#something different for wip Wednesday

[vampireninjabunnies-blog]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton @inafieldofdaisies @josephseedismyfather @direwombat @kyber-infinitygems @g0dspeeed @wrathfulrook

Tagging @blindmagdalena @trench-rot @river-ward @poisonedtruth @voidika @aceghosts @v0idbuggy @strangefable and anyone else who would like to share. Something different this time. Not FC5 related. Thought I'd give another fic/ship/OC some attention.

On A Whim

He wasn't sure why he did it. He'd heard her scream echoing in the night as he flew above the city and had swooped down to her rescue on a whim. It didn't make sense. There were no cameras, no one would ever know he'd done it. Saved this tiny delicate woman from being assaulted in a dark alley.

Of course the lack of cameras meant no one would ever know he'd killed her attackers either. Which was probably for the best. Landing softly on the balcony he made his way into his penthouse.

Glancing at himself in the mirror as he walked past, trying to ignore the mocking look of derision on the face he saw reflected back. Both his face and not at the same time. Taunting him, questioning why he'd bothered to save her.

It's not like she was even all that pretty. Sure she was pretty enough, her skin a nice coppery tone, but her face was a little round, her hair a mousy dull brown. Too small and skinny, no real curves. Certainly nowhere near as pretty as Maeve. So why couldn't he get her out of his head.

What the hell was wrong with her anyway. She'd watched him laser her attackers basically in half and nothing. Not one ounce of fear from her toward him. Caution yes but not fear. The way someone might respond to a large dog they don't know.

He ran his fingers through his short blonde strands, plopped down on the couch. His mind still fixating on her, on the way her emerald gaze never left his, even when they glowed crimson as he briefly considered killing her too. No one to tell anyone that he'd behaved in a way that would reflect poorly on Vought. No one to potentially add fuel to Butcher's fire.

Her heart had been racing when he first swooped down, but it had slowed. Completely calm as she stared at him. Before finally smiling at him. Thanking him. No adoration or fear. Just a simple thank you. That she might've given to anyone who interfered. Like he was just...a person. It was frustrating and confusing to think about.

This was ridiculous! Who cares if she wasn't afraid? Or why he bothered? He was Homelander. He could whatever the fuck he wanted. Whether it made sense or not. And it was stupid to dwell on it, even if the incident had been...odd. He refused to dwell on it. He had more important things to think about. He was not going to fixate on this woman. This completely average, ordinary woman. Even if she did have really pretty eyes.

Whispering softly to himself.

"She really did have pretty eyes."

[wikiangela]

tease tidbit tuesday/wip wednesday

tagged by @thewolvesof1998 @theotherbuckley @tizniz @diazsdimples @dangerpronebuddie @spotsandsocks @exhuastedpigeon @underwaterninja13 - tagging y'all back for wip wednesday 💖💖

doing two in one bc it's technically wednesday already idc lol - started a new wip I mentioned before (inspired by this video lol) and rn I'm rewriting what I wrote yesterday bc the past two days words were not wording and I hated everything I wrote, but I think I'm happy with it now haha I hope I'll manage to write it like I want to bc it's sooo good in my head istg haha

(wasn't gonna post until i have more but i need validation before i drive myself crazy over this lol)

___

It started as a random idea, more like a throwaway thought, really. Tommy was just checking the weather for the next few days – his hot pilot boyfriend always likes to be prepared – while they were hanging out, and he casually mentioned that “it’s gonna be nice on Saturday, perfect barbecue weather,” which got Buck to mention how they often have family barbecues at Bobby and Athena’s. Somehow, the conversation spiraled, and Buck’s not sure who threw out a more concrete idea, but here they are now, standing side by side in Tommy’s kitchen, preparing food – Buck’s currently slicing veggies for a salad, while Tommy takes care of the meat – for the barbecue where they invited way too many people than Tommy’s backyard can probably fit. It really is nice weather, the sliding door leading from the kitchen to the backyard open and letting in warm sunshine and a soft breeze that makes the air feel cooler. They work in pleasant silence, the only sound is quiet music playing from the speaker, and Buck can’t help a fond smile when he hears his boyfriend hum along, so off-key Buck’s not sure he even knows the song, but it’s still adorable.

The silence is disrupted by the doorbell ringing, and before Tommy can even move, Buck is dropping the knife on the cutting board, wiping his hands, and sprinting towards the door, shouting an “I got it!” over his shoulder. He’s followed by an echo of Tommy’s fondly amused chuckles. So he’s a little excited, sue him – they haven’t had a family day like this in a while, and there was only one he brought Tommy to, all of their schedules not so easy to align. And today his whole family will be here, including their spouses and children, and Tommy invited a couple of his friends and their families, too, and it’ll be just a big, loud, chaotic get-together that he’s hosting with his boyfriend. Buck never hosted one of these before, and he’s really enjoying it so far, and he just wants everyone to have fun.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @thebravebitch @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @watchyourbuck

@eowon @loserdiaz @evanbegins @ladydorian05 @wildlife4life

@diazpatcher @lover-of-mine @monsterrae1 @weewootruck @loveyouanyway

@spagheddiediaz @rainbow-nerdss @epicbuddieficrecs @pirrusstuff @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove

@nmcggg @rogerzsteven @hippolotamus @bidisasterevankinard @giddyupbuck

@sunshinediaz @honestlydarkprincess @911-on-abc @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings

@buddieswhvre @fortheloveofbuddie @your-catfish-friend

@daffi-990 @hoodie-buck @aroeddiediaz

[plusultraetc]

oh how the poor sleeping habits tables have turned

[theprinceandagcd]

wip wednesday <333

SO many tags today, ahhhh, tysm @suseagull04 @stellarm @henryspearl @jmagnabo92 @priincebutt @nocoastposts @read-and-write- @itsmaybitheway

I've been sharing snippets of my @aroyallybigbangrwrb fic over on my Twitter (which by the way I'm usually more active - and chaotic - on, come say hi!) but haven't shared much here. So here's a snippet of that!

The premise is Henry, wearing a t-shirt and a button up, spills his drink on a stressed law school student Alex in a bar, and then offers to give him the button up. hypothetically, they'd go their separate ways there. but oops, they're both really hot and inexplicably drawn into each other's orbit, duh, and. well. :)

“Jesus, right.” Henry scrambles a bit to undo his buttons, fingers fumbling as they work their way down, and then he’s handing the shirt to Alex and watching as Alex pulls it over his arms. It’s a little long and slightly loose across his shoulders, but it fits.  “Nice,” Alex says, keenly aware of Henry’s eyes still on him. He buttons the bottom button, and then looks up at Henry through his lashes.  “Sorry,” Henry mumbles, reaching up to scratch his neck. It still takes him three full seconds—Alex fucking counts—to finally divert his gaze from Alex’s bare chest.  “For what?” Alex challenges, securing the next button slowly.  “I—” Henry struggles for a moment, blinking quickly. His attention darts down before immediately returning to Alex’s eyes. “Ogling you like a prized cow at the auction, I suppose.”  Alex does up another button, delighted when Henry's eyes fall to track the movement. It seems nearly automatic, something that Henry is helpless against, and Alex grins.  “Can I tell you the truth?” At Henry’s nod, he lets his gaze deliberately trail down the tight fit of Henry's t-shirt and says, “I don’t actually mind.”

no pressure tags for @heysweetheart-writes @firenati0n @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @anincompletelist @ninzied @inexplicablymine @tinyarmedtrex @magicandarchery @fckngyrs @dragonflylady77 and open tag to anyone who wants to play!! (but tag me if you do, I wanna see what y'all are working on!)

[messrsbyler]

happy wip wednesday! some from my stonathan fic day 5 project <3

[mrsbsmooth]

WIP Wednesday

Thank you for the tag @rebelrayne!!

I've been slowly plodding away at this one whenever I need something lighthearted and fun.

She’d changed. She’d tangled and messed up her hair, throwing it up into a bun. She’d taken off all her makeup and replaced it with a goopy face mask, and instead of leggings and her low-cut jumper, she had baggy joggers on, and a hoodie with– with– “Get that off,” he hissed playfully.  “No,” she smirked, doing a curtsey in the baggy hoodie with Swansea City’s logo plastered across the front.  “Look, I’ve even dripped brown sauce all over myself.” Sasha took a running leap onto the couch, sitting up at the far end. She did a little ‘ta-da’, and grinned at him. “Now I am as unsexy as possible.” She pushed her fuzzy socks into his lap.  Lewie stared at her for a moment, picked up her leg and dragged her down the couch towards him. She gasped, and he pushed her hoodie up to expose her stomach. He pressed his lips to her skin as if he'd been starving for it. “Nope,” he whispered. “Still so fucking sexy.” Sasha cracked up laughing, but he just kept swirling kisses on her skin. “Oh my god, how?” “Because now it looks like you live here.” Lewie pressed another few kisses to her taut stomach before realising what he’d said. He glanced up at her, and found her with a look on her face that he couldn’t read, especially with the bloody face mask. He froze, and she froze.  They stared at each other for what felt like an age. And Sasha’s face began curling into a grin. “Well, if that isn’t the most romantic fucking thing you’ve ever–”

Tagging @sparxaf, @ellegreenwxy @eskiix @queen-of-boops @operationnope @caitkaminski and @lucas-koh

[aqpippin]

wip wednesday —

i drive down different roads (but they all lead back to you) (chapter 2)

Gigi’s mind grinds to a halt. She rewinds her memories back, to what she heard today, to her name leaving Jackie’s mouth desperately. She rewinds further back, to her lookalike, the smile playing on her lips when she said Gigi should talk to Jackie. Then even further - to Jackie kicking her hookup out to take care of a sick Gigi, to her leaving someone midway through just to help her through a question. She thinks about the one girl who grinned at her and claimed she knew why Jackie was single. Gigi had dismissed all of that, overlooked the coincidences.For the first time in weeks, she follows them to their natural conclusion.

One - Jackie hooked up with someone who looked like her. Jackie is attracted to how she looks.

Two - Jackie takes care of her whenever she needs it, puts Gigi’s needs above her own. Multiple times, she’s told Gigi that she matters more than a hookup, more than anyone she’s brought home.

Three - Jackie just called out her name while masturbating. Her name, not her partner’s because she hasn’t had one. Not in weeks.

Four - Jackie wants her. Jackie likes her.

Gigi feels like she’s dreaming.

[nostalgia-tblr]

WIP Wednesday

Gonna use WIP Wednesday to throw a bit of the not-Ottoman-Empire not-thorki fic at tumblr and see if anyone else finds it at all interesting/appealing (pls tell me whether to finish this or to pretend I never even thought of it):

Farbauti tells Loki tales of his siblings, all of the things she remembers about them as children and all of the strengths and weaknesses she has gleaned from weary travellers in the years since. Loki sharpens the blade of his favourite dagger as she rambles on, idling in the heat from the fire in the hearth and only half-listening to her words. His mother notes how his attention wanders and she tells him, sharply, “This is information that will save your life one day. This is how I’m going to win you your throne.” Loki nods, apparently contrite, and drags the whetstone along the length of the knife. “I’m listening, Mother. I always listen.” “To me?” “To everything,” he answers, just as she wants him to. Farbauti continues; “The one you must be most careful of is Thor. You were only small when he left the palace, and he wasn’t much more than a boy himself, but he takes after his mother. Which means that he would slit her throat if he saw any advantage in it. Perhaps he already has.” She laughs at that, loud and scornful. Loki does, in fact, remember Thor. He remembers golden hair and easy laughter. He remembers the two of them playing together, dodging behind pillars in a game of chasing and hiding. He remembers, quite clearly (too clearly, perhaps; this part might be a later invention of his own imagination), that the game ended with both of their mothers scowling.

[curi0uscreature]

* (lying to myself) I’m being so normal about my AU versions of them right now. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Especially the part where these two are canonically still alive and well here and Helmut has his body back so they can actually kiss. Very dandy indeed

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

WIP Wednesday

So okay I don't know if this is like...a cool thing to do or not, but there's a fic I claimed from the 2022 kink meme list (I couldn't resist, in large part because Tales From Jianghu Shopping Center was listed by the prompter as one of their inspirations for the prompt) that I'm not sure when I'll actually finish writing but I have started it and I'd like to at least acknowledge that I'm doing it even if the prompter won't see this. But the prompt is something along the lines of anything highly specific and niche (like my strip mall AU lol), and I actually happen to have a growing little stockpile of very very niche knowledge about my chosen professional field, which is ceramics! I specialize in wheel-throwing (though I'm also a...passable hand at plaster mold-making/slip casting and handbuilding, I just don't enjoy them nearly as much) so I've started a little something from Lan Wangji's point of view that's a love letter to throwing ♥

--//--

As is tradition, Lan Wangji works in porcelain.

The Lan family have been respected masters of porcelain for centuries, generations stretching back, back, back nearly to the beginning of the imperial kiln production in Jingdezhen. They once produced the enormous pots that adorned emperors’ palaces – there are (very distant) cousins of his in Jingdezhen who still do so for wealthy patrons.

It’s easy to forget such a background when he enters his personal studio on the other side of the world and flicks on the lights to begin the day’s routines. It’s precisely what he wants – a quiet life like this, simple and unassuming, is much more suited to his desire than the weight of tradition that could otherwise press him and his work down into something he would never want to be.

Not that he deviates very far from tradition anyway, but it’s the principle of the thing. Lan Wangji takes quiet pleasure in simplicity, in function that is beautiful in its hard-won mastery. There are very few non-traditional ways to accomplish this that he’s interested in, but he likes having the option should he want to take it. 

Lan Wangji had learned to throw at his uncle’s knee as soon as it was possible to do so. He has continued to do so since childhood with a single-mindedness that once surprised even his uncle. All he’d ever wanted to do was to sit at the wheel for hours and hours on end, only pausing to warm the water in his bowl with a fresh influx from the kettle and to transfer full wareboards (once he was strong enough) to the drying racks in the corner of his uncle’s studio.

Lan Wangji has always struggled to find the words to convey how integral the motion of the wheel and the smooth slip of clay through his finger and against his palms is to feeling like he fits into his skin properly, but his family seems to understand just the same.

Yesterday, as the sun was westering, Lan Wangji had weighed up a few bags of fresh porcelain. The lumps are waiting for him now, tumbled together under their protective sheets of plastic, ready to be molded and shaped by hands and hypnotic motion. There’s enough of a chill in the studio this time of year that there isn’t any condensation on the plastic when he lifts it, so he folds it away neatly and settles into the easy rhythm of wedging his clay to prepare it for the wheel.

There is, in the middle of the studio, a sturdy butcher’s block workbench. He built it himself right there in the studio, the first piece of furniture that had filled the space even before he’d purchased his Shimpo wheel. It’s very likely too heavy to lift – it’s certainly too big to ever get through the door – but he has no intention of ever leaving this studio to begin another, so it suits his purposes just fine.

Wedging the clay on this sturdy, hip-height table is nearly as meditative a process as all the rest of it. A bit more of a workout than sitting at the wheel, but it’s a good way to warm up in the morning, his muscles well accustomed to the push-turn-push-turn-push-turn of spiral wedging that it’s gone beyond second nature, it simply is. His mind wanders pleasantly as he watches the misshapen lumps of pure porcelain become smooth and rounded beneath his palms. Perhaps he’ll spend the day on bowls. They’re quick and simple, suited to his mood today, and he’ll have plenty of them done by lunch when he already knows his typical solitary routine will be interrupted (and can therefore plan for it so far in advance). 

The sun is up properly by the time Lan Wangji finishes his wedging, and once he’s transferred the first batch of prepared clay to the wheel he pauses to stand in the open doorway and look out over the garden that sits between his studio and his home. The grass and the flowers are glittering fresh and dewy in the sunlight as he rolls his shoulders, stretches out his back in preparation to be seated for long hours.

When he returns, the wheel welcomes him, familiar and comforting. He fills an old bird seed bucket with warm water from the tap and arranges the small mirror at the back of the wheel’s tray to the perfect angle to watch his own hands before he settles in and takes a deep breath, sleeves rolled up and apron cinched comfortably tight around his waist as an unnecessary reminder to keep his back as straight as he can while he works.

The first ball of porcelain hits the perfect bullseye of the wheelhead and Lan Wangji leans in to begin centering, the porcelain buttery soft where it runs under his hands. Porcelain, he knows, is notorious for being difficult to work with, particularly for beginners. This far into his career, it’s simply polite and responsive to each confident press of his palms. He cones it first, hands curled around it to coax it in and up; presses it down again with the flat of his hand, every movement focused on the centerpoint of the wheel gliding silently through magnet-powered rotations. 

Up. 

Down again. 

Up.

Down.

Push.

Press.

Lan Wangji loves every part of the throwing process for what it is, but if he were to have to choose only one, this would be his favorite: the moment he can feel the clay running smoothly, perfectly centered the whole way through and ready to become whatever he will tell it to be, the possibilities – for this moment – endless.

[thornilee013]

I just saw the tags on the first baby Jean you did (I cheated and read the tags + sent my ask before going to catch up on the story lol) and wanted to respond to that too! Sorry for the non-writing ask, you don’t have to actually post this one if you don’t want, I just didn’t want to ignore those tags until next week!

I hope that your work does do something about what you reported, but either way it’s good that you reported it! If it’s something that ever happens to anyone in the future, there will be documentation that someone reported it and management failed to take the necessary measures to prevent it from happening again. You stood up for yourself and you may have potentially helped someone else out! You should absolutely feel proud of yourself!

You’re always so kind to me and I appreciate that so much! Thank you! Have a beautiful week! Besos xx🤍🤍🤍

prev | Baby Jean | WW 17.1.2024

Jean approached the desk and stared up at the person sitting there. They were clearly busy, since they seemed to be writing something down on a notepad. He reached up as far as he could muster and whimpered a bit at the stretch.

"How can I–" the person said before looking up and making eye contact with him. "Hey bud. Don't hang on the desk like that, okay? I don't think it's the most stable thing and I don't want it tipping over on you. What can I do for you?"

MASTERPOST

[idolsgf]

WIP Wednesday

hi i was tagged @melisusthewee by for wip wednesday, thank you <3

tagging: @gvnseylike @demandthedoodles @n7viper and anyone else who likes this who wants to share. no pressure :)

I don’t really have much in the way of writing for this week, haven’t really had the time. I’ve been working more on developing and organizing. Everything undercut as always

Dragon Age

cyra adaar: my new girl, fully believes she is Maker sent, Andraste’s chosen. I wanted to play into the dynamics of how easy it is to get sucked into a sect of religion and those beliefs, even if not born into it. definitely a delve into some of my own experiences with the matter. I usually start with a pinterest board to try and nail down surface things for my characters, so I’ve been working on that for her. link here

romance will either be Josephine or Sera. I’ll see how it plays out whenever I get around to it.

mori’na lavellan: my main babe that I keep putting into Situations. I’ve been slowly building up a character sheet for them, which has helped with figuring out their family dynamics as well as motivations for things. I’ve been using this character sheet but not using every section.

I’ve also been thinking more on how drinking from the well has affected them (a great deal. the start to the final nail into the coffin of the loss of self and identity). I have ideas for what I might write for it, it's just the matter of actually getting it on paper. The problem is I just don’t have a lot of time atm 😅

She will probably always be my main focus because I just love that plant obsessed fool.

Ashari and Faye have gone neglected this week, sorry 🙇‍♀️

Now for something a bit different

I don’t mention this a lot, but I make quilts! I think those projects count as WIPs haha

I’m currently working on these two projects:

I have the fabric cut for them, just have to start putting it all together. For the Greenhouse one I’m making the wall hanging version of it so it’s a bit different than what's on the cover. The boat pond one is the throw size. I think that one is going to turn out pretty cool with the fabric I picked out :3

[lumalalu]

man fuck it im gonna start doin wip wednesdays here

Summer is sweet and endless and she has nothing to do but look at me. She's looking at me now, through the sun's glare on her mirror. She shadows the shapes of my mouth, but doesn't put her voice to my words.

My parents are worried about Grace. They think something's wrong with her - I know what it is. Grace knows, too, looking at me, looking through the glare in the mirror. Everything about her is wrong. I could fix her, if she would let me.

Solid, measured knocks. "Gracie?"

"Yeah?" She pulls her braids back to look at her shoulders uncovered. The angle of her jaw. She is trying to see how it matches up to mine.

"Your mother and I are going to go to the mall. Do you want to come?"

I've never been a fan of the sweltering heat of a cracked-asphalt parking lot, nor the chill on my skin in a Macy's. Grace says, "Okay." But she only said that so that she can look away from me. She is a fool. I can be found in anything that can reflect. I watch her in the windows, in silver lockets, in the mirrors she models new boots in. She parades about like a wind-up toy, a ballerina in a music box. Her mother hands her new skirts for the new school year, button-up blouses, low-cut but not whorish, and modest stockings.

The dressing rooms are hidden in the corner, neatly separated by two icons of triangles - one upside and one downside. I follow her to the wrong one, the wrong stall. It's cramped and ill-fitting, somewhat like a body. Grace tries her best to avoid me still. It's a valiant effort, I'll give her that much. But at some point, in a few minutes, maybe, she'll have to turn around and face me.

Grace takes off her tanktop like the accused pushing off concrete slabs. She hisses with impatience at the clasp of her bra and its stubborn claws in her skin, throws it on the bench with more violence than is necessary. Branded into her back it remains, aching, smoking. Cramped and ill-fitting. She itches at it like the fabric is stuck in her, like it still remains subcutaneously and she could pull it away finally, permanently, if she also removed the skin. Her nails are well cared for, and so, won't do the job. I smile at the sound of her bent elbows.

Her pants go too, her keys squeezing free of the claustrophobic pockets and diving with raucous applause to the floor. Her phone is in her purse, because the back pockets are only decorative. Grace doesn't curse. Her words are never ugly. Instead, her lips bend into the shape of: "shit", and then she bends and picks up the keyring. It is unadorned. Why should it be anything else? A key only has one purpose.

For a moment we stand there together, Grace's back to me, my back not quite to hers. She is hesitating, stretching out the moment between one set of clothes and the next. The blouse is slippery and coarse in texture, sends spider legs running over her back. The skirt is of good quality, but takes up in the back, so she is afraid to bend. No pockets.

I ask her if I can see it. She stares at the off-white wall in silence, and then she turns.

"Oh, no, Gracie. That won't do at all." I tell her. "That thing isn't even fit to be a tablecloth. It's see-through, it's itchy on my ribs. It's pushing my skin too close to my bones, the points of my ribs poking at my lungs. It's like a coffin leaking air, sighing its way into the ground." 

Her breath hitches. "I don't know what's wrong with me." She's saying to herself, to the mirror, to me. I make a sound - in my mouth it is sympathetic, but in hers it is animal, pained, cornered.

[gendervapor14]

too tired to write, too tired to edit, too tired to read, but not too tired to draw!! saw some anime screenshot redraws going around and that got me thinking of this iconic scene:

which i combined with a little moment the sorabelle fic to create…

a new disastrous wip!! nothing like having a stack of wip illustrations to go with your wip stories, right??

haha! ha. right? this is normal. everything is normal. everything is fiiiinneee

[wereshrew-admirer]

@mariusperkins and @ringneckedpheasant tagged me for WIP wednesday and it’s sunday which is the wednesday of my work week, so below is what i’ve got so far of a fic based on art’s joking about duvall running off the jade moon after the marrow creek party.

idk the tagging etiquette since it’s not wednesday for most folks, but i’d tag @laminatednewspaper, @twinewool, and….somebody who has apparently deactivated (funny way to find that out 🥲 so i guess @<anybody reading this that wants to share>) if you haven’t already been tagged!

on the eighth day aboard the Jade Moon, duvall woke with a long stretch, kicking crumpled sheets off the bed and pushing his arms up under the pillows - sending several cascading down on his face. Laughter tumbled out of him as he extended his spine, fingers, toes - rejoicing in his newly remade body; in the sensation of being whole and alive, regardless of his actual composition.

It took a moment to realize the bed he was on should be small enough that he’d have come into contact with chine already if they were still in bed with him. He stopped and listened, a little out of breath, and the silence of the room settled in on him with a hint of disappointment, he felt so good and would have liked to share his good mood, to have heard chine’s laughter join his own.

It was only a hint, though, and erupting from the pillow avalanche set him to laughing again. Bubbling with joy he looked towards the window, irrationally, perhaps, expecting a sunny day to reflect his mood - but the port hole had been covered, blocked by curtains on the outside of the boat.

Even this gave him only a momentary pause while he connected the blocked view with what he’d read on the itinerary: Days Nine Thru Eleven, Stay Inside.

he couldn’t remember being so happy. three days with no planned activities and nowhere to go, and chine and the baby all to himself - if they’d want him.

<tense change, began translating present to past and only got this far>

he goes to pull on his pants and remembers belatedly that he’s got to unbutton them first; chine hadn’t bothered last night and he’s got enough of whatever counts as flesh now that it’s not so easy to pull them back up alone. smiling to himself, he thinks that they’ll probably want him.

chine’s probably taken the baby to get breakfast. It eats a lot, he’d been told. that makes sense given how young it is, they’re lucky it can eat solids at all, really. if It hadn’t been able to chew it would have been a nightmare, and one that he’d almost certainly have to bear alone if It was to get any nutrition at all - chine certainly wouldn’t have had the patience to search out an appropriate milk replacement.

duvall slaps himself lightly on the face, catching himself thinking already as if he were included as part of chine’s new family. but he’s too giddy to care, and the hum of the inhsects inside him sounds a little bit like the lullaby chine had sung as they put It down for the night. not that there’d been much night left by the time they got back to chine’s room.

the captain had kept them waiting so long. under other circumstances duvall might think them rude for it, but right before closing the door on his way out to the dining hall he remembers his new mustache and hurries back in to make sure it’s presentable. the man in the mirror is so happy that he’s impossibly grateful the captain had been willing to see him at all. it’s an unbelievable relief to have new bones, new flesh - rebuilt this time with the guiding hand of a a being to whom the act of becoming and unbecoming was old news.

properly freshened at last duvall hurries out of chine’s room, excited to see what It’s favorite pastry is, what mess it’s made, whether or not chine has done anything at all to stop it.

neither chine nor the baby nor any sign of chaos greets him in the breakfast lounge. there’s only pickman looking grumpily out a window, and she doesn’t greet him either.

fine. he’d eat and then go find them, there weren’t many places they could have gone to. his optimism still mostly intact, duvall imagines a considerate version of chine; gathering It up and struggling to keep it quiet as he dressed for the day, saying something like, ‘hush now, duvall needs his sleep if he’s going to play with you later’

the crew had been exceptional, too, so it wasn’t too difficult to imagine that they might have already cleaned any mess the two of them might have made.

still, something nags at him such that he stops pickman on her way out, asking, “have you been in here long? Had you seen chine this morning?”

She frowns and says, “no” in the dismissive tone she’s taken to directing at him lately. She pauses in the doorway and turns back to squint at him, ever accusing, “why?”

Easy enough excuse at the ready, duvall answers, “oh i was expecting to see them at breakfast is all, i wasn’t sure if i’d missed them.”

Pickman stares at him flatly for three excruciatingly long seconds before responding, “have you checked their room?”

he bluffs, says “no, i hadn’t thought of that, i.. I just thought they’d be here. Baby eats a lot, you know?” and mostly doesn’t stumble. He’s proud of himself for it and deems it a success when pickman huffs at him and leaves without further comment.

He shares his pastry with the insects - they must get it eventually anyway, but it feels good to offer and see them take it, and it seems to make the process of eating much faster, which is good because he’s anxious to finish and start his 3-day-chine-special.

It’s pickman who finds the note duvall hadn’t thought to look for, left forgotten on a side table.

when duvall is finished he steps into the hall in time to see pickman trundling back towards him. she briskly says, “they’ve gone” and keeps walking as if she’d said something that made sense on its own.

“What?”

She pauses just long enough to say, “chine has left the boat. I will find out if any of our other companions have proven similarly foolish.” before continuing down the hall - which is just as well because duvall has just found out that he’s got no time to lose.

[aparticularbandit]

Some monaca towa fic please!

WIP Wednesday Game

can do and have done!

...you get a particularly long bit because this is from way near the end and completely far off from where I'm at in the fic proper but I had to get it down so I wouldn't forget the imagery of it.

So kind of spoilers, but I've got the bulk of the main bits in brainstorming on here somewhere, so like. Not really spoilers, yeah?

“I never loved you,” Junko whispers, running a finger along Monaca’s jaw.

She smells like blue raspberries.

Of course, this is because when she was young, that is the only thing of her perfume that Monaca could make out, and so it is the only thing that she has given to her creation, this scent of blue raspberries and nothing else.  It cannot be used, as some might, as a question of whether Junko is lying or telling the truth.

Except that blue raspberries were always Monaca’s favorite candy.

Her mama hated them the most of every flavor, even more than the medicinal cherry, and so whenever she got candies of a mixed variety, she would always give every single blue raspberry to Monaca.  At first, it didn’t matter whether she liked them or not because sometimes that was the only thing she would get, but she did like them well enough, and so when she met Junko, smelling only of her favorite flavor, she thought—

Here’s the thing about candies and flavors and blue raspberries.

For all that people might complain about blue raspberries not being real and being completely manufactured by candy corporations, they don’t talk about that in comparison with the other flavors.  No one eats candy and expects it to taste the flavor it describes.  Cherry candies don’t taste like candy, they taste like medicine; lemon and lime candies don’t have the same sharp; banana candies are close, but not quite; and grape?

Well, we all know about grape.

See, the thing is that every single one of those candy flavors is a lie, not just blue raspberry, and perhaps they are even more of a lie because they are masquerading as something that exists and that they should be but they never will be.

At least blue raspberry is upfront and honest about its lie.

It doesn’t exist.  It’s not real.

But it’s not pretending to be either.

“I never loved you,” Junko whispers, running a finger along Monaca’s jaw, and who knows if she’s really telling the truth or not?  This isn’t Junko Enoshima, not really, just a version of her artificially created by none other than Junko herself, and even if this is what Junko would say to Monaca, there’s no way of knowing whether she meant it or not.

Telling Monaca that she never loved her is the most despair she could cause Monaca in this moment.

Truth or not, Junko would always take this action.

Always.

And Monaca, trying to determine whether it is a truth or a lie, caught up in that, perhaps even lying to herself about that (again), would be stuck in that despair.

Or, perhaps, might finally be able to let go.

Which is really another kind of despair all in itself.