#writing instead of working

[ravelsquadespresso]

WIP Title Ask Game: Emelina (yes).

@avas-poltergeist said:

Thanks for the ask :)). You may remember writing a post about how Emelina is sorry she’d forgotten merciful Heinrix, but no such thing for the ultra-dogmatic Heinrix? That post set me off to start writing on the game from the middle of the story and it’s fun 😊.  Added some additional cataclysmic activity (I mean, she pushed for the phase transition with all four limbs and the sun already is about to explode when we show up in our ship, so some ceiling crashing is the right thing to do). Also, I was a partition recovery software in my previous life, so I write in patches.

Finally, made her to become a warp ghost after she is dead. That allows her to recover her in-life memories and provide some dramatic commentary!

Some snippets here:

[[Possibly lengthy not yet written Phton stuff ending with in-game mercy killing]]

Above me the argument lingers.

“But why? I’d given her shelter, we could have saved…”

“And you know a few places that could use a new sun, isn’t that right?”

“What?!”

“I am sparing you the fate of Winterscale. He got lucky—thanks to the faithful sod in his retinue.”

“That’s not what I— You…” Her voice cracks and stumbles.

Holding back tears? Yes.

“She was your… friend. Your teacher. You said—”

“She was an unrepentant, stubborn heretic who defended her pact with the Ruinous Powers till the very end. Giving her shelter was never an option. Or did you want to take part in the interrogation, Lord Captain?”

A key player in the Expanse and still confused about who calls the shots. We never relinquish prisoners. We never consult anyone on what is to be done—be they the Emperor himself. But then, in the Imperium, delusional nobles are more of a rule than an exception. More so when they’re let loose on the fringes of civilization with an Emperor-signed leave note.

“All your Inquisition are just a bunch of sick blood-thirsty freaks. All of you.”

A brief charged stillness follows, broken only by the shuffling of the navis imperialis elder and the Drukhari dog he holds on the leash. The elder fears what the inquisitorial response to the insults might be. The dog is greedy for a bloodbath.

Instead of a rebuke, Heinrix laughs. Stifled and forced at first, but freer and freer as it builds—until nothing holds it back. He laughs and laughs, and the air around him grows leaden.

“You’re so very right, Lord Captain,” he says finally, catching his breath, wiping tears from his eyes. “That’s exactly who we are.”

Of course. Monsters make the best monster-hunters. That’s what it means to keep the Imperium safe from the curse of mutants, xenos, and heretics.  And who better to kill a witch… than another witch? What better instrument than one forged from the same filth?

“Well,” she says, voice brittle, turning away to hide her face, “if you’ve filled your murder quota for today, we’re leaving. Abelard—take Marazhai. Clear out the mandrakes. We’ll need the shuttle for survivors. Or do you want to incinerate them too, Heinrix?”

“These are technically your subjects, Lord Captain,” he pretends to ignore the barb. “I know you won’t let me incinerate them. I will have them watched.”

Meaning: they will mysteriously vanish when no one is looking.

“Word of advice,” he murmurs once the navis imperialis and the xenos are out of earshot, his voice like a hand around the throat. “Most inquisitors would not tolerate such speech. Even from a peer of the Imperium. You don’t get to call the Emperor’s servants monsters and freaks. Luckily for you, I am a very patient inquisitor. But you, you should control yourself, lest you commit the worst kind of heresy in public”.

“Of course,” she snaps, seizing the opportunity. “Because calling you what you really are—a bunch of murderous fanatics—is obviously the most horrible thing about this situation.”

“Amanar,” his voice softens, rife with fear now. “I… I want you to survive. I only want you to remain well.”

He steals a glance at what used to be my body. A crooked, broken husk—more metal inlays and cogitator interfaces than flesh. Disfigured by memory banks. A husk, a discarded cocoon.

He means:

I want you to remain. For me. With me.

Everything I was denied—I want to keep.

Obsessive devotion.

“Survival is not life,” Amanar says simply, and hits a pile of rubble in frustration. “Seems we’ll have to go back to the Webway if we want to live.”

Webway.

They’ve been places together. She may have once believed him human—seen the spark of sentimentality that hindered his career since the day he came to my tutelage, a broken youth of twenty-something. The same thing that stopped him from ripping out contents of my banks through Eighth’s action.

Whatever he wants to say, there is no time.

The avalanche is a small, quiet thing at first—microcracks running through the stones, the blocks, the carrier wires of the dome. It creeps into the caverns, the archeofactorums, the cemeteries—crashing into the planet’s warped crust.

Catastrophes are as sure as the universe itself.

The diviner witch feels it first. Noradrenaline surges on the crest of insight. Pupils eat up the irises. She looks up in awe, her gaze meeting the falling plinth and stone blocks—and she can’t even scream.

[[some not yet written action here, after which our somewhat stoned heroes and heroines manage to escape to some deep caverns where they need to take some rest and have an adult talk about wtf just happened. There is a cool campsite with an interesting cave bear-proof flaming food storages and wall graffiti by Chaos Banksy]]

“You’re afraid of me”, he says, resigned.

It was inevitable. Expected. Whatever she’d seen in him—a boy who loved riding with his sisters through the Guisornian fields of dandelions, a regicide dork, a battle-brother at her back—all of it would melt away, revealing the terror within, a cursed blade in the hand of the Ordo. A weapon, implacable against the Emperor’s enemies, be they the creatures of the Immaterium or the traitors within. Cold steel and stone, unmoved, unfeeling, striking with precision.

An acolyte of the Holy Ordos is not anyone’s friend, but a friend-shaped surgical tool.

I would know - after all I was the one who brainwashed him, broke him, rebuilt him and made him into this.

In saturnine silence, he dips his hand in the pale copper of her hair, letting the strands run between his fingers. The mind knows itself to be a monster, but the body refuses to surrender the memories of embrace and warmth and comfort. Of acceptance and recognition.

When she speaks into the stifled stillness, it’s but a hushed murmur.

“Of you. For you. For the choices that are dealt you, where mercy killing your mother is your best option.”

That is not fear, but anger she is describing, tired, barely smoldering. Wearing her down.

His mother. Sweet child of whatever pleasure resort for noble debutants you are, his mother was I not. More like his evil step-aunt—the kind that shows up at the door with veritas-laced apples and a warped loom of eternal data-dreams.

[and on, and on this continues, but ends happily (relatively speaking), I promise. All will be well.]

[couldawouldashoulda50]

Word to the wise...close any nhl smut stories you're working on BEFORE going into a screen sharing meeting with a Senior VP and a corporate lawyer. Just sayin'.

[valtsv]

im one of the angels assigned to guard god's throne and i keep shaving a piece of wood off one of the legs so it gets progressively thinner and weaker until one day it will snap like a matchstick and the big man will topple from his seat of power to grace the ground with his holy ass. of course he's omniscient so he already knows this and will have to banish me from heaven when it happens, but because of free will he has to give me the option to repent right until the very end. we both know i'm not going to do it but the rules that define our very being won't let us take any other course of action and besides he made me this way, so really the joke's on him no matter what.

[calcedon79]

School starts again next week. And actually, I should be correcting two class tests and a quiz, preparing three readings for German class and the unit on plate tectonics for geography and thinking about what I'm going to go through with my chemistry group. Guess how much of that I've already done, or will do over the next few days?

Instead, I'm simultaneously writing on something for Mines Monday, a time travel story that I started at some point, and working on a smut chapter in the Sith universe.

And how about you?

[hatsbuckets]

John Price who's tired after missions.

John Price who strips his gear haphazardly and slides on his last clean shirt and sweatpants.

John Price who rubs his face dramatically, huffs, and ignores the after action report he needs to finish up.

John Price who collapses on to the couch in his office, sprawled out on the thing that's almost too small for him.

John Price who doses off right then and there, not caring an ounce for his comfort otherwise.

John Price who barely cracks an eye open when the door to his office drifts open, the warm light from the hall seeping into the dark room, and a particularly exhausted Sergeant enters.

John Price who closes his eyes and just opens his arms, accepting the weight of one Kyle Garrick on top of him, wrapping his arms around the man.

John Price who breaths in time with Gaz as the smaller man shoves his nose into John's shoulder, to which John sighs contentedly.

John Price who doesn't open his eyes when the door cracks open again and the familiar presence of one sleepy Scotsman shoves his way onto the couch next to them, somehow, impossibly, perfectly. The warmth of one John Mactavish burrowing into his side.

John Price who moves his arm so that one is around Gaz and the other is around Soap, sprawled and wrapped into each other on the couch that's definitely too small for them.

John Price who hardly notices when the door opens again, and one silently tired Lieutenant sits on the floor, leaning back against the couch.

John Price who reaches over, gives the man's shoulder one good squeeze, and his hand is caught in the callused fingers of one Simon Riley.

John Price whose eyes scrunch in a smile when his hand is graced with one gentle press of lips before it's released.

John Price who sleeps warm and comfortable in his pile.

John Price who's tired after missions,

but never too tired for his boys.

John Price who eventually snores but all of them are too exhausted to move and are undeniably comforted by the noise anyway.

gaz | soap | ghost

[superbat-lmao]

Jason travels to an alternate universe where Bruce only cares about being Batman. He took in each of his kids to serve the mission, not be his children.

Now, faced with alternate versions of his family, Jason has to grapple with the fact that his Bruce does care, that he is his father. Because the man in front of him now, trying to send him home, isn’t even close.

[oopey-doopey]

*Spidey and the Sinister Six having their usual fight*

Doc Ock, landing a hit: You’re getting slow Spider-Man! Age finally catching up to you?

Spider-Man: You wish! I haven’t even hit my 30s! From those costumes I can already tell I failed to save you guys from those midlife crises! Sorry by the way.

Vulture: Watch it wallcr- wait… Did you just say your not in your thirties yet?

Spider-Man: Surprised that this spiders so young and spry? Well-

Electro: Dude I’ve been fighting you for at least 5 fucking years! How old even are you?

Shocker, joking cause he’s the only one who picked up no grown adult acts likes Spidey: Don’t swear in-front of the boy you don’t want him to pick it up.

Rhino: Christ! You’re tellin me I almost crushed some 12-year-olds skull all those years ago?

Spider-Man, regretting his quipping: I was not that young! Like just starting freshman year but-

Sandman, horrified as he’s the only one with a kid and dad instincts(as of my iteration): I could’ve killed a kid…

Shocker, genuinely curious: Are you even old enough to drink? Cruel to kill a man who ain’t had his first drink yet.

Electro: Please tell us you’re at least over 25 as of this fight. Hell, I’ll take over 21!

Spider-Man:….

Sandman, realizing just how young he really is: Oh my god.

Spider-Man: My birthday’s coming up soon so I guess it counts?

Doc Ock, exacerbated: It. Does. Not!

Vulture: What would your mother think if she knew her son was out here risking his life telling poorly constructed jokes?

Spider-Man, offended cause it quips slap: 1. My jokes are great 2. She and my dad are dead so-

Sandman, hysterical cause holy shit he almost killed a kid orphan: OH MY GOD!

[fandomfloozy]

nsfw mdni

watching jason todd work on his motorcycle be like...

jason: what?

y/n: just lookin'

jason: you look like you got something to say

y/n: [shakes head] mm-mm

jason: you sure?

y/n: ...well...

jason: tell me

y/n: mmmm... no, it's too embarrassing

jason: pfft. you? embarrassed?

y/n: perish the thought

jason: so lay it on me

y/n: oh, i'll lay something on you

jason: babe...

y/n: jaybird, i don't mean to be crass but--

jason: sweetheart, just spit it out--

y/n: i wanna suck your dick so bad

jason: ...

jason: /////// jesus christ...

~°•*~

A/N: something about a man all greased up and sweaty while working on machinery uwu

[nonranghaes]

before you can slip back out of chris's room, the sound of his desk chair's wheels rolling grows closer to you. his arms wrap around your waist, and he pulls you in all too easily to sit in his lap as he giggles. you can feel the warmth of his cheek pressed against your back, the blissful sigh he lets out now that you're close. all you had meant to do was leave him a snack and something to drink; the same thing he does for you if he gets up for a snack break. today is a work day for both of you: him on job-related work, you on things for your finals.

"hi." you can hear the smile in his voice, and you feel it in the way his hands squeeze your sides just a little.

as much as you hate doing it, you know you'll sit here with him forever if you don't break away soon. his presence is like a warm blanket to you, soothing and sweet after staring at a screen for far too long. but you stay instead: he's been staring at a screen, too, and you think he could use a minute away from it. you rest your hands over his, giving them a gentle pat. "hi."

neither of you speak any further. he just holds you, eyes fluttering shut as he listens to the sound of your breathing. the faint sound of your heartbeat, too, if he listens hard enough. you just lean into him for a minute, letting yourself be a little selfish when there's work to be done and savor a moment with your lover.

he lets go. you press a kiss against his cheek, and another clumsily against the corner of his lips when he complains that you missed. but he doesn't tease you over it again. he'll get that kiss when the two of you are done working for the day, right before he lets you pick what you want for dinner. but you can see how loose he seems when he rolls his chair back over to his desk, already getting back to work. you feel it, too, when you sit down again.

for a moment, you think that this is what it's like to feel indestructible. and then you, too, get back to work, refreshed and cozier than before.

[rowandekarios]

gale dekarios + text posts that make me think of him <3

[ruinix]

Quinn actively losing his shit because you're sucking his dick

Lovely anon, wherever you are, I hope you’re eating well…I humbly present you what you asked… 🫣maybe…I’ve gone off the rails. I guess it's time for Q to get blown. [side note: I have taken ‘actively’ to my fave words. I liked it, a bit too much especially after seeing your ask. 🤣]

Payback

TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Smut, Oral sex (m receiving) / Blowjob, Hair tugging, Choking (on dick) / gagging, slight Overstimulation (m), reiterating the ask: Quinn is LOSING it 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↔️

Count: 2161 words | Masterlist

You’re kidding. You’ve got to be kidding him. Quinn shudders as you crawl from his lap, nudging his thighs to spread. You perch right there, panting with your lips slightly parted. You’re making him lose his mind.

He can’t focus on the game he has on the TV. Not with you gazing at him while sitting on your knees. Not with you just resting your cheek against his thigh. Not with your silence and your tantalizing desire for him. Not when your tongue darts out and licks your lower lip as your eyes slowly track down his face, his chest, his abdomen, his crotch.

His dick twitches at your attention. You notice it, smirking and looking so smug. Seriously. Is this a test? Are you testing him? He’s going to fail. He knows it.

Where the fuck did this come from?

Quinn is not sure.

You two were just watching game replays, leaning against each other. When you complained that you were bored, extremely bored that you were smooshing his face with your hands, Quinn let you take the rein of the other TV. No need for him to watch multiple games when the Love of his life was bored. It takes you ten minutes to settle on one Netflix show which Quinn also watched—half-watched, he still got hockey plays to analyze—with you.

After an episode, you were on his lap, legs tightly pressed against his waist, arms wrapped around his nape, head resting on his shoulder. Quinn was just half-lying and half-sitting. He’s just extremely relaxed with your weight on him, with your skin underneath his hands which he slipped in after you settled, with your heat comforting his soul.

It was just you two basking on each other’s company. It was just a simple lazy day. It was supposed to be.

Then suddenly, you parted from him. He thought you would just get water or a snack—you like snacks. But no. You slipped down him, made yourself all too comfy between his legs. You’re seducing him like a minx. Like a mermaid drawing in sailors into the water. But you’re not singing—you don’t have to, no. You’re just…staring at him, panting so subtly and your eyes extremely hooded. Those are more than enough to seduce him.

“You should watch your game,” you mutter.

‘How will I do that?’ is what he wanted to ask, because literally how.

You lift a brow at him as if to say, ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’

You’re taunting him, aren’t you? There’s no way you’re not. It’s working. His cock aches. He wants nothing else but to fuck your pussy. You’re probably wet. Not probably. He bet you are. Especially now that your eyebrows meet, your teeth dig into your lower lip, subtly shifting on your knees.

Oh, he knows you so well. He knows he can just kiss you and you’ll fold and forget whatever evil plan you’re brewing. He can—

“Quinn,” you scold, pouting which means you’re begging.

You are begging him. That’s a privilege Quinn wants to never lose.

He clears his throat, trying to ease the tension enveloping his whole body. It’s so hard to resist because he really wants to kiss you now. He needs a kiss. Just a kiss. One small peck. Or your tongue against his—

Releasing a sigh, exercising restraint, he forces his body to relax and look at the screen. Instead of analyzing every play—imagining what to evade, how to get the puck, how to score—like he did before, he sees nothing. Just fucking mush of blur on ice. Nothing makes sense anymore because of you.

He's so hyperaware of how you nuzzle your cheek against his thigh. So aware of your tiny compliment of how his sweatpants are the softest—probably plotting to take it for your own. So aware of the kiss you press right fucking there—over his pants yet he still feels it like it’s your lips on his skin. Of your delicate fingers running over his shins. Over his knee. Over his thighs. So aware that you’re up, coming closer, thumbs rubbing circles on his inner thighs.

He can feel everything you do.

And he can’t do shit.

Not yet at least.

Quinn grips the armrest and the nearby pillow. His knuckles turn white. He swallows the knot in his throat, gritting his fucking teeth when you graze his cock, then you grab it over his pants.

“Fuck,” he grunts. He looks up to the ceiling, stopping the urge to thrust into your hand. Meeting your eyes, he pleads, “My Love, what do you need?”

He needs answers. He needs you to say what the fuck you want from him because he’s going to come from the anticipation itself.  He needs your words, so he can at least control himself.

“I want to suck your cock, Quinn,” you say so breathlessly, so beautifully, so innocently like you’re just asking for sweets when you’re already lying on the bed and ready to sleep. “Please?”

Holy shit.

“Anything you want,” he nearly stumbles over his words. His heart is lurching so hard in his chest as you smile at him.

So pretty. Your eyes are gleaming with excitement. No way. Really? Quinn might faint if you don’t stop looking so adorable just because he said yes.

“Then take your pants off already, handsome.”

Quinn follows, barely able to throw it behind him because you’re on him, pressing kisses on his thighs. Your tongue darting out as you lick and kiss and suck on his skin. One thigh after another. Back and forth. Trailing up. Leaving your marks. You’re turning him into mush. He’s so hard that pre-cum dribbles down his length.

“You smell so good, Quinn,” you mutter against his skin. For every kiss, you say, “I love you.”

He’s burning. Every breath against his skin. Every touch. Every lick. All of them leaves a trail of fire that shoots right to his dick. He’s so hard. So hard that all he can do is lay back, forearm covering his face, locking his body down. If he doesn’t, he’ll be pouncing on you.

You don’t want that for fuck’s sake. You want to suck him off. You’ll get that. Sure. But why do you need to worship his body like he does with yours…

Realization dawns on Quinn.

You’re worshiping him.

His heart is racing like he has been running mile after mile after mile. Like warhorse destined to run to its death because its heart would not handle the exhaustion of the run that it was ordered to, of the run that will be its last. However, death doesn’t await Quinn. No. What awaits him is you. Just you. Especially you.

So, he watches you, panting, rasping, “I love you.”

“I know,” you chuckle. “You can touch me, Quinn. You know what I like.”

You don’t even let him reply or process what you said. You simply lick his fucking tip, tongue flattening over his slit, taking his pre-cum.

The growl that escapes him is downright animalistic.

He wants this to last but he doubts it, because as you ran your tongue from his base to his tip, he’s already seeing stars.

You’re a savage. Cruel. So cruel. You’re just giving him kitten licks now. What the fuck? He thought you wanted to suck him. Are you playing with him? He can’t play games right now.

Tangling his fingers with your hair, tugging at it impatiently so you’ll look at him, Quinn tries his best to meet your eyes, but you persist with your torture. When you trace once fucking vein with your slippery tongue, he has physically pull you back. He’s going to come.

“That’s mean,” you whine. “Don’t get in my way, Quinn.”

“I’m gonna come,” he grunts, flinching when your hand pushes up his shirt, flattening over his abdomen. “Stop teasing me, my Love.”

Quinn’s basically whimpering. He’s aware you haven’t even started yet. He’s acting like this is the first time. It’s not. You really did shake him up with this unprovoked torture. Out of fucking nowhere.

“Oh?” You grin, moaning when he tugs on your hair again. “You want me to stop?”

You can’t stop. He’ll explode. It will hurt. He’s already hurting. Why the fuck did he pull you away? Oh right, he’ll come if he didn’t.

“No,” he says too quickly, voice quivering.  He lets go of your hair, holding his shirt for you. He begs, “Don’t stop.”

You finally start, sucking around his crown, greedily taking every drop of his weeping cock. Your eyes are closed yet Quinn feel as though you are gazing down at him from your throne. His Queen. His Love.

The way you’re focusing on him, moaning for every suck, is taking him out. It’s like you’re savoring him. Oh, fuck. You are.

You’re taking him so well.

You feel so good.

He can’t think straight. Not when you take half of his dick, creating a delicious suction that has his eyes groaning and moaning helplessly. Not when he feels your tongue flattening on his sensitive underside. Not when he can feel the vibrations of your moans. Not when you suddenly open your eyes to see what you’re doing to him. Not when your hand wraps around the rest of him that you couldn’t reach yet. Not when you made him put one foot between your legs so you can hump him.

You’re so wet that you’re soaking through your little shorts.

You’re gonna kill him.

Now, you’ve done it. When you bob down his length, taking more of him, he just thrusts into your heated mouth. His hand is over your head, pulling down much harsher, hitting the back of your throat.

He’s desperate for more.

The sounds of you gagging on him make him mutter a ‘sorry’. But he doesn’t mean it at all. You are teasing him so fucking much and taking your sweet time.  Both of you know that.

He starts using your beautiful lips, your mouth, your throat.

“Fuck,” he pants, shaking his head to clear it but he can’t.

He really can’t.

Good. Perfect. You feel so amazing around him.

He can’t help chasing after the pleasure of fucking your sweet mouth.

You look so pristine doing so. Sure, your cheeks are red and tear-stained, but—shamefully—he likes seeing you all ruffle up for him. Your hair is so messy in his grip. You’re drooling around him. Your nails dig into his thighs now—no longer teasing his member, because you can’t when he’s using you like this. Your hips messily roll, trying to match his rhythm, chasing you high desperately like him.

You’re so pretty. How can you be so beautiful? On your knees, yet he feels like he is on his knees for you. Always doing your bidding. Always receiving your grace. Your permission.

He’s so lucky.

“My Love,” Quinn grits, vision spotting at the edges. He warns, “Close.”

You up your ante. Your tongue swirls against his underside. The vibrations from your hums.

“Mmmfuck,” Quinn groans.

He can’t help but force you down, pushing his cock deeper as he spills hot cum down your throat. Spurt after spurt. He swears he blacks out for a brief second because you are sucking and gulping whatever he gives you.

He tries to get you off, give you your whole airway, but hell, you keep on going, going, and going. Not letting him get fully soft.

No. Seriously. Are you trying to kill him? It’s like you’re sucking all his soul, making him sag against the couch, blood pumping harder. He swears he hears you sob—which sends torturous vibration all over his fucking body, not just his cock—like you’re disappointed he can’t give you more cum.

He needs at least a couple of seconds to rest and get his shit together.

Your eyes meet his as you finally let his sensitive cock out with an obscene pop. With a pout, lips glistening with drool, you mutter, “More?”

That made him fucking hard.

Fine.

Fuck a couple of seconds.

If his World want his cum, you will, but this arrangement won’t do. It’s not fair. You can have your fill, and he can’t? The simple thought of just coming alone makes his heart ache. Like something’s missing after just had one of most intense orgasm—which is always the latest orgasm he has with you—in his life. He’s not used to this.

He needs to taste you on his tongue.

He would rather eat you out for hours, but you want this.

So, Quinn will just compromise. Good thing that you’re already fucking horny humping his foot. He’ll just persuade you to a different position where he can feast on you as well. By the way you shuddered, resting your head over his thigh, it won’t be a hard proposition to sell.

-> Next (Part 2: Fifteen)

[happypeachsludgeflower]

During the five years Shen Yuan was dead, a glitch in the dormant system occurred. Liu Qingge defeated and killed Luo Binghe to retrieve Shen Qingqiu’s corpse. Because there was never a chance for Luo Binghe to give up besides death.

Liu Qingge gently takes Shen Qingqiu from Huan Hua Palace and returns to Cang Qiong, but as he does he begins to notice the world around him is… weird. He doesn’t know what to call the jittering of colors splicing out of reality, but he knows it’s wrong. He’s uneasy as he makes it home and begins the process of laying his Shixiong to rest, and keeps watching out of the corner of his eye as the disturbance in reality gets worse as time passes.

And then, right as midnight is upon them, the world around him blacks out and he comes to in his regular bed on Qian Cao Peak with Mu Qingfang worriedly scolding him for getting hurt again in his last fight with Luo Binghe. And the longer the conversation goes on, the more déjà vu he experiences as the conversation follows the same pattern it did just that day before. And not in the normal, familiar way. It’s word for word, moment for moment what happened before he went to fight Luo Binghe for the last time.

Liu Qingge gets up and leaves the sect and returns to Huan Hua to find that Luo Binghe is there and waiting for him once more.

[queenharumiura]

2024 Akira Amano 'The Characters' Exhibition bonus 'Selfie-style' cards.

[ID: Official art of multiple characters from the manga and anime Katekyo Hitman Reborn.

They're all drawn as if taking a selfie, most of them smiling and/or doing a peace sign or another playful gesture with their hand.

Reborn, Colonnello, Viper and Fon are in their cursed forms, with Viper pulling their hood down, trying to hide more of their face.

Gokudera waves at us, with "Vongola Famiglia" written on his palm and the Vongola's emblem drawn on it too. Lambo is in his Ten Years Later version, Tsuna's shown both in his normal state and in Hyper Dying Will mode, Basil is in Hyper Dying Will mode too and Chrome's wearing cat ears.

Squalo and Xanxus are scowling. /End ID]

ID courtesy of @hopeswriting.

[thepoisonroom]

every time a customer tries to get me to take off my mask because they're allegedly hard of hearing and need to lip read i do dream of saying "is that true???" to them because that is MY disability that they're pretending to have to be a shithead and yet i don't want to say that because if i earnestly asked for accommodation and someone asked if i was lying i would want to sink into the floor!!! but if they are lying to me i think they should feel total devastating shame and go to hell probably.

[thevoidstaredback]

Enough Caffeine to Kill an Elephant

Listen. It was an accident. He didn't mean to! It just kinda happened.

So maybe he brought a drink with enough caffeine in it to kill an elephant within a few minutes, and maybe he forgot to put the sleeve on his cup so he could tell it apart from the others, but it's not his fault! He didn't think anyone else was going to have the exact same Yeti cup as him! It's not like he'd seen any of the others carry one before. Besides, he worked with superheros. They should be smart enough to check before drinking someone else's drink.

Danny had been summoned by the Justice League Dark a few years back in order to help with a world ending crisis and he just didn't leave. It's not like he could go anywhere anyway. His ghost half hadn't grown past fourteen and his human half had stopped visibly aging at eighteen. He'd had to leave town as Danny Fenton, but he'd stayed in Amity Park as Danny Phantom. When his parents died of old age, thank god, he'd closed down the portal, stuck around for a few more years, before traveling the world as Danny Fenton.

Anyway, he'd taken up residence in the House of Mysteries after the JLD had summoned him. Constantine, at first, had been wary, but he and the rest of the JLD had grown to accept him. He was an honorary member of the team.

At some point, just after Robin had become Red Robin, Danny had been introduced to the Justice League. He liked those guys, too, and worked with them sometimes. Though, he usually only went to bug them.

Red Robin had been very interested in the fact that his was fourteen and working with grown heros, like he was one to talk, but Danny hadn't explained anything other than saying that he had died and come back. The following conversation was an interesting one that lead to Danny knowing that Nightwing was the Batman he'd met and that Batman was lost somewhere. He'd confirmed that the man was not dead, but he hadn't offered to help look for him. He probably should have, in retrospect.

Back on topic! Everyone in the JLD knew not to touch Danny's drink. They'd all seen him make it before and had been horrified on varying degrees. It's not like it could kill him. He's already half dead! So long as he only drank this specific brew as Phantom, he'd be fine.

The Justice League, apparently, didn't get the memo. He blames Constantine because Zatanna and Raven can do no wrong. No, John, he's not biased.

The point is, Red Robin just had a sip of Danny's drink. The horror he now felt was akin to the fear he held when he'd told his parents he was Phantom. (An interaction that had gone very well, thank you very much.)

Danny knew the exact moment that the vigilante realized he grabbed the wrong drink. His eyes widened to an astonishing degree, and, if he'd been able to seen his eyes behind the mask, Danny knew that the man's pupils would've completely overtaken the irises. His hands started shaking, too. Oh, no. The man's already addicted to hellish amounts of coffee. This is only going to make it worse!

Quickly, and without drawing any attention, thank the Ancients, Danny rushed over. "You, um, you okay, man?" Obviously not, but he tends to talk when he's anxious and he was certainly anxious right now. He could've possibly just killed a man via poison!

"What the fuck is in this coffee?" Red Robin asked, going to take another sip.

Danny pulled the Yeti from his hand and gave him the proper one. "Enough caffeine to kill an elephant."

"Obviously not, seeing as I'm still alive."

"Yeah, I can't tell if that's a good thing or not."

"Excuse me?"

"I-I mean-! I didn't-! You know what I mean." Caffeine is poisonous in excess, and his drink was way beyond excess, but it's the only thing that works for him as a ghost! Superpowered metabolism and all that.

"Do I?" The laugh in his voice answered for him. He took a sip from his drink and frowned at it. "I don't think any coffee will ever be enough again."

"And that's my cue to get my drink very far away from you." Danny turned, fully intent on moving to the other side of the room. Besides, the meeting was going to start as soon as the Flash and Kid Flash arrived, which would be soon. Something about one of their Rouges getting out?

"What?" Red Robin asked, "Why?" If he was a little desperate to get another sip of that coffee, he'd rather not acknowledge it.

"Because you don't need anymore lethal coffee," he muttered, "The sip you took will already keep you awake for three days at least, and it probably jump started an addiction. Best to stop it now. Besides, I need to go have my crisis on how the hell you're still alive after even a sip of this stuff."

"Again, rude." The bird themed vigilante crossed his arms as best he could while holding his cup. "If it's so dangerous, why do you drink it?"

Danny took a deliberate sip as he locked eyes with the technically younger man. "I'm dead. I don't need to worry about my heart stopping or having a seizure."

"Excuses."

"No, it's not 'excuses'. I'm saving your life."

"You're a kid. If I can't have that coffee, then you shouldn't be having it."

"First, I'm older than you. Second, I already told you: I'm dead. This isn't going to hurt me. Third, you can't tell me what to do."

"There's no way you're older than me. You're like, ten."

"I'm thirty-eight!" He balked, "I only look fourteen because I died when I was fourteen. We've been over this."

Neither noticed the entire Justice League looking at them. The two they were waiting on had arrived a few minutes ago and everyone was ready to start the meeting, but they'd been distracted by the two's conversation. Was that true? Had Phantom really died so young? They'd all been made aware he was not living, but they didn't think he'd died so young! Though, that was probably the denial speaking.

The Justice League Dark had been fully aware of this and didn't really bat an eye. Though, someone should probably get this meeting started. A potentially world ending threat was the topic, and that was a pretty important thing to discuss.

Captain Marvel was the first to pull himself together, though that was only after Atlas and Zeus had mentally slapped him out of his stupur. "As, ah, riveting as this conversation is," he stepped between the two boys- er, boy and man? "we really need to start this meeting."

Batman did not clear his throat because he'd not lost his voice in the first place. "He's right. Everyone take your seats."

Storyboard Part 2

[mammoth-clangen]

D’you perchance have any thoughts on the morphological (for lack of a better word?) dire wolves that Colossal Biosciences just revealed to the public? 👀

Oh my god Aenocyon, you can't just ask someone why they're white!

"Morphological dire wolf" my ass. Which is coincidentally where Colossal pulled the white coats from…

Give me an example of a modern temperate/grassland predator that's white*, I'll wait. *Excluding white lions, which are an uncommon but resilient morph resulting from leucism.

I based my Aenocyon design off bushdogs and dholes. They are called Masked Wolves in Kindred's setting, because I enjoy a good pseudo hyena niche uvu-b

Extremely extremely long 'thoughts' below the cut lol c':

Preface: in this discussion the term "dire wolf" has too many meanings, as such I will be referring to them as follows:

Thrones' wolves: for the huge, white, fantasy animals from Game Of Thrones GMO wolves: for Romulus, Remus and Khaleesi, Colossal's creations, Canis lupus Aenocyon: for Aenocyon dirus, the true, extinct dire wolf known from fossils across North America

----

Part 1: That's not a dire wolf-

The first question everyone has been asking is "So, are dire wolves de extinct now?" The answer is an emphatic "NO!" from anyone with knowledge of genetics, palaeontology, or taxonomy.

Aenocyon dirus were actually not wolves, nor dogs, but a secret third thing.

They are canids, but last shared a common ancestor with grey wolves and their lineage some ~5.7 million years ago.

For context, this paper suggests a similar divergence time between genus Homo (humans, Neanderthals and co) and Pan (chimps and bonobos); animals that look and behave markedly differently from each other.

The genomes of Canis lupus and Aenocyon dirus being 99.5% similar may sound like a lot, but again, humans share 98.8% with chimps, and 99.7% with Neanderthals, and yet are very distinct from both.

Skeletally, behaviourally, in soft tissue, etc, you could tell any of the three apart; the same goes for Aenocyon and Canis members.

Additionally, Colossal made 20 changes in 14 genes.

The grey wolf genome has 2,447,000,000 base pairs. Does that maths seem a bit off to you?

That's not even enough to change a grey wolf into a domestic dog, let alone an ancient outgroup!

This would be akin to modifying a lion to have bigger teeth and saying you resurrected Smilodon fatalis.

Or editing a Asian Elephant genome so they retain their juvenile hair and calling it a Woolly Mammoth.

It's a bold-faced lie.

Beth Shapiro says "they look and act like dire wolves" but that, too,simply isn't true.

Visually, the GMO wolves simply aren't what Aenocyon would have looked like. It's what a Thrones' wolf looks like.

Hmmmmm, funny about that, seeing George R R Martin helped fund the 'dire wolf project'...

As with many fossil animals, we don't know much about Aenocyon's behaviour.

You can't say the GMO wolves (who are also still pups) act like Aenocyon, because that's based off nothing.

What we do know is Aenocyon were likely pack animals (from the sheer number found in La Brea Tarpits), and crunched more bones than modern wolves (from their many broken teeth).

Also, crucially, they had Wild Sex Lives (from the many, huge, broken and healed bacula... youch).

Colossal is also being colossally shady by: doubling down on their bs use of the outdated "morphological species definition", blatantly misleading the public with their use of the words 'cloning', 'dire wolves', and 'de extinction', and refusing to share their methods in a peer reviewed paper before going public with a clickbait headline.

Do not trust them with your Red wolves either. They're using coyote hybrids and considering what they deem 'close enough' for a dire wolf, I wouldn't put any money on the quality of their GMO red wolves either...

Also can I just say, whatever genes they modified to "make the skull larger" clearly didn't impact the lower jaw...

No, I'm not sorry for this image uvu-b (But for real look at that poor pup and his overbite jfc)

Part 2: -and if it was, that wouldn't be good either.

I fundamentally do not support de extinction.

No, not even for the Thylacine, not even for passenger pigeons, nor the dodo. Even my beloved Homotherium should be left in the past.

This might be an unexpected stance because I am, surprising no one, a big fan of extinct animals, megafauna and otherwise.

But the thing is, I'm an even bigger fan of actual, living animals.

The animal ethics of de extinction are dubious at best.

The surrogate dog mothers of the GMO wolves likely won't live good lives.

I wouldn't be surprised if they were destroyed after being used, because their bodies could contain feto microchimerisms and Colossal absolutely doesn't want their special wolf genome getting out.

I doubt the GMO wolves themselves will live a full life before they outgrow their hearts, like Ligers.

This would likely be the case for any modern animal genetically modified into megafauna; a body not adapted to deal with the increased size.

Purely conjecture, but I also wouldn't be surprised if Romulus, Remus and Khaleesi have vision/hearing issues from their white coats.

White coats in wolves are associated with hearing impairments, so the gene used for these animals was from domestic dogs. Meaning Colossal has created a very expensive wolfdog.

Again, what kind of life are these wolfdogs supposed to live? As awful pets for the rich? In a zoo? Released to pollute wild wolf genomes? (assuming they're fertile; I hope not)

Regardless, it's not looking good if they ever planned to have them be 'wild animals'

Even true clones (which the GMO wolves are not) tend to have health issues.

Celia the Pyrenean Ibex (bucardo) was cloned, but the clone died after 9 minutes from a deformed lung.

So in 2003, this made the bucardo the first species to go extinct twice, yippee?

There's also the problem of genetic diversity.

How many intact genomes do you have on hand?

For dire wolves the answer is Zero!

To my knowledge, we don't have the full genome coded from one individual, just Frankenstein-ed from many. Which is fine for sequencing the canine family tree's relatedness, but not for cloning.

The absolute minimum individuals to survive a genetic bottleneck is said to be 50 in larger species. Called the 50/500 rule, it states that 50 is enough to survive, but 500 is required to prevent genetic drift.

To which I say, good luck!

Even with well preserved permafrost species (such as woolly mammoths), you'll have a hard time finding 500 individuals with prefect genomes.

And then, where will you put them?

If you were to, somehow, make a breeding population, where are they going? A national park? A zoo? Is their old habitat still available to them?

In Aenocyon, the answer is simply "they don't have a niche anymore".

Unlike the Thylacine or Dodo, humans did not directly cause the extinction of Aenocyon dirus. And even if they had, it was 10,000 years ago!

Would making room for a de extinct species impact the habitat/niche of another species?

Regular grey wolves fill Aenocyon's role as a canine mesopredator, with Puma as the apex (alongside bears as an apex omnivore).

With the loss of megafauna to prey on, a de extinct predator would just compete with other, also endangered species.

Animals also change the environment they life in.

Mammoths will clear trees like modern elephants. This would recreate the Mammoth Steppe, but those trees making up the taiga and boreal forests are themselves crucial habitat.

Other species have moved in since the mammoths' extinction. Siberian tigers, lynx, muskoxen, brown bears, elk, moose, and so many others; many endangered.

Trees also prevent erosion, which is already happening at unprecedented rates due to agriculture and deforestation.

Crucially: What's to stop an extinct animal going the same way it went out last time?

Ask yourself this:

Would the average American appreciate "flocks of Passenger pigeons big enough to darken the sky and whiten ground with their guano"?

Would people suddenly be okay with lions in Europe eating their livestock, when they are champing the bit to shoot Iberian wolves again?

Would Tasmanians suddenly feel the same about the Thylacine, when farmers in Australia still happily kill dingoes and eagles for lamb predation? [citation, I am an enviro technician and have had farmers tell me they shoot Wedge-tails, knowing I'm a toothless lion to stop them.]

I doubt it

At what cost?

Are we going to find 50 thylacine genomes?

If so (doubtful), how much will cloning and/or modifying a relative into a thylacine cost? Now that x50?

Wouldn't that money be better spent on quoll reintroduction?

What about finding 50 gestational carriers for mammoths?

Are you going to use their closest relative; the already critically endangered Asian Elephant?

Wouldn't that time and effort on those elephant mothers be better used making more elephants?

And the social cost:

If extinction isn't forever, what's to incentivize lawmakers to fund conservation?

Really, it comes down to this:

Why bring back the dire wolf when we could put this money into protecting the Iberian and Red wolves?

Why bring back the thylacine when their cousin is dying of a transmissible cancer?

We've already seen the impacts of "extinction isn't forever anymore", with those in power already trying to cut funding to conservation, because you can "just bring them back".

But as we've seen time and time again: there is no Planet B. There is no De-Extinction, not really.

Maybe what was gone should stay gone, so we can focus on what we still have.