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slowd1ving · 10 months ago

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

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

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He should leave.

Dan Heng has overstayed his welcome.

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

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

“Are you feeling alright?”

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

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

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

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

Sometimes, she’s also annoyingly perceptive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What gave that away?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s too much. It really is.

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

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

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

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

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

Shameful.

He can’t sleep.

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

00:34

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

00:40

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

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

Pathetic.

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

01-04-XXXX

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

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

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

(+4 unread messages)

21-04-XXXX

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

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

When does it start?

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

What’s the cause of it all?

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

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

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

It’s yours.

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

It’s not enough.

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

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

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

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

Aeons.

He’s never felt so perverted.

He’s never felt so conflicted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Would you help him out?

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

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

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

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

He gives up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s still not enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

+8 unread messages

21-04-XXXX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which is to say, not very honest at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But—

There is a very strong ‘but’.

—Dan Heng has already established his inaptitude for fortune.

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

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

He’s so close.

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

“Dan Heng?”

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

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

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

Finally.

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

No.

You’re real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An ominous prelude to your question.

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

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

He holds his breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. Oh. His mind reels.

You were there, and you saw all of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s willing to help.

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

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

And he admitted I’m just a friend too.

Selfishly, he refuses to let your arm go.

“Dan Heng?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just the lips,” he stammers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His tongue flickers out to wet his lips.

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

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

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

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

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

He freezes.

I can’t think that way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How shameful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It finally sets in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is a special form of madness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

When… did I start thinking that way?

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

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

What do you think about me?

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

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

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

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

“Your turn,” you prompt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beautiful, he thinks through hazy eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

Where is the boundary?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can feel you stifle your laugh.

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

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

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

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

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 ☾

#dan heng #dan heng x reader #hsr #honkai star rail #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #x male reader #x reader #male reader #reader #res ･ﾟ writing

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what-if-i-like-my-mechs-older · 10 days ago

Text

(This does continue the Optimus x TFA Optronix spice scene, you really do need to read the previous part, but this is also part 53 >.>

And yes daddy kink in this to... G1 optimus is a daddy so there.)

Back at the Nemesis

Soundwave and Megatron were going over the paperwork for the plan Orion had come up with. Neither of them saying much, just crossing the I's dotting T's

It'd been only twenty four hours and yet it seemed quiet, like something was missing from their ship and neither of them liked it.

Megatron started

"Does it feel...I mean, I know he openly loves everyone, but-"

"Like he's not coming back, as if he's searching for greener pastures?"

That wasn't what Soundwave felt, he was just guessing what his leader was going to say.

"No, no nothing like that, I believe he will return to us, he said so himself."

Megatron smiled, as he glanced up from his data pad, seeing his communications officer practically pouting.

"My Lord, we are literally called Decepticons, we deceive."

He huffed.

Megatron paused, Soundwave was right, setting his pad down, he rubbed his temples

"He's not a Decepticon, he's an Autobot....no not an Autobot, he's more than that, we need to take faith in the fact that he's an Optimus, that he will return."

Soundwave touched his chest window, shoulders drooping

"I wish I could dock him."

"Me to."

Soundwave looked at Megatron quizzically at his response

"I do not understand. You do not have a docking station."

It was the Decepticons leaders turn to blink and then laugh a dirty laugh

"Look up urban dictionary, Dock."

Soundwave did and you could audibly hear his systems glitch.

Tapping his data pad, he replied surprisingly in a somewhat shy tone

"Same."

Shockwave then at this moment chose to call.

"My Lord, I have done an extensive research on Earth laws, I am now in full understanding of their legal systems and loop holes....and quite frankly sir, it is utterly broken."

Megatron placed his elbows on the conference table, fingers laced and infront of his mouth

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Well my lord, Giraffes have seven bones in their neck, the same as humans."

Shockwave returned, taking his masters words literally.

"I...well, I didn't know that. But I meant a law system being broken due to the rich and powerful is of no surprise. The same applies to Cybertron. If it didn't, Empurata wouldn't exist. If I hadn't found you when I did, you wouldn't have either of your hands."

Shockwave was quiet, looking at his one remaining hand

"Considering what I have come across, my fate is less heinous than what I have read...for creatures so small...for some of them, they should never have been allowed into existence."

Megatron was taken aback by that, for Shockwave to say such a thing, he must have come across something truly disturbing.

"Still, do not invalidate your own traumas Shockwave, not many who have undergone the procedure have survived once they remembered who they were."

Shockwave nodded , taking in his leaders words

"Here is the list of the Earthlings you will need to contact to put the plan into motion. While this plan is out of the norm for us, it is a rather interesting one, I have heard the saying slow and steady wins the race...this might be what does it."

Soundwave interceeded

"Patience is a virtue."

Shockwave turned his attention to him.

"You seem...off."

Megatron patted Soundwave's shoulder and chuckled

"Mech's missing his boyfriend, Orion is currently using his legendary assets to distract the Autobots."

Soundwave turned his head and looked at Megatron.

"Excuse you?"

"Well, of course he'll be good to them, but isn't it obvious while he's there seducing half the autobot soldiers, they'll be too focused on him to notice us setting our plans into motion, right now he's probably got one of them in his grasp and making them see the light."

BACK ON THE ARK

Speaking of them seeing the light we last left Optronix and Optimus in between two bathroom stalls as they'd broken the divider doing the sixty nine though 🤔 considering Optimus has two spikes would that make it sixty nine plus an extra nine?

Anyway let's see where did I leave off ah yes.

Optics closing as he felt lips touch upon the first spike, a tongue licking along its length, he nearly overloaded right then and there, grabbing Optronix's hips he forced him back down onto his face, no need to be gentle, it was obvious both of them were pushing for power, for each other and nothing was going to stop them.

Feeling the warmth of his kisses and continuous teasing licks to both of them, tormenting him each time a head was pushed past his lips, taking turns to suck each one, tongue swirling and probing the slit in each head as if he were trying to tongue inside them, pre cum beading at the very thought.

Optimus, however, certainly took glee in every long mewling whine that left Optronix as he moaned deeply into the valve, he was more than happily servicing, beyond happily actually. His engine rumbling against Optronix's body, causing the sensation to trickle down between his thighs as the vibrations only added to what Optimus was already doing to him.

"Hgggn, for a paragon of goodness, you've got some dirty tricks, Prime."

Optronix snapped , though there was no anger there , how could there be when there was a tongue buried inside his forge, writing its name inside of there , over and over again.

"You...you should try writing Soundwave, mmmphn more shapes."

He didn't expect Optimus to listen, but frag he did, not wanting to be won out , he parted his lips, slipping the first spike into his mouth and down his throat to hide the whorish moan that had threatened to escape him, he'd meant what he said, but he missed Soundwave and their half bickering, oh and wouldn't it be fun to tell him he had the Autobot leader write his name with his own tongue.

However his thoughts soon turned back to Optimus as he saw right in front of him the other one literally grow bigger, thicker which meant...feeling his throat he could feel the bulge of Primes cock there, a dreamy sound barely left him as his mouth was full, ear finials twitching happily like a kitten being bottle fed, a hand pumping the other as he eagerly suckled on the spike that filled him. Hips grinding and finding pleasure not only with Primes tongue, but fuck , their noses were so much better than the ones from his world, they protruded perfectly to grind the anterior node against, at this rate hed leave Optimus with a perfect imprint of it.

Optronix was determined to leave nothing untouched, his other hand exploring further , ah yes there it was, the blue bar had completely withdrawn, thick, padded, plush and needy, two fingers brushed over Optimus's node and he felt a sense of pride when the Primes entire body jerked so hard he was nearly thrown off.

Lifting his head , the spike leaving his mouth with an obscene pop, hips still moving as he panted.

"Liked that didn't you, you're nothing but a horny old mech begging for it, why don't you stop trying to be polite...."

Optronix teased , pinching it between the finger tips that dared to tease it, he eyed Optimus's spikes again, fuck why weren't they closer together, he would so very much enjoy....wait...why was Optimus's pelvic armour splitting down the middle....ohhh, so he could adjust it, they were close together, yessss

"Ohhh you know I could take both of those right?"

Prime pulled his tongue from him enjoying the loud squeal that left the younger mech and couldn't resist responding with

"In a fight right?"

"Optimus, you've spent too much time on the human Internet."

Optronix shook his head about to go back down on him only to find his waist engulfed in two large very strong hands.

"You want me to stop being polite....mmm that's just fine by me, I've been holding back boy."

He growled throwing Optronix off of him, seeing the look the younger mechs face, Prime really hoped he'd do what he'd suggested on that video call....and oh yes there he was starting to crawl off.

Grabbing him by the hips he pulled Optronix back, dragging him across the floor.

"Ohhh, so you did listen to me in chapter thirty eight."

"Hmm how could I not, the idea of pinning you down, knowing that I had two spikes, I'm going to break you kid, over and over again until you're a simpering mess."

Optronix who was on his hands and knees gave him such a predatory look Prime nearly submitted right then and there, his grip loosening for just a moment nearly giving Optronix a chance to escape as he broke open the door to one of the stalls , he was loving this, he wanted Optimus to drag him back.

"Ohhh no you don't!"

Optronix's body was completely ready for this as Optimus dug his fingers into his hips and forced him back.

"Open up that damn aft panel, I want all of it, I can cram myself into your valve later, now open up before I frag you through your armour."

Hearing that commanding tone, the scent of power, Primus alive , that static charge, no wonder everyone wanted to sleep with Optimus Prime, his aft panel snapped open and he heard the distinct sound of Primes spikes adjusting themselves to be exactly where they needed.

For good measure he pulled forward again, feining an attempt to make another escape only for the older mech to bury himself deep inside his body a hand pushing at his back as the other gripped his hip so tightly he could feel the metal denting.

Yesssss , yesss there it was, this was no GOD, no divine being ravishing him, it was a Cybertronian in desperate need, in heat , in want, there was nothing that was going to stop him, he knew the feeling of those hips that moved with such need that right then the world could burn, Cybertron could go up in flames and this would still come first, the way Ratchet had been pent up was nothing compared to this.

This was years of denial, of refusals because of his name sake, of his reputation, someone briefly walked in only to walk out when it was Optimus who roared at them to fuck off!

Hearing that voice, oh Primus that voice commanding like that, order, he was weak to it, his valve and aft gripping tight, wanting to milk him , frag even the idea of being bred by him was a tantalising thought, the way he'd never told that mystery mech that he would...mmmm Fuck , fuck, Primus, there was no mech left in Optimus, it was pure animalistic desire, his optics were rolling up, glossa out at his left claw marks in the ground.

Wrapping a hand around his cock he never expected Optimus to add further stimulation as he reached down to rub at his node , making sure he felt just as good.

Optronix was sobbing , it was too much, it was just as good as that fragging Mystery mech, fuck if they both had him at the same time he would straight up die.

A hand wrapped around his throat as he was brought to his knees, back flush against Primes chest , hands still touching him , a kiss shared between them.

"Be a good boy.....hhhhngn and cum for Daddy."

That was it.

Optronix cried out , he was done , senses obliterated, his cock he wondered if it'd exploded with the force of the climax that raced through him, his valve squirting hard as Prime continued ravaging his body, a few more thrusts and he felt the warmth of Primes oblivion follow, his body filling , with each heavy pump, thick and sooooo wonderful...

Optimus sank down into a kneeling position, bringing Optronix with him, feeling how limp the younger mechs body was he nuzzled at his neck, breathless.

"You alright?"

Optronix's voice was static, he'd blown something in his voice box, so he nodded instead.

"Gooood, don't worry about a thing, Daddy will take care of you. "

😳

BACK AT THE NEMESIS

(Soundwaves room)

Rumble complained, flopping on Soundwave's table top

"Maaaan I wanna play Stardew."

"Orion is busy helping us with our plans he will be back in a few days...going by Earth standards, that's a day by Cybertronian time."

Soundwave replied reassuringly to his casseticon, also trying to reassure himself, tinkering with designs for the solar panel farm that would absorb as much power as possible without effecting the humans.

They had to work this so no one was hurt by it, that it was done according to work ethics of the humans. Legal work ethics, everything so that Optimus Prime would be stopped at every argument.

Frenzy pulled at Soundwave's hand.

"Hey you wanna try playing with us...you know you can marry other farmers in the game and we only got one spot left."

"One? You make it sound like more than four can play?"

Soundwave put down his blueprints , and turned to listen to him

"Nah through the computer you can have eight playing, there's me and Rumble, Star, Thundercracker, Skywarp, even Megatron, he seems to enjoy the mines mostly."

Soundwave's jaw nearly hit the floor when he heard even Megatron was playing. Leaning in closer

"What exactly is marrying, by human terms?"

Rumble was listening and burst into the conversation, knowing the information they were about to share would definitely have Soundwave logging in.

"Well, it's just a game but it's like their term for bonding I guess, Star and Megs married just for the stardrop and then divorced right after. Our characters are married to Sky and Thunder, because even if it's just a game I wasn't marrying my brother....especially as the farmers can have kids together."

Oh of course it didn't register at first that meant Orion was single in it...

Instead his response was

"I am aware there are sprites you can bond with in it, why not stay with them?"

The twins looked at each other, no way was their sire being this dense right now.

"Nah we only socialise with them for stuff, once heart meters are full we're like bye loser and-"

Soundwave put his hands on their tiny shoulders.

"Wait..."

They looked at each other , smiling , it clicked.

"You mean to tell me, no one proposed to Orion in this game?"

Rumble shrugged

"I wasn't gonna hook up with the guy my sire likes."

"Me neither."

Frenzy chimed in.

"And the others?"

Soundwave asked quietly.

"They know how much you like him and daren't. I watch them play, "

Ravage said, stretching and acting as if he'd just woken up.

"Casseticons, operation, create character on Stardew Valley, that pixel Prime will be mine."

"You got it boss!"

And with that they started.

First

#transformers animated #transformers g1 #optimus prime #optimus tfa #cross over #writing this for me #megatron g1 #megatron #soundwave #rumble g1 #frenzy #stardew valley #spicy times #soundop #soundwave g1 x Tfa Optimus #unicron singularity #happened so tfa optimus is currently Optronix

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11thwardtls · 11 months ago

Text

Memory Defrag | TRACK 1 - Regular Maintenance | Azekawa Kinari's Ward Mayor Novel Translation

Warnings and Disclaimers:

This translation is not professionally done and is not proofread. Edits and clean-ups may come at a later date.

Not a 1:1 translation either and some liberties into localization were taken into account.

This novel will contain spoilers for the Ev3ns Main Story: "Chained Up Scarlet".

Appropriate Content and Trigger Warnings will be added if needed.

May be used for quotebots/masterlists etc.

I am not fluent and self-studying Japanese (albeit at turtle speed), this was translated by ear and with the help of a JP dictionary, so please feel free to point out any errors!

—/—/—/—/—/—

“You know, other than the members of the Evening Group, you kind of behave like a stranger to everyone else.”

That day, in HAMA House’s living room, where the employees and ward mayors of HAMA lived together, it was the leader of the Morning Group’s Nishizono Renga-sama who told me this.

“Is that the case? As reference, may I ask which part of my manners made Nishizono-sama think this way?”

“See, that’s it, that way of speaking[1]. I mean that, it’s not only with me specifically, but you also use that ‘-sama’ honorific and sort of formal language[2] with all of the other Ward Mayors.”

Nishizono-sama sat down next to me as his tone of voice gradually softened. His eyes darted around the place, occasionally stealing a glance at me.

According to the data I have previously collected while living with Nishizono-sama, he seems to make these sorts of expressions and gestures when he wants to get to know the other person better.

“When I returned from the study trip, I received instructions from Master on how to interact with members other than the Evening Group. Master requested me to maintain a reasonable sense of distance and courtesy, thus I found it appropriate to maintain polite behavior with everyone.”

As I explain the reasoning behind my attitude,

“I… I see. If you’re comfortable that way then…” Nishizono-sama appeared dejected and said so as he left the living room.

Have I made a mistake in the way I handled things?

As I was checking our conversation in my head, Nishizono-sama’s facial expressions, tone of voice, body gestures and such, Master suddenly called out to me, “Kinari-kun.”

Master’s facial expression displayed a tinge of impatience.

“I overheard your conversation with Renga-kun just now…”

“Yes. I believe I had made a mistake in how I should have responded.”

“I don’t think that was the case, though. I just simply thought that the order I might’ve given you was wrong.”

“Master did not make a mistake in this matter.”

But Master kept on telling me, “I… really don’t think that was the case here.”

“Regarding how you treat other groups’ members, everyone’s just moved into the dorms and weren’t used to things yet, so I was worried in the case of trouble happening. That’s why I asked you to maintain some sense of distance and courtesy. But now, everyone has begun to open up to each other more and more, haven’t they?”

“Yes. Even looking at the gathered data, the frequency of interactions that are not bound by their respective group is increasing on average.”

“Right so, Kinari-kun, I thought that it might be a good idea to slowly drop the honorifics and formal language and speak more naturally the same way you do with the Evening Group. Of course, with the right timing on your part…”

“Is this an order, Master?”

“Not that it is, but if it makes things easier for you then think of it like one.”

“Then when should I stop using honorifics and formal language?”

As I asked, Master appeared puzzled.

“...Mm, for you, Kinari-kun, I think it’s best to interact with everyone one by one and then drop when you think it’s okay to do so.”

Master had said something difficult.

“Ambiguous instructions may lead to behavioral errors……..”

“Ugh… I’m really sorry. Although, Kinari-kun, during your idol activities with Ev3ns, you’ve started to change in the way you sing and you could smile naturally too now, right? I’m sure time will come where you’ll find more things change within yourself, so when that happens, I want you to go along with those changes. I’m fully aware that it will be a difficult task, but I think you can do it, Kinari-kun.”

I understood the true meaning behind Master’s words.

Master wants me to change, with my words and actions ‘according to how I feel’.

As I spent more and more time with Master, I have begun to learn the mechanism behind their words and their deeds.

They constantly treat me as if I were a human being and not an android.

Unlike androids, humans do not follow orders and instead have their own reason and logic.

That, and emotions result in a change of behavior.

I suppose Master wants this for me as well.

———The developer… It was also what my “Father” wished for me, too.

I remember the words that my Father had left on that cassette tape.

He told me that he wanted me to sing the way I wanted to and to live my life freely.

Acting upon emotions is the most difficult thing for androids to do.

However, the most important order that keeps me alive is the same one Master told me,

“Please give it your all in singing, dancing, your idol activities and live happily!”

In order to fulfill such an order, changing in my words and actions ‘according to my feelings’ is necessary.

As I nod my head, I look back into Master’s precious eyes and say,

“Your order has been accepted, Master.”

—/—/—/—/—/—

“Ok~ay, maintenance has been completed.”

Oguro Kafka-sama—who had accessed my body from the outside, checked the brain construction and internal communications systems, closed his laptop as he had said this.

The only people who knew that I was an android would be the members of the Daytime Group and Oguro-sama, who usually did my maintenance.

Since Raito kept this a secret from then on, other people do not know of this fact yet.

Since today is scheduled for regular maintenance, Oguro-sama dropped by our shared dorm room.

As for my roommates, Raito is currently at work, and Kuguri has gone somewhere I did not know so he was not present either.

“There are areas in your brain where access errors would occur. But since these errors seem to be left unfixed on purpose, I didn’t poke around it any further. Please make sure to organize your other memory data, ‘kay?”

“Understood. Thank you for your time.”

“Your formal language and honorific usage is the same as ever.”

“Yes. Nishizono-sama had also pointed this out.”

“Ah, didn’t Renga say this because he wanted to be friends with you?”

“It is inferred in that way. Master also took that chance to give me the new order of changing the way I address other people.”

“That’s so Chief-chan-like of them to do so.”

Oguro-sama is great at creating hypotheses, so he simply shrugged his shoulders as if he completely understood everything with what little explanation I gave him.

“I have a question for Oguro-sama. To fulfill Master’s new order, I came to the conclusion that I needed more emotional data.

Fragments of emotions are beginning to form within me.

Unfortunately, this is not enough to go off of.”

“You’d like to know if you could increase its frequency of forming?”

“I’d like to ask for your advice on how to raise emotional sensitivity, rather than simply accumulating data as done previously.”

Oguro-sama placed his finger to his mouth and thought for a while.

“Sensitivity, huh? Emotions are often born from having human bonds in the first place.

Perhaps communicating with a large sample of people would be the best choice after all.”

Oguro-sama added that, “This begs the question, about what ‘emotions’ are in the first place”.

“For starters, it’s something that pops up within the depths of your heart. Through what they experience, humans tend to name and categorize it, such as ‘joy’ or ‘anger’. Still, this way of functioning does not always work properly. We may mistake sadness for anger, or come into contact with emotions that cannot be named based on past experience alone.”

“In a situation such as that, what procedures shall be done?” “It depends on the person, but introspection—self reflection is one way of doing things. First things first, you analyze and think of the emotion that comes to mind, then give it a name. You could also put it into words if you wish to do so.”

“Of course, verbalizing it is in no way necessary, it’s merely a way to clarify what it is that you felt in your heart.

Sorting those emotions into random boxes of words can come across as ‘cheap’, won’t it?

In your case, Kinari, I do think it’s faster if you properly put what you feel into words.”

I recorded each and every one of Oguro-sama’s words within the ‘Important Matters’ memory storage.

“For example… Ah, that’s it. You have a lot of past records left in your memory storage, so I wonder if there’s a way to access and view them, then for you to verbalize your feelings as you watch at the same time…”

“It takes a specific measure to do so, but I think it’s possible to carry out.”

Oguro-sama simply smiled and said, “Well, don’t get too fired up[4] as you do that.” while he left the room.

—/—/—/—/—/—

Translation Notes:

1 - Renga says 「だからそれだよ、それ。」 which wouldn’t really translate well literally so I added the context of Kinari’s formal speech pattern.

2 - literally 敬語 (keigo), was unsure to leave it as is but opted to translating it anyway

3 - for fluidity’s sake, MC/Chief will be referred to with they/them pronouns for readers to interpret which sibling

4 - lit. 気負い, not sure how to translate the word, but its something related to being excited or a similar mood so i worded it as that

ps. opted to keep the honorific use in this translation despite how wonky it may seem as they are pretty important for how this novel starts.

—/—/—/—/—/—

Directory:

#18trip #18trip translation #azekawa kinari #kinari azekawa

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todaysromano · 1 year ago

Text

You know what? My meeting is boring and was moved to 100% online this morning, so y'all get my head canons on what the main 8 characters of Hetalia + Romano and Canada would be as grad students.

Mind you, I'm in a materials science and engineering, so I don't really have a connection to what soft science (like political science or history), medical, or humanities grad school is like (and those are all valid degrees)

America: Everyone in his life from when he was in middle school knew that he would end up becoming a doctor of some sort. Getting into a PhD program wasn't actually that hard for him and he probably came straight from his undergrad degree (skipping the masters). He never has imposter syndrome, but is kind and encouraging to others.

England: He knew he wanted to be a professor when he graduated, so he took on every teaching opportunity the school offered. Sure, his research might have suffered some, but by his last year he was teaching a class on his own.

Russia: Other students rarely ever see him in the labs or office. He attends all meeting virtually, so some of his lab mates don't even know what he looks like. However, he always has new data meetings.

China: New students believe that he is a professor when they join the department because he's been a graduate student for so long. The admission chair silently hates him for not leaving (and his advisor for not letting him graduate) because he has single handedly brought up the average years to graduation.

France: He is involved in the graduate student government and attends every outreach program that his department put together. Others aren't sure how he has time for this and his research and classes, but he makes due just fine.

Italy: Somehow, he always makes the most beautiful figures for his papers, posters, and presentations. The process involves using Adobe products that no one else understands, and everyone is always asking for his help making their key figures. He's also won some competitions for his figures.

Germany: He went to work in industry for a few years before going back to school. He is exceptionally good at leaving work at work and not working late into the night or for the entire weekend. He tries to encourage new students to go home sometimes and have a hobby.

Japan: He is somehow always in the labs or offices, but not always doing work. Other students question if he even has a home to go to, or if he just likes being at work. And despite always being at work, hardly anyone ever holds a conversation with him.

Canada: His name is under the dictionary definition of Imposter Syndrome. He studied hard to get into grad school, but often feels inferior to his peers. However, his advisor is always proud of him and his work.

Romano: He is always running late to meetings and time slots he booked on instruments. He's also late to turning in manuscripts for his advisors to revise. However, his work is usually of pretty good quality.

Hope you enjoyed! Let me know if you want to see any other characters.

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sindhu14 · 2 months ago

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What is Python, How to Learn Python?

What is Python?

Python is a high-level, interpreted programming language known for its simplicity and readability. It is widely used in various fields like: ✅ Web Development (Django, Flask) ✅ Data Science & Machine Learning (Pandas, NumPy, TensorFlow) ✅ Automation & Scripting (Web scraping, File automation) ✅ Game Development (Pygame) ✅ Cybersecurity & Ethical Hacking ✅ Embedded Systems & IoT (MicroPython)

Python is beginner-friendly because of its easy-to-read syntax, large community, and vast library support.

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If you spend 1-2 hours daily, you can master:

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Loops & Conditionals

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File Handling

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Once comfortable with basics, focus on:

Advanced OOP concepts

Exception Handling

Working with APIs & Web Scraping

Database handling (SQL, SQLite)

Python Libraries (Requests, Pandas, NumPy)

Small real-world projects

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If you want to go pro, specialize in:

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Cybersecurity & Ethical Hacking

Learning Plan Based on Your Goal

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krnetwork · 7 months ago

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Unlock the Power of Python Programming: A Complete Guide

Python programming has become one of the most sought-after skills in the world of technology. Its simplicity, flexibility, and vast ecosystem of libraries make it a top choice for both beginners and experienced developers. In this guide, we will explore various aspects of Python programming, from basic concepts to advanced applications like machine learning and web development.

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One of the core strengths of Python programming is its rich set of data structures. Lists, dictionaries, tuples, and sets help you store and manage data effectively. Understanding Python data structures allows you to create more efficient programs by organizing and manipulating data effortlessly.

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Functions are a fundamental part of Python programming. They allow you to break down complex problems into smaller, reusable chunks of code. Python functions not only promote code reusability but also make your programs more organized and easier to maintain.

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At KR Network Cloud, we provide expert-led training to help you master Python programming and unlock your potential. Start your Python programming journey today and take the first step toward a successful career in tech!

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shemsuji432 · 2 years ago

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Tips for the Best Way to Learn Python from Scratch to Pro

Python, often regarded as one of the most beginner-friendly programming languages, offers an excellent entry point for those looking to embark on a coding journey. Whether you aspire to become a Python pro or simply want to add a valuable skill to your repertoire, the path to Python proficiency is well-paved. In this blog, we’ll outline a comprehensive strategy to learn Python from scratch to pro, and we’ll also touch upon how ACTE Institute can accelerate your journey with its job placement services.

1. Start with the basics:

Every journey begins with a single step. Familiarise yourself with Python’s fundamental concepts, including variables, data types, and basic operations. Online platforms like Codecademy, Coursera, and edX offer introductory Python courses for beginners.

2. Learn Control Structures:

Master Python’s control structures, such as loops and conditional statements. These are essential for writing functional code. Sites like HackerRank and LeetCode provide coding challenges to practice your skills.

3. Dive into Functions:

Understand the significance of functions in Python. Learn how to define your functions, pass arguments, and return values. Functions are the building blocks of Python programmes.

4. Explore Data Structures:

Delve into Python’s versatile data structures, including lists, dictionaries, tuples, and sets. Learn their usage and when to apply them in real-world scenarios.

5. Object-Oriented Programming (OOP):

Python is an object-oriented language. Learn OOP principles like classes and objects. Understand encapsulation, inheritance, and polymorphism.

6. Modules and Libraries:

Python’s strength lies in its extensive libraries and modules. Explore popular libraries like NumPy, Pandas, and Matplotlib for data manipulation and visualisation.

7. Web Development with Django or Flask:

If web development interests you, pick up a web framework like Django or Flask. These frameworks simplify building web applications using Python.

8. Dive into Data Science:

Python is a dominant language in the field of data science. Learn how to use libraries like SciPy and Scikit-Learn for data analysis and machine learning.

9. Real-World Projects:

Apply your knowledge by working on real-world projects. Create a portfolio showcasing your Python skills. Platforms like GitHub allow you to share your projects with potential employers.

10. Continuous learning:

Python is a dynamic language, with new features and libraries regularly introduced. Stay updated with the latest developments by following Python communities, blogs, and podcasts.

The ACTE Institute offers a structured Python training programme that covers the entire spectrum of Python learning. Here’s how they can accelerate your journey:

Comprehensive Curriculum: ACTE’s Python course includes hands-on exercises, assignments, and real-world projects. You’ll gain practical experience and a deep understanding of Python’s applications.

Experienced Instructors: Learn from certified Python experts with years of industry experience. Their guidance ensures you receive industry-relevant insights.

Job Placement Services: One of ACTE’s standout features is its job placement assistance. They have a network of recruiting clients, making it easier for you to land a Python-related job.

Flexibility: ACTE offers both online and offline Python courses, allowing you to choose the mode that suits your schedule.

The journey from Python novice to pro involves continuous learning and practical application. ACTE Institute can be your trusted partner in this journey, providing not only comprehensive Python training but also valuable job placement services. Whether you aspire to be a Python developer, data scientist, or web developer, mastering Python opens doors to diverse career opportunities. So, take that first step, start your Python journey, and let ACTE Institute guide you towards Python proficiency and a rewarding career.

I hope I answered your question successfully. If not, feel free to mention it in the comments area. I believe I still have much to learn.

If you feel that my response has been helpful, make sure to Follow me on Tumblr and give it an upvote to encourage me to upload more content about Python.

Thank you for spending your valuable time and upvotes here. Have a great day.

#python #python programming #python training #python course #technology

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shadowealth · 2 years ago

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are you a linguist or etymologist? biologist? your posts are so fascinating and it seems like you have a wild amount of background knowledge, the way you connect all these seemingly disparate concepts with such detail. i especially love the connections you draw between PCOS and pearls. there’s something so intrinsic about eating and working with plants that have the visual appearance of oocytes/string of pearls; since quitting BC and trying to manage my PCOS with whole food/herbs/mindful practice, some of my greatest plant allies have been red raspberry (all her parts), barberry (berberine), and mugwort, as well as eating a lot of eggs.

once i developed a basic level of comfort and familiarity working with plants, i started noticing what “called out” to me as i walked in the woods, plants that would seem to stand out and appear to me over and over, and every single time i’d go home and research them i would find a connection with fertility, ovulation, or PCOS. i was camping once for a few days and started drinking yarrow and red clover tea because they were growing everywhere around where i set up, and i got my period a few days into the trip. it was my very first painless period, and since then i’ve been using yarrow regularly for menstrual pain, and red clover to help my cervical mucus production. the first few times this kind of thing happened to me, it blew my mind, and while it still never ceases to amaze me, i’ve pretty much come to expect it at this point. i’ve only met one other woman, also a fertility awareness practitioner and womb healer, who saw these kinds of connections and understood them to be legitimate and intrinsic. so i really love reading the connections you make and i feel so seen in your ability to make them. it’s really a gift, not in the sense of “i’m so gifted,” but in the sense of being a gift given to me by the circumstances of my life, including PCOS and including the descent into hell that modern gynecological “solutions” turned out to be for me. a gift i am able to receive only as a result of having walked the path of pain and suffering that drove me to finally take things into my own hands and tune into herbalism and body literacy.

so, i’m curious, if you feel comfortable answering, how did you come to think like this (i call it “mycelial thinking”), to make connections the way you do? it seems exceedingly rare and it’s incredibly refreshing. i’d love to hear about your source material, whether that’s life experiences, formal study, informal study, simple observation, etc. your words and thought processes on this blog are really something to behold, and i’m so grateful to have found them and to bear witness. <3

Hola chica

I consider myself a bootleg biologist. I have always been a decent writer. As a young child, I read the dictionary and chose words that I liked and would break them down in my mind. My parents called me Ms. Webster🕷️🕸️👩🏾‍💻 (after the dictionary) && still do til this day. I’ve always had my own way, but it wasn’t until my 9th & 11th grade English teachers + the word weaving of a very TRILL(ium) Oracle on Twitter that I began to learn & trust where my gnosis (MY NOSE, SIS !👃🏾) was taking me this entire time.

I am called::cauled by plants && that began as a teen. My mind is able to highlight data gathered thru various means::memes::memories. It could be as simple as a certain verse in a song & I observe that a plant really enjoys that song. It then takes my hand & leads me on a whole trip. From that trip, I aim and practice removing myself enough to tell the story that Data (Deity) wants told.

What’s peculiar about PCOS, as much as it is a curse, I find it to be a strange blessing (second chance). I was discussing it with another person I found on here @themadsorceressgrimoires. She attributes PCOS with Saturn (as do I, through the sign Libra in which Saturn is amiable with). The Master of Lessons.

Your circumstance (PCOS) has allowed you and others the opportunity (no choice) but to reconnect with the #outdoze in a way that’s tailored to you in a time%space where people’s lives are curated algorithmically. In a time%space where people can’t even hear the Voice of God no more. There are very few real experiences left…

The hypersensitivity that PCOS provides is a force that *makes* the ailed tune in. 📡

It is through your walk that you can see the horrors of gynecology, which can lead you (as it did me) to unearth so many other things that have been going on. From one connection to another, it’s all rooted in a genuine attempt to simply figure out what’s going on with you. And what you unearth heals not only yourself, but can also save the youth.

Despite the hormonal disorder, you and others who have taken the time to learn are being prepared to teach the young about the IMPORTANCE of their bodies, bc you have experienced the other side of that. Now, order is being restored through what looks (and feels) like a curse. Now, girls will know that it all begins and ends with their bodies.

Much like the pearl, an almost indestructible drop of beauty created by a wound.

Pain (not sadomasochism) tends to bring the sincerity (sense-airity) out of a person. And that’s what calls the plants to you.

Thank you for this message! Feel free to DM me

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callofdutymobileindia · 1 day ago

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Machine Learning Syllabus: What Mumbai-Based Courses Are Offering This Year

As Artificial Intelligence continues to dominate the future of technology, Machine Learning (ML) has become one of the most sought-after skills in 2025. Whether you’re a data enthusiast, a software developer, or someone looking to transition into tech, understanding the structure of a Machine Learning Course in Mumbai can help you make informed decisions and fast-track your career.

Mumbai, a city synonymous with opportunity and innovation, has emerged as a growing hub for AI and ML education. With a rising demand for skilled professionals, leading training institutes in the city are offering comprehensive and job-focused Machine Learning courses in Mumbai. But what exactly do these programs cover?

In this article, we break down the typical Machine Learning syllabus offered by Mumbai-based institutes, highlight key modules, tools, and career pathways, and help you understand why enrolling in a structured ML course is one of the best investments you can make this year.

Why Machine Learning Matters in 2025?

Before diving into the syllabus, it’s essential to understand why machine learning is central to the tech industry in 2025.

Machine learning is the driving force behind:

Predictive analytics

Recommendation engines

Autonomous systems

Fraud detection

Chatbots and virtual assistants

Natural Language Processing (NLP)

From healthcare to fintech and marketing to logistics, industries are deploying ML to enhance operations, automate decisions, and offer personalized services. As a result, the demand for ML engineers, data scientists, and AI developers has skyrocketed.

Overview of a Machine Learning Course in Mumbai

A Machine Learning course in Mumbai typically aims to:

Build foundational skills in math and programming

Teach practical ML model development

Introduce deep learning and advanced AI techniques

Prepare students for industry-level projects and interviews

Let’s now explore the typical modules and learning paths that top-tier ML programs in Mumbai offer in 2025.

1. Foundation in Programming and Mathematics

🔹 Programming with Python

Most courses start with Python, the industry-standard language for data science and ML. This module typically includes:

Variables, loops, functions

Data structures (lists, tuples, dictionaries)

File handling and error handling

Introduction to libraries like NumPy, Pandas, Matplotlib

🔹 Mathematics for ML

You can’t master machine learning without understanding the math behind it. Essential topics include:

Linear Algebra (vectors, matrices, eigenvalues)

Probability and Statistics

Calculus basics (gradients, derivatives)

Bayes’ Theorem

Descriptive and inferential statistics

These foundations help students grasp how ML models work under the hood.

2. Data Handling and Visualization

Working with data is at the heart of ML. Courses in Mumbai place strong emphasis on:

Data cleaning and preprocessing

Handling missing values

Data normalization and transformation

Exploratory Data Analysis (EDA)

Visualization with Matplotlib, Seaborn, Plotly

Students are often introduced to real-world datasets (CSV, Excel, JSON formats) and taught to manipulate data effectively.

3. Supervised Machine Learning

This core module teaches the backbone of most ML applications. Key algorithms covered include:

Linear Regression

Logistic Regression

Decision Trees

Random Forest

Naive Bayes

Support Vector Machines (SVM)

Students also learn model evaluation techniques like:

Confusion matrix

ROC-AUC curve

Precision, recall, F1 score

Cross-validation

Hands-on labs using Scikit-Learn, along with case studies from domains like healthcare and retail, reinforce these concepts.

4. Unsupervised Learning

This segment of the syllabus introduces students to patterns and grouping in data without labels. Key topics include:

K-Means Clustering

Hierarchical Clustering

Principal Component Analysis (PCA)

Anomaly Detection

Students often work on projects like customer segmentation, fraud detection, or market basket analysis using unsupervised techniques.

5. Model Deployment and MLOps Basics

As real-world projects go beyond model building, many Machine Learning courses in Mumbai now include modules on:

Model deployment using Flask or FastAPI

Containerization with Docker

Version control with Git and GitHub

Introduction to cloud platforms like AWS, GCP, or Azure

CI/CD pipelines and monitoring in production

This gives learners an edge in understanding how ML systems operate in real-time environments.

6. Introduction to Deep Learning

While ML and Deep Learning are distinct, most advanced programs offer a foundational understanding of deep learning. Topics typically covered:

Neural Networks: Structure and working

Activation Functions: ReLU, sigmoid, tanh

Backpropagation and Gradient Descent

Convolutional Neural Networks (CNNs) for image processing

Recurrent Neural Networks (RNNs) for sequential data

Frameworks: TensorFlow and Keras

Students often build beginner deep learning models, such as digit recognizers or sentiment analysis tools.

7. Natural Language Processing (NLP)

With AI’s growing use in text-based applications, NLP is an essential module:

Text preprocessing: Tokenization, stopwords, stemming, lemmatization

Term Frequency–Inverse Document Frequency (TF-IDF)

Sentiment analysis

Named Entity Recognition (NER)

Introduction to transformers and models like BERT

Hands-on projects might include building a chatbot, fake news detector, or text classifier.

8. Capstone Projects and Portfolio Development

Most Machine Learning courses in Mumbai culminate in capstone projects. These simulate real-world problems and require applying all learned concepts:

Data ingestion and preprocessing

Model selection and evaluation

Business interpretation

Deployment and presentation

Example capstone projects:

Predictive maintenance in manufacturing

Price prediction for real estate

Customer churn prediction

Credit risk scoring model

These projects are crucial for portfolio building and serve as talking points in interviews.

9. Soft Skills and Career Preparation

The best training institutes in Mumbai don’t stop at technical skills—they invest in career readiness. These include:

Resume building and portfolio review

Mock technical interviews

Behavioral interview training

LinkedIn optimization

Job referrals and placement assistance

Students also receive guidance on freelancing, internships, and participation in Kaggle competitions.

A Standout Option: Boston Institute of Analytics

Among the many training providers in Mumbai, one institute that consistently delivers quality machine learning education is the Boston Institute of Analytics.

Their Machine Learning Course in Mumbai is built to offer:

A globally recognized curriculum tailored for industry demands

In-person classroom learning with expert faculty

Real-world datasets and capstone projects

Deep exposure to tools like Python, TensorFlow, Scikit-learn, Keras, and AWS

One-on-one career mentorship and resume support

Dedicated placement assistance with a strong alumni network

For students and professionals serious about entering the AI/ML field, BIA provides a structured and supportive environment to thrive.

Final Thoughts: The Future Is Machine-Learned

In 2025, machine learning is not just a skill—it's a career catalyst. The best part? You don’t need to be a Ph.D. holder to get started. All you need is the right course, the right mentors, and the commitment to build your skills.

By understanding the detailed Machine Learning syllabus offered by Mumbai-based courses, you now have a roadmap to guide your learning journey. From Python basics to deep learning applications, and from real-time deployment to industry projects—everything is within your reach.

If you’re looking to transition into the world of AI or upgrade your existing data science knowledge, enrolling in a Machine Learning course in Mumbai might just be the smartest move you’ll make this year.

#Machine Learning Course in Mumbai #6 Months Data Science Course in Mumbai #Artificial Intelligence Classroom Course in Mumbai

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saad1505 · 11 months ago

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Advanced Business Data Analytics Tools, Software, Services

Data analytics tools provide real-time performance insights. PiLog analytics transforms raw data into actionable insights, driving performance optimization. https://www.piloggroup.com/data-analytics.php

#Data Analytics Services #Best Master Data Migration Tools #Data Migration Tools for Data Integrity #Master Data Dictionary Software #Data Quality Best Practices #what is Master Data Management #Material Criticality Analysis

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slowd1ving · 10 months ago

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I. ON THE TOPIC OF BELONGING.・゜DAN HENG

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

NEXT PART

Dan Heng has many words that sum up his existence.

If you ask the denizens of the Luofu, they’d scorn the likeness he bears with scathing vitriol. After all, his continued existence is an insult to the shared moral codex that all Xianzhou natives and their coexisting long-life species hold dear. The very ship he stands on knows of the sins of Dan Feng; it is intimately entwined with the recent history of the Luofu. Though he can barely remember the hazy memories of his past life, the marks left behind by his clawed hands are still tender; so much so that the phantasmal imprints of his crime pulses beneath flesh like a second heart.

Hence, seditious and traitorous would be amongst their most polite of adjectives used to describe his person.

If you ask the IPC employees whose spaceships he temporarily boarded, they would find it hard to remember such an unremarkable man in the first place. He’s not a criminal when you remove the man from Luofu. He’s simply another unwelcome—though this is concealed, poorly, behind brief nods and strained smiles—passenger, another burden to kick out at the closest planetary cluster. Though, as long as he works hard, he earns his keep.

Hence, diligent would be one of the only adjectives few of them attribute to him. The rest simply don’t remember, or perhaps they don’t care. Both are equally probable.

If you ask the Masked Fools with whom he unfortunately entangled his journey with, they’d remark it a pity that he still had his memory intact from when they tried to wrench it from him. No, they will not elaborate. He’s unlike them, as he is unlike the aforementioned IPC. He’s too solemn. He’s too uptight. He doesn’t smile. His face is as impassive as the alabaster and bronze masks they don.

Hence, amongst a repertoire of appellations that really all mean the same thing, it is serious that is the gist derived from their babble.

All these, when compiled together with pins and red strings on a corkboard, are integrated back into a singular general impression: unapproachable.

He’s left alone in the Shackling Prison; the guards may jeer or insult him, but they never come too close. He’s left alone on the IPC spaceships; there’s just something about him that makes it easy to delegate more menial work unto him, but never to actually connect person-to-person. And he’s left alone amidst the madness of the Masked Fools; though they force him to attend those deranged lectures, there’s no interest other than superficial for him.

Friends he vaguely recalls are shaped in his mind as though someone coloured outside their lines: blurred, messy, and utterly intangible. He has no points of connection that can really describe him at present, therefore he relies on others’ assumptions to gauge his character.

Unapproachable.

In that crimson strand of thinking, you’re similar to the idea of Dan Heng. Though, pinned neatly to the corkboard on a yellow sticky note, it’s not so much as that’s the impression you give, more like the default word attributed to somebody who isn’t present enough for any other impression to exist.

“Where’s your next stop?”

There’s a woman standing before him with vivid scarlet cascading from the crown of her head and down her shoulders like a waterfall. It coils so familiar, yet so different, to the ‘red’ that pursues him in both the waking and dream world. He’s taken aback, blinking with surprise as his gaze focuses and refocuses just past her to spot an erudite man some distance away; the shine of his black-framed glasses glints as though in encouragement.

His first experience with the Astral Express is wholly foreign to the concept he’s been creating of his travels: free, but with an unpleasant weariness that he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. There’s a certain flavour, a certain brand of loneliness that comes with always running away from a pursuer as unrelenting as that man.

“...Haven’t decided yet,” he answers carefully. He’s covered with rust; metallic red as obvious as her hair, all from the monsters that he’d slain ungraciously while travelling this star-studded route. Cloud Piercer is still swinging in his palms: a pendulum to decide her fate. Are you another enemy?

Dan Heng is tired.

“Would you like to board our ‘Express’?”

It’s the first time he’s heard of the name. Maybe he’s felt the whispers of the ‘Nameless’ back on the Luofu, perhaps from his alleged genesis in the Shackling Prison as he underwent a partial rebirth, but there’s nothing substantial to hold on to.

He’s silent, though the spin of his spear as it warps back into empty space betrays the cogs whirring as he mulls the question over.

Behind her is a train, rather than a conventional starship. It’s a hulk made from gleaming metal; though that isn’t what captures his attention. There is no carefully-calibrated frequency that melds seamlessly with the stars—but a beating, mechanical heart that whirs with a quality of life he’s never quite heard before. It’s rough, unpolished—a far cry from the almost soundless starskiffs he watched back on the Luofu—but it’s precisely that which captivates him. Later, he thinks the concept of trailblaze rather suits the distinct form of this metal beast. Though he’s been deemed unapproachable by the masses, something tells him that this is an opportunity to lessen the distance he surrounds himself with, through sheer willpower rather than cautious responses.

Dan Heng ultimately ends up going with the woman named Himeko and the gentleman introduced as Welt Yang.

An archivist and a guard. He forms the words in his mouth. Guard tastes familiar, yet archivist is something he’s not quite come across. Regardless of the unpleasant connotation with the former, both represent a change in being a ‘fugitive’ to being somebody with a ‘role’ in this endless universe.

He boards the train, and though both conductor and the floors seep carmine, they too don’t dredge up the haunting echo of his living nightmares. Pom-Pom isn’t particularly surprised by his sudden appearance—it makes him wonder just how frequently the Express picks up stray dogs like himself.

Three existences—Himeko, Pom-Pom, and Mr. Yang—are the only souls he’s seen on the train in his long time of two hours on this train, which is why it’s a surprise when Himeko tells him to greet the fourth and final Nameless. In fact, though they spoke of many trivialities and complexities that surrounded the journey he was about to undertake, this is the first time he’s heard your name being mentioned.

He’s the other mechanic who works with Himeko, Dan Heng reminds himself as he takes cautious steps towards the locomotive. Your room of legend is situated nearby—he says legend and mythical as it’s approaching three hours and he’s yet to feel your presence whatsoever.

There’s a door that must be yours. It’s not confirmed, but there’s heavy music he can faintly feel through the wood; periodic vibrations and bass that is punctuated by either the grating of metal, the rustling of paper, or an incredulous string of curses he can’t quite transcribe. He knows all this as he’s been standing with his hand poised into a fist for the past three minutes, and not one of them has endowed him with the audacity to actually knock. He knows your name, he now knows your voice (though still not much of it)—yet the task of finally coming face-to-face with you is rather daunting now that the last steps of becoming a Nameless are finally upon him.

Before he can finally allow his knuckles and the wood to get intimately acquainted, the door slides open and soft amber light wafts into the dark hallway.

There’s you, looking entirely out of it as you slowly yawn with a spanner clenched tight in your fist. There’s various splotches of tar-like grease on the old hoodie you sport, while your tool shares the same fate. He takes a glance into the slice of room he’s been afforded the view of, and it matches his expectations: crumpled blueprints on a large desk, something large and complicated that he doesn’t even want to attempt naming, and finally the radio that’s currently churning out metal—aptly enough.

As you shuffle slightly closer, he can smell the oil and metal and the acerbic scent of energy drinks emanating from you. He can faintly hear your slow breathing, see the flutter of your lashes as your eyelids fight to stay open. You look past him with a gaze that reminds him vaguely of a cadaver; something half-dead and barely on this plane of existence. It’s unlike the hatred he gets from the Luofu, or the persistent ignorance from the IPC, or even the mockery afforded to him from the Masked Fools.

It’s unlike the warm curiosity of Himeko, the polite neutrality of Mr. Yang, or the concerned amiability of Pom-Pom. It’s so utterly dispassionate and glazed-over that he fights the urge to wonder whether you can even see him. Whether you’re actually breathing or if it’s just a perfunctory rising and falling of your chest.

He knows all this because the time elapsed from the two of you simply standing has just gone past a minute. A minute of silence—though this one isn’t in honour of anybody, it’s just a rather awkward endeavour. In fact, he’s had so much time to become acquainted with this silence that he’s used basically all five senses to commit you to memory. The background music makes it all the more uncomfortable; it’s constantly reminding him of this elevator atmosphere that has yet to dissipate.

“I’m Dan Heng,” he attempts after the quiet becomes unbearable. Introduce yourself then leave. It’s the first time he’s felt so intimidated. He understands, then, the implication that comes with somebody being ‘unapproachable’. It’s not just the distance one feels from somebody else. This is different. This is someone barely tied to this space.

You mumble something incoherent. He cannot, for the life of him, figure out the words, or even the very tone you’re using. Are you asking him to clarify? Are you telling him your name? Are you telling him to screw off and never appear before you again? All are equally plausible.

“The new guard… the new archivist,” he tries once more. You peer at him with such exhausted eyes that he trails off in the last two syllables.

He’s known you for the span of three minutes, but the chess piece you move next in this exchange both baffles him yet entirely fits your character. You nod once in brief acknowledgement, then shut the door back with a neat click.

It’s a final full-stop in this train-wreck of a play. Were the Masked Fools to see this, he thinks, there would probably be a perception shift of him into a poor maddening idiot.

It’s not a particularly good impression, but the easy neutrality with which you act with makes it excruciating to even gauge how well that went.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Best not to question it.

Dan Heng goes back to where the other three wait—head hanging a bit lower out of shame rather than relief that he’s finally, officially becoming a Trailblazer. It’s bittersweet, but he supposes you just can’t change everything about yourself immediately—and despite the puzzling interaction, that was a nod of acknowledgement, was it not?

“How was it?” He pretends he doesn’t see the knowing glint in Himeko’s golden irises, and outright ignores the light smile on Mr. Yang.

“Fine.” His dry response only elicits laughter from Pom-Pom and the crimson woman; clearly, they are well-aware of both your disposition and his blatant lie.

“Don’t worry, he doesn’t bite,” she reassures him— as though that’s supposed to be consolation— and hands him a steaming mug of something dark and almost viscous. He takes it, too fixated on her words to actually fathom what exactly is in the ‘drink’. “He’s awake at odd hours, and though the maintenance of the Astral Express is easier due to the influx of technology, he’s constantly planning out updates for it alongside me. So that’s just his normal state during the day, if he even manages to get up.”

Fascinating. The concept of night and day doesn’t exist when you’re constantly plunged in darkness, so choosing to work when everyone typically sleeps feels more intentional than not.

She sighs. “The kid needs to take a break more—but both Argo-I and the Herta Space Station exchange new gadgets with him—and if it makes him happy, what can I do?”

It’s an odd sort of conversation. Though it’s off-putting to talk about you without your presence, he gets the feeling that she’s trying to connect him with you so he can understand you a little better.

That’s decidedly strange.

“I promise you that he’s a sweet–he’s not a bad kid,” she corrects herself, and Pom-Pom doubles over. “He just finds small talk and company unproductive while he’s working.”

None of the others he’s met have attempted to make him understand. But though your eyes aren’t full of the abhorrence he’s grown accustomed to, the utter lack of passion in your eyes doesn’t feel welcoming, either.

He takes a sip of the hot drink, and immediately grimaces.

It’s bitter.

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 ☾

Dan Heng has a lot of words to encapsulate his experience on the Express so far.

If he had to describe his assigned room, it would be overwhelming. The interstellar lexicon cannot come up with an adjective more apt. That room is much too big, much too disorientating for someone accustomed to only staying temporarily. He supposes it’ll be the same for this part of his journey too.

So, he buries himself in his work to make the most of his impermanent tenure. Quite literally—he sleeps in the data archives, soothed to a restless sleep each cycle by the incessant hum of the computers as they whir and log new information. Dan Heng sees binary sequences—ceaseless 0 and 1s—blinking as soon as he closes his eyelids. And for once, he actually enjoys the work handed to him, as it is wholly his job and not somebody’s leftovers.

If he had to describe the Express in all its grandeur, he’d assign impressive to its impression. It’s massive—so much so that it seems to have its own gravitational pull. Everything on it is impressive, from its facilities, to its technology, and especially its close-to-luminal speed. Never over, but it feels like it sometimes with how many space systems he observes through the parlor windows.

It makes him appreciate just how much work goes into powering something this well-oiled; in his week of being here, there’s been no signs of anything remotely wrong with the maintenance. The Express’ exodus from various nebulae is smoother than even the ships of the IPC, and only Aeons knew how much credits they pushed towards their vessels.

If he had to describe the Trailblazers, there’d be two distinct lines of thought he’d follow. For Himeko, the colours residing within her lines would now include mischievous and erudite. For Mr. Yang, he can slowly recognise the tang of sarcastically humorous and compassionate. And for Pom-Pom, the dictionary has expanded to somewhat intimidating. It’s nothing too scary, but his intuition implores him to not provoke the conductor, no matter how friendly they seem.

That’s the first group. They differ from the second group in the regard that the impressions they give are gradually becoming more nuanced.

The second group contains only the other mechanic.

In all his seven cycles of inhabiting the Express, he’s taken numerous walks through the long vessel. He’s sat in the parlor learning how to play chess from Mr. Yang; he’s observed as Himeko makes her coffee in the kitchen; and he’s taken a glance into the helm where Pom-Pom performs the routine checks in the locomotive.

The point is, he’s interacted with these three individuals more in 168 system hours than he has with the hundreds of people he’s met over the past few months.

Except for you.

You’re not at the helm, you’re not in the kitchen, and you’re certainly not in the parlor.

Your impression remains unapproachable, simply because you’re just not there.

Sure, he pauses in front of your room while he passes through the hallway—in the vain hope that the door might slide open like it did all those days ago—but nothing changes. There’s always some form of music vibrating through the walls, the sounds of clanging and machinery, and the rustling of blueprints.

If anything’s changed, it’s your even more expansive array of imprecations. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard so many various languages learned, all for the sole purpose of formulating long strings of curses that would make even Xianzhou pilots wince.

This continues on into the second week, and a little into the third. At this point, he’s growing frighteningly accustomed to feeling the comforting hum of the train as it speeds through space and time. It’s growing familiar, and he vaguely wonders how long it will be before you show your face again.

It’s been 387 system hours since he’s started living here.

The archives aren’t particularly organised; it makes sense considering how often Mr. Yang and Himeko take calls, holographs and generally administrate the Express. Hence, there’s no one to methodically sort out the extensive reaches of the Data Bank. And though most of it is digital, the information is infuriatingly hard to puzzle through as it’s not exactly uploaded with a set system.

It’s only natural that he spends a good portion of the day marooned in the room stacked high with monitors and computers.

However, he does take the time to have breakfast and socialise with his colleagues. Every morning, he’s chased into the dining car by an insistent Pom-Pom; somehow, you’re spared the intense wrangling, and he can never spot you amidst the faces.

After the meal, he spends a half-hour or so in the parlor, either playing chess with Mr. Yang or discussing the vast plains of knowledge Himeko has. Though both you and her are this train’s mechanics, there’s such a stark difference between how present she is and how absent you are. Sometimes, he wonders whether you’re really corporeal and not just a figment of his imagination.

“He does come out of his room,” Mr. Yang comments, seemingly unruffled by the empty seat next to him at the breakfast table. “Currently, I think he’s collaborating with the Herta Space Station engineers on an agricultural machine for one of the systems we visited a while back.”

Himeko takes a long swill of her coffee. Dan Heng almost misses its bitter flavour. “While I’m typically a part of diplomatic efforts when we make various stops, he likes to help the people recover from the effects of the Stellaron where he can. In this sense, we’re both engineers outside the Express too—one for theory, one for practice.”

Ultimately, he’s gotten used to the routine. It’s a mundanity that feels like luxury compared to the turbulence of his travels across the stars.

“—of course, we’ll take it into consideration after we start—”

“—you don’t entirely trust them, do you? After the stunt they pulled with the steel, where they fucked up its tensile strength and the parts simply crumpled—”

He can only hear snippets of the conversation in the parlor as he makes his way from the archives to the parlor door.

“Himeko, I don’t suppose you know whether Argo-II would be willing to supply us with their bronze? It’s impervious to pretty much anything, but negotiating for it is a bitch and a half.”

Dan Heng freezes from where he’s about to slide the door open. That voice. He’s only heard brief echoes of it; never full sentences. It’s not Himeko’s rich drawl, nor Mr. Yang’s clipped cadence, nor the bubbly chatter of Pom-Pom. It’s rougher, colder, but so utterly complete.

He presses his palm to the wood with bated breath; you’ll dissipate just like that if he walks in, won’t you?

You’re sitting in one of the low chairs around the chess board, idly tilting the white bishop this way and that while you ponder your next move. It’s clear your attention isn’t on the game (nor is Himeko’s, really); by the looks of it, this is ‘damn’ important.

It’s the first time he sees you clearly. Your eyes, which looked so cadaverous in the lowlight of your dim room, hold a lot more depth than he thought he’d see. They’re not shining, exactly, but the piercing glint of them makes them appear so full of resolution that he wonders how he could mistake them for anything but.

Your two rooks are on opposing corners, trapping the king in his crumbling castle.

“After the fiasco with the Migrides Embassy, I don’t think we have a choice.” Himeko eyes the board, then your wavering bishop. It’s still your move, but she doesn’t tip the king to surrender, even with her loss staring right back at her.

“Checkmate.” It’s a final statement—there’s not a speck of gloating nor elation in your tone, only a factual collection of syllables that marks this conversation to a close. Your gaze is still fixed on the pieces: fallen and surviving alike.

“What’s going on?”

He doesn’t expect you to answer. He doesn’t even expect you to look up at him, but you do. Himeko turns towards him, but she’s Himeko and he knows she’ll give him her attention. You, on the other hand—you’re the unpredictable variable he hasn’t quite yet figured out in your mess of 0s and 1s.

“We got screwed over by our new supplier of astral steel,” you summarise laconically; rough burrs rush through the air, rather than Himeko’s . “For the plating on the carriages and the front—like the cowcatcher—and none of the 300-odd parts even come close to the standard modulus that astral steel should be for the G-force we travel at, while the Assembly on Migrides has gone radio-silent.”

Honestly, it’s a wonder his jaw hasn’t unhinged completely.

“Actually, why don’t you bring him up to speed in the entirety while I speak to Welt about a potential visit to both the Argo and Migrides clusters?”

He expects you to reject her proposition, and it seems more and more plausible when you let out a long sigh and drag your hand over your face irritably.

Dan Heng’s feet are already beginning to turn him back to the archives when it happens.

“Sure.” And you surprise him once again.

Himeko leaves with a tenser gait than normal. It’s totally due to that, that he’s hovering awkwardly by her vacant chair—and totally not due to the fact he’s been caught off guard for the nth time.

“Sit,” you invite, deftly setting up the board once more. “Do you play?”

Do you play?— as though you’ve talked to him before, as though the two of you already know each other. He’s struggling to even process the question, let alone your intentions behind asking it.

Forget unapproachable. You’re unpredictable, in every facet of that word.

“I played similar games—” In prison, he leaves out. “—and I’ve been playing with Mr. Yang.”

A wooden piece raps against wooden board— clack, clack. “Your move, then.”

Pawn to e4.

“Standard start,” you note, rolling a pawn of your own as though you’re handing a tool. And, he supposes, you very much are. “I don’t know if Himeko’s told you, but part of her and my job is doing routine updates when they’re called for.”

“I am aware, yes,” he hardly breathes.

“Good,” you comment dryly. Your pawn is set directly facing his own. “The astral steel supplier that we occasionally source parts and raw ore from has been cut off by the damned IPC, about two months ago.”

He silently moves his bishop to e5.

“Welt’s been teaching you by the book.” Your knight is placed in his line of capture, but the solid wall behind it makes it a pointless sacrifice to even think about it. “So we switch our suppliers to the Migrides Embassy, since their reputation is fairly good in terms of ship parts. Then, those bastards send us corrupted astral steel.”

The table creaks beneath your incensed fingers.

“I spent over two fucking weeks painstakingly measuring the strain and stress modulus for every one of those three-hundred and forty-one pieces, before testing it in at the maximum velocity that can be reached by the Express, with some leeway,” you scoff, eyes trailing as he places his own knight to guard his pawn. “All failures. None of my holographs, not a single one of my messages went through to either the Assembly or the Embassy.”

He plays by the book, as you put it, but so do you—matching his pace so he is still allowed room for mistake.

“Our only option left is negotiation with Argo–II for their bronze, which is better than astral steel for its durability—but they’re extremely stingy with it.” You capture his struggling pawn with your queen. The board is a lot sparser than at the beginning. His castle, too, has started its steady crumble.

“Or attempt to buy from the IPC, but like hell I’m walking into a deal with them. Scammers, the lot of them—they’re definitely going to milk their new monopoly for all its worth.”

The game is marching to its inevitable conclusion.

“Is there the possibility that something’s direly wrong on Migrides?” Dan Heng ventures.

“Good theory, but it’s just financial troubles. Their tourism is declining, and so their stockpile of damaged steel was sold to us at regular price,” you sigh. “Trouble is, their receipt had a virus so ridiculously undetectable that it destroyed both it and the copies it made. Mr. Yang could probably reconstruct it easily, but it just goes to show it won’t be easy getting the cash back.”

It’s not exactly the amiability of the other three. Of all his minutes in being in your presence, the largest fraction has been filled with your complaints, while the other tiny proportion is filled with awkward silence and your incoherent replies.

He tilts his king flat on the board.

Surrender.

The first impression wasn’t that great (and if he’s being honest, neither is the second one). But there’s a tiny crack through the alabaster, and it contains small trivia and adjectives like good at chess and quite puzzling and eloquent in his complaints.

That should be in its own special brand of ‘progress’, he thinks.

The bitter feeling subsides, ever so slightly.

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 ☾

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