#but hey maybe it could be fun

[nell0-0]

I read so much fanfic I'm wondering if I should do a weekly recommendation with some art included. Could be fun for a couple weeks

[fisherrprince]

it’s not necessarily that I hate the themes most prevalent in fiction set in the real world and it’s not necessarily that I don’t like stories revolving around real people or relationship drama or interpersonal issues it’s more like im a dog who doesn’t recognize that a pill is still a pill if it has peanut butter on it. I need like the little peanut butter spoonful that is aliens or robots or monsters or time travel or something fantastical and not at all down to earth real life so that you can approach me and be like “this story is about how friendships can deteriorate over time and also how this guy feels bad for being a bad friend and causing his buddy problems with their girlfriend” and then look at me making a face at you and be like “AND! they’re all aliens who are doing all that across spacetime” and I’ll be like OHHHHHH OKAY YAY (shlop shlap shlup the sound of a dog horking down peanut butter pills) wow what a poignant story

[inkskinned]

we were sitting on the floor and i was cutting out tiny pictures to make a collage for a friend's birthday. you were on your phone and you laughed about something, and i was still in love with you then, so i asked what had you giggling.

"sorry. i was just..." you took a moment and went back to texting. "i was telling someone about how you're afraid of the dark."

i'm afraid of the dark because something bad happened. "oh." i felt a little slinky of shame crawl down my throat.

you glanced up, and maybe it showed on my face, because you rolled your eyes and held the phone to the side casually so i could see the group chat. "what? was it a secret?"

i looked down to the scissors in my hand. "i just..." no, it's not a secret. it just felt like something private, something serious. saying why would you tell someone that just feels like an accusation. it's unfair. i honestly am not even ashamed of it, it's just a fact about my person that i don't usually share.

what a strange experience. is this a human thing or a generational thing? for our grandparents: did they need to worry about how quickly someone can just... share your personal information? again, i didn't even really have a true objection. what could i say? i want any person in my life to feel they can be honest with their friends. it's not like i said don't tell anyone this.

i cut out another letter to complete the rainbow happy birthday, started hunting for the exclamation mark. i heard you sigh dramatically.

"don't make a big deal about this," you said.

this entire conversation was a pattern for us, and this was when we got to my least favorite part of the pattern. i would get my feelings hurt in some oblique not-technically-terrible way, and then it would be making a big deal about something. you'd get frustrated for me for being soft, but i was born soft. you knew i was soft when you pierced me. it's one of the things that made controlling me so easy.

"i'm not," i felt my voice crack. the question came without my wanting. "why are you guys talking about me?" and why are you saying that thing? why not like - i'm telling them how you're generous and kind and pretty.

you let out this low, tragic groan. "oh my god." you tossed the phone away from your body. "there, see? i just won't talk to them if you don't like it."

the rest of the hour went the way it always went, between us: i said i don't actually mind if you talk to your friends but -, you found a way to call my minor expression of discomfort "being dramatic." you got upset that i had been offended. i ended up apologizing, even though i hadn't actually done anything.

afterwards, you picked up the phone again. after texting for a little bit, you snorted. "okay," you said, "but it is kind of funny you're afraid of the dark. i mean, when you think about it."

[poisonouspastels]

hi guys here's my interpretation of Tessa as a drone hope you like it

[backpackingspace]

Okay so with the line "the olive tree where we first met" we have two equal hilarious options.

When penelope was sassily like oh I'll marry you if you make a living bed out of this tree right here! Cue penelope stumbling over odysseus very very carefully digging up the tree "because how else is he going to get it to itacha we can't have a wedding bed out in the open in sparta duh"

Or

2. Penelope, knowing that Helen's suitors would soon be arriving to take over her home for a while. Snuck out and went on her own wacky shenanigan filled journey where she scoped out all the major players. Odysseus caught her spying in an olive tree. And when she got back she told Helen she had dibs on the cutie from itacha.

[egophiliac]

I have a question about the jp server pickups, since I really want knight Sebek, but I’m trying to save gems for bloom malleus + the 3rd tsum event that’s gonna show up sooner or later. Iirc, after knight Sebek, the next story update’s pickup had all of the previous story cards (ie cerberus Ortho, general Lilia, and knight Sebek). Is this true, and if it is, did it include a token system like the dorm pickups where you can just do 100 pulls and then buy the specific card you want directly? Because if that is how it works, then I can wait until then and be sure I won’t have to go to 200 for him.

we did indeed get a second chance at those three when 7-7 came out! I'm pretty sure there was not a token system -- though admittedly I don't 100% remember, sorry! 🙇 I took a quick search through some past posts/videos from people who tend to include the gacha and news stuff, but I didn't see any mention of it, so I'm inclined to think there really wasn't one. :( they were all separate pickups with their own pull counts rather than a combined one, if that info helps at all.

speaking as a strict f2p who hoards keys/gems like the lovechild of a dragon and a magpie, given the choice between saving for a story card and a birthday card, I'd go for story -- it does require a lot of patience, but there are way more opportunities to get past birthday cards, both from the anniversary events and the rerun pickups! tsums is a bit harder to say anything on because Eng doesn't follow the same event schedule, but it's a longish event and those pickups let you have a free 10-roll, so I think they're also a bit easier to save up for.

(ALSO speaking of free rolls, starting with the fifth round of birthdays -- the kutsurogi my room ones -- the birthday boy/union jacket/bloom cards have had a separate pickup that you can get two free 10-pulls at by doing missions! I got a bloom Jade from it a couple weeks ago. :D meanwhile general Lilia is the only story card I've ever managed to pull, so...I'm probably kinda biased. whoops.)

[shoot-i-messed-up]

Was always worried about the angst of unrequited love, had never realized the sheer amount of comedic potential that it has.

Imagine one-sided Superbat where Clark is fully aware that Bruce has a crush on him but is being his repressed self about it, and Clark is just like, “I’m not gonna touch that :) you’re going to figure that out for yourself, buddy, and in the meantime, I’m just going to have a good time and be best friends with you as you inevitably pull yourself together enough to either fall out of love or to confess :) and I’ll just let you down gently because I care about you :)” but he absolutely 100% is using it to his advantage in the meantime. His puppy dog eyes had never been so effective before. He’s gotten out of Monitor Duty three times in the past month.

[daisybell-on-a-carousel]

When Superboy Prime accidentally resurrected Jason Todd, it was described something like the universe righting itself. And, from a purely physical point of view, Jason never died. It brought his body back to it's state before his death, his injuries there but with just enough he could still survive

So, now I'm imagining like. What if there was an au where it was more than Jason just physically "never dying," but it affected memories of those around as well

Joker not remembering killing him, Dick not remembering hearing the news, Batman and Gotham not remembering the 6 months between Jason's death and resurrection, but not thinking much if it

Its all as if Jason never died

[kirby-the-gorb]

[ghostly-omens]

oh i was right that's fun. eye dude really did get shipped the quesadilla island residents to look after and instead of doing his job and giving them a perfect island experience he went rogue and started the hell-games and the federation has no idea lmao. the federation thinks its a third party interfering but so far it seems all signs point to it being egg island's equivalent of cucurucho becoming the joker

[fanfoolishness]

Visitation

Hunter has a conversation with a visitor. Set shortly after Plan 99. Grief, emotional whump, sleep deprivation, Hunter + Wrecker feels, Hunter + Tech feels. ~1400 words. (also omg I'm writing again yaaaay)

---

“You gotta sleep,” Wrecker mumbled for the eighth time.

Hunter shrugged him off with a glower and a scowl, his brows furrowing deeply. Just because Wrecker was right didn’t make his words any less aggravating. “I’ll sleep when there’s time,” Hunter snapped. “Leave it alone, Wreck.”

They had to keep going. The trace they were running was the first one that hadn’t come up as a total dead end. There were clues here that could point the way to Omega if they were just smart enough to figure them out and piece together Hemlock’s trail. He didn’t dare sleep on that.

Wrecker rubbed his eyes, then yawned so powerfully Hunter could hear the cracking in the joints of his jaw. “You’re no good wiped out. Neither ‘m I.”

”We’ll be fine. We’re close to something. I can tell.”

”I wanna find her too. But —“ Wrecker hesitated, worry clear in the set of his face. The muscles in his throat worked in a gulp. “Nah. Forget it.”

”What?” Hunter said, a warning note creeping into his voice. 

Wrecker waved a hand. “It’s nothing.” He got to his feet, groaning as he stood for the first time in hours. “More caf?”

”Yeah.”

“I’ll get it.”

---

The last of the caf had long since cooled, its bitter odor turning more acrid as it chilled. Hunter slugged down the dregs anyway, grimacing at the foul taste. 

Wrecker had tried to stay awake, Hunter had to give him that. But now he was hunched over the console on his folded arms, snoring quietly.

Hunter let him do it. It made sense that Wrecker would need the extra rest, since he needed to heal up after their last scrap. But Hunter couldn’t afford the same luxury, not for himself. He had to keep working.

Hunter focused as hard as he could, his head aching with the effort. He kept running over the coordinates on Tech’s datapad, vision blurring, fingertips flinching with an imperceptible frisson every time he tapped or typed or swiped.

This was Tech’s.

He shouldn’t be touching it. They’d all learned that lesson years ago. 

Hunter knew he might mess it up. Tech always had the specs set just how he liked them --

“Put that down,” Tech said from behind him. By the timbre of his voice, his annoyance level was mild, verging on moderate; there was a hint of fondness overlaid with a familiar steely tone. Tech wasn’t too irritated, but he’d get there if Hunter didn’t listen to him soon. 

Hunter stifled a chuckle, then blinked, his breath catching in his throat. He turned around slowly, his heart racing.

“You’re not -- you shouldn’t be here,” Hunter said stupidly.

Tech raised his eyebrows enough for them to arc above his goggles. “I find that rude,” he said.

“Don’t,” Hunter whispered. “You’re dead. We saw you fall.”

“Details,” Tech said, shrugging. “There’s still work to do, isn’t there? Therefore I am here.” He leaned back in the pilot’s chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “You do not look well, Hunter. Tell me, are you sleeping?”

“There isn’t time.” He shook his head, willing the apparition to leave. “We have to find Omega before Hemlock hurts her.” His mind spun with awful specters, imagining the worst tests of the Kaminoans and multiplying their pain into agony of the highest order. Omega crying in a cell, strapped to a table like an animal, her voice a wailing scream --

“What makes you think he wishes to hurt her?” Tech said. “Look at the facts. His men took care to stun her. Hemlock mentioned Nala Se. Nala Se has certainly decommissioned her share of clones, but there is no evidence she would wish to harm Omega, and if Hemlock requires her cooperation… I believe Omega will be safe enough, for a time. It is simply logical.”

“You’re awfully optimistic for a dead man,” Hunter said, then dropped Tech’s datapad with a clatter, suddenly feeling sick. Did I just say that -- He stared up at Tech, holding out an unsteady hand. “I -- I’m sorry, Tech. I’m not -- I didn’t mean --”

Tech leaned forward, picking up the datapad and setting it down beside Hunter. “There is no need to apologize. I am indeed dead.”

Hunter swore loudly. “Don’t say that!”

“You just said it,” Tech pointed out. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Tech, I swear to --” Tech could be so infuriating sometimes. 

He suddenly laughed, feeling dangerously close to tears. None of this made any sense. What was going on?

Tech looked at him steadily. “You are aware of what this is, aren’t you?”

“No.” He buried his face in his hands, taking a deep breath.

“You need to sleep.” Tech held up his finger, underscoring his point. “The effects of sleep deprivation in humans are well-known and may include decreased reflexes, incoordination, irritability, immunosuppression, visual and auditory hallucinations --”

Hunter laughed again despite himself. “Great. Now you’re on my case too. Wrecker was bad enough.”

“You should go easy on him. He is only attempting to look out for you.” For a moment something painful flashed across Tech’s face, a twist of his mouth, shadows beneath his eyes. “It is important to him, Hunter. Do you understand?”

How could he understand?

The chasm gaped between them, the railcar dangling, the cold wind howling in his ears.

“Get up here! Now!” Hunter called. This wasn’t happening. Not again. There had to be time, they were going to make it -- they were all going to make it -- “That’s an order!” he screamed.

When have we ever followed orders --

A hand closed around his arm, shaking him gently. “Hunter. Hunter.”

Hunter blinked, the world snapping back to the Marauder and the stars beyond. “Saw him,” he choked. 

“Saw who?” Wrecker asked, settling into the chair beside him, looking anxious.

Hunter froze. He swallowed, looking around the empty cockpit, eyes landing on the shattered goggles. His gut twisted, and he managed a ragged breath.

“Nothing. Nothing.”

“You were yellin’,” said Wrecker, looking away. “Woke me up. I thought maybe you were having a nightmare, but your eyes were open --”

Hunter groaned. “I don’t know. Maybe I was.” He glanced at Tech’s datapad, which was on the floor where he’d dropped it. He’d thought Tech had picked it up -- 

But of course there’d been no one there.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, then bent down and picked up Tech’s datapad, handing it carefully to Wrecker. “You, uh… you keep an eye on things for a bit.”

Wrecker took it, though he hesitated. It looked so small in his hands. “Feels wrong, using this. It’s -- it’s his.”

“I know.”

“What are you gonna do?”

Hunter let out a sigh. “Gonna get some shut-eye. You were right. Keeping on like this isn’t going to find Omega any faster.” He brushed back the hair falling into his eyes, and got to his feet. He was about to turn and head to his bunk when he paused, reaching out and resting a hand on Wrecker’s shoulder. “Thanks. For looking out for me.”

Wrecker ducked his head, unable to speak for a moment. Finally he said, “s’what I’m here for.”

“Damn right it is.” Hunter gripped harder, then let go, making his way to his bunk. He rolled into it unceremoniously, more exhausted than he’d ever been in his life. He closed his eyes, and saw Omega.

They’d find her. They had to. And until then… He thought of what Tech had said, cool calm logic explaining why Omega would be safe. Maybe he was right. Maybe she’d get through this unharmed.

His mouth tightened. What Tech had said -- What a damn hallucination had said. He was losing it.

Yet Tech’s words were comforting, and he kept them close.  I believe she will be safe enough, for a time.

He’d make that time as short as possible. His fist curled in determination, then uncurled, fingers going slack as sleep took him. He dreamed of Pabu warm and sunny, the sound of waves on a rocky shore, Omega’s arms flung wide around him. He held her close, closer than he’d ever dared, an embrace that said you’ll always be our kid. 

But through Omega’s laughter and the setting sun there was an emptiness, and Hunter wandered long into the dark, looking for someone who wasn’t there.

[larabar]

👀

thought about it more here ya go 🤲 from the very beginning and the very end skdbfj

[sweetandsoursaws]

@pushspacetocontinue liked for a starter

Today is going to be hard.

Lark had tried starting each day telling himself it was going to be better. He’d tried to fake it til he made it, take it easy, spend time around friends and loved ones, eat good food, whatever, but every day turned out the same. An hour or so of optimism followed by anxiety, some kind of blunder, and then napping half the day away.

Today, he was just going to let it be bad. Still, he has things to do, so he’ll muscle through it. It’s going to be a hard day, but he’s going to leave the house and get stuff done.

An hour later, a 6 foot cat man burst into Hidden Gems (a store he’d never heard of, how exciting!) in a flurry of runaway snowflakes, completely shoeless and shirtless (a very damp looking jacket tied around d his waist) but with his fur fluffed against the cold, and a huge grin on his face. He was absolutely covered in snow, orange and black fur turned silvery.

Lark’s amber eyes lasered in on the first person he saw, and he speed-walked his way over, hand outstretched palm down. “Hey, look look look! Quick, b’fore it melts!”

On the back of his hand was a particularly large and defined snowflake, that likely would have melted already if Lark’s fur weren’t keeping it elevated away from the warmth of his skin.

Well, and he was pretty chilly himself. But worth it.

[loz-chainsofcorruption]

I have a question for the reverse isekai au:

Is there a chosen hero on this earth? But since there is no "evil" so they just didn't know and lived like a normal person? I thought that'd be cool as a character, and they could be the key for the chain to get back to their universe? :)

Aww that's kind of a fun idea! But I'm planning on keeping this pretty well centered to just the chain and any "OCs", that is to say other characters aside from them will be like any other NPCs in stories and only appear as much as needed. As far as I know at the moment, the only character who might be a reoccurring one will be reoccurring for plot convenience LOL

That does actually remind me of a fic I read though! Like, the premise is pretty different than what you said but if reminded me of it nonetheless. It's actually really good - it's got a Normal Highschooler™ named Lincoln Matheson (Link for short) who winds up basically being the earthen counterpart of Link - that is to say, LoZ stuff (which does exist as a fandom in that universe) starts spilling into his world and he and his friends take up the roles of the different characters - it's very good and includes a lot of references; like the writer clearly knows and loves the series. You can always tell when someone's got a real love for the series they're basing their work off of. BEST OF ALL, IT'S GOT ART!! The premise might come off as silly at first to some people but I geniunely recommend it! I got my sister invested in it too >:) (unfortunately it's on hiatus fjgkkgkg but I believe it will come back!)

Anyway, I probably won't be making an Earth Link but it is a cute idea. Lincoln Matheson is the earth Link in my heart as it is and I'll let him keep that role <3

[hey-heigo]

Chapter 23

ohhh baby we back in it now

SEE HERE FOR GENERAL WARNINGS AND FIC SUMMARY

Some pre-chapter notes:

byakuya pov finally

bonus headcanon coming into play here: byakuya being Wasian

shoutout @digitaldollsworld for helping me conceptualize byakuya's mom! both of us are Sick about her

Content warning tags: wall-punching, grieving/mourning, unreality (dreaming)

< previous - from start - next >

There’s a woman standing in his office.

Byakuya stands behind the cracked-open doorway, peeking through - though, part of him does rile up with the indignity of having to spy into his own office - at the intruder, standing in front of his desk, back facing the door.

He can’t see her face. But he can see her flax-yellow hair, tied back with a wrinkled, silken scarf that’s probably the most expensive thing she’s wearing. Her cotton jumpsuit is so stained and faded that hardly any of the original blue is still there. Her canvas shoes are discolored with mud.

She would look more out of place, if the shabbiness of her hadn’t seeped into her surroundings. The carpet is splattered with crusted clay, and shards of stone stick out of the plush threads like thorns. The mahogany surface of his desk is creaking and bent under the weight of a large cube of fleshy, white marble, splintering under the lacquer.

As he watches, she lifts her bare hands - ugly, roughened, thickly muscled fingers, nails cracked and filthy - like a conductor before an orchestra. She pauses, head tilted like a bird, thinking, and Byakuya inexplicably finds himself holding his breath; and then, she places her palms against the stone.

The surface of it warps and distends beneath her touch, first like a swollen balloon, and then like clay, twisting and following her hands like a swimming fish. And he watches, fascinated despite himself, as she bends and shapes it, twisting pieces off, smoothing edges down. She pinches out a piece in the middle for a nose, smoothes down a sharp edge for a sloping curve of a cheek, flicks her nail sharply beneath the brow to pull out a crease for an eyelid.

It’s magic. In seemingly no time at all, there on his desk is a bust; the head of a man brought to life, caught in a soft, gentle expression. The sculptor pauses, and steps backwards to take in her work.

There’s something reverent about it, and Byakuya suddenly has the feeling that he’s witnessing something not meant for him to see.

But he creaks the door open slightly more to get a better look, finding it strange how he was more curious than angry, even despite the intrusion. As he approaches, the bust’s eyes suddenly flick towards him, and immediately the serenity is replaced by a solemn, pinched brow, the smile replaced by a severe slash of a frown. And Byaukuya realizes he recognizes this face.

The marble-wrought head of Kijo Togami is sitting on his desk, scowling at him.

“Byakuya?”

He turns to the woman. She’s facing him now, though she has no face to speak of - it is blurred and unfocused, like a distant background character of an impressionist oil painting, the features mere shifting smears against a flat plane - but he knows her. He knows her.

“Byakuya,” She repeats, the syllables awkward on her tongue. She’s speaking French, and she sounds distant. Muted, underwater. But her voice still has the same, oddly musical quality to it that he remembers, making everything she said sound like a lullaby. “Bijou. Did I not tell you to stay out of my studio?”

Her studio?

“This is my office.” He protests back. He can’t tell if he’s speaking Japanese or not; every word feels clumsy and foreign, like he’s just learned how to talk. “What are you doing here, Mother?”

She just sighs. Shakes her head, her featureless face. There’s no anger in it, no loving exasperation either; just a neutral disapproval of his presence. His unwanted existence in her space. “Bijou,” She says again, and the nickname irritates him. A sweet-sounding endearment that was ultimately empty, a placeholder for her to refer to him by, because his own name was too clumsy to speak with her accent. “When did you become so grown? When will you stop being so cold?”

The stone Kijo Togami is still frowning at him. In this instant, both the man he calls ‘Father’ and the woman who had birthed him - one painfully-detailed stone, the other indistinct flesh - stand before him. One silent and forever displeased, the other sweet but hollow-sounding and entirely uncaring that they shared any blood at all.

“How strange it is, that you look so much like me,” She sighs, raising a hand to his face. He flinches away from it, the sandpaper sharpness of her palms, the filth that stains the creases of her skin, the heat that comes off of it like a kiln. “And yet, you are so much like him.”

—

He wakes up with a gasp, eyes snapping open.

He’s greeted with the pitch darkness of his ceiling, cut through with a thin slash of white from his bathroom light, streaming through the cracked-open door. A reminder he had taken to preparing for himself before he went to bed, that his eyes were still there, and he sighs and presses a palm to his chest as he stares up at it. Feeling his heart pounding beneath his fingertips, then slowing, in time with his breaths.

A dream. He can’t remember the last time he dreamed so vividly, but he had been subjected to some unpleasantly…shocking events the last few days (he won’t call them traumatic, he’s witnessed far worse in his life). The details of the dream are already slipping away as he tries to recall it, like sand between his fingers. It’s hardly important.

He lies in bed a moment longer, trying to see if sleep will come, but even with the adrenaline fading he’s wide-awake. Annoying, but not surprising, considering how he had spent much of the day before napping in short, fitful bursts. He pushes himself upright, reaching under his pillow for his handbook; may as well make use of the time.

The clock on his handbook reads: three AM. His neglected stomach gurgles as he squints at the dim glow of the screen, and he sighs. He hasn’t eaten since Celeste’s little tea party the day before, and he might as well go to the kitchen now. There likely wouldn’t be anyone wandering around to disturb him. And with Ishimaru gone, there was no one left to seriously uphold the nightly curfew; he drags himself out of bed with a grunt, grabbing his bathrobe off the end of his bedpost as he goes.

He’s not expecting the trap that he finds when he opens the door, however. The first step he takes past the threshold is accompanied by a loud, startling crunch, and he jumps backwards, just barely stifling a shriek. He throws his hand against the light switch, digging it into his palm as he flicks in on, and at once the yellow glow streaming from his room illuminates the something round, brown, and somewhat deflated sitting in the hallway.

For a moment, he thinks it's some kind of rodent, dead and trodden under his foot. But closer inspection reveals it to be packaged bread, only slightly crushed in its plastic wrapper. There’s no note, but he can guess who the offering is from.

He sighs, picks it up by the corner, and tosses it behind him towards his trash can as he leaves.

The hallways are dim, and almost silent if not for the dull hum of the school’s inner machinery. The whoosh of air conditioning, the muffled clang of pipes. None of the construction that Hagakure had reported days ago, not even when he strains his ears.

But he does catch the quiet murmur of conversation as he passes the bathhouse, and he pauses, staring at the light that streams from behind the curtain, the quick-flicker of shadows moving from inside.

“It wasn’t your fault!”

He freezes, standing just outside. That was Chihiro’s - no, Alter Ego’s - voice. 

“I know Master wouldn’t resent you.” It continues, earnest and bright. “And based on my data…I don’t think Kiyotaka would blame you either!”

“But it was my fault,” Mondo’s voice is strained and hollow, grieving still. “If I hadn’t left them alone - if I’d tried to just talk to him -”

Byakuya shifts slightly. He doesn’t want to be here, to have to witness Mondo’s continued breakdown. He still hasn’t forgiven the other boy, but having to see him stuck in the depths of misery was…unpleasant. And he’s not so petty to want retribution while the target of his ire was in such a state.

He tiptoes past, giving the bathhouse entrance a wide berth. From inside, he hears more indistinct voices, one low and gravelly from crying, the other electronic and gentle. And then-

“Brother, what are you looking so down for?” This one was new, but chillingly familiar. Loud and overeager and belonging to someone who was supposed to be dead. “You-”

Crash.

The sound of crunching metal. In the quiet of the hallway, it’s as loud as an explosion, and it makes Byakuya jump. Before he can reconsider, he’s sprinting into the bathhouse, throwing aside the curtain.

It takes him a moment to process what he’s seeing. Owada is standing, partly-hunched, one hand punching against the wall of lockers hard enough to warp the thin metal door. Someone is standing beneath him hands raised in self-defense - it takes Byakuya a moment to recognize that it’s Makoto, dressed in the white and dark blue of his pajamas, lacking the signature green of his jacket - and from somewhere behind Makoto, there’s a dim, neon-green glow, and a confused, worried voice.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-!” 

“Don’t do that,” Owada snarls, drowning out Alter Ego’s stuttered apology. The locker door rattles where his fist is pressed into it. “Don’t just- wear his face, don’t you dare-”

“M-Mondo, it didn’t mean to! It was just trying-” Makoto breaks off, apparently noticing Byakuya. “B-Byakuya-?!”

Byakuya was immediately beginning to regret his decision to involve himself in the first place. “What is going on here?” He demands, crossing his arms and glaring imperiously.

Instead of replying, Owada pulls away, withdrawing his hand and retreating to slump over on the bench, despondent and unresponsive once more. Makoto twitches, turning between Owada, then Alter Ego, and back to Byakuya. “Um…”

“It’s not their fault!” Alter Ego pipes up hurriedly, its voice echoing tinnily from inside its locker, and Byakuya could feel a corresponding vibration from the handbook tucked in his shirt pocket. “It seems Mondo wanted to ask me a question, and Makoto was just helping to convey that-”

“I don’t care.” He snaps, and Alter Ego falls silent. “Neither of them are supposed to be here in the first place, and especially not after hours. Are the two of you trying to draw Monokuma’s suspicion? Endanger Alter Ego?” Makoto flinches a bit at that. Owada doesn’t even move. “Don’t you care about getting out of here at all?”

He’s not really expecting a reply, so he’s surprised when Owada speaks up. “ ‘Course not.” He rasps, so low and hollow that it was like he was speaking from the depths of a pit. Or maybe he was the pit, swelling with black-matter misery. “I…don’t care about anything anymore.”

Well. That’s to be expected. But even despite that, he finds himself a bit rattled. He’s been at the receiving end of anger, venom, screaming anguish and even vehement hate at this point. But this emptiness Owada is exhibiting was new; It seems like this school is insistent on teaching me new things, he thinks, and feels his lip curling up with the bitter irony.

“So you’re content to waste away? Throw away that anger that you were so proud of?” He raises a scathing eyebrow. “Go ahead and do that, then. I won’t stop you. But at the very least, spare the rest of us the dramatics of your little episode.”

“Byakuya!”

He twitches a bit, irritated. Makoto’s voice is shrill despite being hushed, and laced with anger; he’s standing stiffly next to Alter Ego’s open locker, hands trembling at his sides.

“What, Makoto.” He snaps, and only belatedly realizes that this was the first time he’s actually spoken to the other boy since the trial; in his irritation, he went and broke his own self-imposed vow of silence against him.

He doesn’t respond immediately, but doesn’t immediately shrink away either at the acidity of Byakuya’s tone. If anything he stands up a little straighter. “It’s only been a day since…you know.” He says, and his words are slow and careful, meticulously chosen. Like he’s in a trial again, trying to soothe skittish tempers - though Byakuya feels the exact opposite of ‘soothed’ by it - “Mondo asked to talk to Alter Ego. I went with him. It got a little heated-”

“A little? Is that what you call this?” He points at the locker next to his head; the one that Mondo had punched, the dent a clear, dark blotch of shadow in the middle of the flat green surface.

“That -” Makoto winces slightly. “We weren’t really expecting-”

“No, clearly not. And not thinking either, I imagine.”

“I-”

“I suppose safety and logic took second priority over trying to be helpful, hm? Since that’s all that’s important to you?” He’s not sure where these words are coming from, filled with acid. But it feels good to talk, to spit out every miserable thing that he’s feeling, that he’s felt because of Makoto. “You were so very kind to help me during that trial, after all.”

“Okay, that’s not-”

“That must be why you’re here now, I imagine. Sneaking out at this late hour past Kyoko, just so you could babysit this useless mess.” He sneers. “Did you decide to make Mondo your next pet project, trying to be his little assistant like you were mine?”

“Oh, for-” Makoto takes a deep breath, presses his hands to his eyes. “Can you shut the fuck up?! For one second?”

Whatever else Byakuya was about to say, dissipates like smoke out of his slack-jawed mouth. Even Owada seems to twitch up at this, the only sign of surprise he could give, compared to Byakuya’s shock.

Makoto is quiet for a few seconds, and the only sound is the quiet hum of pipes, and the sound of his breathing, shaky but slow. He pulls his hands away from his face after one more shuddering breath. “Okay. I’m okay now.” He says this part quietly, as if it were more for himself than anyone else. Then:

“It’s not fair,” He addresses Byakuya, and his voice is almost steady. “I’m trying my best, I’m trying to keep us all alive.”

“Yes, and you’re doing-”

“No! Shut up! Just listen!” He snaps, and Byakuya’s teeth click as he shuts his mouth, effectively cutting off the rest of his sarcastic remark. “Right now, the best thing we can do is to survive together. We’re just going to play into the mastermind’s hands if we can’t trust each other. Why doesn’t anyone get that?!”

His voice actually cracks on the last syllable, and he sounds close to hysterics. Byakuya simply stares, dumbfounded for a moment, before:

“...You’re going to say that? After what just happened?” It’s so ridiculous he could almost laugh. Trust? In this school, in this game? After everything that’s happened? “We all trusted Ishimaru. Where did that get us? Where did that get Chihiro?”

No sooner has that name left his mouth, does he try to bite it back. Feeling all at once mortified that he would stoop so low, that he would let himself be pushed to such a level. But it’s too late to take it back - at the sound of those names, Owada jerks again, and Makoto actually takes a step backwards, as if struck - so Byakuya keeps going. “This isn’t some-some fairy tale where everyone can learn to get along by talking about our feelings. None of us have any unity left - if even Ishimaru can snap, then there’s no telling who might strike next.”

“Stop,” Makoto grits out. “Taka - it was an accident. Just a stupid accident.” And that was the worst part, wasn’t it? That none of this was supposed to happen at all; if the coincidences hadn’t lined up terribly, horribly perfectly. “He didn’t mean for Chihiro to die!”

And Chihiro didn’t mean to get killed either. But he manages to swallow that thought, bitter and heavy in his throat. “His intentions didn’t change the outcome.” He says instead, cold and flat and utterly, completely empty.

Silence falls on the room. The lights buzz, the pipes hiss; the old, outdated screen of Alter Ego’s computer hums softly, contemplatively. There’s the muted, metallic thump of the water heater, somewhere inside the wall.

And then Owada speaks up.

“What should I do?” He asks hollowly. He’s looking up now, directly at him. His hair is limp, pompadour undone and falling over his face, obscuring it in streaks of dirty yellow. “I…they’re dead. I couldn’t-” He takes a slow, shuddering breath. “It was my fault. But I don’t know what to do.”

His words are pleading and genuine, as if Byakuya could give a proper answer; he hesitates, still uncertain of what to do with this…empty shell of a punk.

He glances towards Makoto, and then the dim green glow still emanating from the open locker. “Do you care what you do with your life at this point?”

“Byakuya…” Makoto starts warningly, but Owada interrupts him.

“No.”

“Then use it to protect Alter Ego.” If Owada has any sort of misgivings or protest about this, Byakuya ignores them. “That’s Chihiro’s last work, after all. It’s the least you can do to guard it.”

“Is…” Owada’s head turns towards the locker, then back. “Is that…okay?”

His hesitation is understandable. Even if Alter Ego was nothing more than a clever program, it did still wear the face of the boy who Owada’s friend inadvertently killed, and whose corpse Owada had tried to conceal. And that wasn’t even considering if Alter Ego would be cooperative in being protected by him, though there wasn’t much it could do about it.

But Alter Ego is the one who speaks up. “I hope we get along well, Mondo!” It chirps, a smile clear on its voice. And Mondo simply stares for a moment, before burying his face in his palms, and begins to cry.

__

“Are you going back to your room?”

He stops, and turns. They’ve left the bathhouse, Mondo departing first after sobbing his eyes out, and Makoto insisting he go rest in his room - though he probably would’ve ended up staying in the bathhouse all night if he could’ve gotten away with it - and Byakuya, having ended up spending an hour more than he wanted to dealing with it all, is tired once more..

“Where else would I be going?” He scoffs. Makoto is standing just in front of the bahthouse curtains, his face entirely concealed by shadow.

“I…” He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I noticed you didn’t really…eat a proper meal yesterday. I could go make you something?”

It’s tempting, for a moment. Byakuya clenches a hand in his robe, pressed against his stomach to stifle any unwarranted growls. “No.” He says firmly. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Oh…are you sure? Because-”

“Makoto.” He falls silent. “I told you that there’s no need for us to uphold the deal we made. Your assistance is no longer needed.”

“...But, this isn’t because of the deal, I just-”

“I’m not so low that I’d need charity from you.”

He goes quiet again. Quiet and still, and there’s something off-putting about how he looks. Outlined by the yellow lights of the bathhouse but otherwise completely in darkness, his silhouette sharpened without his jacket. “...Is it really that hard, trusting someone?”

For as angry as he’d been in the bathhouse, now he’s more like his usual self. Quieter, and unsure. The one person out of place in this school, designated unremarkable and then made remarkable because of that.

An unremarkable life. No wonder he couldn’t understand.

“You’ve never had to worry about it before,” He says. “I imagine your life is like a sheep’s. Completely oblivious to the danger around you, as long as you stay inside the fence.

“But the world isn’t as kind as you think it is. And people can always be swayed, no matter how much you trust them, or how much you think they trust you.” He’s seen it happen. He’s exploited it himself, even. “At this point, it would be safest to stop associating with anyone. If you had any brains at all, you would do the same.”

Makoto lets out a sigh that’s almost a laugh, though it’s bitter and mirthless. “Kyoko said the same thing,” He mutters, half to himself. “So you won’t feel safe unless you’re alone? Even though there’s only ten of us left?” He shakes his head, and the motion is a little dizzying, the messy shape of his hair blurring into a dark mass. “How many more people need to die for you to feel safe?”

He sounds angry again, but it’s a colder kind of anger. Resentful and resigned. When did you become so cold?

“...I won’t be safe until I’m out of here.” Byakuya replies steadily, though the hand clenched in his robe tightens slightly. “Even if I could keep everyone in my sight, it’s not like it’d be easy to tell if they were holding a weapon.”

Silently, he adds: And thanks to you, they know that as well.

Makoto doesn’t say anything in reply, so Byakuya leaves. Quickly, in case his stomach threatens to grumble again; his hand doesn’t leave his robe until he’s safely inside his room, door locked behind him.

He almost treads on the bread again, stepping on a corner of the packaging and jumping at the sharp, crinkling sound. It takes a little bit of fumbling in the dark until he finds it, squeezing it through the plastic.

He’s tempted, for a moment, his fingers already searching for the serrated edge to tear it open. But the image of Makoto standing at the bathhouse entrance jumps to his mind; still and shrouded in darkness. A strange, statuesque parody of his usual self.

He throws the bread across the room and climbs back into bed.

< previous - from start - next >

[joelletwo]

two posts abt puriteens in a row -> finally successfully hunting down the [comment] i read at work and have been trying to find bc i think its one of the first times ive seen someone actually taking up my hobby horse of "what if teens are being outsizedly self righteous for actual followable reasons and not just bc theyre evil fash? 🤔" and i find it really valuable for putting my Pretty Rowdy Anti Early 20s Something experiences and lately retrospective thoughts into words

[censored 4 search]

I also think for proshippers specifically that these young people are (to steal a quote from [youtuber]) “shadowboxing” a world that sexualizes them… and losing. What I mean by this is that they’re making up easy bad guys to fight because they feel powerless to fight a world where teenage girls get countdown clocks for their 18th birthday and teenagers are debuting as sexualized kpop idols. A world where, if they criticize these issues in public spaces, they get shouted down by the adults around them for being wet blankets or people who say “well, it’s technically legal!!” They feel disenfranchised, but the one place they do have a voice is the welcoming sphere of fandom. For me, I (as a teen) remember feeling particularly radicalized by the [horse cartoon] fandom’s reaction to the time he nearly committed statutory rape (they blamed the victim and said she was nearly 18 anyway, despite the fact that he was already middle aged and groomed her). I never became an anti, but I DID have huge long arguments in comment sections with people over this. This is the kind of energy antis are bringing to the table. Except, because they’re teens, they have much more black and white thinking and much less media literacy. Rather than defend a victim of almost statutory rape, they’re applying this black and white logic to situations that don’t really need it, probably because they’re using “I got discomfort from this, so that means it must be just as bad as people defending statutory rape!” They likely don’t have the experience to articulate/think nuanced positions like “The way artists emphasize the height difference of this ship reminds me of how society likes traits that infantilize women in romances, so I prefer ships where the woman is not much shorter than the man.” But I’m betting you that it bothers them still, even if they can’t put into words, which makes them feel crazy. So they try their best to put it into words, and it comes out as “Short women are child-coded, so romances with them are basically pedobait!” They need someone to take their frustrations with sexism seriously, but they suck at words and “I don’t like short women romances” doesn’t really sound like a sexism problem, so they escalate it into “it’s basically statutory rape” just to find others who feel as frustrated as they do. I personally feel this on a deep level, as I remember feeling like the entire romance genre was geared to fetishize the oppression of women, and I felt alone in my anger at this because nobody else in my life felt the same way. It’s only as an adult (when I developed a better capacity for nuance), that I realized that some women respond to the oppression in “problematic” ways by fetishizing it in a safe environment, and that’s okay. I think another cause of this is that a lot of the antis I see today are extremely young and grew up in cartoon fandoms where predators ran amuck in the lawless Wild West of [gems cartoon]/[pony cartoon] fandoms. They likely saw the effects of fandoms with poor adult/child boundaries (specifically ones where predators might’ve wrote stereotypically dark fanfic with “It’s just fiction” as a justification, only to be later revealed as a predator), and they are now vigilant about potential predators as a trauma response. They NEED to be able to “spot” predators using the Anti logic they’ve made up, because the alternative is realizing the predators have no standard look and can be anybody you know. The reality is, sadly, that no amount of Anti Logic will save you. Sure, some predators write dark fanfic, but a lot dark fic writers are perfectly good people. And people with “wholesome” interests can just as easily be a predator. [some person i dont know], a famous anti, is for instance a well-known predator. I have no doubt that she uses her anti status as a signal that she’s “safe,” when she’s very much NOT a safe person. This is compounded by the fact that the internet actually has a poor understanding of what grooming even is.