper this time, as she walks over to her, carefully avoiding the wires and sparks, and sits down next to her.  “Go get Hiro,” she says.  “I’ll keep an eye on—”

“You g-g-get him!” Toko interrupts, spitting the words out.  “I can protect Master b-b-better than y-you!”

After a brief consideration of current events and, more importantly, what Toko can do if something else should happen, Kyoko acquiesces.  She nods.  “Stay focused on him,” she says as she stands again.  “You won’t like what you might see elsewhere.”

Toko glares at her.

“And quit trying to move him without help.  You might make things worse.”

Kyoko feels Toko’s continued glare on her as she leaves, but she doesn’t hear any extra shuffling, which means she’s listened, at least.  She doesn’t spare another glance for Hina’s corpse as she passes it by.  Attachments like this will do her no good.  Hina is dead.  She needs to accept this.  To let it go.

And yet.

Kyoko pauses just inside of the tunnel leading out of the now quite destroyed room.  She turns, bends down, and finds that small plush bear buried beneath the rubble.  His torn red eye somehow seems even more torn, as though the fabric sewn beneath the hole is beginning to bleed through, and the black, covered with dirt and dust, seems softer, lighter, while the white seems stained from overuse.  Hiro will panic, if he sees this.  (Hiro is panicking already.  Kyoko doesn’t need to hear him to know that.)

She stares at the bear, brushes it off, and then tucks it into the inside pocket of her jacket.

Only then does she go.

~

Kyoko finds Hiro running about in the main hall, scurrying from one room to the other in his panic, yelling with his arms raised high above his head and his chunky sandals clunking along the floor.  She calmly walks over to intercept him (it’s easy to be calm when she’s numb) and places a hand on his shoulder to still him.  “Hiro.”

“AAAAAHHHH!”

Hiro jumps in his skin, bounds away from her, and whirls about with his hands up in some sort of attempt at a martial arts defensive stance.  “Don’t hurt me!” he says, eyes squinted shut.  “I know kung fu!”

Kyoko stares at him as he tries, blindly, to attack forward before easily stepping out of the way.  “Hiro.”

Hiro’s eyes snap open at the sound of her voice, which he somehow hadn’t recognized before in his panic.  “Kyokyo!”  He rushes forward and grabs her in his arms.  “I was so scared!  And now you’re here!”

“Hiro.”  Kyoko tenses at his touch and carefully disentangles herself from him.  “I know that calm is not easy for you in our current situation, but I need you to remain calm.”

“Calm?  Me?  I’m always calm!”  Hiro crosses his arms and fakes a laugh.  “I’m 100% sure that I’ll survive whatever’s going on!”  Then he leans forward, eyes still wild.  “But the explosion?  There was an explosion, Kyokyo!  And you’re—”  His eyes grow even wilder.  “You’re covered in blood, Kyokyo—”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Huh?  But Kyokyo is—”

“Please don’t call me that,” Kyoko repeats, firm, as she grits her teeth together.  “Ever.”  She waits, waits for another counter to her words, but when Hiro doesn’t say anything else (surprisingly), she continues.  “Byakuya tried to erase Junko’s memories.  A mecha Monokuma—”

“A mecha Monokuma?!?!?!?!” Hiro echoes in a high-pitched shriek, jumping back again with his hands in front of his face.  “Say it ain’t so!”

Kyoko ignores this.  “—broke through the ceiling, allowing a few of Junko’s associates to take her with them.”  She takes a sharp breath in through her teeth.  “Hina is dead.  Byakuya is hurt and unconscious.  Toko needs your help to—”

“Hina’s….”  Hiro cuts her off, voice soft.  “Hina’s dead?

There are a lot of things Kyoko could say in this moment.  She could explain what happened in more, excruciating detail.  She could say just how she found Hina after everything.  She could mention that maybe, if she’d searched for Hina first, instead of focusing on the giant Monokuma and the people who’d came for Junko and Junko herself, she might have gotten to Hina in time to—

To what?  She isn’t the Ultimate Nurse.  Even if she’d gotten Hina out from under the fallen rubble faster, there was nothing she could have done.  Nothing.

(Mikan was the Ultimate Nurse.  Kyoko remembers that.  She could have done something.  But she wouldn’t.)

((This is wishful thinking, Kyoko.  Mikan couldn’t have saved Hina.  Not from that.  No one could have.  Hina was dead the moment she betrayed you.))

“Yes,” Kyoko says instead, with all the finality of saying it during the previous incarnation of the Game (A body has been—), only there’s no Blackened, no one to punish for Hina’s death.  (It wasn’t a murder.  Junko may have planned for all of this, but it wasn’t a—)  She tucks her hair back behind one ear, brushes her fingers through the much shorter pieces that once held a braid before Jack cut it off (she should have the ribbon, and now that’s gone, too, because she’d never had the occasion to go back for it), and then brings her fingers back sticky with a bit of Hina’s blood.  Her ears ring.  “We need to get Byakuya out.”

“Yeah.  Okay.”  Hiro crosses his arms with a perplexed expression.  “So, uh.  Where were you?”

~

It’s just as they make the turn into the last tunnel that Kyoko remembers.

“The door to the future will open before then.” “About halfway, I’d say.  Halfway through the story.” Her eyes widen.

“They’re just through there.”  Kyoko gestures to the broken door at the end of the tunnel.  There’s no need for a code anymore, which is good because Hiro is so overcome to be exploring the secret tunnels that she’s not sure he would remember it to get in.  “Can you make it from here?”

Hiro pauses halfway to the door and turns back to her, blinking in confusion.  “Yeah, but…but what are you doing?”

Kyoko doesn’t respond with any sort of chagrin, but there’s something of Junko in her when she says, “The same thing I do every time, Hiro.”  She can’t quite complete the reference – she’s not the sort to try and take over the world, unlike some people she could name – but there’s something warm and almost comforting about saying it.  Something that breaks her heart.

But she’s not thinking about that.

As she turns away, Kyoko hears Hiro behind her, “Yeah, but what is that?”

Honestly, sometimes there’s no helping people.

~

For all that a huge mecha Monokuma smashed through part of the school, the rest of it doesn’t seem too terribly damaged.  It’s as though whoever designed the old building – or, at least, whoever created all of the hidden tunnels and passageways in the first place – wanted that particular room, meant for experimentation, segmented away from everything else.  So Kyoko makes her way through the rest of the building back to the Data Processing Room, back to the Monokuma Room, and back down the hatch without any particular trouble.

And finds the mirai door – the future door – wide open.

Inside, Kyoko sees two people.  One of them is a boy with fluffy white hair and a thick chain about his neck who she has never seen before, leaning into a chair with a curious, bemused expression on his face, his hand on his chin.  She looks at him and senses nothing but discomfort.  Of course, she does not dismiss him outright, but her gaze is drawn much faster, much stronger to the other, to the boy who is supposed to be dead.

“Makoto?”

He startles, having not noticed her entrance, and looks up at her, an awkward sort of smile crossing his face.  “Kyokyo!  I, uh.  I didn’t die!”  He bites his lower lip and scratches the back of his neck.  “Sorry?”

Kyoko stares at him.  Blinks.  Tries to process.

There’s just so much.  Too much.  Happening all at once and all together.

Her brain short circuits.

“What…what did you call me?”

[iheartfrogs1904]

Jan 12 2024

Maybe In Another Life, Equilibrium

The mist of once high clouds burn into my skin, sinking into my broken bones. Coldness stings my lungs as I asphyxiate on droplets in the air surrounding me.

———————————————

The Clouds rolled in slowly. They watered the greenery and was refreshing to run through. They gave everything a beautiful blurred hue, glossy and wet to the touch.

Before that, I used to just play with the Sun, they would cradle me in their beams as I would sing my prayers to them. After the Clouds arrived, it was the three of us. I took care of them.

The Suns rays would glitter through the Clouds fog as I would dig my toes into the damp grass. Creating a gorgeous rainbow as a present made just for me, I couldn’t get enough of them. From the Sun to the clouds, from the clouds to the Sun, I would go. After a long day, they would come together forming a moving array of sunset.

Sometimes I would trip or burn myself a little, other times I would freeze from the winds piercing my skin. Sometimes I would just hit the grass, them both seeming farther than usual. Over time they grew to be too caring, as if when we greeted we would never have to part again. Yanking me back and fourth between them. They loved me a bit too much, so much my shoulders or hips would dislocate.

It didn’t matter how many burns, cracks or blisters polluted my skin. It didn’t matter how purple my limbs turned or how my sensations disappeared.

What mattered was how perfectly they danced together. How it felt to be awoken by the colourful imagery of their actions. How the warmth was comfortable and the cold was exhilarating. Over time though, their dances were less elegant, less perfect.

How easily it escalated.

I never thought a scene so exquisite would become so violent.

I still kept going. They drifted toward me, closer and closer as I scrambled to meet both their needs. My used to be purple limbs now black or lost, my skin rotting away and my vision and hearing deteriorating. They fought so much for so long and I couldn’t understand why but I do now.

As I lay in the grass, my sensations practically gone, they lear over me, berating me to choose. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.

[wack-ashimself]

The hypocrisy of "The Lone Gunmen"...

The whole premise of them from the start is to get the truth out to the American public that the government or other powerful groups tries to suppress...

BUT

1-their theme song & background imagery is all American flag....genocide, slavery, nukes, knowing & allowing Epstein's island (which technically WAS going on even back during the filming of this show)....still proud of that symbol?

2-a lot of their episodes center around stopping other countries from having what our country has. Like....you think the USA government having the newest best tech is going to be used for GOOD? HASN'T YET.

3-They suppress information themselves. No joke there's an entire episode of finding a water powered car, they find it, try to keep it from big oil guy who WANTS to release it (their argument was they were running out of oil. DUMB.) but 'the good guys' hide it because they are afraid it would tank the economy. SO THE FUCK WHAT? Dude, the economy has never been strong enough where a fuck ton of us still weren't suffering. The economy is not a measure of less air pollution. The economy is not a promise everyone is happy, healthy, and taken care of. But no, PLEASE save us from the water powered car for a world dictated by the federal reserve, a PRIVATE bank, entirely not federal, that literally directly controls our entire economy. Cuz that shit show game of pretend should be propped right the fuck up.

(not to mention, the long term implications of a water powered engines PERIOD. Like ALL the devices that could be used in beyond a fucking car. UGH! Water powered POWER plants. GEEZ!)

Just this show, a spin off of the x -files, feels like they don't flush out the characters at all, make them caricatures, and lose the true heart of where they came from: as a rebellion against the system, even if they have to use the system. But not one to work for it...like every time they helped the x-files, it was against what the main government wanted, ya know? But making sure other governments don't et what our government has? WE ARE NOT THE GOOD GUYS. Usa is the largest terrorist organization on the planet. I mean, they are talking shutting down the government, everything...EXCEPT AID TO UKRAINE. WTF IS HAPPENING?!

[sauntervaguelydown]

Hey I've been following ur tumblr for like a few years less than a decade at this point- you were one of the first blogs i followed when i was like 13/14 and i followed you specifically cus of hannapoc. It was really seminal for me and i really loved it. If you feel so inclined, I'd love to hear your thoughts on the series on the whole. Like, what you think of it at this time. If you have anything you're especially proud of or anything you regret. Any themes in it or parts of it you would want to talk about or just like general vibes. No pressure of course! I would also like to say thank you for that series- i haven't read it in a while but it really compelled me and it remains in my mental landscape as a very treasured apocalypse story as well as my personal canon end for hinabn, as no others were forthcoming and anyways i couldn't rlly picture a more compelling one than what you ended up creating. (i was especially delighted by the fey and the official and unofficial interactions between human and supernatural elements. Stuff like the moonlight accords- i think that was what those treaties hanna was helping with were called right??- and that sort of thing were rlly fascinating to me. I don't think many writers have integrated fey/folkloric races in an apoclypse genre context, i found that rlly innovative and cool.) But yeah! Please write back or if you do not, please know that the stuff you wrote made an impact to me and i still think of it.

first of all this is so sweet thank you a bunch GOD it's been a decade

second of all I LOVE talking about the stuff I've written and I'm happy to do it any time

since there's a lot here and I've never been asked about the fey thing before, I'm going to start there!

So two of my particular special interests at the time I started writing this (12th grade) were a book series about an apocalyptic event wherein all electricity & combustion stops working at the same time, and fairies. Fairies are actually more of a lifelong special interest. I got interested in a kid, and as I got older I went deeper and deeper into the lore and the fiction and the various sorts of taxonomy. I was really influenced by Charles Delint’s The Blue Girl, in terms of spooky uncomfortable modern fairy imagery.  I really liked the idea of there being… like taxonomical classification scheme that encompassed all of the supernatural world, like in Artemis Fowl but more amorphous and less biologically mundane. You can see in “Up in Smoke” how it’s really a lot of things I was interested in at the time—Fight Club, governmental collapse, supernatural taxonomy, magic theory—that form the bones of the plot.

I liked the idea of humans being the “sun” people and supernatural beings being the “moon” people, and that was probably from a desire to do the “mud people” thing from Artemis Fowl but, again, more amorphous and poetic. I’m on of those people who likes to make Grand Unified Theory of Blank, so having all the monsters in HINABN canon and all the monster in folklore fit into a coherent shared schema REALLY appealed to me. Moonlight Races are creatures inherently made of and touched by magic. Sunlight races, humans and our pets and livestock, are not.

Early in the process I remember asking myself why, if fey and monsters are real, we don’t see them in the modern day. And some other fiction writers I had been reading at that time suggested that the actual pollution in the air was steel and fire and fairies Hate That so right now the whole world is kind of poisonous to them. I remember sitting at my desk at my first job and drawing charts on notepads describing which creatures went into which family, genus, species. I remember I found the shadow people by going down a Wikipedia rabbit hole looking for things that COULD be fey but aren’t necessarily considered that by people talking about them.

Before I wrote Hannapocalypse, I wrote a different 30 chapter apocalypse au of JTHM based very strictly on the book series I was obsessed with. I’m glad I got that out of my system, because it was objectively not very good, but it gave me practice with writing OCs and it gave me practice with writing fight/battle scenes, and it allowed me to scratch the need to do that EXACT apocalypse scenario. It’s all kind of fuzzy now, but I think it was some art I saw on Deviantart that got me thinking about doing an apocalypse for HINABN, and I waffled for a bit because I had already “done that”. I think I was at the perfect age to have just enough technical skill to pull it off, but not so much worldly experience to think “smoking cigarettes cures the plague” was a ridiculous idea not worth writing.  It was a very free time in my life.

When I look back on it, the aspect of it that always looms largest for me is actually Conrad’s aversion to sex. I think it’s because that’s still so uncomfortably personal. Conrad is a lot of me—when I went excavating in the canon to find his Characterization, I found a lot of myself there, and that’s what I drew out. His social anxiety, his ineptitude, his fear of sex, his attraction to the person who gives him attention even when it’s not healthy—even, probably, the bright hot moments of unleashed rage that burn away all the rest of the neuroses for one sublime moment. I mean he’s not me, first of all I’m not that witty or that snappish, but. You know. It’s still pretty personal.

I’m sort of ambivalent about it. I’m both proud of it and kind of regret it at the same time—if I think about regretting it, I end up thinking about how interesting it was instead. It’s really interesting because at first I wasn’t doing it on purpose; in my own mind I was just drawing out the will-they-won’t-they in a way that was fun to write, but the deeper we got—certainly by the time "A Christmas Story" came out, I had realized there was something going on inside ME that was making Conrad act the way he did. And that all got hashed out in the narrative as a combination of internalized homophobia and emotional wariness, so I do like what happened, but even now it still feels so personal I cringe back from it a little on automatic. If Vaysh hadn't been writing with me and able to reflect my instinctual work and resituate it in narrative, I have no idea how that would have turned out.

I’ll tell you what I really DO regret was trying to do the whole segregation + Zillah subplot at the age I was. It’s so weird that it’s THE foundational episode of the series, setting the pattern and tone for all installations written after it, and yet it’s like. Wow. Could not recommend this to anyone without a whole barrage of warnings. I was in 12th grade, I knew racism was a problem, I knew racism would be a problem IN THE SOUTH if a major disaster ever struck—and I wanted to do a cult story because religion fascinates me and there’s a cult storyline (ultimately very different) in that book series I liked—and I love girlboss villains and I wanted a Shadow King reveal at the climax—and it all came out as this wild messy strange thing that hasn’t aged well. I was REALLY excited out Zillah at the time, too! I thought she was so cool! Unfortunately I didn’t know enough not to invoke the much reviled “tragic mulato” trope at the time. On the other hand, I don’t really see how I could fix it now. It’s all tangled up to such a degree that if I tried to do surgery on it, the whole thing would just wither away.

I think more than anything I’m proud of the SIZE of the series. I don’t know where I got the JUICE from. How did I DO that. I mean, part of the trick is that I got to just write the parts I liked writing and then have Hanna handle all the parts I didn’t care about off screen lmao

Oh! I'm proud of John too! The moment when I realized he thinks of Worth as a father figure was the most satisfying experience of puzzle pieces all coming together. I love that he sucks, I love that he's funny, I love that he adds the feeling of FAMILY to the structure at the very end.

Uhhh I think that’s enough? I’ll answer more questions any time though I don’t mind

[hyphenscs]

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