#PRAGMA

[zumurruds]

Commenter: Very 'Troy' because I get the sense that Damen found real respect for Auguste and that the guy deserved it. Those two would have been a magnificent pairing, in a parallel fic universe. Pacat: Yeah! God, I am happy you picked up on this. I completely fell for the Damen/Auguste dynamic while I was plotting, for exactly the reasons you describe.

from C.S. PACAT'S CHAPTER COMMENTARIES

[malfiora]

Jaydick and Pragmatic Love

For some reason (*cough* neurodivergence *cough*) I like to get introspective about why I like the things I like. My love for jaydick came kinda naturally – a red/blue aesthetic between 2 dorks with canonically strong and complex feelings towards each other? Been there, done that, sign me up. But, like...why? Why was I obsessed with this ship? Why is the pairing itself so compelling, whether you ship them or not? I thought: "I don't know, it's the way they're coded as opposites but aren't really, and the way Jason admires Dick but also resents him a little, and the way that Dick's entire identity shifts when Jason comes along, I guess."

And digging a little deeper, I could finally put it into words: it's because Jason was made for Dick. In much the same way that Dick (and consequently Robin) was made to be Bruce's ward / Batman's partner, Jason was created to be someone Dick could conceivably pass his mantle to, someone he could see something of himself in and trust to take on the responsibility he'd been safeguarding for years so that he could finally go do something else (i.e. become Nightwing). Metatextually (i.e. between text and audience), this makes sense, especially given the logic that Jason needed to be similar enough to Dick for audiences to like him while being his own person so he wasn't just a shameless ripoff. (This logic evolved over time, hence retcons, but still.) But contextually (within a text, between characters), what must that look like?

If I had to put it in a single word, it seems like both fans and writers have settled on pragma. (EDIT: I like the Wikipedia article better.) According to Greek philosophy-based types of love, pragma is the type of love based on personal qualities, a sense of duty/obligation, and long term commitment. There is compromise and mutual understanding here. It's the type of love most associated with married couples who have been together for a while.

What's awesome about this is it can coexist alongside other types of love, like philia (platonic), eros (lust-driven), or ludos (flirtatious). These secondary types are where I see the disconnect between shippers and antis, but pragma is still the foundation, not necessarily in a romantic way, but certainly in the commitment.

A few examples under the cut.

Nightwing (1996) #119-122. I wrote about this enough, and so has frog. Commitment, sense of duty/obligation

Nightwing (2016) #15. Jason and Dick being bros, and Jason being self aware and commenting on their coping mechanisms (i.e. violence). Long-term mutual understanding.

Red Hood and the Outlaws (2016) Annual #1. stealing this from @the-mocking-robin to make a point. Admiration of personal qualities.

Grayson (vol. 3). This one's just fun. Jason feels betrayed that Dick faked his death.

Nightwing (2021) Annual #1. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Nightwing (1996) Year One #5. Commitment, sense of duty almost immediately.

[aergia404]

The Loves 2/8

Pragma - Enduring love

Personification of the greek types of love

[inkspottie]

Absolutely loved the part of Pragma where Takahide met Seb, so i decided to draw it

(Tw for blood and S/H kinda? Seb has wounds all over him so yeahhhh, i also posted it but i think my tumblr if broken. I’ll colour and fix it up later but yeahhh))))

Yooooo!!! This is so cool! Ah the expressions are spot on.

I love this so much??? And ouchie my heart with Seb’s injuries…

[arkanicdevotion]

Ahem. *Throws them gays at u* (Istg if the quality sucks I'm writing an entire paragraph insulting Tumblr like if it was an living being with an entire bloodline to roast in 5 languages at once) To have it not in pixels, click on it

Part 1 on 2, my stylus no-clipped into the backrooms (if anyone goes there find it for me please, I'll give you 10 dabloons) @inkspottie I forgot how to draw blush so I didn't give Seb blush (I haven't drawn characters blushing since middle of 2023 Funfact: this took me ELEVEN god damn hours. I fried my brain AND shoulders on this grrrr

[deer-daughterx]

{Words by José Olivarez from Citizen Illegal /@fatimaamerbilal , from even flesh eaters don't want me.}

[pinwheelisland]

[lanaindublin]

The worst month of my adult life part 2...

09/05/2025

-In which the blog post both begins and ends with a funeral. And I have had to extend the definition of a month out an additional two weeks, due to the fact that events proved utterly incorrigible in their habit of continuing to transpire, with no regard or mercy for those they happen around.

It is the 9th of April, a few days from one of my favourite dates in fandom, but this doesn't do much to comfort me at this time. I arise, haggard, mentally drained, the ghosts of a dozen different thoughts drifting on the stagnant currents of my mind. I've arranged a rideshare to my grandfather's wake, an aunty and uncle I haven't seen in some time, and only once since I became the person I am today. They are arriving in two hours, and somehow I will still fail to meet them outside in a punctual manner. I do not wish to leave bed. The deadline ticks down every time I roll over and check my phone, and hour and a half, sixty minutes, thirty, that should do it. By the time I'm adorned in my most appropriate garb for a wake and funeral (black tights, black boots, black wool military coat, chic black and white tunic, chain with crosses) I am testing my aunt and uncle's patience, who are at this point waiting for me in the car. I babble apologies, greetings and smalltalk, all while applying my makeup for the day, they're glad to see me.

The wake is an odd affair, lots of faces I have not seen in some time, many I wish to catch up and reconnect with. But now is not the time for that, now is the time to loom over the cadaver of a departed family member in brooding silence. As my grandfather lay there, for the world to witness one last time, dressed in a pale green starched suit, emaciated finger joints crossed over his chest like chicken bones, my mind began to wander. I thought of how some find the ritual of the wake a queer and morbid display. I thought of how sub-saharan cultures venerate their ancestors with memento moris, the gleaned and bleached skulls of the departed. How when the white men came they brought civility and cleanliness to their communities, urging the natives to dispose of the one keepsake they had of their departed elders. I imagined there must have been at least one person, who went along with this colonialism, converted to Christianity, and then one day, perhaps later in life, went to the basilica of Saint-Maximin-la-Sainte-Baume in southern France. I imagined what thoughts might shoot through this hypothetical person's head, having given up their religion, their traditions, and the very bones of their ancestors, only to walk up to the reliquary, and see all these fucking white people, venerating the preserved skull of Mary Magdalene. Anyway, I guess I didn't know what to think, but another tradition alleviated me of that burden promptly, as my mother arrived, and suggested that all present pray a decade of the rosary, a repetitive utterance, not quite a mantra, not quite a prayer, a meditative ritual. I utter the half remembered lines along with the gathered family before we take our leave.

The procession to the cremation ceremony is unremarkable, as is the ceremony itself. A few heartfelt anecdotes, and emotional passage of poetry, and a somewhat long and self-aggrandizing story by the family's self-appointed patriarch (my eldest uncle). The whole affair was quite digestible, the departed man was abusive and prone to bringing the drink home with him, the fact that my mother's siblings came out as stable as they did was nothing short of a miracle, that miracle being my grandmother of course. Evidently that austerity still rubbed off on most of them, as me and my mother were the only ones who decided to visit dearly departed Mary 'Nancy' Callahan's grave, lay some flowers, and clear the encroaching thorns. The reception was pleasant enough, free food, drink, yappin with the cousins, and over just soon enough. I made my back to my old family home.

The following week eludes me, I can vaguely recall taking up practicing the Irish whistle and sewing up the various tears and open seams of my tatty black military coat gradually turning it into my well maintained black coat, and finding an heirloom leather jacket that had belonged to my grandfather (not that one, the one that's still alive and living in Australia), my sister must have brought it over during one of her visits.

Cool Jackets Acquired: 2

Things seemed to be looking up for a bit, it was a tantalising Easter no doubt, 4/20 AND the pope died? Excitement all round, it was spent with some dear friends of mine, some old, some only known via the internet 'til this day. We settled down on the grassy lawns of Stephen's Green in Dublin, where we picnic'd and imbibed in the manner one is prone to on such an ordinary date as the twentieth of April. The next two weeks were another blur, a lot of struggling with bureaucracy, renewing my driver's licence, applying for job-seeker's allowance, job seeking, a friends birthday party, and a slew of suitors, salacious affairs, I suspect she may have pushed us to it, but we did not resist, there must have been at least six or seven individuals by the end of this account, the skinny dipping incident also occured about this time I think. Whatever my lack of recollection of this time, it was the third of May where my memory was drawn sharp and clear once again. The prior night had been spent at a friend's wonderful housewarming party, the morning, nursing a hangover via McDonald's breakfast menu. A close friend who had been in attendance of the party (and the hangover) kindly drove me to Houston station where I would catch a train to Kilkenny. On the way, I received a call from my mother, asking about the last time I had seen her friend, who had previously lived out of the room in the family home which I currently occupied. Not thinking much of it, I informed her she had come around a few days prior to retrieve a ring she had left in the room. It was left at that, and though I may not have realised it at the time, it was a grim foreshadowing of what was to come that evening.

The train ride to Kilkenny was uneventful enough, but set the pattern of me losing various personal effects, losing track of a set of chopsticks and my previously mentioned chain the night prior was bad enough, but I ended up leaving a power bank on the train, later while sorting and unsorting my travel bag at another friend's house I managed to lose track of a small bag of makeup and hygiene products, as well as my deck of tarot cards, all of which would be begrudgingly replaced in time at no small cost. But the day spent in Kilkenny, pleasant. Passing the time with an old friend, catching him up with all myriad events, gossip and theories. We would later go to the house of another acquaintance where things would take a turn for the dire. I miss a string of messages from various parties, I take my leave to the darkness of the back garden to address them. Firstly from my sister, informing me that the friend my mother had inquired about that morning had been found dead. A missed call from my mother. And many messages from my partner in Barcelona, dearly missing me. What must have been a very emotionally charged 40 minutes of calls, messages and plan-making later, I return to the party, makeup running from tears. I ask our hostess if she has any strong beverage I may imbibe. My trip to Kilkenny has been cut short, I will be returning to Dublin on the morrow once again, to be a supportive presence for my mother. But that is business for the following afternoon, we have reveling to attend to.

With my makeup corrected, and sufficient blood alcohol levels to keep me cool and settled, we head to the local bar at a few minutes to midnight. An unthinkable notion in Dublin city, but this is the country, and a bank holiday weekend at that, last drinks won't be called for another two or three hours. The entourage, now numbering four, arrives, orders drinks and promptly heads to the smoking area. A wonderful evening ensues, talking all manner of trite and inane matters among ourselves and the various locals who recognize my companions, and other bar-goers who happen upon our conversations at choice moments. At some point I break from the group, who are otherwise engaged in various misdeeds, and venture into a parked double-decker bus at the back of the smoking area. Presumably a novelty dining space during the day, there are 'no smoking' signs on every surface, which I promptly ignored. If management didn't want me smoking in here, they should not have left it unlocked at the back of the smoking area. I ascend to the upper floor and gaze down in solitude at everyone in attendance in the bar's outdoor section. My solitude is soon interrupted, I am a trendsetter it seems, as not long after about a dozen faces pile into the upper level of the bus. I acquaint myself with more names and faces than I care to remember, accepting all manner of platitudes and substances from those grateful enough for a stranger's charm and personality. But my attention is drawn to a certain figure, passed by me earlier. She was boymoding I'm sure of it, and while she may have had everyone else and maybe even herself convinced, it wasn't getting past me. Her skinny plastic choker, her tiny ponytail sticking out of her gay little hat. She was a trans woman I was sure of it. And I endeavored to find out if this egg was cracked, and if not, to crack it myself. Wasn't the case as it turns out. She was well aware of her condition, but she was very pleased to have another baedel to keep her company. Before we parted ways we exchanged contact details, and the taste of our tongues. After that I found the previous entourage and filled them in on my misadventures in the bus. Final drinks were already called, but this posed no problem, as countless patrons had left their own unattended, yoink. The walk back to the old friend's house was quite the endeavour, swaggering and blathering and public urination. Despite the grim news of earlier, it was certainly a night to remember.

I awoke for the second (third?) morning in a row with a splitting hangover. The earliest train I could book wasn't until the late afternoon, so there was breakfast to be had with my old friend. I caught up with the girl from the previous night. With some intimate interludes we talked about all manner of things: politics, gender, emotion, trauma. We made promises to keep in touch as I headed back to my friend's place for lunch. And soon after I was on my way back to Dublin, and long after to the Southside where my mother resided, due to the DART rail line being closed for maintenance. I embraced her, and consoled her to the best of my ability about her loss. As if my words meant anything, as if I could even come close to comprehending the emotions she was experiencing right now, a parent dead, a close friend now too, and another distant one had passed in the states not a week prior. She was upset, but that was only the surface, she was holding it together, outpacing the legion of demons pursuing her.

My mother kept an extremely packed schedule to prevent herself from getting lost in her thoughts of despair and anguish, this is by her own admission, and I can't blame her, she's been through a lot. She made sure to remind me of such the next day when we met for lunch, which smoothly dovetailed into conversation about jobs, employment, responsibility, commitment. I took her word for it all, and assured her as much as I could, I don't know what but her words must have stirred something inside of me, as that evening I started a pointless fight with my beloved over the matter of children. I pleaded my case and she pleaded hers, at some point I could not bear the back and forth any more, and I simply fell asleep in bed. I awoke to find a message affirming this was not a discussion we need to bridge immediately, and also the most heartbreaking poem. It did something to her, the poem. It killed her, or silenced her, or stitched her back to my psyche (this would be a temporary solution, as of time of writing this she is back). Either way, we patched things up once again, planned for her to visit me out in Dublin, and I headed back to my mother's apartment for the funeral the following day.

The ninth of April, it started off quaint enough, meeting with the close friends of the departed (my mother included) for coffee and breakfast. But the mood soon took a turn for the dire. No sooner was everyone seated that talk of foul play and conspiracy started circulating. This was not a rumor fecklessly cast by an individual mind delirious with grief, the talk of the husband being the killer was unanimous. Talk of him having turned daughter against mother, then daughter against step-mother, abuse and manipulation. It was all spoken with such certainty, yet in a cautiously worded preterite, as if they had witnessed it themselves, from grainy CCTV footage, or as if they had unnamed informants confirming it from within the confines of this dysfunctional familial feud. "Even if he didn't do it himself, he DID drive her to the point of taking her own life", that was the last word on the topic, and whatever about second-, third- or even fourth-hand information, this much I believed. It may not be a mortifyingly common occurrence, but it still happens all too often, in this country and others.

The rest of the day was a blur. We had foregone the wake, none of the previously mentioned friends could bear to see her. The one that did claimed it was a devastating sight to behold. While she was a few decades older than myself, your fifties is still far too young to shuffle off this mortal coil. The funerary mass was held in the chapel that I had once attended every- well, most- hmmm... Where I had attended mass on the occasional Sunday, my parents stopped bothering to bring me once I made it abundantly clear I'd rather be reading my young-adult fiction books, instead of paying any attention to the hymns and passages being read from the pulpit. Anyway, it was a funerary mass, and I couldn't claim to have known the woman well at all, but my mum did. It wasn't until the cremation ceremony that emotions began to take a fiendish grip on all involved. Not even I, detached from the affair as I was, could hold back shedding tears and softly weeping, for this woman who was done wrongly by this world, who had numerous friends who had looked out for her, who had found her lifeless body, now left with one less connection in this cruel world.

At the reception I mused over matters of emotion and mortality I was more directly connected to. My grandmother (the one still alive in Australia) had messaged me not long ago, remarking about the anniversary of her brother's passing. He was falling over increasingly frequently towards the end, so it was of no small significance that she, in that very same message, mentioned she had taken a fall herself. Most of my cousins on my father's side have managed to make something of their lives, and there is no shortage of pride in the way my grandmother talks about them. I want to go over soon, to Australia, to see my grandparents again. To cook with them, to travel up the coast with them, to waddle down to the beach on a sunny day, and later wander up to the surf club for a fish and chips. I want them to see the person I've become, I want them to see that I am happier now, and they have nothing to worry about. I want to do this soon, before it is too late. I also mentioned the poem my beloved had sent the morning prior, I attempted to recite it myself but became choked with tears not two stanzas in, my mother recited the rest, which brought the whole table to tears.

It's been a month, a month and a half even, and even though I felt some of my lowest lows, I reckon it was a challenge I've risen to. Contradictions and considerations and courtesies and cowardice. Death and drugs and dames and dishes. I feel wiser, stronger, more ready for the future than ever. But all the same, it's a time I hope I do not have to re-live any time soon.

[jedi-order-apologist]

Post-Mission Support

Sometimes, after a bad mission, the best thing to do is to seek out friends who understand. Written for Fandom Empire Prompt Tables 2024 - Prompt: "Write a ficlet" and @starwarsalltypesoflove week - Prompt: "Pragma"

Read on AO3

It wasn’t a premonition that had Mace getting out the tea kettle, but the Force likely did aid him in the timing, as he was just taking it off the heat as the door to his quarters slid open, and Qui-Gon walked in and sank onto one of the round cushions.

Mace didn’t ask if it had been a rough mission; it was obvious in the tenseness of the Force pulled around Qui-Gon, and in the weariness spilling out. It took a lot to rattle Qui-Gon, but Mace knew that he’d get the full details when he and Obi-Wan gave their mission report.

For now, tea.

He offered a cup to Qui-Gon, who accepted it with wordless gratitude, before sitting down with his own cup. For a few moments they sat in steady silence, Qui-Gon’s tension slowly easing.

“I told the Council that this mission was ill-advised,” he said, eventually.

“You did,” Mace agreed. “But it had to happen, and there is no other pair of Jedi who could have handled it better.”

“You haven’t heard our mission report yet.”

“It won’t change my opinion in that regard.”

Qui-Gon lifted his cup and drank from it, before exhaling softly.

“Obi-Wan handled himself well,” he conceeded. “And we did what we could.”

“That’s all anyone can ask.”

Qui-Gon smiled. “Bold words from you, my friend. How often have I had to remind you of the same? And I’m sure if I asked Yoda, he could name many times more.”

It was true. One’s efforts never felt like enough, sometimes, when missions went south. The trap of self-recrimination was a difficult one to escape – at least on one’s own. That was why these moments shared over tea in the aftermath were so valuable.

“And Obi-Wan?” Mace asked, after a hum of agreement.

“With his own friends,” Qui-Gon said. “They’re what he needs right now.”

Mace understood that as well – after all, he and Qui-Gon had done the same, as padawans. There were times when you confided in your master, and there were times when you confided in your peers.

There was no shortage of people to turn to, in the Temple. Everyone needed support, and everyone offered it. Their shared duty and calling, and both the joy and hardship that came with it, was something they all understood.

And so they took these quiet moments together, to center themselves, and go back out into the world, ready to face its ills again – but never alone.

[pinwheelisland]

By @drinkachyfi

[lanaindublin]

The worst month of my life...

26/04/2025

-okay, maybe that requires a caveat attached...

The worst month of my adult life...

-yea sure lets go with that. At any given point in the last month, if I had a dream about having to go to university/do homework/face the prospect of going to school again, I would still have awoken relieved to find myself in the purgatory that had become my life.

On the date I write this my emotions have perked up enough that I think I can confidently book-end the period of depression, subtle despair and utter listlessness that was the last month. From this day the 26th of april, back to the 26th of march...hmmm, actually the 26th I at least enjoyed the company of a good friend visiting, providing great comfort and company. No let us mark this rough and terrible period of "a month" instead as 4 weeks to the day, from the 29th of march to the 25th of april.

As an abridged version: Loneliness, isolation, heartbreak, poverty, and the complete uprooting of my life. That about covers it.

On the 29th of March I bid adieu to a dear friend who was visiting me and my partner in Barcelona. We, at the time, were pinched for money, and were looking to make a move from my partner's mother's apartment by other means...by which I of course mean the noble art of squating. In Barcelona, and indeed in Cataluña in general, there is a strong culture of squats, it comes with the territory of being the anarchist capital of Europe. We had in previous months, ingratiated ourselves with a group of squatters in the hills at the city limits (lots of derelict mini mansions from the 2008 crash, prime squatting real estate). They liked us well enough, and we helped out from time to time, so they pledged to help us in return when the time came to open a new squat for ourselves, that was the plan at the time at least.

The following day (the 30th) was exciting at least, I spent the first half of the day as I usually did: lazing around the house, making half hearted attempts to apply for jobs, and ferreting food away from the kitchen. This had been my condition for a while now, most days spent wearing nothing more than an oversized t-shirt, and not setting a foot outside the house. The week prior was a nice break from this pattern, as I would be out regularly to meet with my visiting friend. But before and beyond that, i had found myself firmly lodged in the suffocating bossomal cleft of lethargia. Not helping the matter, was that my beloved was out and about on an extended business trip to a local commune. She assured me on a later phone call it was an excellent locale and atmosphere, but I digress. At about 17:30, as the shadows began to draw long, I mustered up the motivation to check the myriad of messages that had built up over the days prior. One caught my attention, an artist friend of mine was debuting a zine at a small, independent and open art space called 'The Free Music School'. I had attended events there previously, its where I met the aforementioned artist in fact. But a stark realisation dawned on me as I read throuh the details of the event: it was happening today! Which spurred me on to a double take as I looked at the scheduled time of the debut: It had started 15 minutes ago!

Frantic to turn the mood of the day around I dressed myself and glided down on my trusty skateboard to the metro station. After storming through the ticket barriers, escalators and stairwells to the platform, something else dawned on me: it was mothers day! And I, nary a cent to my name, certainly not enough to purchase a bouquet of flowers, and even if I had, it was too late to get one delivered to my mothers abode in Dublin. But as the metro carriage clattered its way, downhill and eastward, a wave of pure inspiration crashed over the stagnant tide pools of my psyche. I had recently seen a video clip of an Irish storyteller recounting the tale of Brigid and Ruadán. I whipped out my notes application, and began typing away at breakneck speed, within minutes I had a solid first draft of the poem which you can find a few posts below this one. And while the gift of my prose is absolutely a delightful gift in its own right, this was something more, a narrative that wove the story tight with the relationship and the dialogues I had with my mother. And I would go one further, I wished to scrawl it out in calligraphy and illuminate it with colour. Later that evening at the event I would borrow some paper and watercolors from the organiser, and the following day aquire a caligraphy pen for the letterings. The end product is bursting with vision moreso than talent, but I am still proud of the result.

Anyway, I arrived in good time for the zine unveiling, and it was a breath of fresh air, beautiful art, good friends, and good company. The free food and booze was nice too. And never more glad that my spirits were raised that night, as if they hadn't been, I scarcely believe I would have survived the days that were to follow...

The next day my beloved announces she is quitting her job, not an entirely distressing development, I want whats best for her, and quitting at the end of the month means she got her full months salary, but the pressure to find a job and revenue stream myself is heightened.

The next day is April 1st, I make a hilarious rickroll disguised as an interview with Andrew Hussie, countless souls are japed. It is the day that we establish the new squat. As night draws near I load up three heaping bags of survival items, bedrolls, books and other miscellanei to assist in the opening of the new squat. I awkwardly lug it all through the streets of the city to the train station, on to the light rail, and then into the car awaiting me. We rendezvous with the other squatters at out usual haunt in the hills. I await anxiously for the hour of action, butterflies in my stomach, but with a steadfast conviction in my beloveds plans for us. Hours pass and she informs me that we are postponing the entry until the next day. She tells me that I am not taking a sufficiently active role in the squatting efforts... she drives me back to her mothers apartment for the night.

Not much of anything happens on the morning or afternoon of April 2nd. Evening comes. I take the train, arrive at the usual haunt again. I await anxiously for the hour of action, butterflies in my stomach, but with a steadfast conviction in my beloveds plans for us. Hours pass, she takes me outside to tell me something. She no longer wishes to be my life partner. She says we no longer improve eachothers lives. I am speechless, I blabber some nonsense, I ask for one last kiss, she obliges. One of her friends drives me back to her mothers apartment.

The night is spent staring at the wall, then raiding her mother's liquor cabinet, cigarettes, listening to Untouched by The Veronicas and Thnks Fr The Mmrs by Fallout Boy. Pathetic behaviour, I dont care, I need it, I do not have the emotional stamina remaining to consider tangible actions for my situation presently. A likely ally emerges, the organiser of the Free Music School messaged me earlier in the evening, I inquire about dropping in the next day, hes happy to oblige. The next day, April 3rd, I arrive and break the news, he is entirely amicable and empathetic, he spends the rest of the day treating me to 95c cava and helping me pursue job opportunities. We find a free table for the Free Music School, he treats me to a kebab, even offering me a bedmat and pillows to take a siesta, he also gives me a Tatty Black Wool Military Jacket.

Cool Jackets Acquired: 1

Later I return to the old haunt, I retrieve my personal effects that I left there to take to the new squat. I meticulously pluck my posessions from hers, driving a marlinspike into the fibers of our lives, I begin the process of unlaying mine from hers. I haul my personal effects away: suitcase, handbag, and bass guitar, I made for quite the sight with my dramatic moody makeup, Black Military Jacket, and electric bass hanging over one shoulder. Either way, everything was hauled back to my ex's mother's apartment. I ease off on the pathetic behaviour for the evening, opting instead for watching a balding New Yorker performing engaging cooking techniques. Late that night (the morning of the 4th), I received a call. It's her, the story is about one would expect from a recent ex calling at 4am, life hadn't worked out as she had hoped in the 30 hours since she broke things off with me. I tell her I can't deal with this right now, but after tears and pleading, I promise her I will consider it, but first we will have to meet up and talk, and things would have to be different. The call runs its course and one of us hangs up first. It was at that moment that my psyche split.

The pressure was building a long time, and the cracks were showing, but it was only now that she had truly split from the dregs of my psyche and begun whispering from inside my head. Pragma she calls herself, she is cold, self-interested, and she LOVES gambling. She is not afraid to risk completely obliterating something for the chance at improving her situation. She likes solitude, simplicity, materialistic relationships, and in ceding ground to my ex, to the compromise of talking things through, woke her up. She wants to fix my life, by annihilating every relationship where I give more than I get, one by one.

I won't let her of course, she's just a voice, a presence, (an influence, a part of me, the words I think better not to say, the selfishness I deny myself for so-called higher purpose. I love us deeply, and one day we will have to contend with enough self-doubt, and pain inflicted by those we love, that she will cede the fronting responsibilities to me. Then, I will go to work, pruning the wilting roses of our wonderful garden of friends, tearing out the weeds, and setting poison for the rats.) I have my wherewithal about me, I'm making calculated decisions now, and uh, I struggle to sleep that night.

The following morning I try to head to the Free Music School early, for purpose and counsel, but dear Michael is nursing a cracking hangover. Nothing else for it I head to the bar that sells the 95c cava, I knock back four by the time Michael is ready to go for the day. We don't get up to much, we have lunch, and I tell him about the happenings of the previous night. I rant, I rave, and I hang my head as I consider my options. I ask him if I can store my bass there for the foreseeable future which he agrees to, before inviting me back for drinks later on, an offer I gladly accept.

That evening I rock up with the bass, we hang around, drink wine, discuss art and music, and all the while I anxiously await my ex's return, and what the conversation will look like. We are not too long waiting, she returns, dramatics are exchanged, we walk, talk, and resolve to work things out. We head back to the apartment together. She is irate.

The next day, the 5th, my ex-ex (from here on referred to as: my partner) heads back to the commune she was squatting with, far from the city limits. She asks me to come with her, I do not go. I stay in the city, I received news that my grandfather has died. I promise my mother I will be home soon. I meet up with Michael and beloved artist Kat for drinks that evening. We talk, Michael introduces us to a cool lesbian bar nearby, one that is hiring apparently.

The next day, the 6th, I print out some CVs and go about applying to places, half of them, hilariously not open so early in the day. I then receive a call from my mother, begging me to fly out that evening, so she wouldn't be the only one of her siblings at the funeral without their spouse and kids. She offers to front the money for a one-way ticket,for that very evening. It is not a difficult decision to make. Plane tickets are booked, I inform my partner I will be leaving that evening. She travels back to the city so we might spend a few hours together in each other's presence once more. That evening, I pack enough clothes for three outfits, plus all the essentials. My poor belle was so tired, that all we could manage before I departed was a scant few hours of cuddling. She didn't even have enough strength to see me to the door, let alone the airport. The Spanish public transport carries me to the airport, where I trudge to the terminal before being coralled onto the plane with a returning group of pubescent school trippers. The flight is laborsome, I sleep little, and my inner ear feels pulled tight as a snare dum, by the time we land I feel as though my sinuses were set ablaze. My mother collects me from Dublin Terminal 2, and drops me to the old family home. Now occupied by strangers, sublet the various rooms that used to belong to me and my distant sister. I lay down in bed, dazed, confused, spiteful, tired. I don't dare make the mistake of thinking too much of everything that happened the past few days, I know there will be time for that soon enough. For now I think only of arranging passage to the wake, where I will see my grandfather one last time.

And as this is a lot to process for me, I imagine it will be a lot to digest for you too, so it shall be continued in part 2.

[de-rap-y-otras-cosas]

Es que tú voz me llena de fuerza pero también me desbarata, que impresionante es ese poder de la palabra, más el silencio muchas veces es mejor.

Acuario, Reno871.

[starrystrawb]

Pragma is compassionate, long lasting love. She is ancient and she is beautiful.

Pragma is thought to have inspired the image modern mortals use for the goddess Inanna. Her beauty is ancient and ever lasting, as is the love she gives.

She often goes by Ina, and is slower to act than most her siblings. She is patient and hard headed, but loyal to a fault. She is usually the most even-tempered. Usually.

She loves to paint, to sit and spend hours on end crafting the perfect picture. To watch the sun sink below the horizon and put her brushes away and wait for the next day to finish. It is all a labor of love.

Pragma has old, vampire like wings! I imagine her never-changing beauty and her leather wings like a bat's inspired modern depictions of vampire.

Fun facts about Ina!

She loves flying, and will hover and glide place to place rather than walking.

She has and will start fights if she thinks someone she loves is upset or under attack. Whether it is a physical attack or a moral one.

She loves sour candies. She almost always has some. Provided she remembered to stock up.

My Redbubble

[darkscorpiox]

Different types of love in Death Mark II – Mister Kokkuri

While romantic love is at the center of the plot due to the main antagonist being born from the resentment of unfulfilled bride, it is not the only type of love present in the game. In fact, each spirit (and Yashiki) carries one form of that complex feeling.

Hanako of the Toilet

Slit-Mouthed Kashima

Pool Spirit

Mister Kokkuri

The Departed

Kazuo Yashiki

(I made one post for each instead of compiling them into one because the post can't be seen in the tags for SOME reason 😒)

(The traits cited in the posts are taken from 8 Types of Love – Which One Are You? by Joanne Reed.)

Kokkuri -> Storge (Familial love) and Pragma (Enduring love) 

Storge is a love revolving around “kinship and family” like the bond “between parents and their children”. Meanwhile, Pragma is a love found in “couples who have been together for a long time”. 

Kokkuri lost his wife and daughter at the hands of irresponsible teens who didn’t suffer any repercussion for their actions. His grief and resentment drove him to take justice into his own hands, confronting the perpetrators by himself with the intention of killing them. He knew nothing justifies murder, but his need to avenge his beloved family mattered more to him than remaining a law-abiding citizen, especially when that same law didn’t do its job. 

[writewhatyouwanttoread]

Aaaaaand an addition to the Pragma series that looks at world building! Literally just comment strings lol have fun

[koilarist]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Chérie 'Cherry' Fontaine *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Before/After being spruced up.