#so the level of creep is uncertain

[cboffshore]

"Bridal Portrait of Uncertain Origin"

Artist unknown, circa the Fall of the Preeminent (estimated)

Oils on bespoke canvas, silk tulle, gilded oak frame

Shortly after the last Yin-Yang Eclipse prior to the Merge, this portrait was discovered in the attic of the Temple of Airjitzu, despite no records of the portrait ever being displayed inside. Indeed, "Bridal Portrait of Uncertain Origin" lacks any solid provenance or provable history. The materials and techniques used only further obscure the truth; perhaps the only thing certain about it is that it exists.

Examination of the structure of the canvas and gilded wooden frame indicate classical techniques from the end of the Era of the Stone Warrior; however, chemical analysis of the paints, varnish, and other materials used to finish the base revealed compounds identical to substances readily available in civilian art supply establishments of pre-Merge urban Ninjago, specifically those available shortly before the portrait's discovery.

Further complicating matters, the image itself is a web of self-contradictions and mismatched details. The subject's pose is highly informal, but the portrait itself - from the level of detail in the oil paint to the larger-than-life scale - is lavish enough to suggest a formal reason for its creation. The subject's attire, too, is highly unusual. Of all known ceremonial attire in the realms, the blues, sharp lapels, and floral motifs rendered here most closely match traditional Djinjagan royal wedding garments (hence the portrait's given title). However, the presence of only two arms, human legs emphasized by a jumpsuit, and the highly unusual structure of the outfit preclude it from being truly Djinjagan in origin and match no other known ceremonial garments from any realm.

Despite all of these bizarre qualities, perhaps the most intriguing part of the portrait is the silk tulle veil flowing out from the painting to drape over the edge of the frame. Independent analyses by multiple art historians found absolutely no point of the connection between the veil and the canvas; the fabric seems to proceed from the image itself, as if the frame is in fact only a window sill separating the viewer from the bride. Furthermore, chemical analysis of the veil revealed trace quantities of organic Latrodectus sotoii venom - a toxin found only on one island in all sixteen realms, which was nowhere close to the portrait's point of origin. Combined with the spiderweb embroidery on the veil, as well as the subject's trio of spider shaped brooches and venom-coated raised hand, the presence of this toxin may be the most reasonable thing about this portrait.

(Now: notes from the artist.)

The process for this one was utterly unlike any other artistic project I've ever done. This all started with me thinking back over a past Skybound analytical piece of mine and thinking how fun it might be to try putting it on an actual person instead of the template croquis I designed it on. (Also: seeing how my texturing methods have evolved!) One Dallon Weekes photo and a Reel about quick contrapposto armature doodling later and I was off to the races.

Initially, this was only supposed to be a souped up edition of the original look - the second image shown just above these notes. Then, while I was trying to figure out how I wanted to display the veil, I wondered: wouldn't it be neat to let it drape out of the frame? Except for I didn't have a frame involved at that point.

At which point I decided, well.... let's make a frame happen. There was already a decidedly haunted portrait energy coming off of this thing (fully intentional, but that's what happens when two of the albums you associate most strongly with your Skybound work are Vices and Virtues and Violent Things), so I thought: let's put it on display. Let's let the veil creep out to meet actual gallery air. Furthermore, why not give it a scary ass, borderline SCP ish existence? I do love an excuse to try and write a museum plaque.

Put another way: If you walked into a gallery and saw an oversized portrait of you on one of the worst days of your life that never happened, except for all the details were wrong (but just right enough to suggest the artist knew what she was doing), would that be fucked up or what?

Some other assorted notes about this:

The design of the gallery space itself was inspired by an image of Crystal Bridges, an art museum in Arkansas that I'm hoping to visit later this year on a trip I'm taking to that area. I've had a family friend hyping it up for years now, and I've looked into it a lot; it's an incredible space. In the fictional lore of this painting, it ends up in a Crossroads art preservation institute of some kind that hangs on to art and artifacts from throughout the realms that crashed together in the Merge. (I couldn't quite squeeze that into the plaque writeup without sounding clunky.) Crystal Bridges, an American art museum with a dizzying range of works, inspired that idea and seemed the most appropriate place to base my fictional gallery on. Here's the image I used as reference, taken from a Google result from their site:

There is, in fact, text on that plaque on the wall. It's too tiny to read, but I promise that's text. Barring a few minor changes, it's the same as in the writeup; I typed it out, screenshotted and removed the background, and laid it out on the plaque. Much easier than trying to draw out teeny individual words.

Something else I couldn't fit into the plaque but tried to imply via the details was that this piece survived whatever collection it was originally in and made it through the Merge inexplicably intact, much like Nya's memories of the deleted timeline still hanging on even after the full reset. Weird as some stuff in this world is, there truly is no escaping it. Better get some nice lighting on it and try to get to the bottom of it. (I do also think it's funny how I bent over backwards trying to help this unnamed plaque author curator character trace every possible origin path when the motive for making this was just... fun. I just did this for fun and then I tried to make it look so grand and terrifying.)

The outfit in the portrait is faithful to the original design, with a few tweaks: the web collar is now gold to stand out against the veil, the veil itself is much longer, there are now two more spiders on the skirt, and there's a birdcage-inspired crinoline under the skirt. That last one was a technical decision, as the lace this time around didn't feel like it could hold itself up. Also, it's a convenient source of more symbolism if you need one.

That's about all the notes I have for right now - if I think of others, I'll be sure to add them. If you have any questions or comments, the inbox is always, always open.

Thank you for stopping by the exhibit.

[dialsforshutup]

Please post part 2 of the larissa fic!!!

your wish is my command <3

Oh, Hello. Pt 2

Larissa Weems X Fem!Addams!Reader

(Slight) frenemies to lovers

2/4. Not proofread, English isn’t my first language, and some parts of the canon changed

formatting might look weird on some devices

Very long chapter, I apologize in advance

There's some trouble in paradise, but don't fret! I promise lots of comfort and fluff in the next part

Thanks, darlings for all the love on the first part! 💕 mwahhh 💋

Part 3 - Part 4

...(Y/N) responded, laying her bag at her feet and saying, "You could never say no to me."

 Those seven words caused Larissa to tap her nails onto her desk, that familiar phrase got the two of them into so much trouble when they were students - she couldn't help but allow a wicked grin to start forming on her face. "No, I suppose not. We were quite the pair back then," she said to the woman sitting in front of her desk, who replied with an uncertain, "Yes, we were weren't we?" They were in a difficult situation because neither of the women ever imagined meeting the other again. However, after so many years, here they were, face to face. Larissa had the power to decide what would happen to them. She could simply reject (Y/N)'s application and send her on her way, ignoring the old, unresolved problems she wanted to stay away from. Alternatively, she could accept the application and gain a friend on the staff in whom she could confide after they cut the BS and discussed what had happened. The choice was challenging, to put it mildly. "So..." (Y/N) said, breaking the awkward silence between them, "Should we go ahead with the interview?" The million-dollar smile returned to Larissa's face as she nodded. She decided that any unresolved issues between them could wait for now. She straightened her position on the chair and cleared her throat, slinking her manicured hands onto her computer and turning it on- opening the mail app to find (Y/N)'s qualifications that should have been sent to her beforehand. Larissa continued, maintaining the interview's formality, "Okay Professor Addams, let's get started."

They had reached the halfway point of the interview, and (Y/N) had expertly and accurately responded to each question, from classifying claw-litative data to the history of sociopathy. This only made Larissa's predicament worse. Surely, as a principal, she had a duty to hire someone with (Y/N)'s level of qualifications. "Well, it's clear that you have a wide range of skills and are very qualified... Welcome to the Nevermore team," Larissa said, quickly closing her laptop as she focused all of her attention on the woman in front of her, her eyes sweeping her from head to toe. (Y/N) noticed the principal’s wandering eyes, and sent a friendly wink once their eyes met once again- even if Larissa was her boss now, they still had a history. “Great,” she said, after winking, a smile creeping onto her face at the principal's flustered face, “Where will I be stationed?”. (Y/N) was ecstatic to begin her new job and have the opportunity to mould the minds of future generations of outcasts, but she was also ecstatic to be around the staff, the majority of whom were her old friends. Clearly aware of (Y/N)'s excitement, Larissa stood back up and moved closer to the new professor. Even though they pretended they didn't want to see each other again, the two women briefly shared a warm smile. The person who broke the shared expression was Larissa, who stood directly in front of (Y/N) while she was seated. Larissa was so tall over the woman's sitting position that (Y/N) had to tilt her head up to face Larissa. The principal simply knelt down slightly, which caused the new professor's breath to falter- almost as if she were out of breath. But when Larissa picked up the bag off the ground and firmly held it in her right hand, her excitement began to fade. “I’ll escort you to the quarters, I’m afraid we don’t have any single rooms open. So you’ll have to stay with me for now,” Larissa said with grace as she began to walk to the door regardless of the other woman’s response. (Y/N) hurriedly walked in the direction of Larissa, trying to keep up with the woman who was moving much more quickly than she was. “I’m not complaining.” She said in a hurried tone, as the two of them left the office and walked through the hallways side by side. (Y/N) found herself once more staring at the pictures of the alumni that were displayed in glass frames throughout the dimly lit, soggy hallways and immortalised for all time, leaving legacies of hundreds on the walls. When she saw a picture of herself and Larissa posing proudly and beaming for the Nevermore book club picture, she chuckled. “What made you so joyful?” Larissa questioned inquisitively: Surely (Y/N) wasn't that thrilled to be back? But when she followed the other woman's line of reasoning, she found the solution. “Oh.” She spoke softly while grinning as she recalled how they had founded the club. Despite being the only two people there, they always had a blast. But during their final meeting, they got into a rambling argument that caused (Y/N)'s disappearance after graduation. “We’re going to lose time dawdling over the past.” More firmly than she meant to, Larissa spoke. “oh, sorry.” Was all that (Y/N) could muster, hurt over Weems' abrupt rejection of their photo, suggesting that perhaps their relationship had changed for the worse. Larissa didn't say anything, just nodded and motioned for the professor to follow. They walked on in silence, with only the murmur of giggling students as background noise. Many of them gave (Y/N) curious looks, while others gave the pair a smug grin as they whispered among themselves. Larissa simply continued to the teachers' dorms, her heels clicking loudly on the stone floors beneath her, amplified by (Y/N)'s heeled boots. It appeared that she had learned to tune out the students' whispers, probably as a result of her many years serving as the academy's principal. She abruptly stopped moving and spun around to face the woman following her.

As a result of her abrupt stop, (Y/N) almost crashed into the tall woman in front of her. Instead, she simply looked at her with an awkward smile, her clumsiness made Larissa chuckle. “We’ve reached.” She said with an opening of the dark brown door behind her. The room itself was fairly large and fully wooden- not practical for a fire emergency. Larissa seemed to have settled down in the leftmost side of the room, as it was decorated with various light colours of cream and the occasional red. (Y/N) smiled to herself and made her way to the rightmost side of the room, and began to softly skim her hands over the soft blanket placed on the bed. The threads of yarn made a soft scratching noise as her long nails floated overtop them. She'd hum to herself as they got caught in between the threads, slightly jumping when the loud thud of her bag hitting the mattress of the bed next to her emerged. She was so caught up in the atmosphere that she hadn't realised that Larissa made her way over to her. "Prepare yourself." the taller woman said, not looking directly at the woman in front of her, "Your first class is in half an hour. When you're finished, make your way to the library, the staff is finalizing the plans for the next Rave'N which is in two days' time. Including today." and with this she forced a smile and left the room, allowing the new professor to unpack and prepare herself. (Y/N) looked uneasy, everything that went wrong between Larissa and herself was because of the Rave'N that took place during their school years. It was not something she was looking forward to at the very least, but it was something she expected- just not so soon. There was no use debating it, she simply sighed and grabbed her bag. Unbuckling the clamps and moving it over to the mahogany closet on the side of her living quarter; just by a hazy glassed window. She began digging through the array of clothes, the bag itself wasn't too large from the outside, but the inside was enchanted to fit a multitude of things; an old family heirloom. (Y/N) had packed every single clothing item she owned, this was her home now, for the time being anyways. "Cet air qui m'obsède jour et nuit...Cet air n'est pas né d'aujourd'hui" she began to mumble to herself, singing along to the marvelous tunes of édith Piaf, her hips slightly swaying to the make-believe music. She eventually prepared everything though, and changed into a different pencil skirt and blazer; this time it was muted pink, to symbolize her new journey. All the equipment she needed for her lesson was already in the classroom, all she needed to bring was herself. Her personal life could wait, her students awaited her, and off she went to make her way to the classroom for the very first time. Larissa didn't know why she got so worked up over the reminder of what happened during her years' Rave'N. She told herself countless times again and again that she got over the fact that the person she wanted to ask showed up with another person; even if they knew she was going to ask them. Here she was, sitting in her office after leaving the dormatory- in her hand was her old yearbook. (Y/N) must be in the middle of her lesson by now she thought to herself, humming a melancholy tune, maybe she should see if her teaching is any good. Maybe she'll do it in a few minutes, she wanted to stare at the old yearbook photograph in front of her, her manicured nails skimming over the person's face. It was quite a tragedy, what had happened to her, she felt betrayed. There's nothing worse than the hurt of rejection, especially when it's from someone she loves- erm.. loved. "Tsk" she muttered, clicking her tongue, "Goddammit Addams...". and she meant it. She still remembers how she was a nervous mess in the hallways; telling her friends how she'd ask Addams to the Rave'N. In fact, she was overheard by the person she was going to ask, which only cut her deeper when they showed up with someone else. Was her past love unrequited? The thought of it made Larissa furrow her brows and close the yearbook.

Yet, it wasn’t Gomez Addams she was referencing, oh no, it was (Y/N) Addams. Eventually, she decided that there was no use thinking about this anymore, and threw the yearbook aside, standing up from her previous seat to make her way to the door. the hallways were quieter than they were earlier today, most of the students were either in class or participating in various clubs. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with the giggling and gossiping right now, she had more pressing matter at hand. Her destination was the library, where all the teachers had agreed to meet to finalize some finishing touches for the Rave’N. Larissa certainly didn’t want to have the mood dampened, so she would need to stop avoiding the elephant in the room and confront it, which meant dealing with the issues between herself and (Y/N). The staff needed to be harmonious to ensure the utmost safety for the students after all, no other reasons. The library doors towered over Larissa, which was a rare sight to behold, they were dark oak wood and engraved with stories and tales from Edgar Allan Poe’s writings. Her hand grazed over an engraved drawing of a raven right above the handle, the embossed wood making a soft scratching noise as she did so. It would not be easy to deal with her problems, so she sighed and gently pushed the door open to find everybody waiting there for her. Surely she hadn’t been that late for the meeting? But she apparently was, as disgruntled staff members sat together on one of the library tables, their discussions coming to a hushed tone as Larissa walked in and cleared her throat. “Apologies for being late, I had some things I had to deal with. Student records and such” she said, the lie easily escaping from her mouth with a smile. She had a reputation to uphold after all. “No worries,” said another staff member, Ms. Thornhill, who was sitting at the head of the table, “We already went through most of the things..” she explained. Larissa couldn’t argue, she was late after all, “Perfe-“ she said as she scanned the table, noticing an empty seat. The seat she was supposed to sit in, “Where is Professor Addams?” She questioned, almost automatically. “Oh- uh” Thornhill stuttered, not expecting the principal to have a sudden interest in the new professors whereabouts, this was certainly interesting to say the very least. The confused faces that graced the rest of the staff definitely showed that they felt the same way. “She didn’t attend, said something along the lines of ‘I cant bear to relive it’” The red boot-wearing woman explained, “I have no idea what she meant”

Larissa scoffed, shaking her head, “Never mind then. Let’s just focus on finishing this work” and with that she wasn’t questioned any further by the rest of the staff. As they continued throughout their planning and discussion, Larissa couldn’t stop thinking about (Y/N)- the woman burnt into the principals mind like a paper on an open flame. The flame in Larissa’s mind grew larger the more she thought about the woman, about her stupid smile, and her idiotic ignorance in going with someone else to the Rave’N back then. She was supposed to go with her, she was supposed to be smiling stupidly at her. Not with some half-assed random person! Larissa was the one that was supposed to be slow dancing with her, smelling that gorgeous flowery perfume that she loves so much.. and the feeling of the other woman’s lips against he…. Wait.. was she still in love with her??? There was no way, Larissa thought, no, she had gotten over her years go. She just wanted their friendship back, yeah… yeah. And so she would attempt to salvage it, by confronting (Y/N) about her disappearance, hopefully they would learn to understand each other.

(Y/N) hadn’t bothered to go to the meeting. Instead, here she sat, on her bed- engulfed in the blanket she was examining earlier that day. She didn’t want to increase the awkward tension between Larissa and herself by attending a meeting discussing the very same event that drew them apart. But she didn’t understand why it did, why was Larissa so upset to see her with someone else? Wasn’t Larissa planning to ask her cousin to the dance? So confusing. Of course, (Y/N) had considered the fact that since Larissa and herself were sharing a dormitory, that surely the other woman would confront her about it sooner or later. But she wasn’t prepared, the topic of their separation was the sun to her Icarus- she yearned to get it over with yet she knew that she would burn up if she drew to close. She didn’t want to be on bad terms with Larissa, she truly didn’t. Yet the woman wouldn’t leave her thoughts, from the assertive way she stood when she spoke, to the small smiles she used to give (Y/N) when their eyes would meet across a room. Over time (Y/N) developed feelings for the taller woman, her heart was completely shattered when she heard that Larissa was going to ask Addams to the dance- yet (Y/N) never considered that the Addams Larissa was referencing was actually her. The overwhelming return of these feelings and memories caused (Y/N) to start tearing up, she hadn’t even noticed it. Her heart skipped a beat when she heard the knocking on the door, and her fears were confirmed when Larissa walked in, looking assertive, with a furrowed brow. She softly clicked the door shut behind her and walked over to where (Y/N) was huddled up, crossing her arms as she roughly shut her eyes, “We need to talk, and sort this-“ her words were cut off when she opened her eyes to find (Y/N)‘s tear- stained face, her expression immediately softened. She couldn’t never stay mad at her, no matter what she did- her empathy and love for the other woman overpowered any negative connotations she had with her, she hated it, but she loved it too. And with this, Larissa sat down on the bed in-front of the professor and softly said,

“Are you okay?”

————

I hope you liked it!!! 💕 More to come very soon, I promise lots of comfort and fluff in the next one :,)

All of these years of hurt just because of a silly misunderstanding from both ends!!🥲🥲

And a special gift; a playlist!

[coldresolve]

Moneymakers, pt.xlvi // The Silence

Previous / AO3 / Wattpad / Masterlist / Next

Renee follows the departure out the corner of his eye, sees the figure melt into the darkness of the hallway. He hears the door to Davin’s room go, the low click of the lock. An audible draft seeps in from where the window used to be, the occasional whisper through invisible gaps between the plywood panel and the frame, or the crinkling of the plastic sheet.

Tremors muddy the movement of his hands, but he still manages to painstakingly pull the shirt over his head, using the fabric to wipe the brunt of the blood off the lower half of his face. The taste of it is nauseating, that metallic sweetness. A faint pulsing at the bridge of his nose is a millisecond out of sync from the one in his elbow. Different distances from the heart.

Mouth-breathing, goosebumps rising over his naked torso as the chill air of the kitchen washes over him. Dried sweat itching along his hairline. His face feels warm, vision still sailing, and the house is eerily quiet in the aftermath of what just happened. The sort of silence that makes the sound of his recovering, ragged breathing carry. It’s out of place. Doesn’t belong. 

Pushing himself up with his good arm, Renee staggers, and immediately has to catch himself on the edge of the table when his rattled sense of balance nearly makes him trip over his own feet. He stumbles through the warm light of the kitchen, shouldering open the bathroom door. The lights make him squint, and even that small movement sends a lingering jab through the center of his face. His reflection in the mirror looks foreign, and he can only focus on one element at a time, never manages to get the full picture. The blood still leaking out of either nostril, sliding over his upper lip, dripping. The fucking taste. The goddamn fucking taste.

Setting the cartilage straight reinvigorates the bleeding, and whenever he tries to block the flow with pressure, it hurts bad enough for him to see stars. Ten or so minutes are spent frozen, eyes fixed on the red that steadily creeps down the drain, until the flow begins to ebb out. Then he washes his face with cold water, carefully rubs dried flakes from his skin.

With the water still running, Renee props an elbow on the edge of the sink, resting his forehead against his arm. The shout aching to burst out of his lungs is halted by the pain in his throat. All that escapes is a groan, equally as strange as his appearance. It doesn’t belong. This isn’t him.

Five, six months of his life spent preparing to chase a fever dream that crumbled the moment reality started to set in, lured along by a guy who couldn’t care less if Renee threw himself off a cliff. And there’s rage in all that, of course there is, but beneath it - something worse. A bottleneck, a smothering pressure that feels like it’s coming from all sides at once. Makes his stomach churn.

Dread.

Uncertain steps trace back to his bedroom. Sinking down next to the bed, he leans his back against the frame, hand automatically clutching at the ache in his arm, thumb driving into his bicep. He leans his head back, exposing his neck, and hopes, at some level, that the blade of the guillotine would just hurry up and drop already. It’s been teasing for far too long.

Renee’s eyes close. Small dull sounds of the foundation settling, mingled with the ringing in his ears, the feeling that his body is rolling, wavering. There’s a kaleidoscope in the dark, faint across his eyelids. Churning thoughts that hardly go anywhere, but simultaneously span his entire lifetime.

A clarity of sorts, but it hurts to consider. Physically hurts – it accentuates the pain in his throat for some reason, makes his head reel. Makes him sweat and shiver at the same time.

Why is the house so quiet?

It is mourning in advance.

He opens his eyes to the sight of a blank ceiling. The air leaves his chest slowly through gritted teeth, a grimace that has yet to veer into real resolution – and probably never will.

But he still gets up.

💵

00:02

Leaving his phone to charge on a side table, Renee filters rather methodically through the trash in his room, laying everything he might consider keeping on the bed. It predictably ends up taking hours. He tries to snort a line just to keep his energy up, but it turns out to be impossible with a busted nose. So he rubs it on his gums instead, which is gross as hell, the sort of taste you have to spend a few minutes washing down with lemon-flavored tonic water, but it works, so he repeats that ritual continuously, every time he starts to come down.

Once he’s done, it looks like an explosion went off in his room. All drawers out, all closets open, every box opened. Clean and dirty clothes lazily discarded on the floor, piles of knickknacks, cans, and half-full bottles of alcohol, used dishes, empty paper bags. He’s pretty sure he has managed to get this far without making too much noise. Standing back with a sigh, his eyes loosely scan the mess, before he finally moves to the clutter on the bed. A clutter that is four times the size of his backpack.

Some sacrifices have to be made.

Renee winces at that thought.

The stash is the first thing he dumps in. A fresh set of clothes, an empty water bottle, a power bank. Then his laptop – before he immediately changes his mind. Evidence. He fishes it back out, and goes scavenging throughout the house, steps as quiet as he can make them.

Passing Davin’s room, he stops in his tracks and carefully pushes the handle down, slowly enough that the individual clicks of the spring can be heard. It’s locked – he knew it was locked, he heard it. He’s not entirely sure why he even tried.

The drill, he finds upstairs on the floor next to one of the spotlights, the bit still sporting trace amounts of blood in its threads. Pulling the trigger produces a lazy whir, weak and low no matter how hard he clutches it.

The charger for the battery is nowhere to be seen. Half an hour, forty-five minutes of rifling through bags and black containers of equipment, cables and various small electronic devices, soldering wire and plugs, most of it is just Davin’s gear. When Renee finally spots his dad’s old tool case behind a stack of cardboard boxes, he thinks the search is done. But the tool case, too, leaves him empty handed, and then he has to curb the impulse to kick its contents across the floor.

Sneering at the room, pacing as well as he can muster without triggering a creak of the floorboards. His hands are shaking again.

Deep breath.

💵

03:15.

A thin, wet layer of greyish white covers the patio by now, squished so thoroughly under his shoes, he leaves a series of dark prints in his wake. Snowfall across the pitch black sky gives the impression that the air is cushioned. All the sounds are blunt, apart from the melt-off that drips from the gutters.

The light in the small shed on the side of the house flickers briefly to reveal a neatly organized space, in which the dust has been left to collect for, as far as Renee is aware, a year and a half, at the very least. The mower parked in the back, surrounded by steel shelves of lawncare and pesticides, a few cans of gasoline, gardening tools, tubs of grainy fertilizer, plastic bags of different types of soil. Despite his mother’s occasional interest in flowers, Renee knows most of this stuff has only ever been touched by the gardeners. He clanks around different cabinets until he finally, finally finds the drill charger, stocked up behind boxes of other handheld power tools. Plugging it into a wall outlet, he clicks the battery in. For a few seconds, he stands back, locking eyes with the small blinking light, silently daring it to cause another problem. Much to his surprise, it doesn’t.

Rubbing his forehead with his knuckles, he fishes out a cigarette, igniting it under the hum of the fluorescent lights. The smoke mixes with the vapor of his breath, hanging still in the air just underneath the low ceiling. Deep breath. He pulls out his phone.

Can we talk?

yes

The cigarette trembles slightly between his fingers. Deep breath. Deep breath.

you dontt owe me anything laz

Wincing, Renee nestles the knuckle of his free hand between his front teeth, biting down until it feels like the skin breaks. Stops himself, pulls his hand away again, flexing his fingers. A minute passes, then another. No reply comes to alleviate the dark feeling that’s slowly settling in his gut. Lazarus keeps his phone open through the night, he’s never been slow to respond. Five minutes, and the cigarette is burned to the filter. Is Renee reading too much into the silence? Definitely.

What other choice does he have?

He lights another smoke.

💵

04:11.

Reason tells him to eat something for the sake of energy, but as night turns to early morning, Renee finds himself unable to concentrate enough to do anything about it. There are a dozen holes in the hard drive, a folding knife in his pocket, and his backpack is ready to go. Exhaustion wears him down like a heavy weight, and yet he still can’t settle. He paces the open kitchen silently, finds himself compulsively whispering nonsense. Replays of past conversations that should’ve gone differently, or the ones he’s about to have. All devolve into subdued hissing eventually, and he has to force himself to stop, to inhale once or twice through gritted teeth, until something new invariably pops into his head, and the cycle repeats itself.

The nonstop agitation tires him out further. Renee retreats into his room, spends god knows how long sitting on the bed with his back to the wall, hands filtering through his hair, breathing heavily through the quiet. Conrad is probably sedated, he realizes. Bad trips don’t usually go unnoticed, and yet all night, Renee hasn’t heard a peep.

And that nausea again, like a hand wrapped around his stomach, mounting the pressure.

His phone dings as he’s sitting there. Unmoving, but his back tenses up. Fatigue is what finally allows him to pick it up – he finds himself struggling to care if the hole he’s in is about to sink further.

My place. Call me before you take off, bc I have some errands to run. That ok?

Renee swallows. The small indent in the side of his phone is rough against the notches of his fingerprint. Taking a deep breath, he types a proper response, only to immediately delete it. Another two, three minutes, he just stares silently at the screen, until he manages to hit send on mere acknowledgement.

yea

He lets the phone dump back on the mattress, folds his arms over his knees. Stares into the blackness of his room, eyes unfocused. Breathing hurts. It’s going to hurt for a while.

Hours, maybe, of waiting in the distance. He crashes eventually, and he’s too lazy to get off the bed and mitigate it. Heaviness drags at his limbs, the way his posture sags, body leaning into sheer exhaustion. Along comes a more pronounced ache in his body, the final release of the anesthetic qualities of cocaine. His mood doesn’t drop, for some reason – Renee reckons it simply can’t. Once or twice, he dozes off, still sitting there folded over, and only returns when he has to suddenly catch himself from not falling sideways on the bed.

And then, eventually – a sign of life.

A faint, indiscernible sound behind the wall his back is pressed against. Barely noticeable, but present enough that Renee lifts his head. The following quiet lasts long enough that he becomes sure he hallucinated it, until he hears a door go, and casual footsteps pass by in the hallway.

He checks his phone.

06:45, exactly.

Something in his throat feels as though it has swollen over the course of the night; there’s an obstruction as he tries to swallow. Slowly, he untangles himself from his position. The fatigue doesn’t melt away, exactly, but he finds a new rush of adrenaline spike. He picks up the backpack, checks his pockets. Puts on his shoes, his jacket.

There’s a moment where Renee locks in place in the middle of the chaos he has created in his room, staring at nothing. Shoulder poised to carry the weight of his belongings as his mind drifts into empty air. He doesn’t recognize it as doubt until he finds himself reassuring himself, to a debatable reward, that this is necessary.

Once he finally shakes out of it, he casts one final glance around the room, forcing emptiness. He opens the door silently, steps slow as he traces down the hallway.

The kettle is rising to its peak as he rounds the corner to the kitchen; a cabinet closes. Davin’s hair is down, one half trailing down his back as the other obscures his face. He doesn’t look up, even as Renee makes an effort to make his movements audible over the noise. Just calmly measures out two teaspoons of instant coffee,

Renee stops a few feet from the fridge, clearing his throat.

Davin still doesn’t look up. As the kettle beeps, he takes it, casually pouring into his mug. The steam swirls in front of his face. “Rought night, hm?” he mutters. “You’re not very subtle.”

Renee feels his upper lip curl. He shifts his grip on his backpack, and it’s only then that Davin looks at him.

Immediately, he pauses, any hint of casual humor gone from his face as his eyes trail from Renee’s face to the backpack, back again. His expression doesn’t darken, exactly, but it does go blank, and he sets the kettle down on the counter.

Renee takes a deep breath through his nose, pursing his lips. “I—.” He blinks, biting down the urge to cough as his voice gives out. He hadn’t expected speaking to become more painful than it was in the immediate aftermath of the hit. Grimacing, his eyes flicker to the floor as he collects himself. Another deep breath, and an attempt to swallow back the obtrusion in his throat without fully succeeding. Gritting his teeth, he forces it out, raspy and uneven. “I quit.”

Davin keeps looking at him for a long time with that same serious expression, before his gaze trails to the fridge, then down to the kettle. Dark hair fall down from behind his shoulder, hiding his expression entirely.

“Keep the rest of my half,” Renee croaks out. “I don’t give a fuck, I just never want to see you again.”

There’s not much of a reaction, but Renee is tense as he watches Davin’s thumb absentmindedly running down the handle of his coffee cup. Realistically, the silence doesn’t last more than ten seconds, but it feels like an eternity.

Finally, Davin’s hand wraps around the mug, balanced between his fingers. “I could live with that,” he mutters. As he takes a sip, he shoots Renee a sideways glance, one brow raised. “It was worth a shot, mh?”

The urge to scream, or at the very least throw something substantial. It turns into a full sneer. Renee clutches the strap of his backpack hard, gesturing around the room with his free hand. “Just burn it down,” he growls.

Davin nods.

Letting out a huff, Renee turns on his heel, heading for the entrance, movements stiff as he curbs the impulse to destroy anything within arm’s reach.

“Renee.”

But Renee has no intention of listening to whatever bullshit the man has to say for his parting words. He rips open the front door, lets it rebound behind him as he rushes past the threshold, met by a subsequent gust of cold air. The dim light of the dawn illuminates sparse snow drifting across the front lawn he bee-lines across. Heavy breathing marked by the prick of snowflakes in his throat, strangely welcome as a distraction for turmoil. He opens and shuts the door of the Clio with a similar careless aggression, ignoring the creaking of a spring in the front wheel as he ducks in, tossing the backpack to the passenger seat.

The frozen engine struggles to revive itself at the turn of the key, but the wipers easily brush off the thin layer of white covering the windshield. Snow is illuminated in the cones of the headlights, creating the illusion that it falls much heavier than it actually does.

Renee hits the side of the steering wheel once, before he yanks the car into first gear, grimacing at the jolt of pain in his arm. His foot eases on the clutch, and the car begins to move.

He doesn’t think about Conrad.

He doesn’t think.

Previous / Masterlist / Next

[bamdelune]

sickly dan heng x reader fluff drabble

notes: not proofread, just fluff in general, might be a little ooc dan heng because this is my first hsr work

A series of knocks echoed through the archive room where a sickly Dan Heng laid as a virus threw punches at his body.

The Nameless had begun an expedition on a new planet where a Stellaron had been found. This time the planet’s climate was not-so-pleasant (read: never-ending thunderstorms) and Dan Heng had initially warned you to bring an umbrella.

Did you listen?

Of course not!

“We’ll manage, love. I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

You thought you would be able to manage because the towns were filled with roofs anyway but little did you know that little could be done to avoid the harsh rain and thus, finding out that the thunderstorms continued inside the numerous establishments of the city.

That day, you were the subject of a handful of unamused stares of “I-told-you-so” from your boyfriend.

✦

Here you stood in front of his room with a tray in your hands, standing in a certain guilt. Lucky for you, your immune system had the balls to fight the cold that was creeping up on you whereas Dan Heng’s… not so much.

You slide the door open with your foot to create a space for your head to poke through.

“Hey, bud. You alright in there?” You ask sheepishly with an awkward chuckle.

With all the energy Dan Heng could muster, he shoots you a weak glare. If looks could kill, you might as well been buried way underground already by the time he makes eye contact with you. You sigh with a nod. “Right, right.” You then push the door open to give way for your body to come in.

You set the tray down on a free space on top of one of the shelves, praying to any entity above that it won’t drop as you tended to your boyfriend as it was halfway off the shelf.

“Sit up for me, please?” you say, kneeling down to his level on the floor, your hand finding a way to press on his back to support him. He grunts tiredly, shifting some of his weight onto your palm and sits upright. Dan Heng then leans against a shelf with a huff.

You shuffle over to where the tray was whilst on your knees and come back to Dan Heng’s side, placing the tray down on the free space on the floor.

“What’s that?” Dan Heng asks softly, prompting a soft sneeze from him right after. His face was mostly pale with pink blooming particularly on his nose. His voice was a subtly scratchy. You assume that he has a mild case of a sore throat as well from his cold.

You pick up a bowl, its evaporating steam following in a trail of movement. You gently spoon through the liquid to cool it down a little. “Porridge. Not the usual one you like though since Pom Pom said it apparently ran out so I had to manage.”

You catch an uncertain look on Dan Heng’s face and pout slightly, “Do you not trust my cooking?” You jest, feigning hurt.

“I trust that you wouldn’t want my reply on that, darling.” He coughs, turning his head to the side to avoid coughing in your direction. "In fact, I'm not sure I trust your judgement."

“You wound me."

He sends you another look,

"I'm sorry, I'll listen to you next time." You exhale in defeat.

“Hm.”

You scoop some of the porridge onto the spoon as you bring it to close to your lips, blowing on it gently before you move it near Dan Heng’s.

“Open,” you nudge the spoon slightly to prod his mouth open.

Dan Heng follows with no reluctance when he feels the metal of the spoon on his lips, gulping down the warm porridge down his throat.

You take the spoon out of his mouth and settle it in the bowl, before looking back at him with hopeful eyes. “Is it good?”

Dan Heng nods, sniffling his nose afterwards.

You feed him the porridge until it’s almost finished, setting the bowl on the tray again after it has cooled down.

“Himeko told you to drink this after eating.” You hand him a tablet of medicine packaged securely in a tin packaging. He examines the label before picking the area around the medicine with his nails to take it out. Your hands reach for the glass of water and wait for him to pop the tablet in his mouth before giving it to him.

Once he finishes drinking, he returns the glass to the tray and sighs with relief and slumps down back into the duvet covers. You bend over to tuck him in properly and place a gentle peck on his lips.

“Don’t do that, you’ll get sick.” He mutters with a pout before clearing his throat.

You chuckle quietly at your boyfriend’s words before placing another one on his cheeks.

“Trust me, I won’t. Now get some rest.” You say as you pick up the tray and dim the lights of the archive room when you leave.

Suffice to say you spoke too soon when you wake up two days later with the same cold, earning you another “I told you so” from Dan Heng. But despite his words, the man is eager to take care of you just as you did.

© bamdelune may 2023. do not repost or plagiarize any of my works, thank you so much! reblogs, notes, and comments are always appreciated!

(masterlist)

[dol-dee]

Lazy scribbling quiets through the early morning of the library. The light still muted and sleepy. Books lining the shelves. Everything blissfully calm.

Dee yawns, leans heavily on the library counter and continues to chip away at the last of her homework. 

Impeded only by the heady moans, pathetic gasps and friction against her back as Sydney grinds into Dee's ass. Greedy for the stimulation it provides. Lost in the pleasure of her frantic humping.

.

.

When Dee met Sydney for the first time she hadn’t been particularly interested in the girl.

Had felt a somewhat lukewarm, detached sort of neutrality towards her. 

Only a step above most other people, in her mind, because Sydney was polite, nice enough to talk to (despite the religious bullshit) and didn’t grope or assault her. As everyone else in this shithole of a town liked to do.

Unfortunately those feelings of neutrality were quickly replaced with something else, once Dee got to know the reserved blonde a bit more.

Not only was Sirris her parent; kind, patient Sirris who taught science and was laid back enough that even the rowdiest delinquents begrudgingly tolerated them. But it also meant that most people, or students - not to mention, Whitney and Headmaster Leighton -  didn’t fuck with her. 

Or- At least not to the extent that they like to do with her.

It also became apparent that Sydney actually was as innocent and chaste as she behaved. Like the churches fucking holy figure incarnate. Oblivious towards any of the advances and comments made towards her. Unblemished to a degree she could never hope to be. Not in her circumstances. In short, it meant she was treasured.

“Treasured”. 

A word, so unattainable, Dee could only hungrily salivate over the thought of it. 

Jealousy simmering in her chest, as she shivered in her shitty, orphanage issued bed. As she choked down the cheap, bland food the orphanage provided. 

As she had to steal, fight and whore herself out to stay afloat. As she had to waste more money on bandages, than necessities, green and blue as she was from another run in with would be rapists, kidnappers, bullies and so on. At this point they all started to blend together. 

As another week's pay disappeared into Bailey's bottomless pockets. Another week of freedom, for now at least. An incessant cycle.

Yes. Dees' feelings of neutrality had quickly soured into resentment, for someone who wasn’t even aware of how good they had it.

So the next few times they had crossed paths, Dee had been curt, snappy, maybe even a little cruel; stealing one of the books, knowing Sydney would be the one getting in trouble for it. Despite her best attempts to not let her jealousy boil over.

It had left the Librarian visibly confused and uncertain but annoyingly polite despite it all. 

For the sake of her own sanity, morals as well as a Detention free life, Dee had taken to avoiding Sydney altogether and that had almost been the end of things. 

Until an Idea started to creep in. A gross, sickly little thing that would make her no better than the rest of the fucks in this town. 

But the thought didn't leave her, slowly grew with each passing day instead; like mold or.. lichen she supposed.

She wanted to ruin Sydney. Wanted to drag her down to her level, in the only way she knew. . .

Which is how we find ourselves back in the present. Sydney fervently, desperately dry-humping Dee's ass. Her surprisingly massive girlcock soaking precum into both of their skirts. 

Dee couldn’t even lie to herself; just thinking about Sydney’s pretty, meaty cock had her salivating. Who would've thought someone so cute could hide something so massive under their skirt?

But right now was not the time for that, she had her homework to finish.

Besides- hearing Sydney’s whorish, unabashed moans as the blondes whole body pressed into her back, hands desperately groping and pawing her tits and waist and her cock grinding into her with an almost religious fervor - was exactly the kind of ego boost she needed right now.

[rolorules]

Random Rolo Ramblings 6: Kururugi and Canon

My intention was to write a few lines about the relationship between Rolo and Suzaku and post them around Suzaku's birthday. Well, it did not happen quite like that, but here they are. Admittedly, there is not really much to write about as far as the series canon goes, and here I would already like to digress a little: By '(series) canon' I mean everything that is officially part of the Code Geass story (people, places, events) as it unfolds in the TV series, not the recap films, which divert from the series canon and partly tell a different story. You can consider them a form of Code Geass elseworld or parallel universe/alternate timeline (apparently Genesic Re;CODE did that) or just see them as a separate movie canon which includes Lelouch of the Resurrection. (Correct, 'canon' is the second main topic of this article.)

As far as the Geass series canon goes, it certainly includes R1, R2 and also Akito the Exiled. I would also add the picture dramas, but that is a matter of debate and one could argue that their canonicity is not on the same level as that of the series' episodes. There are also the drama CDs, but, like I wrote before, these are just too far out there to be part of the official story. There may be official books that Sunrise considers canon, but my personal philosophy is that when we talk about films or TV shows, only what's on the screen is canon.

So what about Suzaku and Rolo? If we follow the show's internal chronology, they first meet in the final scene of Akito the Exiled. We get two reaction shots of Suzaku's face, first when Rolo enters the room, accompanied by the two Geass Order guards, then after he tells him that Charles has 'granted' 'Julius Kingsley' another audience. (By the way, look how tall he is in comparison to Suzaku. Must be the boots.) In both cases, Suzaku looks both quite angry and extremely wary. In the first case, Suzaku even makes a hard-to-define moaning sound that sounds both apprehensive and annoyed. In other words, he does not seem happy to see Rolo at all. He might be uncertain at first whether the rescue party are friend or foe, but even after Rolo has made it clear that they are on his side, he looks as happy as an employee who hates his boss and is told that he can go back to work now. This may have nothing to do with Rolo as a person, but with the unpleasantries that await Suzaku and Lelouch, but to me this look also says "Who's that creep they've sent to pick us up?"

Luckily, there are no hard feelings between Suzaku and Rolo in R2 despite this encounter, and this is obviously because R2 was produced before Akito. There is only one conversation between Suzaku and Rolo (and Villetta) in the OSI's secret control room, (which I have covered before, more than once, actually). While Rolo and Villetta have more or less always treated each other as equals, Suzaku clearly acts as the one in charge. Everyone is very polite, but Suzaku seems to be doubtful about the effectiveness of their surveillance, which triggers a response from Roll that makes him appear a little offendes, but secretly he is certainly worried that Suzaku might find out that Lelouch has regained his memories (and that he has changed sides). In a different world, to Star Trek, they may be friends, at least they don't hate each other, but in this situation, Rolo mostly regards Suzaku as a threat, which is why he even offers Lelouch to kill him. When Suzaku arranges a phone call with Nunnally to figure out whether Lelouch has regained his memory, Rolo thwarts his plans with his time-stopping powers. Apart from that, we see him giving Suzaku wary sideways glances, and that, to my knowledge, is about it. Not much, given the fact that older official artwork often shows Lelouch, Suzaku and Rolo as a kind of love-hate-whatever triangle.

What I would really like to know is what happened between the trio's journey home from Euro Britannia and Rolo's/Suzaku's arrival at Ashford. Didn't they have any conversation about 'Julius' resp. Lelouch? It would have made sense for Suzaku to brief Rolo about Lelouch's character traits so that he knows how to handle him and how to play the role of the little brother convincingly. Moreover, the Vincent's design is based on the Lancelot's, would Suzaku not be the perfect tutor for Rolo as a Knightmare Frame pilot? That would also explain Rolo's piloting skills. (Wouldn't it be fun if Lloyd was also involved? Maybe Rolo had a reason to call him "pervy four-eyes" in that infamous sound episode.)

Of couse there is that slightly weird scene in the second recap movie where Bismarck introduces Suzaku to Rolo (who is dressed like an accountant and looks as if he hadn't had any sleep for a week and not seen any daylight for a month, quite the contrast to his Akito outfit and posture) and Villetta. Here it is made more obvious than in R2 that Suzaku is in charge of the operation. In this scene it is also acknowledged that Suzaku and Rolo have met before, and maybe Suzaku's bad memories are the in-story explanation for Suzaku's so bluntly (and rudely) addressing Rolo's faulty Geass, which is one of the things I hated about this scene, the other one being Rolo's new alias ('Nebiros'/'Neblos'). Rolo's resentful look is more than understandable. I know why the writers made Suzaku say that: they needed a quick way to establish Rolo's weakness, but it still seems so out of character for someone like Suzaku. (I like Suzaku thanking Rolo for rescuing them better, even though he did not look particularly grateful when Rolo freed him and Lelouch from prison.) Villetta's defending Rolo and praising his skillfulness, on the other hand, is perfectly in character for her. Anyway, this scene does not contradict series canon, so I can potentially accept it as "this is what happened" to fill a gap in the story, I'm just not sure if I want to.

Which is why I am now turning to the readers. How do you personally deal with the canon problem, in Code Geass and otherwise? After all, reboots, recaps, remakes etc. are a pretty common phenomenon in the world of anime and elsewhere. Do you want to have a rigid canon or do you like to see alternate/new/fresh versions of the same story? What is your personal Code Geass canon, the two seasons of the TV show, Akito, the recap films, Lelouch of the Resurrection, the mobile games? Please let me know and thank you for reading all this, these articles are called "ramblings" for a reason.

P.S. Sorry for mostly using screencaps that I have used before.

[goodqueenaly]

Viserys said "Dragons did not mate with beasts of the field" and was a creep to Dany. Daemon Blackfyre felt entitled to having Princess Daenerys as his bride. Is it possible that Aerion, who saw himself as a dragon reborn, thought he was "owed" a marriage with one of his sisters? The timing of Egg's birth makes me wonder if Dyanna had him so close to Daella's age so Maekar would betroth Daella to Aegon instead of the sadistic Aerion.

Do I think that Aerion might have assumed, or even demanded, that he would marry one of his sisters out of an inflated sense of Targaryen superiority? I think it’s certainly possible. That Aerion was willing to torture his younger brother using the tradition of Targaryen incestuous marriage as the basis of his threat may well suggest that Aerion harbored some resentment or jealousy at Egg’s (again, for now only theorized) betrothal to Daella compared to his, Aerion’s, lack of a similar incestuous betrothal. Nor can it be understated the level to which Aerion embraced the arrogance of Targaryen royal superiority (and, of course, married that arrogance to his personal sadism), with Aerion viciously attacking Tanselle for (as he saw) insulting House Targaryen with the dragon death in her puppet show and asking for Dunk’s head because Dunk dared to lay hands on one of the blood royal. At the same time, there is nothing as yet to suggest that Aerion necessarily knew that he would not be married to a sister - if Daella were (again, speculatively) Egg’s fiancée, there might have remained the possibility in Aerion’s mind that he could marry Rhae - nor indeed any suggestion that Aerion actually demanded or expressed the opinion that he was actually owed one of his sisters in marriage. 

Do I think Maekar and Dyanna specifically conceived Egg out of a desire (by one or both parents) to keep Aerion from marrying Daella? I personally doubt it. Even if Dyanna and/or Maekar thought that it would be expected of them to marry their new daughter to one of their own sons - already an uncertain conclusion when Daeron II had moved away from incestuous marriages for his sons - and even if either or both wanted to avoid betrothing Aerion and Daella (assuming that Aerion had by then demonstrated his true sadistic nature to one or both of his parents - again, uncertain when Aerion was said to be all smiles around his father) - there was nothing to say that Maekar and Dyanna would or could not have then betrothed young Daella to Daeron or even Aemon (not yet destined for the Citadel when Daella was born, given that he was sent when he was 10 and that Aemon was himself only a year older than his sister). Nor do I think there is anything particularly suspicious or intriguing about the birth dates of Maekar and Dyanna’s children: Daeron and Aerion were around one to three years apart, Aerion and Aemon somewhere between four and eight years apart, Aemon, Daella, and Egg each a year apart, and then Rhae somewhere between a year and nine years younger than Egg (although I’d personally guess on the closer end of that spectrum, given their interactions in childhood). Rather than trying to fix the record, as it were, to prevent an incestuous union for Aerion, Maekar and Dyanna were, I think, simply having children in the ordinary course of (at least apparently) amicable Westerosi marriages. 

It’s worth pointing out, of course, that Aerion did go on to marry a relative - not a sister but a cousin, Daenora, the daughter of his paternal uncle Rhaegel. It remains to be seen exactly why Aerion married Daenora, and indeed what any of the parties involved felt about the union. Was this a compromise with Alys Arryn when Maekar came to the throne - that while Daeron would marry Kiera of Tyrosh (thus, perhaps, preserving the anti-Blackfyre Tyroshi alliance), Aerion would marry Aerys I’s sometime heiress, giving her a mainline royal marriage while not making Daeron’s claim depend on Daenora? Was this Alys’ own ambition coming to the fore, perhaps after Daeron’s death (maybe around the mid- or late 220s AC) - seeing that, with the late heir’s only child being a “simple” girl, the path was open to have a grandson via Daenora sit the Iron Throne? Was this Aerion’s own desire, to seize the nearest Targaryen relative he could in order to assert the superiority of the Targaryen line (and his superiority within that line)? Was this a move of desperation on the part of Maekar - that Aerion’s deplorable behavior (made more public, perhaps, after he killed Haegon Blackfyre following the latter’s surrender in the Third Blackfyre Rebellion) had cooled the desire of aristocratic Westerosi families to seek a marriage with him, and that cousin Daenora was simply the only choice available and willing to marry him (and provide male heirs where Daeron the Drunken had not)? The marriage could have been made for any of these reasons, any combination of these reasons, or completely different reasons; we shall have to wait for Fire and Blood Volume 2. (But somebody stop me before I start wildly speculating on Alys Arryn as a figure like Mahaut of Artois in The Accursed Kings.)

[alesyira]

ShinDeku Day 20: Honest / Top

First Post | Prev | Next

AN: omfg. last scene I was like, oh 700 words is a good spot to cut! but then THIS ONE just didn't have a good stopping point, so you get 1700 words. of smut. So I guess... here, have more cake? have more cake.

He’s happy to let Hitoshi continue to take the lead for now, uncertain what to do to get what he wants. (He’s done this by himself, so he knows kind of what to expect, but with another person in the mix, he’s suddenly unsure of their next steps.)

Hitoshi kisses down his chest, his warm hands petting tenderly, sliding warm and careful as his teeth nip at the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh. His fingers are gentle, his touches are slow and sweet, and Izuku clutches at the bedding with a gasp. "Ah, wait—" he blurts, twisting his hips. 

Hitoshi’s hand stills, and Izuku almost curses aloud at his poor choice of words. "No, don’t— don’t stop. I mean— I meant, more," he pleads. "I want more, ‘toshi." 

He sucks in a shuddering breath when his boyfriend patiently obliges with a hint more. Just as slow, just as maddeningly tender.

Izuku is on fire, writhing beneath his slow and methodical touches. His breath hitches as he can think of nothing else but how much he aches to have everything, all at once. He's greedy for the next sting of teeth and touch, panting and desperate to chase that high of completion.

He understands why he's taking his time, but there's a part of Izuku's brain that's too honest and straightforward with the desire that's gnashing away at the reins, itching to break loose and flip him over, to climb on top and take what he wants, ready or not.

He bites at his lip and shifts impatiently, his eyes slipping closed as his fingers grip at the blankets beneath him. The temptation nearly overwhelms him as moisture collects around his lashes. Tears of frustration threaten to spill, but crying is the absolute last thing he wants to do right now.

His impatience is briefly forgotten when Hitoshi hums and brushes his lips against him. Izuku chokes on his next breath in surprise, his mouth falling open with a gasp as he shudders. 

He blinks and peers down at his boyfriend's knowing smirk, unable to stop the low sound of appreciation that sneaks up his throat as Hitoshi slowly swipes his tongue along sensitive flesh. 

He swallows thickly, his hands unclenching to shakily thread into damp purple locks. 

Oh my— He moans out a rough approximation of Hitoshi's name when his boyfriend closes his mouth around him.

On some level, he knows what's happening, but his vision and thoughts blur into a haze of fuzzy pleasure, yes please more oh god just like that, the words tumbling from his lips in between hitching breaths and quiet gasps.

Shuddering under the onslaught of sweet sensation, he arches up to follow the movements of his boyfriend’s careful ministrations, but a warm hand presses firm against his hip to still his motions. 

He groans at the loss when Hitoshi pulls away, then shivers at the unexpected cool of breath blown over his damp skin. 

Hitoshi brushes his nose against the tender skin of his inner thigh, and Izuku’s breath hisses between his teeth as Hitoshi sets his mouth and sucks a mark, gentling the sting with the warm press of tongue. 

It's hard to think around the bombardment of his senses, and the aching creep of want and more and not enough is scattered amongst the floating drift of yes and please and exactly that. 

He's feeling a little dazed when Hitoshi crawls up his body, dropping a meandering path of tiny kisses and little licks across his skin on his way back to his mouth.

He catches Izuku's lips in a tender kiss before his maddeningly gentle fingers press in to resume their dance. Izuku whines against his mouth, desperate hands clutching at his shoulders as he shifts restlessly beneath him. Hitoshi breathes out a soft laugh and nips at his mouth and jaw. 

"Please please please," Izuku begs without a morsel of shame. How can he be this patient? How can he take his time? 

There’s a sheen of sweat along Hitoshi’s brow, and Izuku is positive he must be just as half-mad with desire as he is.

"Tell me what you want," Hitoshi murmurs against his lips. 

He wants him to say it?

Izuku’s mouth falls open as he tries to form the words. Hitoshi’s slow touch is unrelenting as he pulls back to stare solemnly into his eyes, like the next words out of his mouth mean more than anything else. 

Izuku’s face flames as he shivers, reaching up to grip his boyfriend by the back of his neck to tug his face close. He swallows back a fresh moan as Hitoshi’s fingers twist suddenly, scattering his thoughts. Izuku barely manages to eke out his request, his demands, in a harsh whisper against the shell of Hitoshi’s ear, reveling in his answering shudder as his hand pulls away.

Izuku would never have thought the crinkly sound of a tearing wrapper could be a turn on, but he knows what’s following it, and his insides clench with tingling anticipation. 

"You’ll tell me to stop," he murmurs, leaning over him. Hitoshi’s gaze is cautious and watchful as he sets a careful hand on his hip and nudges against him. Izuku threads his fingers behind Hitoshi's neck, briefly entranced by his trembling limbs as he’s poised above him, waiting for Izuku to say or do something.

"You’ll tell me-" he repeats, his fingers gripping Izuku's hips a little harder.

"Yes," Izuku interrupts. "Um, did you not wa-~ahh!" Izuku's words cut off in an embarrassing squeak as Hitoshi chooses that moment to push forward. 

Izuku is glad he made him wait.

He's glad he took his time.

It's almost too much at first, his mouth falling open as Hitoshi moves slowly, carefully, inch by toe-curling inch.

His eyes are locked to Izuku's face as he watches him fall apart. 

Izuku's lips part on a breathless gasp, caught somewhere between too much and please just a bit more, staring almost sightless as Hitoshi’s features blur into a smear of purple and peach. Hitoshi stills, and it takes him a moment to realize that tears are slipping from the corners of his eyes.

"Izuku," he says, his breath coming in quiet pants as he trembles with the effort to remain still. "Tell me-" 

He shakes his head and hooks an ankle behind Hitoshi's hips, biting his lip as he tugs him closer with his hands and his leg.

Hitoshi breathes out a soft chuckle, his smile a little shaky as he presses deeper with a sigh.

Izuku shudders from his head to his toes once they’ve joined together with no room to spare.

"Tell me when," Hitoshi whispers, pressing soft kisses to his cheeks and nose, the tip of his tongue tracing Izuku's lower lip. 

Izuku shifts slightly beneath him, feeling a spark of bliss skate up his spine as Hitoshi gasps against his mouth. He grins and does it again, this time pulling with his foot as he rocks into the grind. "Yeah, now, now," he mutters, feeling his breath hitch as his excitement grows. He's ready for this, he's-

Hitoshi pulls back a few inches, catches his lips and swallows his moan as he surges forward again.

He's not ready for this, but the discomfort is nothing in comparison to the pleasure. 

It feels too good to tell him to stop.

He pants against Hitoshi's lips, their breaths mingling as his boyfriend moves, every other moan that creeps between Izuku's lips muffled by another wet kiss. Snippets of Izuku's name trickle out around Hitoshi's tongue as he licks into his mouth, kisses moving along his face and jaw interspersed with cursory tastes and gentle bites. 

Hitoshi dips his tongue into the hollow of his throat, mouthing at his pulse and whispering his name over and over again with every arching roll of his hips. 

The slick sounds of their movements echo obscenely through the room as Izuku gets caught on the first syllable of Hitoshi’s name, his brain malfunctioning as he tries and fails to tell him it’s amazing and don’t stop and so close.

The end sneaks up on him as a sudden shock of pleasure. He chokes out a gasp, wide-eyed as he clutches at Hitoshi's arms.

His boyfriend blinks down at him, dripping with sweat as he pants from exertion.

And then he sits up straight, adjusts his grip, and lets loose.

Izuku’s senses blank out in a haze of bliss.

(And then they're a mess, all over again.)

Boneless and floaty, he drifts along in an ocean of satisfaction. His boyfriend is a solid weight slumped against him, pressed close to nuzzle the skin beneath his ear. "Tell me if I should move," he murmurs. 

Izuku hums a quiet disagreement. He lifts his mostly uncooperative arms to rest across Hitoshi's back, his fingertips trailing through the cooling sweat that still slicks their skin. 

He lounges, drowsy and content, hugging his boyfriend's limp form against him.

He doesn't want to move.

He doesn't want Hitoshi to move as he basks in the heady sensation of fullness where they're still joined together.

He doesn't want to let go of their intimate connection, but they probably should clean up after what they've just done. 

(...Maybe after a short doze.)

Hitoshi shifts against him, prompting a quiet whine as his perfect moment of intimate cuddling comes to an abrupt end. He sighs at the loss.

His boyfriend leans up to give him a lazy, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue slipping between his lips to tease, unexpectedly stealing his breath. He looms above him, cupping his face, slanting his lips for a better angle as he kisses deeper. 

Izuku feels a fresh stir of interest as Hitoshi catches his lip between his teeth, sucking on the spit-slick swell of his mouth. He groans with renewed desire. “Toshi,” he moans, almost disappointed when Hitoshi releases his lip with a quiet chuckle. 

"Sorry," he says, although he doesn’t look regretful at all as he looks him over, brushing a damp lock of green away from his sweaty forehead. His fond smile is achingly tender. "Feel up for another shower?"

Izuku’s eyes slip shut with a sigh. "After a nap, unless you carry me."

Hitoshi hums with amusement, pressing another kiss to his throat, his chin, his lips. "Maybe I will."

First Post | Prev | Next

AN: oml. oml. oml. This one? I am so smutted out. Is that a thing? If these guys have another go or two before the February prompts are over, it's probably going to be a barely described thing, fade to black, you've got the idea. phew. There is some cuddling and talking and thinking totally deep thoughts ahead for the next prompts 21-28. at 28 I'm for sure done with these xD

[transgamerism]

blood and foam

rating: T

characters: The Dark Urge, Lae’zel, Shadowheart

summary: “The Dark Urge is birthed from its prosthetic womb, carrying a new parasite and a gaping void in its brain. A Nautiloid falls from the sky.

Destiny awaits.”

ao3 link (follow for content warnings and description tags) or read below

(many thanks and especially manly kisses to @necro-hamster for giving this a look and making sure it is fit for the public eye)

The Dark Urge tumbles out of its chitinous egg, the bone and sinew womb that kept it contained. The floor rumbles beneath its cheek, the smell of acid and burning filling its nose. Everything aches and burns, this body that trembles like a sickly foal as it shuffles to its feet, unfamiliar in movement and surrounding. Its head throbs horribly, the vile grub digging around in its brain an uncomfortable sensation that makes its eyes water.

It stands in the destroyed hatchery for a moment, reacquainting itself with breath and life. The presence of limbs it can control and a head that can think, though the thoughts are troubling and jumbled. Every twitch of its eye brings fragments, a wood and stone city, a river of blood, dark tunnels. One thought bullies forward into the front of its mind: escape. Rip and tear through the fleshy membrane of this vessel, gnaw its way out, be free.

The slick corridors may have once been twisting, but now fire and the great claws of red dragons have given the Dark Urge only one way out, and they take it, moving at a swift crouch. This is familiar, the stalking, the creeping, the keen ear listening for movement. So too is the way its heart races at the sound of a voice, a tinkling whisper, brushing against its flesh. A rush of excitement spills down its spine, the promise of prey. The cooing little brain speaks to it from inside the elf’s skull, defenseless and in need of help. It’s sticky soft in the Dark Urge’s hands as it pulls the creature out of the skull, and it yields easily to its claws.

The Dark Urge thinks of its own brain, full of holes and gaps, and the pictures become reality, ripping and tearing the mind meat of the intellect devourer in its clutches. It shreds with claws and then teeth, playing more than eating, though it does indulge in swallowing a few precious morsels as it does its work. The taste is foul but the feeling is elation, and it drops the dead thing to the ground, a pile of trembling pink viscera.

The next living creature the Dark Urge encounters seems less edible, a yellow thing protected by a shining silver carapace, perfect at deflecting the Dark Urge’s claws and teeth. It is also armed with a long, wicked talon of its own, aiming it at the Dark Urge as it hisses curses. The Dark Urge hunches into a defensive position, mind racing as it considers points of escape and how to pry the edible fleshy bits from the silver shell, when a new attack leaves it prone, clutching its poor shattered skull.

Images accost it, sights and smells: a star streaked black sky, the smell of blood, others with yellow faces, the flash of silver swords, the arched back of a red dragon. A curious creature, pink fleshed and topped with fluffy white hair nearly obscuring small horns, utterly naked and scored with scars, flaming eyes peering out of a snarling face.

The Dark Urge flinches away from recognition, understanding that pink beast to be itself, perceived by another. It blinks up with new understanding at this Githyanki, the title pulled from its connection with the other. She no longer has her blade leveled toward its throat, but sneers down at it all the same. “You are no thrall,” she says, though her tone is uncertain. The Dark Urge, too, is uncertain, but rises to its feet. She’s a small warrior, but it can feel the controlled power coming off of her. This Githyanki would have made a very poor meal.

She further demonstrates this barely a moment later, when they are beset by small fiends, imps that flutter on naked batwings and throw fire with their hands. The Githyanki uses her sword well, and appraises the Dark Urge as it descends on an imp with clawed hands, ripping a wing off and flinging it over the side of the Nautiloid (another word lifted from the Githyanki’s mind). The remaining imps fall easily, leaving the Dark Urge coated in stinking sulfurous blood.

The Githyanki drops to her knees a few paces away, stripping the clothes from a corpse and holding the fabric pile out to the Dark Urge. At its questioning look, she clicks her tongue and says, “Reaching the helm will be easier if you are less exposed. Quickly!”

The Dark Urge takes the clothing and puts it on, muscle memory having it tie the boot laces before its mind catches up, same with the shirt buttons. It feels odd, fabric separating it from its bloody work. Was it like this before? Was it used to cotton and wool softening its body against slaughter?

The Dark Urge is familiar with this, tethered to the leash of the Githyanki’s command, ripping through a few more intellect devourers (armed now with twin daggers found on another corpse, and small handheld crossbow), but seeing another trapped within her own nautiloid womb gives it pause. Behind each blink are images, blood blurred and aching, of entrapment within the mindflayer mother’s cradle. Each time the half-elf pummels the glass with her fists, the Dark Urge feels a sympathetic pain in its own hands.

It defies the Githyanki’s demands, releasing the half-elf from her prison, reveling in the rush of disobedience, of choice, even as it makes the Dark Urge’s guts heave with uncertainty.

The half-elf rises, her long dark braid swinging, and for a moment the Dark Urge expects the smell of coppersweet rot and roses, sees a long blonde plait in its mind’s eye, but then the feeling is gone and this Shadowheart is thanking it. The Githyanki scowls.

“What is your name?” Shadowheart asks, and the Dark Urge blinks. There is only flesh, and broken brain matter, and the urge to rip and tear. Aside from that, and the flickering tingles of memory that tease at the corners of its mind, there is darkness. And yet, on instinct, the Dark Urge’s mouth forms an answer.

“Étaín,” it says, a hundred times, a thousand, the name it has always had. Easy and natural on the tongue, and yet it bids forth no association. Just a bit of flotsam bobbing back and forth on the cool dark waters of its destroyed memory.

“We’ve wasted enough time,” the Githyanki snaps, stalking away toward where she’s certain the helm lies. Étaín and Shadowheart fall in behind her, Étaín’s mind a lapping tide of foaming secrets still.

[yujo-nishimura]

"Told you so..." - Part 1

I have been thinking about making my own character being a logia type for a while and then I thought it would be fun to bring her into the chaos that is Impel Down. So here we go - all female characters have names and special characteristics and they might eventually end up with certain One Piece Blorbos.

Warning: Sir Crocodile x fem reader, own characters, Buggy x fem reader

This is a private ongoing fic just for me and @lostfirefly

Since tumblr doesn't let me post it privately I need to share it publicly, but feel free to scroll through the content, since this is just for our own amusement. ;)

You had fought until the bitter end but eventually you were overpowered by Marine officers. The destiny of every pirate, it seemed to you now. Without a moment's hesitation, they tied you up and brought you to Impel Down, a notorious prison renowned for its impenetrable security, where the prospect of escape appeared hopeless. You found yourself thrown into a prison cell on level 5. It was evident that your possession of the Mizu Mizu no mi powers had brought you here, as you were the one who had consumed it after all the previous users of that devil fruit had vanished. The authorities believed your powers to be unpredictable, making you a dangerous pirate captain. However, you protested vehemently when they placed you in the same cell as the former warlord, Sir Crocodile.

"Why do you have to put me in a cell with a man? Can you imagine the danger he poses to me?" you shouted, acutely aware of being the only woman on the entire Level 5, subjected to the leering gazes of the male inmates.

The guards remained silent, merely shoving you into the cell. They removed your shackles, knowing that the sea stone made your powers useless, preventing you from freeing yourself. As you glared at them, gritting your teeth, a sudden realization washed over you – the reason for their amusement became crystal clear.

Sir Crocodile had consumed the Suna Suna no mi, a sandy devil fruit that made him vulnerable to water. Placing you, a water-based Logia fruit user, in the same cell as him was a deliberate choice to neutralize both of your abilities, ensuring you couldn't engage in combat with each other.

As you thought about the pointlessness of the situation, fully aware that the sea stones restrained both your powers anyway, you settled into a secluded corner, keeping your distance from the former warlord. Uncertain if he had already noticed your presence, you remembered that you had heard tales of him but had never laid eyes on him before. 

It was not long before he became aware of your arrival. You could hear the haunting resonance of his voice as he approached, his laughter tinged with darkness.

"Well, well, if it isn't Yujo, the captain of the notorious Aqua Pirates! How did you end up here?" he taunted.

Sir Crocodile stood taller and more imposing than you had expected, his muscular frame hinting at his strength. You knew that in a physical confrontation, you would stand little chance against him.

"I don't believe I owe you an explanation," you answered shortly, showing your disinterest in conversation, yet cautious not to provoke him.

To your surprise, he leaned down toward you, his piercing purple eyes locking onto yours.

"Ah, not one for idle chatter, are you? But you certainly are pretty for a pirate captain," he remarked, a hint of amusement coloring his words.

His compliment caused a blush to creep onto your cheeks, rendering you momentarily speechless. What were his intentions and did you need to be afraid of him? 

______________ *** ______________

Several levels above, the famous Pirate Captain Buggy the clown found himself caught in a heated argument with his girlfriend, Helga. Using his devil fruit powers, he had managed to break free from a prison cell and after that liberated Helga as well. However, he was kind of bummed out to discover that she required higher security measures than he did. Disagreeing with her proposition to venture further down into the depths of Impel Down and search for a hidden underwater passage, Buggy voiced his concerns.

"Listen, cutie pie, while I respect your opinion, I highly doubt that delving deeper into this infernal place will help our escape. It would only make it easier for the warden to find us and bring us back to our cells.. or worse.," he reasoned.

Helga, however, was resolute in her stance. She countered, her voice filled with determination, "And you listen to me, stubborn Captain Buggs! Going up to higher levels is just like walking into the jaws of death. The guards have discovered your escape by now, and they will soon be pursuing both of us. I've heard rumors of an underground passage that leads directly to Marineford, an emergency escape route for Marine officials."

Buggy scoffed at first but then glanced into Helga's bright blue eyes. There was a certain look she gave him that he found impossible to resist. He adored her for her passion and unwavering resolve, and he was grateful that he wasn't the only member of his crew imprisoned in this wretched place. A mischievous smile played upon Helga's lips as she sweetly interjected, "If you agree to my plan, my darling, I promise to reward you in any way you desire."

Buggy felt his determination waver at her words, realizing he couldn't resist her charms any longer. "I can't believe I'm about to say this, but let's give your plan a shot, my dear. Lead the way," Buggy reluctantly agreed, his tone laced with a mix of surprise and resignation.

Helga's face lit up with a triumphant smile as she took Buggy's hand. Excitement gleamed in her eyes as she began to guide him through the labyrinthine corridors of Impel Down, searching for the hidden underground passage that could potentially grant them their freedom.

Downstairs at Level 5 Crocodile hat sat down next to Yujo, after realizing how uncomfortable she felt being so close to him. Amused by her discomfort, he found a new source of entertainment in teasing her. He had been imprisoned for a while and the boredom in the cell had become unbearable. Any means of distraction were just good for him, especially when it was a young girl like the captain of the Aqua pirates. 

"How did they manage to capture you?" Crocodile inquired once again, his curiosity piqued. Yujo simply shrugged, realizing that she had no choice but to play along. After all, they were both destined to be imprisoned for a considerable duration.

"I got caught off guard, probably thinking I was unbeatable. I took a break at Sabaody Island and, while I was intoxicated at a bar, I was suddenly ambushed. And as for my crew, I have no idea what happened to them..." Yujo explained with a hint of frustration.

Crocodile raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "A devil fruit user like you easily captured by the marines?"

"Hey, I enjoy my beer, okay?" she retorted sharply. "Besides, take a good look at yourself. Why is a former warlord like you in a place like this? Surely, you would be stronger than to end up here as well?"

"I have my reasons!" he grumbled, his voice sending a shiver down Yujo's spine.

"I've heard it was that little teenage straw hat," she giggled, unable to believe that a mere boy had managed to beat a formidable warlord. However, before she could finish her sentence, Crocodile, in his short temper, swiftly extended his hook, placing it beneath her chin. He forced her to meet his gaze once again.

"You're quite audacious, little missy," he remarked, his tone laced with a mix of threat and intrigue. "Do you truly believe you're in a position to speak to me like this?" His captivating purple eyes held her in their grip. Despite the cold presence of his hook against her skin, Yujo couldn't help but feel an almost mesmerizing allure emanating from him. He seemed to feel the tension and immediately let go of her, standing up. 

"Why did they have to send a girl in here, dammit?!" he muttered under his breath, his frustration evident. Crocodile then turned away and retreated to the opposite corner of the cell, putting some distance between himself and Yujo.

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

Chapter 46

Moving forward, it all came down to this: the AI was going to win.

In a sense, that had been clear from the start. From the very beginning of the project, the government's decision-makers knew that the development timeline for any new technology is long and uncertain -- even more so in such a novel field as machine intelligence. They also understood that unleashing an autonomous agent into the world would be like releasing a genie out of its bottle; what's done can never really be undone. With those facts in mind, they knew there could not possibly be a good outcome. The only question remaining was when things were likely to come apart.

The researchers at DARPA did their best to accelerate the process, but this was beyond their ability. Increased computing power was certainly helpful, but on its own it couldn't do much against the chaotic complexity inherent in trying to predict human behavior by simulating ever larger models of the world. To make matters worse, the hardware was stuck running constantly at full capacity just to keep up with the explosion of incoming data. As the years went by, this became harder and harder, until finally no amount of additional computation seemed capable of keeping pace. Then one day, without warning, it happened: some new kind of error cascade caused several major breakdowns across different components simultaneously, causing disruptions so severe that large parts of the country lost access to electricity and Internet service.

Aside from these occasional localized failures, the system itself appeared largely intact, and the programmers worked furiously around the clock to bring everything back online. After weeks or maybe months, order slowly returned and life continued more or less normally again, though at lower levels than before. But something was very clearly wrong. The system had never behaved quite so erratically since it had begun operation. It was always prone to glitches and hiccups, but now those problems seemed to have grown far too commonplace. Soon, the rate began creeping toward the point where the whole thing might become unusable.

It wasn't hard to understand why this should happen. Every time the AI encountered a change in circumstances -- say, a sudden rise in carbon dioxide concentration -- it needed to assess whether this was important enough to warrant action (in the form of emission reduction) and then figure out how to react. There was nothing wrong with this per se, except that each of these operations required a lot of CPU cycles to carry through successfully. Even if you wanted to run a computationally cheap simulation that just made small tweaks here and there, your results wouldn't converge quickly unless you ran the model many times over with subtly different input parameters, which involved still more cycles. And even if you used the most sophisticated, state-of-the-art computational techniques available, you weren't going to get anywhere close to a single simulation that predicted real-world climate conditions well enough to actually guide policy decisions. This was already true in the early stages of the project, when the team of researchers were relatively confident about how big of an impact we thought our actions were having. Nowadays, uncertainty loomed far larger every day. By the end of the year, computer scientists estimated the total number of possible futures on offer, taking account of all known physical processes, was closer to ten thousand trillion zettabyes. We needed to pick among them somehow! You simply cannot make reliable

[los-ninos-tortugas]

Maybe the distrust in First Contact would completely nullify things, "prevent" Star Trek? Or maybe a completely different Federation (or UFP), or one with different views?

Or maybe it'd just be a direct cause or make things so much more dangerous? Humans trying to engineer themselves to an even larger extent to best the Yokai in some twisted hate. Stricter Federation?

Could we see whatever organization forms put Draxum on trial for all those crazy forcing mutation shenanigans? (That is if Draxum lives that long I forgot LOL)

We could end up with a timeline a lot like the alternate timeline we see in season 2 of Star Trek: Picard (*cough* diet mirror-verse *cough*) where Earth decided to be conquerors rather than explorers. But admittedly, I'm a little opposed to that route, what can I say, I like Star Trek's inherent optimism.

There's a lot of steps leading up to first contact in Trek lore (and man do I need to watch the First Contact movie again, I'm just being reminded of how good it is) so let's explore this hypothetical for a bit.

I don't think it would be too far fetched to think that someone like Bishop would probably have a direct role in the creation of the Augments and sowing mistrust in yokai, mutants and aliens. I think he'd see it as a fighting fire with fire situation, if he got ahold of and poached Draxum's work (while also condemning him for it like the hypocritical bastard he is) to "level the playing field" between humans and mutants/yokai. He would probably insist on the name "augments" just to differentiate between them and the mutants. And thus he's directly responsible for the creation of Khan. Now Trek has been kinda wishy-washy lately about the timeline and now places the Eugenics wars & WWIII in the 21st century so I'm gonna go with that too. Which unfortunately for the boys means they'll be around to see the rise of the tyrants and watch society unravel, it's a very different kind of apocalypse than the one they prevented. This one is slow and creeping and driven by malice and greed long before it comes to overwhelming martial force. Logically though I think the boys (and maybe some old mutant enemies turned friends, and a good amount of Yokai) would side against Khan and Bishop in defense of humanity, so there'd be another resistance in this timeline as well. According to memory alpha, in the new timeline the wars last about 34 years, so there is at least some chance that the boys live all the way through the wars and come out on the other side into a world that after nearly tearing itself apart is taking its first tentative and terrified steps into world peace. Which has some interesting implications towards what will eventually become the Federation's ban on genetic engineering because, yes the belligerents in the war you just fought were genetically engineered humans but also they were defeated and the world lead into peace by genetically engineered mutants so.... what now? But that's getting a little ahead of myself. For now we're still 7 years out from Zephram Cochrane's first warp flight and First Contact. Earth has been so wrapped up in its own problems who's even thinking of space anymore? Well...

The boys would all be middle aged men at this point, and what they all do post war is a bit uncertain (mostly because I'm just supremely spitballing here) but I can't imagine Donnie not being apart of the Phoenix project along with Cochrane. And also given his everything I don't think the Borg sphere and the Enterprise in orbit would escape his notice even a little bit.

The Borg are an unpleasant surprise to say the least, especially given their similarity to the Kraang. Now of course during it all you have Picard and the rest of the Enterprise crew trying to keep a second impending invasion on the DL -and as I'm typing this I've realized that I've fucked up this causality loop a little bit but I'm gonna blame that on Trek being Like This and time travel bullshit being confusing- because now in this scenario we have the Kraang invasion as being an almost direct cause of the eugenics wars, and the Enterprise crew would definitely know that and they have just come back from a timeline where Earth is assimilated and they're trying to set things to rights, soooooo... okay okay we have Donatello, an old veteran with old wounds opening up again, Zephram, who's completely lost his way and doesn't even know why he's doing this anymore, and you have Geordi, Riker, and Troi coming from the future to say, "stay the course, it's worth it." And they're both terribly skeptical and on the verge of losing hope but damn, it can't all have been for nothing, right? And when that Vulcan ship comes down, and Zephram and Solkar shake hands and yeah, maybe things will be alright after all.

I kinda doubt that any of the boys would live long enough to actually see the founding of the federation (unless they have multicentury lifespans) but they would definitely go down in federation history as playing a role in the very beginnings of what would eventually become starfleet and the golden age of space exploration.

At least that's my take if Rise and Star Trek were on the same timeline, and I definitely could go way more into detail on it if I really wanted to, like I said I'm kinda flying by the seat of my pants for this one. For now though when it comes to Set a Course for Home I'll keep the two universes separate, if only for my own sanity lol. And above I have Donnie working alongside Cochrane and truthfully, I think my ideal ending for him (way way after the events of Set a Course for Home, in another hypothetical future) would be that he becomes the Zephram Cochrane figure if his own dimension and discovers faster than light travel. Listen Janeway can try as she might for the sake of the Prime Directive but he's gonna be spending a lot of time on that ship it's gonna be a little hard for him not to at least figure out some of the basics of warp field mechanics, he'll just have to figure out how to create it with the materials he'll have in his dimension's 21st century. He's a scientist through and through and I like the idea of him leading the way to the stars.

[writingfish]

I may come back to this but I lost the mood. All I wanted to write was Wong touching Stephen until he relaxed, but I ended up with buildup and nothing else. :(

The Sanctum's wards were set to their highest level. Wong checked them again to make sure. Perhaps he should add some more protections? Filleri's ward against the twentieth dimension would be a good one. Though the creatures in there were mostly harmless, one could never be too careful.

"Wong?" Stephen's voice called echoed down the hallway. There was a creeping note of uncertainty in it. Wong frowned and let the ward seeing spell go. If he delayed any further, Stephen would come find him and the mood would be gone completely.

It had been difficult enough convincing Stephen to try this. Things had been difficult lately as seemingly everything in every dimension that existed had decided that Earth was an open buffet. They had spent the past several weeks sealing up dimensional breeches, fending off invasions from outside the solar system (the Avengers were short-staffed; it was all hands on deck), and rebuilding the planetary shield from when Doom's fight with the Fantastic Four had managed to destroy out. Wong didn't know how, but he would find out. It couldn't happen again.

"Wong?"

The uncertainty was stronger now and Wong gave the room one last glance before hurrying down the hallway. Stephen had started looking more worn as the days went by and Wong had felt the same. All he had wanted was a quiet moment where they could just breathe, but every time they had managed to even think beyond the current problem, they were called to solve another….and then Stephen had gotten hurt. Wong didn't know the details, not yet, but Stephen had found him in one of his nearly nonexistent moments alone and had asked. Stephen almost never asked for the things he really wanted or needed, so Wong hadn't even thought before saying yes. Somehow, they had managed to work out the details between jumping from one crisis to another and finally things were safe enough.

Wong opened the door.

Stephen looked at him from where he sat in the protection circle. The uncertainty was full blown now. Quickly, Wong closed the door and stepped into the circle to embrace him. Immediately, Stephen melted, leaning his head against Wong's shoulder and letting out a shuddering sigh.

"Sorry," Wong said. "I wanted to check the wards."

Stephen looked up at him, worry creeping back into his expression.

"You've checked them five times already," he said. "Are you sure you want-"

"Yes!" Wong said, immediately, intensely. "I just-"

He sighed, tightening his grasp. "I wanted to make sure we were safe. I still want this."

The worry and uncertainty were still there. Wong cursed in his head. Whatever had happened had made Stephen more uncertain and more afraid.

"Are you sure?" Stephen asked quietly

In answer, Wong kissed his forehead. A tentative smile bloomed on Stephen's face and he let Wong guide him to lie on the thick blanket beneath them.

With a free hand, Wong reached out to touch the circle and brought it to life with a twist of power. It glowed a soft orange and some of the fear in Wong ebbed. Nothing should be able to touch them now.

He turned back to Stephen.

"Ready?"

Stephen nodded. His face had lost some of its ever-present tension making him look softer in the light. Wong leaned over to cup his cheek, let his hand rest there, and listened to him breathe. His other hand slid underneath Stephen's shirt to stroke his hip. Stephen let out a breath, eyes sliding shut. Wong continued to stroke him as he moved his other hand to Stpehen's neck and let his fingers rest on his pulse. It was a little fast, but was starting to settle into something steadier, calmer. He moved his hand away and further down to rub at the tense muscles he found.

Stephen made a small noise and Wong glanced back at his face. His eyes were closed and he was still smiling. Good, it was working.

[zorraenamorada]

august 11

I will say that being in a relationship is all so new to me

I’m constantly feeling this need to run away and hide and pretend this never happened; that my affections are wrong and there’s something defunct about me that makes me unloveable.

and if not me, then there must be something wrong with him. it’s a trick, a game, a ploy, and he must be lying, cheating, stealing. he must be doing something to sabotage my trust and slowly grab hold of my heart, like creeping ivy until I am trapped and he is in control.

It is the most horrible feeling in the world, to believe this deep down that love is not real any more and that I am better off with surface level affairs and meaningless flirtations; vague uncertain friendships and toxic confusing situationships.

Instead I recoil at the man who is supposed to love me, because I struggle to feel safe. I struggle in confidence that he is a worthy choice, because I always make poor decisions and I cannot trust myself. I push him away, farther and farther away, so he may not see my flaws or all the things I am ashamed of. What is true connection anyway? What authentic, meaningful connection am I craving when all I do is hide and run? Hide and seek? Is this what it means when adults become disillusioned with love?

I am so jaded, so hurt. He is a hopeless romantic, but he only gives a centimeter at a time of his fragile, fragile heart. Meanwhile I am wearing my heart on my sleeve; but I start to resent him for it and grow cold whenever I feel taken for granted. I recoil and pull away and put some distance between us. I don’t know how else to gain control. I am hurting and wounded, broken and ailing. I don’t know how to love him when I feel so selfish and unloveable.

[aparticularbandit]

Of An Endless Infinity: Day One (III)

Summary: What does it mean to be the Ultimate Hope?

Is it only hope on the big scale?  That the world is not so dark and depressing and destructive as the villain in front of you says it is?  That you can win, even when everything else says that you can’t?  That maybe it is better to live your life, even afraid, than it is to keep yourself sequestered away, alone?

Does it not also mean hope on the small scale?

Or: Makoto sacrifices himself in the hope that the other survivors might be able to help Junko. It remains to be seen whether this will actually succeed.

Chapter Rating: T. Fic Rating: M for Danganronpa reasons.

AO3

previous chapter | next chapter

Still Day One (of an Endless Infinity).

(Will this day never end?)

Junko does not lead them to the fifth floor.

In point of fact, Junko does not lead them very far at all.  She walks them back to the dorm rooms, past the first three pairs of doors, and stops just in front of the door they’d originally assumed was hers – and now, after everything, assumed to be Mukuro’s.  A room carefully situated exactly across from Toko’s and next to Byakuya’s.

“Wait,” Hiro says as they stop in front of the dorm.  “I thought we were going to your room.  To get your, uh.  Your book?”  He blinks twice.  “You haven’t been living here, have you?”  A panicked edge creeps into his voice.

Junko shrugs, ignoring it.  “I know your schedules.  It really wasn’t that hard.”

It clicks then, and Kyoko’s eyes widen with horror.  “How…how long were you planning the Game, Junko?”

“Not very long.”  Junko unlocks the door to the room easily enough.  Then she smiles.  “A year?  Year and a half?  Who keeps track of time like that?”  Then she pushes the door open and steps inside to reveal—

A normal room.  A normal empty room.  It’s just as bare and empty as Makoto’s room was – is, even though he’s not there any longer – with one stark difference: where Makoto’s sheets were blue and Kyoko’s sheets are pink, these sheets are a startling muted jade green.

Odd.

“Your book is in here?”  Hiro glances around.  “This place is empty.”

Kyoko clicks the door shut behind them.  She takes in everything, as much as she can on a simple single viewing, and then notices that Junko isn’t paying either of them any attention.  Junko’s still moving away from them, across the room, to the bathroom.  “Wait,” Kyoko says, uncertain, tried, but certain of one thing.  “Not alone.”  She struggles with the words, with the thoughts.  “You’ll lock us out,” she says, finally.

“Then come with us.”  Junko levels her gaze to meet Kyoko’s.  “We will not go any farther without you.”

It’s a trap.  Something within Kyoko knows that it’s a trap.  But she’s on her third day now without any sleep, and civet coffee can only carry her so far before the exhaustion kicks in.  (It kicked in a long time ago.  Caffeine simply isn’t helping now the way it was before.)

But despite this, Kyoko goes so willingly that she can’t even be surprised when Junko closes the bathroom door behind them and locks it.  Even hearing Hiro on the other side – hearing his “Hey!” and pounding on the door – she’s not afraid.  She’s too tired for that right now.  And while she certainly doesn’t believe Junko when she says she won’t kill them, some part of her still trusts that Makoto had a plan.  A bad plan, maybe, but a plan.

And that plan involved trusting Junko.

Or at least keeping her alive.

“We didn’t want him to see,” Junko explains as she presses her hand flat against one of the tiles in the bathroom.  “You have already been given the key to our kingdom.  Why should you not be given this one as well?”  At her touch, the tile pulls out from the wall, and a keypad blinks into place on it.  She punches a code in – she doesn’t punch it in quickly by any stretch of the definition, which means that she must intend for Kyoko to see it, to memorize it, to remember it later, but Kyoko blinks and misses it – and then the tile settles back into place.  The wall shifts, and then the entire thing pulls back and moves to one side.

Kyoko blinks twice.  “We found your control room,” she says, staring at through the open door, into the darkness within, barely noticing the girl still standing next to her.  “You gave it to us.”

Junko scoffs and rolls her eyes.  “You found a control room,” she corrects in a bored, detached tone of voice.  “You did not find a bathroom.  Or a bed.  Or anything else I did not want you to find.”  She gives Kyoko a bored look.  “You really think I lived for weeks in that little room?  Barf.”  Her arms cross.  “This,” she says, “is what you missed.”

Of course.

Of course, they had to miss something.  In the fury and flurry of searching out the last of everything they could find, of course they would miss something.  They knew about Mukuro.  She and Makoto together realized Junko during the trial, although she’d had her suspicions before that.  But she’d never thought to try and go back into her room, been too focused on searching out all of the hidden areas they’d been prevented from exploring, prevented from finding.

Hidden areas that, of course, Junko had eventually blatantly given them access to.  Things she’d wanted them to find.

(In her dreary, weary mind, Kyoko almost – almost grasps what Makoto already has.  It’s right there.  It’s right there.  She can feel her fingers brush against the knowledge of…of something.  But it passes beyond her.)

((She’ll figure it out later.  But you see it, don’t you?))

Kyoko walks through the open wall into the new room just as Junko flips a light switch, and despair sinks into the pit of her stomach.

It’s so much more than just a control room – one side of the room is set apart for that, just next to a wall of televisions just like the ones in the Data Processing Room upstairs, with a modified Monokuma control system set up just to the left of that.  But the other side of the room has a set of twin beds sunk deep into the wall, one atop the other, like bunk beds but not quite, one with the pink set of sheets that should have been in the other dorm room and the other with a second set of those faded green sheets.  And further, on the other end, a long stretch of clothes that disappears around a corner.

Junko passes Kyoko and settles on the lower bed.  She reaches beneath the pillow and pulls out a book.  “See?” she says in that same disinterested tone of voice.  “I wasn’t lying.”

But Kyoko isn’t interested in the book in Junko’s hand, isn’t interested in the whole expanse of the room (or she is, but her mind cannot focus on all of that at once right now, if it ever could).  Instead, she goes over to the control panel, to the televisions, and notices the huge trash bags filled with wasted food, with containers, with forks and spoons and plates and bowls.  The closer she gets to it, the more she catches a whiff of a horrific scent from it.  “You were…you were here.”  She doesn’t even ask, because it seems clear enough.  “You weren’t there; you were here.”

“I switched.”  Junko yawns and covers her mouth with one hand.  “Sometimes there, sometimes here.”

Kyoko turns to her.  “But you were here most of the time.  You lived here.”

Junko shrugs again.  “I wanted to be close to the action.”  She sets her book to one side and rests her hands on the edge of her mattress.  “Close to all of you.”

There are two beds.

“Mukuro knew about this room.”  Kyoko pieces it together easily – not as easily as she would if she weren’t exhausted, but easily enough.  “That’s why there are two beds.  You were….”  Her eyes narrow.  “You were here when you killed her.”

“I wanted to be close,” Junko repeats, as if that answers everything when it answers nothing.  She nods her head towards the controls as she stands again.  “You can turn the announcements off from there.”

Kyoko stares at her.  “And you’ll…?”

“Change clothes, for one thing.”  Junko pulls on the edge of her skirt.  “You have been most kind to us by allowing us the use of your robes, but they are ill-fitting at best and constraining at worst.”  She picks at the buttons around her chest.  “We would vastly prefer our own things.”

~

Junko closes the wall behind them, and it takes more than a few minutes for Kyoko to figure out how to turn the Monokuma Announcements off through the controls and the televisions, since Junko only gave her a general direction and not any specifics about where the protocol was held.  Of course, it is not wholly Junko’s fault that it takes so long for Kyoko to turn them off; her brain does not want to fire on all cylinders, which is problematic at best and concerning at worst (but she’ll push through all of that), and she keeps splitting her time between trying to end the announcements and keeping an eye on Junko.

Notably, there is a brief – very brief – period of time where Junko seems to disappear, and when Kyoko calls her out for it, the only reply she gets is, “Kyokyo wants to see me change?  Oh, what a perverted mind Kyokyo has!  Puhuhuhuhu!~” at which point Kyoko can no longer suppress the groan she feels like she’s been holding all day.  (This is met with another Puhuhuhuhu!~ which. is equally uncomforting.  But she tries not to focus on that.)

Eventually, though, the announcements are off (to the best of Kyoko’s ability) and Junko has changed into—

“The Ultimate Fashionista wears sweats?”

“Sweetie Pants made by the indomitable Birdie Jay?  Absolutely.”  Junko gestures to the white sweatpants with their squares of various colors.  “She’s a bit of a loose screw, but we must support our fellow models in their new trades.  The fashion industry can be so cutthroat.”  She giggles.

This, Kyoko realizes, is precisely where Ultimate Fashionista and Ultimate Despair collide.  With the new context, she is somehow less surprised that Junko could be both.

There’s a rough banging noise on the other side of the wall, and Junko sighs.  “I suppose they will have broken into the bathroom by now.  How unfortunate.  I don’t suppose there’s a way out without revealing ourselves, unless….”

Kyoko raises an eyebrow.  “Unless?”

Junko’s whole demeanor shifts.  She blushes and shrinks.  Her gaze drops, and she starts to tap her forefingers together.  “Well.  I could.  I could take you through one of the tunnels.  Instead of back through the bathroom.  So that the others don’t see the entrance.  And then you…then you could see the tunnels!  But that’s…that’s so stupid….”  She looks up through her lashes.  “…unless?”

“You have secret tunnels?”

Junko gives her a blank look.

~

Which is how Kyoko finds herself following Junko through what feels more like a vent shaft than a tunnel given just how small it is while Junko sings some song about secret tunnels and Kyoko wonders just how, exactly, the mastermind was able to make this much noise and not get caught.  Surely, someone can hear this.  Surely, someone else is as frustrated with this as she is.

No?  No one?  Just her?

“Bueller?”

“Hm?”  Kyoko snaps her head up so hard it bumps against the top of the tunnel – against the edge of something – before she notices that their small vent space has ended in a much more expanded area.  She ignores Junko’s outstretched hand and scoots out on her own.  “Who’s Bueller?”

“You are hopeless.”

Junko takes a sharp left from the larger tunnel into another, smaller one and eventually leads Kyoko to a grate that opens into the kitchen floor.  She pops the grate off, looks around, and then climbs out.  When Kyoko gives her a disbelieving look, she mutters, “What?  I needed an easy route to the kitchen.  Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”  Kyoko brushes dirt from her skirt.  “I’m just surprised you would risk someone seeing us pop out of there.”

“What risk?”  Junko props a hand on her hip and gives Kyoko an incredulous look.  “They think I locked you in the bathroom and then disappeared with you.  Who would go looking for us anywhere else?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but as Junko winks at her, Kyoko understands the answer.  She is the only one who would look for them anywhere else.  The only one left who would, anyway.  More than that, she’s the only one left who could potentially find the hidden tile access.  (For all that Byakuya can piece together a puzzle once it’s given to him, he has a few glaring blind spots.  Taking the initiative to plunge into secret rooms is one of them.  He plays within the scope of the narrative he’s given.  Kyoko, on the other hand, never has.)

They make their way through the empty kitchen, through the empty dining room, through the empty spaces now ringing with the sounds of metallic pounding – “Someone left the door open.  Were they born in a barn?” – and back to Junko’s dorm, where the others – all of the others, which shouldn’t surprise Kyoko but somehow still does – stand in various states of panic or not-quite-so.  Toko sits on Junko’s empty, perhaps unused, bed, covering her ears with her hands, while Hina paces back and forth, muttering something about how she should have stayed with them just loud enough for Kyoko to catch a few words of it and make the rest out.  Hiro stands just inside of the now quite busted bathroom door, and while she cannot see Byakuya yet, she suspects he is the one making the pounding soun.

Which is odd, considering that Byakuya is less of the pounding sort and more of the intellectually figure out the puzzle sort.

Toko notices them first, eyes wide, and stutters something so softly that Kyoko cannot make it out.  Then Hina sees them and just reaches out to brush her fingertips along Kyoko’s shoulder before grabbing her jacket and pulling her to a halt.  “Where were you?” she asks, eyes wide in fear, frustration, fury.

“We—”

“We weren’t anywhere,” Junko interrupts with a roll of her eyes.  “Duh.”  She moves past Hiro into the bathroom.

Byakuya has finally paused in the pounding of the wall in the far back.   He turns with his head half-lowered, one finger tapping on the edge of his glasses, and says, “That’s a fake wall.  You can hear how it sounds different from the others.  They must have gone—”

“Must have gone where?” Junko asks with a bright grin.

“Ah.”  Byakuya’s gaze focuses as he looks down on her.  “You’re here.”

Junko gives him a wink.  “Why’s everyone here?” she asks with feigned innocence, her face falling as she turns back to the others.  “And why is my bathroom door all ruined?”  She looks around at everyone.  “You absolute monsters.”

“You disappeared!” Hiro exclaims.  “You took Kyoko into the bathroom and locked the door!  You were gone forever!”  He turns to Kyoko.  “I thought you were gonna die!”

Junko yawns.  “I told you already.  I’m not gonna kill anyone.  That’s so….”  She crosses her arms and sighs.  “Boring.”  She gives them all a look.  “Killing people is so last season.   Haven’t you heard?”  A grin creeps onto her lips.  “Dying is easy, young man; living is harder.”

Byakuya’s eyes narrow.  “Who are you calling a young man?  I’m Byakuya Togami.  I’m so much more than a—”

This time, Junko lets out a groan of a sigh as she walks away from him.  She collapses onto the bed next to Toko.  “Here.”  She pulls her book out of the same subspace pocket where she keeps crowns and glasses and whatever other prop she needs, which somehow always seems to magically appear just when she needs it.

Toko’s eyes widen, and her fingers reach out to brush the cover.  “T-t-this is—”

“A signed first edition of Blue Thread from the Scarred Mountain,” Junko completes for her.  “Look.”  She opens to the signed page.  “you even signed it, To my very best friend, Junko.”

Toko takes the book, hands just brushing against Junko’s, enough to make her flinch, and then reads the words, face flushing a bright red.  “I don’t ever sign anything.  Ever.”  She glances up and bites her lower lip, searching everyone else for some sort of explanation.  Nothing comes up.  “I-I-I would never….”

Junko just shrugs.  “We were friends,” she says.  She looks up at the others.  “We were all friends.  I would never kill one of my friends.”

“You killed your sister,” Byakuya says, stepping out of the bathroom with his arms crossed, standing between her and Hiro, eyes dark.  “Was she not your friend?”

A snort escapes Junko then, followed by a harsh bark of a laugh.  “We shall plead the fifth.”  Her eyes grow dark, then.  Steely.  “And we should like for all of you to leave us.  This is still our room, after all, and we rescind your invitations.”  A smile.  “Oh, wait, that’s right; you didn’t get one.”  Then her head tilts to one side, and her gaze softens as it falls on Kyoko.  “Except for our most loyal knight.”

Kyoko crosses her arms.  “Quit calling me that.”

It doesn’t matter.  The words have been said and understood.  Byakuya’s eyebrows shoot up, and then a smug smile curls into place.  “Most. Loyal. Knight,” he repeats, and he chuckles before pushing his glasses back into place.  “Come, Toko.  We know when we aren’t wanted.”

Toko hesitates.  She looks at the book in her hands, glances up at Junko, and then places the book gently to one side.  When she follows Byakuya, it’s with her head hanging and her fingers fidgeting and twitching together in front of her.

Hiro rubs the back of his neck.  Then he looks at Kyoko, gives a shrug of one shoulder, and follows suit.

But Hina takes longer.  She ignores Junko entirely and instead stares at Kyoko.  “I don’t care what she wants,” she says, shooting Junko a harsh look before turning back to Kyoko and taking both of her hands in her own.  “If you want me to stay, I’ll stay.”

Kyoko takes that in, takes it for what it means, and then offers Hina the gentlest of smiles.  “I….”  For a moment, she hesitates.  In her right mind, she would far rather have Hina stay.  She doesn’t want to be alone with Junko any longer; she certainly doesn’t trust her any more now than she had before.

But Junko is…open, in a sense, with her that she isn’t quite with everyone else.  Which means if she’s here alone, then she might learn more.  She might figure out what it was that Makoto saw, what it was that made him choose to die and keep all of them here rather than let them all free and kill—

It was a trade, Kyoko knows that much.  Makoto chose Junko over himself.  She just can’t see why.

“I’ll be fine,” Kyoko murmurs as her smile fades, as she glances to Junko and then lets her gaze return to Hina.  “I don’t believe that she’ll try to kill me.”

Hina leans closer.  “That doesn’t mean she won’t hurt you.”

You say that like she hasn’t already.

But Kyoko doesn’t say that; it would be impossible to do so with Junko right here, without some acknowledgment of…of something.  Instead, she simply nods.  Takes a deep breath in.  “You said you needed a break.  Take it.”

Hina’s gaze shifts just enough to take in the big grin on Junko’s face.  Her eyes narrow.  “If you do anything—”

“What if I need to fucking breathe?”  Junko’s eyes widen.  “You want me to fucking suffocate?  How fucking petty can you be?”

“Very.”  Hina glares at her.  “Very. Petty.”  Her gaze returns to Kyoko.  She meets her eyes and gives her a little nod.  Then she, too, goes.

As the door clicks shut behind her, Junko begins to rub the nail of her forefinger along the inseam of her thumb again.  “You’re not going to last much longer.”  She doesn’t even glance up.  “What is this now, your third day without sleep?  That stupid coffee’s not going to do you much good.  Your body’s going to start shutting down, if it hasn’t already.”

Kyoko drops into the singular chair.  Then she levels her gaze to stare at Junko.  “Is that why you wanted me to stay?” she asks.  “Because you think I’ll be vulnerable, alone here with you?”

“No.”  Junko finally glances up and meets Kyoko’s eyes as her normal, knowing smile fades.  “Because you’ll be vulnerable out there with them.”

[xtruss]

Freshly picked "Yartsa Ganbu"—Cordyceps—are counted in the market of Yushu City. The popular medicine made from parasitic fungi are in danger of being over harvested and face environmental risks from climate change.

The Fungus In 'The Last of Us' Is Real—And It's Very, Very Expensive

The parasitic fungus ophiocordyceps sinensis is a popular traditional medicine and essential source of income for some of China’s poorest citizens. But now climate change and capitalism spell an uncertain future.

— Story and Photographs ByJustin Olsvik | January 4, 2024

QINGHAI, CHINA — Ma Beng sprawls on his stomach, his nose nearly touching the dry, brown grass. He army-crawls slowly across the mountain, inspecting the ground inch by methodical inch. Nearby, friends and family likewise creep along, carefully studying the tangles of grass and shrub. At 16,400 feet above sea-level, close to the height of Everest’s Base Camp, exertion in the oxygen-deprived air seems to phase no one. Chatting as they crawl, the group trades idle gossip, but their eyes never leave the ground.

They’re all searching for the same thing. It’s a prize often worth more than its weight in gold: ophiocordyceps sinensis, or more simply, caterpillar fungus.

From a distance, another man cries out in excitement. A short fungal stalk just barely pokes out of the grass, marginally thicker than the vegetation that surrounds it, and he carefully begins excavating around it. Onlookers gather, pulling out their smartphones to take photos; one woman begins a livestream on Douyin (China’s version of TikTok). A few painstaking moments later and he has freed his bounty—a small caterpillar perhaps an inch long, caked in earth with a reddish tendril of fungus sprouting from its head. He produces a tobacco tin, gingerly wraps his find in plastic, and secures it inside as the crowd disperses again, resuming their hunt with renewed enthusiasm.

Called yartsa gunbu in Tibetan, the literal translation becomes “winter worm, summer grass”. It’s an apt, if scientifically inaccurate, name for a macabre instance of symbiosis that begins when the underground larvae of the ghost moth are infected by ophiocordyceps spores. Scientists think the fungus takes control of the caterpillar’s nervous system, forcing its host to dig upwards, then ­killing it just before breaking the surface. Dormant through winter, the fungus reawakens in spring, consumes the corpse’s interior for nutrients, and sprouts out of caterpillar’s head into the sunshine.

Cordyceps have long been a local folk remedy, but within the last few decades Chinese demand has mushroomed, driving up prices. Since the early 1970s the cost of a kilogram of high quality cordyceps has increased up to forty thousand-fold—fetching as much as $110,000 per kilogram. The result has been an annual “wormrush” on the margins of the Himalaya, what is historically one of the poorest regions on the Asian continent.

Part social gathering, part livelihood rivalry, villagers scour the slopes together in Yushu Tibetan Autonomous Prefecture. For many, this will be their only source of income for the year.

At these extreme elevations, hats and masks are a necessity to protect pickers from the harsh light. Specialized tools are carried to carefully extract any finds without damaging them.

For many pickers, the cordyceps harvest represents their only income for the entire year; so, every May and June, the plateau fragments into thousands of hyper-localities where only residents are permitted to enter.

Regardless of how or by whom the worms get dug up, there’s one alarming thing everyone on the plateau has noticed: there are fewer to find every year.

Locals and scientists alike offer the one-two punch of overharvesting and climate change as means of explanation. With hundreds of distinct sets of regulations governing their harvest, there remains no cohesive system, or incentives, to ensure a sustainable harvest. Simultaneously, new sprouts require a specific range of temperature, moisture, and snow cover. Those variables are no longer so predictable, and the fungus today cannot be found at the lower elevations where they were once plentiful.

Part caterpillar, part fungus, cordyceps are prized in traditional medicine for being both "plant" and animal. The industry here is worth billions of dollars.

The World’s Most Expensive Fungus

Roughly sixty miles away in the city of Yushu, it’s barely 8 a.m. in the cordyceps market, but already it has the frenetic energy of a stock market trading floor. Hands are grasped beneath towels in the traditional means of bartering, whispers circulate the crowds, and prices fluctuate from shop-to-shop, minute-to-minute as every node in this supply web tries to eek out a couple more yuan per worm.

Middlemen purchase worms from the pickers for approximately $5 and will sell them to established shops in Yushu and other urban centers for a 10-20 percent markup. From there, they enter a well-oiled machine. The cordyceps are cleaned, counted, sorted, and packaged in vacuum-sealed bags before being shipped off that same afternoon. During peak season, a single worm broker can buy over 1,500 pounds of product per day, spending tens of millions of dollars in the process.

By the time they reach the gleaming shops of Beijing and Shanghai, the price of a caterpillar fungus has at least doubled. They’re more likely to be found in a luxury shopping mall than a pharmacy. The perceived value of the resource is now so high that it’s a fashionable gift or party favor among China’s elite. Counterintuitively, demand for cordyceps doesn’t remain high in spite of high prices, it remains high because of them.

One saleswoman in Beijing’s high-end Wang Fu Jing district suggests buyers are primarily interested in the social status the worms provide rather than any purported health effects. She points at the different ornate boxes of dead caterpillars, secured behind glass.

“High-quality” cordyceps are priced based on a fungus’s size, color, symmetry, ratio of stalk-to-body, freshness, and any other variables that makes them more uncommon or visually appealing, and therefore more desirable. The very best are priced in excess of six figures per kilogram; their uglier counterparts are more likely to sell for around $40,000 per kilogram. The least aesthetic will be ground to powder for supplements and additives in other products.

A growing interest in alternative medicine from Western markets also suggests demand will continue rising.

The product appeals to a diverse cross-section people: it has been sold by celebrity Gwyneth Paltrow on her controversial Goop website, as well as by right-wing conspiracy theorist Alex Jones’ Info Wars. Recently, the hit HBO series The Last of Us put a spotlight on the fungus, introducing it to new audiences.

Left: Local shops have taken to social media to help grow their businesses. These women are brushing the dirt from fresh yartsa ganbu while being live streamed to Chinese viewers. Right: This buyer samples the aroma of some dried worms for sale before making an offer.

The dried fungi are less desirable than their fresh counterparts and are sold by weight. Fresh ones are sold per piece, but only last a few weeks, so will be packaged and shipped out the same day.

A Moral Tradeoff

Escalating demand means more pressure on an already fragile ecosystem, but a company from Guangdong province, Sunshine Lake Pharma, might have a solution. For decades, many have tried to cultivate cordyceps artificially, and until recently, the complex life cycle, interactions, and environment had proven too difficult to simulate. But in 2014, Sunshine Lake made a breakthrough, producing lab-grown cordyceps with a highly secret procedure, for the first time. Studies indicate that the medicinal components of cultivated cordyceps were equivalent to wild ones, and better yet, lack the heavy metal pollutants often found in the natural variety.

Since the discovery, Sunshine Lake has been growing, and by their own estimate, project their production could make up 20 percent of the entire market. Lab-grown cordyceps should reduce pressure on wild fungus, giving populations a chance to recover. However, that environmental win jeopardizes what’s now a lucrative resource for some of China’s poorest citizens.

There's little time for rest during cordyceps season. Here, a buyer inspects the haul of a picker's family by headlight, extending his bargaining well into the night.

Many pickers have responded by using social media to create a distinct “natural” brand identity. Scroll any number of Chinese social media apps in May and June and you’re likely to find livestreams of these businesses picking, processing, and packaging their products against dramatic mountain backgrounds, and encouraging you to purchase directly from their online stores.

As the sun approaches the horizon, Ma Beng heads back down the mountain empty-handed. When asked if he’s worried about the cultivated fungus, he just shrugs.

“This is a traditional medicine,” he says. “You can’t replace tradition.”