#IO: mind over matter

[gxldensxldiers]

I have you strung... strung in my web....

Look at me, look me in the eyes... Forget yourself, surrender your mind... Right now, you're mine...

[yeaimsafiya]

CHAPTER ONE back from rehab

SYNOPSIS the beginning of a teenage girl named y/n who is fresh out of rehab but doesn't intend to stay clean.

FROM THE WRITER AHH IM SORRY IM LATE GUYS!! This is the first chapter I'm ever writing, I took some inspo from episode 1 but I'm going to have to cut each episode into fourths because I really don't want to spend a whole week trying to finish a whole episode and school work. But I hope you guys really enjoy this chapter as much as I did - Love you guys, Sapiyah <3

WARNINGS Lots of unnecessary writing, female! reader, mentions of drugs and drinking, strong sexual content, nudity, violence, adult content, adult language, scenes might be uncomfortable for some, some scenes might include mentions of mental illness'

SERIES EUPHORIA

CHARACTERS INCLUDED members of the bakusquad & dekusquad, big three(?), some characters of class 1A

NOTES MDNI! Ageless blogs will be blocked or removed.

Readers discretion is advised

Suddenly, the whole world goes dark and nothing else matters except the person standing in front of you.

You were once happy. Content.

Sloshing and swimming around your own private, primordial pool; Then one day, for reasons beyond your control, you were continuously and repeatedly crushed...

Over..and over.. again by the cervix of your mother, M/n.

You put up a good fight, but eventually lost, for the first time, but not the last.

You were born 3 days after 9/11, your mother and father spent two days in the hospital, holding you under the soft glow of the television, watching those towers fall over and over again, until the feeling of grief gave away to numbness.

And then, without warning, a middle-class childhood in the American suburbs.

|

You were sitting at the dinner table with your mother, M/n, and Father, F/n. But it appeared something else had gotten your attention, a set of numerous lights above the dinner table, in which you wanted to count.

"Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen.."

" What are you looking at y/n?"

"..."

"What are you doing? ..Y-y/n look at me."

"One, two, three, .."

"What are you doing Y/n?"

*cries*

|

"Id say she's suffering from obsessive compulsive disorder..."

Its not like you were physically abused..

"...attention deficit disorder..."

..Or had some type of clean water storage..

"..general anxiety disorder.."

..Or was molested by a family member.

"..and possibly bipolar disorder. But she's a little bit too young to tell."

So, explain this shit to me.

|

"Honey, it's just the way your brain was hardwired; Plenty of great, intelligent, funny, interesting and creative people have struggled with the same things you struggle with."

"Like who?"

"Vincent Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, and even Brittney Spears, your favorite!"

You haven't remembered much from the ages of eight to twelve. Just that the world moved fast, and your mind moved slow.

"Does anyone have an idea of what a perception might be?"

And every now and then, if you focused on the way you breathed...

You'd die.

"Slow down, just breathe"

Until every second of the day, you'd find yourself trying to outrun your anxiety.

"What's wrong Y/n?"

..And quite frankly..

"I'm just fucking exhausted"

|

Coming down to the kitchen, you could hear the small talk between your mother and younger sister, S/N.

"You said the doctor was in our network. How can he suddenly be out of network?"

"I can't afford it."

"Did you see that video of the girl who got acid thrown at her face?"

"What? No.."

"It's pretty fucked up.."

"Mom do you know where the tampons are?"

"In my bathroom, right under the sink."

And at one point, you'd make a choice of who you are and what you want.

"Alright Gia, let's go"

"Why do the co-payments cost $300?"

"Y/n did you eat breakfast?"

".."

"What's with the glasses?"

"What glasses?"

You just happened to show up one day, without a map or a compass..

"Attention students, we need to lockdown."

..Or to be honest, anyone capable of giving on iota of good fucking advice.

And I know it all seems sad but guess what? You did not build this system up, nor fuck it up yourself.

But then it happens. That moment where your breath starts to slow. And every time you breathe, you breathe out all the oxygen you have.

Then everything stops: Your heart, your lungs, then finally, your brain. And everything you feel, you wish, and want to forget, it all just sinks.

And then suddenly... you give it air again, give it life again.

You remember the first time it happened, where you were so scared you wanted to call 911. Go to the hospital and be kept alive by machines and apple juice. But you didn't want to look like an idiot, and you didn't want to fuck up everyone else's night.

And now overtime, that's all you've wanted.. those two seconds of nothingness.

You spent a good portion of summer before junior year in rehab. God granted you the serenity to accept things you cannot change, the courage to change the things you can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

"Y/N," your sister yelled from afar, greeting you after your long leave. You smiled, and whilst running up to her, tried to continue the conversation with your younger sibling.

"Hey, Come here!"

"How are you?"

"Good, I missed you."

"I missed you too."

"Look at you, are you growing?"

"No."

Looking over, you see your mother standing by your family car.

"Hey," you yelled out to her, only to receive a small smile from her.

And with that. you knew it was your time to go.

|

"I'm very happy for you Y/n. You're about to start a brand-new chapter," Your mother says while driving you and your sister to school. You looked at her with a smile, then turned your attention back to the car window.

You had no intentions of staying clean. And yet, Jirou just moved into town.

"There's some new girl in town that I think you'll be friends with," Shoto said, with you standing beside him in his store.

"Who?"

"Shit, I don't know. She came in looking all punk rock and shit; So I'm thinking to myself, like, 'look like somebody Y/n would be friends with'."

Which was sort of a dead-on observation for Shoto, who's not normally revolving in the same direction as planet earth.

"So how long have you been back?" He asked.

"About five days."

"And how are you feeling?"

"I mean, ever since I gave my life over to my lord and savior Jesus Christ, things have been, like, really good."

"Word? That's what's up," You chuckled at his snarky remark, giving him a small smile.

"I'm fucking with you," you said whilst laughing, "It was a joke."

"Shit, hey, I don't judge," he defended, hands raising to just above his chest.

"But for real, is Deku in the back?"

"Are you serious?" Shoto questioned, seeming very disappointed in you.

"What, you think cause' I went to rehab I stayed clean?"

"I mean, ain't that the point?" he asks.

"Yeah, well, the world is coming to an end, and I haven't even graduated high school yet."

You gave Shoto one more smile before going to Deku, whilst Shoto stared at you the entire way there; There was a hint of sadness in his eyes, but since you were too busy looking for Deku, you didn't see.

You opened one of the doors of the refrigerators, leading you right to him with a bowl of fruit loops,"I thought your ass was dead," he said one he saw your appearance.

"And I thought you had Asperger's till I realized your just a prick," you barked back.

"This a fickle industry, y'all come and go. I'm just trying to stack my cash, pay off our mortgage," he said while pulling out a bunch of plastic bags out of a microwave.

"So what the fuck do you want?" You gave him a knowing look before he handed you needed.

"You sure you don't want to try something new?" He asks you.

"Like what?"

"2C-T-2, 2C-T-7, and 5-MeO-DIPT."

"I'm sorry I have no fucking idea of what you just said."

"It doesn't matter," he stated, "but this shit, is fucking lit."

"What is it?"

"N-diisopropyl-5-methoxytryptamine. It's a fast-acting psychedelic."

Got some similarities to LSD, but with, like, key differences. Not as visual as shit, but definitely a sense distorter.

"What's wrong?" That same dark purple hair girl questioned.

"I'm just so happy," you responded back.

"I don't know, this shits been going off in Tampa, and mad people like to fuck with this," Deku continued on with his descriptions with the drug.

"Okay. Yeah, why not."

"That'll be 120."

"Oh uh, Shoto said he'd spot me."

"Shoto doesn't spot nobody."

"Yeah, well, it's a post-rehab discount, so you should ask him."

"I will go ask him, cause' I know your full of shit."

Those were the last words he said before you walked out. Those were the last words you heard before you saw the same two boys in freshman year.

Bakugo and Kirishima.

TAGLIST: (send an ask or reply to add or remove) @urinejaeger, @saturxnn, @lv9su, @minnipe, @flamgosstuff, @lilrockzstar, @actfsgxcv, @lovebuggyboo, @russochild19, @iits-lexie, @mendez5657, @animatronicrat, @thirstygorl, @scrittynotfound, @pleaseleavemebelol, @thymebread, @cocojellie, @vxnanaaa-blog, @tn-johnson, @knotatwink, @hpttstears, @blackcatluna, @queennb-123, @nndntahg

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Do not steal, use or reupload my work without given permission or my consent. If so, you will either be blocked, removed, or reported.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Even if you're paying for the product, you're still the product

There’s something oddly comforting about the idea that “if you’re not paying for the product, you’re the product,” namely, the corollary: “If you can afford to pay for a product, you won’t be the product.” But it’s bullshit. Companies don’t make you the product because you don’t pay — they make you the product because you can’t stop them.

The theory behind “if you’re not paying for the product…” is that old economist’s saw: “incentives matter.” Companies that monetize attention are incentivized to manipulate and spy on you, while companies that you pay just want to make you happy.

This is a theory of corporate behavior grounded in economics, not power, a creature of theory and doctrine that never bothers to check in with the real world to see how that theory and doctrine map to actual events. Reality is a lot uglier.

Apple has blanketed the planet with billboards and print and online ads extolling its privacy-forward system design (e.g. “Privacy. That’s Iphone.”). There’s something to this: in 2020, the company made it very easy to opt out of third-party Ios surveillance, and 96% of its users opted out:

https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2021/05/96-of-us-users-opt-out-of-app-tracking-in-ios-14-5-analytics-find/

That decision cost Facebook $10 billion in a single year, and the losses keep coming. Facebook launched a campaign that accused Apple of privacywashing an anticompetitive maneuver, claiming that Apple didn’t care about its users’ privacy, they just wanted to eliminate competition for Apple’s own ad brokerage:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/12/facebooks-laughable-campaign-against-apple-really-against-users-and-small

Facebook’s campaign poses itself as the true champion of its users, accusing Apple of shamming. It’s laughable. Facebook manifestly despises its users and proves that fact every day in a thousand ways, large and small. Facebook’s true objection to Apple’s privacy tools is that they reduced Facebook’s earnings by $10b. Obviously.

But that doesn’t mean that Facebook is wrong about Apple’s cynicism. Apple exercises enormous control over its users. It’s a direct control. Apple blocks you from installing software of your choosing or from using third-party repair services of your choosing. They pour millions into engineering to make this technically challenging, and lead a coalition of large corporations that kill right to repair legislation whenever it is mooted:

https://doctorow.medium.com/apples-cement-overshoes-329856288d13

Some of Facebook’s critics accuse it of exercising similar control, but via a far more insidious method: they say that Facebook’s voracious surveillance of its users, combined with machine learning, allows Facebook to control its users’ minds, stripping them of their free will and turning them into algorithm-addled zombies who do whatever Facebook directs them to do.

This is an extraordinary claim, given that every previous claim of mind-control turned out to be bullshit, from Mesmer to MK Ultra. The best evidence for these mind-control claims comes from Facebook’s own marketing materials, where the company assures advertisers that they should spend their money on FB’s platform because of its mind-control features.

When FB critics repeat these claims, they’re engaged in “criti-hype,” Lee Vinsel’s useful coinage describing criticism that serves to bolster the target’s own propaganda. If FB are evil geniuses, well, at least they’re still geniuses.

https://sts-news.medium.com/youre-doing-it-wrong-notes-on-criticism-and-technology-hype-18b08b4307e5

Some Facebookers doubtless believe their own hype, but that doesn’t mean we have to join them in self-delusion. We can criticize Facebook for seeking control over its users, and for using that control to do things that serve its own interests at the expense of its users’ interests.

https://onezero.medium.com/how-to-destroy-surveillance-capitalism-8135e6744d59

That’s the true sin of Big Tech: using deception and coercion to control users. Companies that gain this control can be reliably expected to use it in whichever ways they can get away with. They are paperclip-maximizing artificial life-forms bent on devouring the human race, not ethical actors.

Apple’s commitment to privacy is best understood as instrumental. Apple thinks that protecting your privacy will attract your business, and they’re right. I would like to have privacy! But while Apple can increase its revenues by telling you they’ll protect your privacy, they can increase them even more by lying about it.

That’s just what they do. Earlier this month, a small security research firm called Mysk released a video revealing that when you tick the box on your Iphone that promises “disable the sharing of Device Analytics altogether,” your Iphone continues to spy on you, and sends the data it collects to Apple:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8JxvH80Rrcw

The data Iphones gather is extraordinarily fine-grained: “what you tapped on, which apps you search for, what ads you saw, and how long you looked at a given app and how you found it.”

https://gizmodo.com/apple-iphone-analytics-tracking-even-when-off-app-store-1849757558

It doesn’t stop there: “The app sent details about you and your device as well, including ID numbers, what kind of phone you’re using, your screen resolution, your keyboard languages, how you’re connected to the internet — notably, the kind of information commonly used for device fingerprinting.”

The researchers had to jailbreak an Iphone in order to find this lie. Apple has gone to extraordinary lengths to make jailbreaking illegal. Apple claims that allowing users to disable the locks on their phones will make them vulnerable to bad actors who will install deceptive, coercive software.

That is true, but it’s also true that these locks make it impossible to determine whether Apple’s software is deceptive and coercive. The walled fortress that keeps you safe from third parties is also a walled prison that leaves you at the mercy of the warlord who owns the fortress.

Once a company attains a certain scale, it becomes too big to jail, and then it monetizes you however it can. If you think the future of technology is battle is between Google’s approach and Apple’s, think again. The real fight is between the freedom to decide how technology works for you, and corporate control over technology.

https://locusmag.com/2021/01/cory-doctorow-neofeudalism-and-the-digital-manor/

Apple and Google are like the pigs and the men at the end of Animal Farm: supposed bitter enemies who turn out to be indistinguishable from one another. Google also has “privacy” switches in its preference panels that do nothing:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/01/you-are-here/#goog

Indeed, there are so many places in Google’s location privacy settings where you can tick a box that claims to turn off location spying. None of them work. A senior product manager at Google complained to her colleagues that she had turned off three different settings and was still being tracked:

https://twitter.com/jason_kint/status/1398359580275523590

Apple is now the subject of a California class action suit over its deceptive practices, which violate the California Invasion of Privacy Act.

https://www.bloomberglaw.com/public/desktop/document/LibmanvAppleIncDocketNo522cv07069NDCalNov102022CourtDocket

As Gizmodo’s Thomas Germain notes, Apple has a good — if self-serving — reason to spy on its users. It has launched its own ad network, and is selling advertisers the ability to target its customers based on their activities:

https://gizmodo.com/apple-iphone-privacy-analytics-class-action-suit-1849774313

Companies will only protect your privacy to the extent that it is more profitable than not doing so. They can increase those profits by advertising privacy promises to potential customers. They can increase them more by secretly breaking those promises, And they can increase them even more by using privacy claims to block their rivals’ spying, so they’re the sole supplier of your nonconsensually collected personal information.

That’s what’s happening with Google’s endless proposals to “increase privacy” in Chrome that block third parties from spying on users, while letting Google continue to invade our privacy:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/03/googles-floc-terrible-idea

If we want our privacy, we need both transparency (so third parties can investigate companies’ claims to protect privacy) and regulation (so cheating companies will face consequences when they’re caught by those third parties).

That’s why it’s so exciting that the FTC has announced its intention to treat privacy invasions as antitrust violations:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/12/regulatory-uncapture/#conscious-uncoupling

For so long as corporations can use technology and law to hide their misdeeds and power to avoid consequences for those misdeeds, “voting with your wallet” is as useless as opting out of Ios tracking.

We had advertising-supported media for generations — centuries — without mass surveillance. The problem with advertising isn’t incentives — it’s impunity.

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[Image ID: An Apple 'Privacy. That's iPhone.' ad. The three rear-facing camera lenses have been replaced by the staring, red eye of HAL9000 from 2001: A Space Odyssey.]

[chainera]

The Throw and The Catch

“Hey, are you sure you’ll be alright out there?” Mars asks, his sad voice shaded with concern. Next to him is the Earth, with heavy bags under his eyes, the faded lines of tears still scratching on his surface like a broken tattoo. The Moon isn’t sure how that worked, but he also isn’t sure how sound even traveled in space, or how any of them were even sentient. So he supposes it didn’t really matter. 

A little less than an astronomical unit away are Venus and Mercury, talking with the Sun about what the Moon had informed them of. It’s strange watching them interact— usually Venus would be spitting insults at Mercury, and Mercury would fire back in his own defiant way, heading away and taking all the offense in stride. But now they were actually interacting like two normal beings, even if the conversation was stifled and tense. The looming threat of the moon revolution was obviously more important than whatever disagreement they had gotten themselves tangled up in now.

The Moon looks on towards the asteroid belt, a realm of gloomy dark rocks, as far as the eye can see. He remembers the last time he was here— of watching, terrified, as his fellow moons planned a coup against his best friend. He remembers dodging the asteroids, desperately launching them back, convincing Callisto to go on the right track, all while his Dark side snored in the back of his mind.

“I-I can go if you want.” Mars stammers, but the Moon refuses. Earth needed Mars right now, needed affirmation that they wouldn’t abandon him. As for Mercury and Venus, the Sun wouldn’t allow them to leave, and besides, they needed to devise a back-up plan anyways. 

“I’ll go.” The Moon states firmly, and before Mars could say another word, the Moon floated off into the asteroid belt, forcing down the panic that spiked in his core.

It’s fine. He thinks, as the sunlight behind him grew dimmer and dimmer, the warm pink fading off into the dark blue of space. I just need to get to Jupiter, and warn the gas giants about this whole thing. I just need to…

Then, something flies past him. 

What—

The Moon reels back, narrowly dodging a small, spiky asteroid. He looks up to see a figure in the distance, but it resembles either Phobos or Deimos more than Ceres, the only one who he was expecting.

“Hello!” The asteroid(?) grins, batting her eyes. “I’m Amalthea. A moon of Jupiter’s, or how he would like to call us, a prize.” She spits the last word with venom, and more pointed asteroids rise around to her. 

“Well I’ve seen you’ve returned, Earth’s Moon.” Europa greets, coming over, before letting out a bubbly laugh. Flanking her are more asteroids- or well, he assumes, more of Jupiter’s moons. “Pardon Amalthea, but she doesn’t take lightly to beings who betray us. But, if you join us, we’ll put that all in the past. I won’t even ask about your… disappearance.”

The Moon grits his teeth, trying to keep his thoughts steady. “If I could take Io and Callisto, I can definitely take you guys.”

Europa scowls, opening her mouth, but then—

“But are you sure you can take us?” Said a voice, familiar in all the wrong ways. 

The Moon turns around so fast he gives himself whiplash. Sure enough, floating in front of him was Ganymede, along with many other beings he didn’t recognize. 

“Aw, sweetheart, you always have the best timing.” Europa giggles, any sense of anger gone from her tone at the sight of the newcomer. 

“Of course I do.” Ganymede winks, before directing his attention to the Moon, his once flattered smile fading into a mean sneer. The Moon feels a sudden, overwhelming wave of dread. 

“Meet the moons of Saturn.” Ganymede grins. “Mimas,” the gray one with one eye beams, “Ba-Dione,” the one with a white streak on her surface rolls her eyes, “Ensalada,” the one with blue veins scoffs, but holds his tongue, “Iapetus,” the one with a white and brown surface looks on with a neutral expression, “and the rest!”

The remaining small moons glare at him, but stay silent.

“Y’know, since I’m nice,” Ganymede continues, “I’ll give you one last chance. Join us.”

The Moon’s gaze darts around the area, and he was sure that if he was an earthling, he’d be drowning in sweat. There was nothing around him, nothing but more and more moons all giving him silent stares. There was no one coming— Callisto and Titan were in who-knows-where, the inner planets were too busy doing their own thing, Ceres probably had enough sense not to intervene, and the gas giants had no reason to check the belt. Desperate, the Moon turns to the enemy, grasping at the straws.

I can do this. I convinced Callisto, I can—

“Do you really think what you’re doing is right?!” The Moon asks, his voice thankfully growing stronger with each word. “Going against the planets? The Sun?! And what do you even plan to do with the Earth? Kill him?!”

He sees Dione purse her lips, Enceladus glancing away, and something shifts in Iapetus’s eyes. He’s getting through them at least.

But then Ganymede laughs. “Do you take us for idiots? Of course we aren’t going to kill him. Make an example out of him, strip him of all his precious little Earthlings, sure, but no killing. And as for the Sun… we’re working on it.”

And instantly, all the moons nod, like robots.

“And what about you all?!” The Moon questions, trying to keep his voice measured, but there’s a pathetically obvious note of desperation in it. “Did you really just let him waltz over and persuade you? How do you even know he’s going to keep his word and not betray all of you?”

“Oh please.” Ganymede responds, his tone clipped and dark. “I’m not like you. I’m not a traitor. Now, I was aware that I gave you one last chance. And that sounded like a no.”

The Moon gulps, feeling fear overtake his core. The stares at him turn piercing, and he’s distantly aware of Amalthea raising her razor sharp asteroids and Saturn’s moons gathering some as well. Europa laughs sharply, and Ganymede’s mouth turns into another sneer. The fear is breaking the Moon’s resolve, and—

Light.

The Moon gasps, eyes widening. The cloudy fear breaks. The piercing stares turned… confused, almost, and—

Light.

Dark’s thoughts, excited and venomous, cuts through The Moon’s. Are they causing trouble for you?

The stares slowly turn piercing again, and Ganymede—

Yes. Please—!

Ganymede yells, “Knock him out!”

Immediately, asteroids are hurled towards the Moon at all sides. Dark flings themselves down, and the asteroids crash together, one of them going straight towards Ensalada.

“OW!” Ensalada yelps as the asteroid lands squarely below his eye. Ganymede tuts.

“You should know better than to try and fight back, Earth's moon. Don’t make this difficult for us.”

Oh, this is going to be fun.

Another barrage of asteroids heads towards the Moon like a solarflare. The Moon squeezes his eyes shut, giving reins to his counterpart. Instead of running, Dark turns and expertly evades each one, much to the other moons’ shock.

Europa frowns. “What the—

Dark smirks, widening his deep black eyes. The Moon wishes he could see the others’ reactions right now.

Dark cackles, each peal of laughter crisp and deadly. He brings the nearby asteroids around him with ease, forming a ring.

“What- what is with your eyes?!” Ganymede shouts, flabbergasted. 

“Well, the thing is, I’m not the Moon. At least, not the one you’re used to. I’m his Dark side.”

And Dark spins, the asteroids twirling and flying towards their opponents like bullets. Most of the other moons avoid them, but one hits Europa’s side, and another one slams into Ganymede’s cheek, eliciting twin yelps of pain. 

Dark laughs again, thrilled. 

“And here you thought beating us will be that easy.” He taunts, and Ganymede’s eyes light up with fury. 

“Attack him!” He shouts, and Dark forms a shield, blocking the asteroids coming at him easily. Some asteroids are thrown nastily towards his back, but the Moon handles that, deflecting every one. The two of them fight like a dance, completely synchronized in ways only two beings who existed together all their lives would. 

We should get out of here. Light thinks, as he shoves him and Dark back, dodging one of Iapetus’s asteroids, who’s still looking at him strangely. 

Oh come on. Dark whines in their head. We could beat them all easily. And I haven’t fought in forever…

No we can’t. Light scolds. You have too big of an ego. 

Ganymede screams a war cry, and an asteroid bruises the Moon’s side. Pain blossoms, and both Light and Dark wince. 

Maybe you’re right. Dark admits, But if we’re going to flee, we’re going to go out with a bang.

Wha—

Give me your strength. 

…fine. But I better not regret this. 

With their combined strength, Dark raises up at least a dozen asteroids, and they rise up behind him like a wave. 

The last thing Light sees before the asteroids come crashing down is Ganymede’s dropped jaw. The last thing he hears is Europa’s high-pitched shriek.

“Next time, don’t fight against someone when you don’t even know half of them!” Dark shouts victoriously as they flee away, fast as lightning. Within seconds the shouts of the other moons fade, and within minutes they tumble out of the belt.

That was—

Amazing! Can we do it again?!

The Moon groans, his- their entire body tired and covered in bruises. Seriously?!

[diiwata]

i am literally going to be thinking about former emo-girl Clemensia Dovecote for the rest of my life. since you said you want to be bothered with questions i have to ask if you have any other fun (or not fun) headcanons about the mentors?

omg you're so welcome?? no b/c that was off the top of my head 😭

here are some other hcs i cooked up (some made by my moots) that I've practically considered canon!!! i added them into my wattpad fics (but i WILL transfer over to my boba shop au on ao3 that I'm planning atm)

clemmie's notes MUST be written in red pen!!! it's her color!!

felix uses a bunch of big words without understanding the meaning of them (it was a little strange that he called the lamb "scandalous"-- we took that and RAN)

dennis fling is into photography!!! idk it just felt right while writing one of my wp fics--

vipsania plays the harp (she just seems like a musical prodigy that specializes in "old timey" instruments)

pup's into nicknames and pet names. he's got something for everyone, which is why he doesn't mind "pup" no matter how silly it sounds!! (plus, calling lamina "my girl"?? he's ADORABLE)

i somehow associate io with the color purple, so that's her favorite color now.

festus was described as being burlier, so if the academy had some sort of sports extracurriculars, he'd take up wrestling!!

hilarius is a mama's boy. SHE picked those reaping shorts out. HE can't say no to her.

that's all I can think of off the top of my head 🤭 thanks for letting me ramble... this was so fun <3

[coldshrugs]

longing's favorite season 🔹 prologue

pairing: io laithe / estinien varlineau rating: general - this is a simple introduction to the concept. later parts will be mature/explicit. word count: 925 additional entries: part 1 🔹 part 2 🔹 stable scene 🔹

Count Edmont De Fortemps has no cause to enter quietly, especially in his own home, yet he is quite good at it. Engrossed as she is in the most interesting part of this grand old house, Io doesn't hear him until a loose floorboard creaks under the weight of his bad leg.

She looks up from the shelf, "Edmont... Good evening. I was just admiring—"

"Yes, of course, Mistress Laithe, admiring..." He steps into the warm light cast by the fireplace; the red and black jewels decorating his coat take on a liquid sheen, like tiny droplets of blood suspended in time. It wouldn't surprise her if they fell to the floor with a splatter. "Exploiting. The difference is a matter of etiquette, is it not?"

What on earth? Io recoils slightly, shaken by his unfamiliar tone. "My lord?"

He waves a dismissive hand and settles heavily into an armchair by the hearth. "Come. Sit with me, then you may return to your admiring momentarily."

She follows him warily. The aura about him bears... not exactly a threat, but something malign. There is a game in process and she does not yet know the rules. With a satisfied smile, Edmont looks her over, sizing up posture and countenance as she sits across from him.

"My son is quite taken with you, Mistress Laithe. For now, in any case."

For now?

He continues. "Just two days past, he fairly begged me to sanction a union between you. He is an idealist—you are not free from his expectations, but if allowed, Haurchefant would live his life as a fairytale. On the other hand, I must be more practical, for the sake of my family and my country."

"Haurchefant wants to marry me?" Io whispers, looking from Edmont to the fire.

Haurchefant's attention has been plain since she stepped foot in Camp Dragonhead nearly a year ago. His warm welcome came with hungry eyes, and he proved an audacious flirt, in a charming sort of way. Charming enough to make a night in his chambers sound enticing once. While the interest and advances were not entirely one-sided and the time they've spent together has occasionally skirted the bounds of romance, Io feels his expectations weigh more heavily than hers can match. He's been a valuable friend and has shown her great kindness many times over. She owes him a great deal—her life and the lives of her friends most of all—but truth be told, they don't know each other very well...

With the Dragonsong War at its end and her name mostly cleared, she thought she might move on. But...

"That is his current whim, aye," Edmont sighs. "I was keen to deny it, of course. Heavens, the difficulty... You, a foreigner in these lands—Viera—with those markings on display, a bow on your back, and blood on your hands. I will hail you as a hero, of course, but I fail to picture you as a lady and wife. But perhaps... perhaps that is exactly what I need at this time."

Io stares into the flames as she listens to him. His hospitality seemed freely given but she cannot help but recall something he said moons ago: 'How quickly we forget the petty nature of men. I'd wager your friends are no more than pawns in another of my countrymen's games. Such is the way of things between the High Houses...'

House Fortemps is no different, she supposes.

Io's stomach turns. She dares to glance at him. The flickering light throws his features into a menacing caricature of the Edmont she's familiar with.

"At his side, and in residence at this estate, you could be the perfect example." He leans forward, looking at her through steepled fingers. "The less open-minded High Houses could learn to see the beauty in truly open borders. What do you think, my dear? You could help propel our fair city into its new age, complete with a life of comfort, free from grief, and you need do no more than you've already done: use my wealth, my resources, and entertain my son. What say you?"

"—daresay it was one of the more awkward sessions of my career. The bride sat beautifully while her soon-to-be husband fidgeted, though I hear he is an energetic man with a racing mind. They did converse during the sitting, as well-acquainted friends; his lordship is a veritable jester and his humor seemed to keep his lady at ease. I had been told they were a love match. Alas, I would liken the flame between them to a bedside candle instead of the roaring fire usually found in the betrothed... "

—Renowned portraitist Duremert, overheard while shopping in the Jeweled Crozier

"Preparations must be hastened, and leave the matter of gil to the Count. Unreasonable as his requests may be, surely we can provide yet another 'Wedding of the Season.' It does make one wonder just why the need for all this fuss and rush, but I digress."

—spied in a letter from Lisette Valentione

"His lordship has tasked me with a new mistress—the Warrior of Light herself! I want to hear all her stories! Although she's not a warrior anymore. She's a lady now, and I'm to look after her in the manor. I think she misses being out there. Can't say I blame her. If it were me, I wouldn't dream of giving up all those adventures to stay in this stuffy old house all day."

—Saulette, in service to House Fortemps, in a letter to her aunt

[hotsuqueen]

Yamato Hotsuin's Recordbreaker Dialogue - Friday

Yamato & Io dialogue below the cut

Friday 06:30 Yamato & Io

Nagata-cho Tokyo Branch

You find Io speaking to Yamato…

Yamato: Yes, Nitta? What do you want?

Io: Er… I-I wanted to ask you something. Why did you, um…

Yamato: I've seen this for some time now. You are wise and open-minded, Nitta, but rather poor at relationships. It is a noticeable defect.

Io: S-Sorry, I'll try to keep that in mind.

Yamato: So long as you understand. Now, what do you want? Keep it brief, please.

Io: Wh-Why did you say those things when you know they could cause a split?

Yamato: Hahaha! A split? How very amusing. I assume you mean my speech about the meritocracy.

Io: Wh-What's so funny? You… You hide things from people, make them angry and scared! How is that funny?

Yamato: Silence, girl. It is not required that you understand. Think what you will.

Io: Why do you say things like that? If you were nicer, people would be more understanding.

Yamato: I don't doubt it. That is how the world rotted in the first place.

Io: What…!? Rotted?

Yamato: Nitta, you must be quite happy with the status quo. All your good intentions and sincere endeavors will never succeed over self-interest. No one takes the long view. Any civility man maintains is only to prevent the loss of social benefits. Those dregs are worthless! They rise up while the worthy are crushed underfoot! What is the point in such a world? To be a true leader, one must jettison the past that has built up like so much filth! If no one else will do it, then I must. I'll fight to the bitter end, even if I stand alone!

Io: But… I…! E-Excuse me!

Io rushes from the room…

Yamato: Now then. You're here, aren't you, Hibiki?

Hibiki Kuze: - I wasn't hiding that well. - No, I'm not! - Don't be cruel to Io!

I wasn't hiding that well. Yamato: Hahaha! You knew I noticed your presence, didn't you?

No, I'm not! Yamato: *sigh* How flippant. You knew that I noticed your presence, didn't you?

Don't be cruel to Io! Yamato: Oh, is that one yours? Pardon me for saying so, but she seems to lack discipline.

Yamato: I can see the pawns have begun to think. Now, the question is: What conclusion will they reach?

Hibiki Kuze: - Same goes for Ronaldo. - It'll vary, I think.

Same goes for Ronaldo. Yamato: The fool in Nagoya? He is trivial. If he gets in my way, I will crush him. That is all.

It'll vary, I think. Yamato: Indeed it will. But regardless of what anyone thinks, I'll not waver from this path.

Yamato: No matter how desperately they struggle, only one world can be made. Only one world is worthy of being made. Those filth waste their lives propping each other up. If they cannot agree to my merit system, then I will gladly sacrifice every last one for my ideal. I do respect you. I won't force you to my side, but I hope you will consider this carefully.

Yamato gracefully salutes before leaving…

---

Yamato telling Io she sucks at relationships absolutely clotheslined me the first time I ever heard it, and the fact that her only response is 'oh ok' and not laughing her ass off just kills me. NOT LIKE YOU, RIGHT, BUDDY?!

I also felt a lot of feelings about Yamato assuming that Io is 'Hibiki's' if you choose to defend her, and while I'm not sure that they're necessarily good ones, I do find it interesting that he's not totally oblivious to romance. He has a pretty snobby attitude about anything sex-adjacent, but he clearly has some understanding.

'It is a noticeable defect' y'all, I can't

[secondtechnicianrimmer]

Space Corp. Directive #1215225

For some ungodly reason, you fancy the second technician, but you'd be damned if you ever admitted it.

Pairing: Arnold Rimmer x (F) Reader

Warnings: None! Apart from some flirting

Chapter Five: Last Day

//

“Well, it's all very sad, Lister, but what can we do?”

You looked up from the robotics manual Lister had pushed under your nose.

Rimmer was lying on his bunk, examining his fingernails despite the fact it was physically impossible for them to get dirty. He didn’t seem bothered by Kryten’s potential shut off, even though you and Lister had been feeling queasy all day at the thought.

“Sad? It's sick!”

Lister had been scouring some sort of manual for over an hour now, though you weren’t sure if it was because he truly cared about Kryten or if he was just having difficulty with the bigger words. You also weren’t sure how this was all actually supposed to help Kryten but once Lister set his mind to helping a friend, he could not be talked down.

“He’s been programmed to believe in an android heaven so that he doesn’t get stroppy when it comes to turn-off time. So he accepts a lifetime of getting the short end of the stick because he thinks there's going to be some big reward at the end.”

Rimmer scoffed.

“Well, at least he gets 24 hours notice. That's more than most of us get. All most of us get is, ‘Mind that bus!’ ‘What bus?’ Splat .”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unamused by his brevity. He could act as cool and callous as he liked, he wasn’t going to get out of helping and he certainly wasn’t going to convince you that he didn’t care about the mechanoid.

“Speaking from experience there, Rimmer?”

“I do have a particularly unique perspective on the matter, yes.”

“From what I hear, you were given quite a lot of loud, ship-wide notice that you were about to pop your army boots.”

“I’m just saying, we all have to die sometime. Androids too. And it’s nice that he can get his affairs in order first.”

“Does Kryten have any affairs?”

Rimmer shrugged and went back to his nails.

“I’m sure there’s a mop and bucket somewhere on B Deck that’ll have to wear black for a while.”

You looked back down at the manual. If it had been any other time and he wasn’t being such a twat, that probably would've made you smile.

“How's he taking it?” Rimmer asked.

Lister went back to moping.

“Just keeps on doing his stupid smeggin' duties.”

“Maybe I should talk to him.” With a grunt, Rimmer lifted his legs and rolled to his feet. “Maybe he needs a bit of counselling.”

“You?”

You watched him as he sat down across the table from you. Again, you thought that if the stakes were different, if Kryten wasn’t in danger and there wasn’t a ticking countdown in all your minds, you’d be really enjoying the sight of Rimmer in his green short-sleeved roll neck, and thinking about all the fun you could have with those bloody braces.

“I used to be in the Samaritans!”

“I know! For one morning!”

Rimmer pulled a face.

“Well, I couldn't take any more.”

“I don't blame you. You spoke to five people and they all committed suicide.”

“Oh, for Io’s sake, Rimmer,” you had to laugh. “What did you say to them?”

“Probably just told them his life story.” Lister shook his head. “I wouldn't mind, but one was a wrong number! He only phoned up for the cricket scores!”

“Well, it's hardly my fault that everyone chose that particular day to throw themselves off buildings! Made the papers, you know. ‘Lemming Sunday’ they called it.”

You nudged the leg of his chair, making him jolt and have to grab for the table, which of course his hand fell right through.

The physics of his body made no sense to you, how he was able to sit and lie down, but couldn’t actually touch anything. You knew the holographic technology onboard was sophisticated enough to detect the presence of an object’s surface. He wasn’t actually sitting, but hovering ever so slightly above the chair. It was all an illusion. Still, it made your heart jump to think that Rimmer’s body had been affected by your action. It was the closest you’d ever come to touching him.

“I need you to look a touch less proud about it, Arn.”

He sneered at you across the table but Rimmer didn’t actually seem to mind it when you teased him. Perhaps because he knew you never actually meant any harm.

Lister flipped through a few more pages of his instruction manual.

“Maybe we could find his shut-off disk and turn it off somehow.”

“He's not a kit droid, Lister. He's not like that stupid thing Peterson bought on Callisto.” Rimmer shook his head. “We wouldn't know where to begin!”

“Be funny if you accidentally killed him while you were trying to save him.” You looked up to find both men staring at you. “No, you’re right, that wouldn’t be funny at all.”

“What can we do?” Rimmer went on. “He's pre-programmed to self-destruct.”

“At least we can help! At least we can make sure he goes out with a bang, give him one last big smeggin' night to remember.”

“How do we do that? He doesn't like doing anything! His idea of a good time is for us all to go up to the laundry room and fold some sheets!”

Rimmer’s mouth tugged back at the corners, forming a very Krytenesque expression as he mimicked the mech.

“Fun? Ah yes, the employment of time in a profitless and non-practical way.”

“Hey, I don't know much,” Lister rose to his feet, an idea blazing behind his eyes. “But one thing I do know is how to throw a good time!”

He ran off gleefully, leaving you and Rimmer alone.

Nerves stirred in your chest but you did your best to ignore them.

He rolled his eyes so deeply you worried they might get stuck in the back of his head, then Rimmer sighed and raised his chin at you.

“I suppose you’ll be helping him carry out this pointless caper.”

You wrinkled your nose.

Rimmer’s reluctance to do anything nice for his friends irked you no end. Sometimes it really did bewilder you, as you were sure it did Lister and the others, why on earth you were so attracted to him. He could be such a git, he never had anything nice to say, and he was a true coward, through and through.

But if you were honest with yourself, you didn’t believe that. Not really. And the small moments where he allowed himself to relax and be sweet kept your heart coming back for more.

Though he couldn’t touch you, Rimmer was always near you, always interested in what you were doing and always pestering you to join him on walks or to watch one of his mind-numbing war documentaries. And his voice was different when it was just the two of you, softer, gentler, and although he never lost his snark, he didn’t have to be on the defensive with you.

Perhaps you could admit, if only to yourself, that the small crush you’d been concealing so poorly over the last few months, had grown into affection. You’d even come to accept that, maybe, possibly, you had feelings for the idiot.

“Kryten’s just as much my friend as you are,” you said, raising an eyebrow that warned him he was being an idiot.

Rimmed huffed and crossed his arms.

“Oh, thanks. You’re lumping me in with that glorified hoover?”

“He was your friend before he was mine, aren’t you worried about him?”

“He’s not my friend,” Rimmer stated firmly. “He hates me. You remember how we found him on that old derelict? And what he said about me even when I invited him to stay with us? To share our home?”

“That was a long time ago, Arn.”

You tried to sound placating but you found it hard to repress a smile as you pictured Kryten painting an embarrassing portrait of Rimmer, then told him where he could stick it. Lister was wiping tears from his eyes as he relayed the story, but Rimmer didn’t find it quite so hilarious.

“Still,” he said, his lip curled. “He’s a smarmy know-it-all who thinks scrubbing the bogs is a recreational activity. I’m sorry if I don’t feel sorry for him.”

You sighed and closed the manual. It had been about as useless as trying to convince Rimmer to be kind when he didn’t feel like it.

“Well, I’m going to help Dave. Better than sitting around doing nothing all day.”

As you stood to leave, you dropped the book with a little more strength than you meant to. It clattered across the table, sliding so far, it almost fell into Rimmer’s lap. He stared at it, then looked up at you.

Despite his obvious social weaknesses, Rimmer must have been able to tell that he’d disappointed you. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he thought of what to say next, while you stared at the book and debated whether you should leave or let him try and make it better.

Finally, Rimmer’s eyes slowly dropped to the table.

“I’ll help,” he said. “You’re right. He’s my… Crewmate. I’ll help.”

You sighed, feeling your chest ease.

“Good,” you said. Then, “You know, you don’t have to go above and beyond. You just need to be nice.”

“Nice? Me?” Rimmer repeated incredulously, then he smiled to let you know he was attempting a joke.

It worked. You smiled too. How annoying.

“You can be lovely when you want to be,” you said, begrudgingly. “Just do this for me. Please, Arnie.”

He sighed, as if the effort was herculean, as if it would be painful to even try. But he nodded.

“Fine. For you.”

/

The party started at 8pm - that’s what the frantically organised invitation you received just an hour ago had told you - so you made sure to arrive at the officer’s club just before then.

The boys were already there. Lister jumped a foot in the air when he saw you come in, his eyes wide.

“Easy, man! I thought you were Kryten!”

“Oh, thanks,” You laughed. “You know, I wasn’t sure about this dress at first but that really helps, Dave.”

“Don’t be daft. You look great. Come in, come in, sit down, grab a party popper.”

You were ushered into the seat beside Rimmer. You didn’t have time to wonder if Lister had sat you there on purpose, you were immediately distracted by the man to your left.

“Oh, wow.”

You let your gaze wander up and down Rimmer’s body, drinking him in. The tux fit him perfectly, pulling in at the waist and emphasising his broad shoulders. There was a perfect red rose in the buttonhole, and his neat bow tie was just begging to be pulled.

“Where’d this little number come from?”

Rimmer seemed a little embarrassed by the attention.

“Programmed it in a few weeks back.” He shrugged. “You never know.”

“It’s very spiffy. I love the tie. Where’ve you been hiding all this style, Bond?”

“There hasn’t been an occasion for it. Ah! I almost forgot.”

Rimmer clicked his fingers, and thanks to Holly, a spangly, fur-trimmed tricorn hat appeared on top of his head.

You couldn’t stop smiling if your life depended on it.

“Sorry, is this Kryten’s surprise party or mine?”

Rimmer’s face fell.

With a lurch, you realised you’d pushed the teasing just that little bit too far. Rimmer often let you get away with things he wouldn’t usually take from the others but that didn’t mean his patience couldn’t be tested.

“Shut up, Lefty,” he muttered, twisting round in his seat so that he was facing away from you.

“No, no I mean it! I think you look great!”

“Arlight, I get it.”

You sighed.

“Arnold, you’re not listening to me.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

If you’d been able to, you would’ve slipped a hand around his arm and pulled him back to look at you. But you couldn’t. So you settled for leaning right over the table until you were in his eye-line again.

“I think you look really handsome,” you said, smiling.

Rimmer met your gaze. Something shifted behind his eyes, like a match had been struck. You thought perhaps it was the sign of something in him beginning to heal, or at least, of trust beginning to form.

“Oh,” he said.

His eyes moved across your face before meeting yours again. When he did, the corner of his mouth tugged back into the tiniest of smiles.

“Well… Thank you.” Rimmer’s gaze went wandering again for a moment, then he said, “You look amazing.”

“Yeah?”

You grinned so wide it made your cheeks ache. Later, you would have plenty time to berate yourself for not playing it cooler, for being so embarrassingly pleased by the compliment, but right now, you just wanted to enjoy the uncharacteristic warmth in Rimmer’s voice, and watch his gaze as it, once again, got lost somewhere around your mouth.

“Yes.” Rimmer’s smile grew just a little. “You always look…”

He stopped, his lips pressing together as if he’d said too much.

You honestly could have cried.

“Yeah?” you pressed, but then Lister reached around Rimmer and frantically slapped your arm.

“He’s coming!”

Someone, probably Holly, switched off the lights and you were plunged into darkness.

You didn’t have a chance to ask Rimmer anything else. Kryten wandered into the doorway, dressed in the tuxedo Lister had left out for him to wear.

“Hello?” he called. “Is there anybody here?”

Suddenly, the lights sprang back on.

“It’s party time!” Lister yelled, while the Cat threw streamers up in the air, his pointed teeth bared in a grin.

Rimmer clapped enthusiastically, and you followed suit, trying to hide how flustered your conversation had left you.

Kryten staggered into the room, his arms anxiously held aloft.

“But this is the officers’ club! Mechanoids aren't allowed in here!”

The Cat scoffed and ushered him into the only empty chair.

“C'mon, c'mon, sit down, sit down. Let me pour you a drink.”

You couldn’t believe the spread Lister had managed to pull together. Despite the limited resources, he’d managed to cover the table in streams and sequins, and there were plates and plates of food that could kill a human stone dead, made just for Kryten.

Every other inch of the table not taken up by dinner or decorations was filled by cans of nose-wrinkling beer, champagne, and a dangerous bottle of rum that, by the end of dinner, had left your head feeling nice and heavy.

“My goodness, I do believe I am drunk,” Kryten said, echoing precisely what you’d just been sluggishly thinking.

He shakily rose to his feet and started to flap his arms about.

“I suddenly feel the need to strut my funky stuff!”

Holly, with her sparkling tiara barely clinging to her pixelated head, slurred a warning,

“Sit down! It's the booze, you're not us-used to it.”

You frowned, feeling oddly indignant on Kryten’s behalf.

“Well, hey, if he wants to dance, let him dance!” You tried to get up but found it took several attempts to get your legs to comply. “I’ll dance with you Kryten, c’mon.”

With his grand hat now sat sideways, Rimmer was also completely out of his tree. He tried to wrap his hand around your wrist but it went straight through you.

“You dance like a drunken monkey,” he said, as you fell back into your seat.

You gasped, offended.

“I do not! I have flare, I have grace-”

“You have two left feet! That’s the real reason why we call you ‘Lefty’.”

Rimmer’s hand fell through one of your windmilling arms again, but he was so tipsy, he didn’t seem to notice. You saw it though. And you noticed something you never had before. When Rimmer’s hand passed through yours, you felt it, you felt something, you felt him. Even projected light gave off heat, and for a fraction of a second, Rimmer’s warm hand had felt oh so very real against your skin.

Feeling bold from the drink and embarrassingly needy after your time in Better Than Life, you leaned closer until your face was mere inches from Rimmer’s.

“Well, maybe,” you said, slow and certain despite the voice in the back of your head telling you to stop. “You should get up and teach me a few moves, second technician.”

Rimmer was smiling, really smiling. It pulled you in deeper; you were practically in his lap.

“Are you pulling rank, Lieutenant?”

“I absolutely am.”

There was no denying it this time. Rimmer’s heavy gaze fell to your mouth and stayed there for far too long to be accidental.

You watched, cheeks burning, as he slowly dragged his eyes back to yours. It seemed to take some effort, though whether that was because he didn’t want to or because the drink had made him sleepy, you couldn’t be sure. You had an idea, though.

“I remember the first time I got drunk,” Lister said suddenly. “School trip to Paris.”

His voice made you jump. You’d honestly forgotten the others were there. As Lister told his story, and as the night wore on, they kept looking at you and Rimmer, passing knowing looks and smiles between themselves.

You could feel Rimmer watching you too. Unashamed, you stared right back. Then you smiled, unable to help yourself.

It must’ve been a little lopsided and silly but he smiled back and appeared to move a little closer. You knew if he could, Rimmer might have slung an arm around your shoulders or your waist, maybe even rested his hand on your knee under the table.

/

Kryten stumbling and falling out of his chair was the signal to call it a night. You all swayed down the corridor, bumping into the walls like pinballs.

The boys headed for Lister’s quarters to keep the festivities going, but your interaction with Rimmer had left your head spinning, and that paired with the alcohol was making it hard to stand up straight. You decided to call it a night.

After kissing Kryten’s rubber cheek and telling him to have fun, you pressed your hand against the wall and carefully, slowly, staggered back to your own quarters.

“I’ve got you.”

You looked up.

Rimmer was watching you with a smile. He hadn’t gone with the others.

“I can’t help you or do anything if you do tumble, but I can run and get help if you fall into the rubbish chute.”

“Oh, ha ha.”

Rolling your eyes made you want to throw up so you settled for smiling at him.

Rimmer’s bow tie was unknotted now, and was hanging around his neck in such an enticing way, you honestly could have sobbed. You wanted to touch him so bad.

You couldn’t say any of this though. Even tipsy, the sensible part of your brain had some control. Instead, you said the first thing that popped into your head.

“I’m sorry about your uncle, Arn.” You leaned back against the wall, letting it take your weight for a minute. “That was awful.”

He looked surprised. To his credit, it had come out of nowhere, but the story he’d told the group had been rolling around in your head all night.

“It’s alright,” Rimmer said quietly.

“It’s not, Arnie.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“I didn’t laugh. I know they might think it’s- I didn’t laugh.”

“I know. I saw.”

He smiled again, small and oddly sweet. It made your chest heave. Suddenly, telling him you might be a little bit in love with him didn't feel like such a stupid idea. Then the world began to tilt.

“Woah, woah…”

Rimmer reached out for you but, of course, could do nothing to help you as you slipped down the wall. You managed to catch yourself just in time, the pair of you giggling as you clawed yourself upright again.

“Sorry, I can’t-” Rimmer laughed breathlessly. “I can’t catch you or carry you. You’re gonna have to sort yourself out, Lefty.”

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it. I appreciate the thought, though.”

Together, you carefully picked your way down the corridor until you managed, after some consternation, to find your door.

You slapped your hand against the keypad and looked over your shoulder to find Rimmer still watching you.

Was he worried about you getting home safe? That would be a turn up for the books. Rimmer didn’t care about anyone apart from himself, yet another argument for not telling him you spent most of the day daydreaming about riding him to within an inch of his not-life.

The door slid open.

“Are you coming in?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Rimmer gaped at you.

“To..? To your quarters?”

“Yeah, if you like. Why not? There’s room. And I don’t wanna say goodnight to you yet.”

You went inside but Rimmer hesitated. He glanced down the hallway when a raucous cheer echoed down from his and Lister’s room. It would be okay if he wanted to go, but you didn’t think he did.

You heard the door swish shut. Simulated footsteps padded across the rug you’d stolen from the Captain’s office your first week onboard. You smiled to yourself.

“I don’t think I’ve been in here since you moved in,” Rimmer’s voice was faint as he looked around your quarters. “I had this room for a while.”

“Well, if you ever get bored of Lister’s snoring, you can move back in any time.”

You kicked off your shoes, getting yourself comfy. Rimmer, on the other hand, hadn’t moved further than the edge of the rug.

“Arnie?” You smiled. “I wasn’t kidding, I’d like you to stay. If you want to.”

“Why?”

“I…”

That was a good question. You knew the answer, of course. You enjoyed being with him. You liked talking to him. Inviting him to stay the night made you feel normal, like he was just a handsome man you’d gone on a couple of dates with back home, and not a hologram who’d helped rescue you from a burning starship. When he was close, you were happier, simple as.

But you knew Rimmer wouldn’t understand that, not after the way he’d been treated his whole life, and everything that had happened after that life.

“I just…” Coward. “I just like having you around, I s’pose.”

Everything went quiet then. You watched Rimmer’s face, watched as his eyebrows sank and the bridge of his nose wrinkled. The corners of his mouth turned down as his hands balled into fists at his sides, and all you could do was watch and drunkenly wonder why he found it all so difficult.

“Why are you so nice to me?” Rimmer said suddenly.

Taken-aback, you could only blink at him stupidly.

“What?”

“From the beginning, you’ve always been so nice to me. Why?”

“I…” You stammered for a second, unsure of how to answer. “I don’t know. I like you. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because no one likes me! No one ever likes me.”

Your heart stumbled.

“That’s not true,” you said quietly.

“And I was horrible to you when we met!” Rimmer shook his head like he was trying to read about thermodynamics in Italian. “I don’t understand you at all.”

It was getting harder and harder to stand, so you flopped down on the bed, hoping that would help keep your head from spinning.

He was right. Rimmer hardly spoke to you the first few days you were onboard. And you never had the courage to ask why. He just slowly warmed up to you, just as Lister assured you he would. Now, you couldn’t imagine letting a day go past without spending time with him, and you suspected the feeling was mutual.

“I was new,” you said, with perhaps more diplomacy than he deserved considering the way he’d treated you. “You didn’t know if you could trust me. I understood. Really, Arn, I did.”

“But I was awful to you. I didn’t want to be in the same room as you for weeks.”

“Why was that? You’ve never apologised. I didn’t expect you to but… I’d like to know why.”

“Because I…”

He stopped.

You watched him, waiting. He was swaying slightly. Or was that you? It was hard to tell. The room was still spinning.

“What Arn?”

“Because I- I was jealous!”

“Jealous?” You shook your head. “What- Why? Of what?”

“Of you!”

You hadn’t expected that. By the look on his face, Rimmer hadn’t expected to admit it either. His eyes darted around the room, looking everywhere apart from you, and finally settled down by his shoes.

“Me?” you repeated, stunned.

Rimmer sighed.

“You’re brave and you’re- You’re kind, and you’d only been here five minutes and the others already liked you more than me. And you’re smart, and you’re capable, and beautiful and you outrank me and-”

“You think I’m beautiful?”

Rimmer looked embarrassed.

“That’s not the point.”

It was a stupid thing to focus on. He’d said so many nice things about you in the space of a few seconds, picking out that one probably made you seem vacuous and superficial. But it was just so thrilling. It made your heart rise up in your chest, pushing against your ribs, like it was trying to reach him.

“Arnie…” You smiled. “Do you think I’m beautiful?”

Slowly, his face softened. Rimmer seemed to realise that you weren’t making fun of him, you really were just happily surprised. Still, the booze and the weird night had obviously left him a little disoriented, and you thought Rimmer must be having as much difficulty navigating whatever it was that fizzled between you as you were.

At last, he took a step forward.

“You’re tilted at about a 60° angle, you know,” Rimmer said quietly.

He came to a stop just in front of you, so the toes of his boots were almost touching your blue socks.

You looked up at him, just enjoying how tall and handsome he was for a moment.

“It’s been ages since I was this worse for wear. Sorry for…”

“It’s alright.”

Rimmer obviously didn’t want to talk about his feelings anymore. That was clearly enough emotion for one night. Your mind was still whirring though, and the confession you’d been rehearsing for weeks teetered dangerously on the tip of your tongue.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked.

He was starting to hover again. He kept glancing towards the door. If he wanted to go, why didn’t he just go? You weren’t stopping him.

“Can you get me anything?” you asked, feeling suddenly despondent.

“Fair point.”

Rimmer looked towards the door again.

You almost told him it was fine, you were fine, he didn’t need to stay if he didn’t want to. But before you could, he surprised you by sitting down next to you on the bed.

It was an odd sensation. You’d been close to him many times, squashed up together in Starbug when Lister’s driving got a little creative; walking side by side as you explored a floral asteroid or an empty moon; sitting next to each other in the cinema, your hands almost but never touching, the urge to rest your head on his shoulder omnipresent but impossible.

Still, it was strange. To be near a person and not be able to touch them. To be able to feel warmth coming off them, see their chest rise and fall, watch their eyelashes brush their cheeks and their hands slip self consciously up and down their thighs, and know they weren’t real. Well, Arnold was real to you. It was probably about time you told him.

“I’ve missed this. Parties. Having a laugh with your mates.”

You smiled, nodding your head towards the door just as an excited shriek that definitely came from Cat rolled down the corridor.

Rimmer merely nodded, his hands now cradled in his lap. He couldn’t seem to meet your gaze but you knew you had his attention.

“You know, usually, I’d, erm… Hah, I’d usually end the night curled up on someone’s sofa with no blanket, so I’m very grateful for you taking me to bed.”

Rimmer looked at you like he was dying to ask if that was on purpose. Instead, he shrugged.

“I’ve woken up in a few strange places in my time. Don’t worry.”

“And I would always end up doing something stupid, you know. Like kissing someone I shouldn’t.”

Rimmer actually blushed.

“Right,” he said, clearing his throat.

“It didn’t happen often.”

“Of course.”

“Exciting when it did though.”

“Yes, I- I suppose it would be.”

You waited. Either the penny hadn’t dropped, or it had and Rimmer just didn’t want to acknowledge it, because he was looking at you blankly.

With a sigh, you turned your body, hiking one leg up onto the bed and crossing it so that you could lean in closer. The man had spent his whole life belittled and bullied and humiliated. Sometimes, you just had to speak plainly.

“Arnold,” you said. “You should stay tonight.”

Rimmer didn’t react. You wondered if he’d somehow misheard you, or not heard you at all. You were still pretty tipsy, even if you could slowly feel your head beginning to clear. Rimmer was still drunk too by the looks of things. Maybe you were mumbling and he was too far gone to catch it anyway. Should you try again? God, no. This conversation was embarrassing enough as it was.

That train of thought was thankfully stopped in its tracks when Rimmer slowly shook his head.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said quietly.

Cheeks burning with embarrassment, you straightened up.

“Oh.”

“You’re drunk, Lefty. It wouldn’t be right to-”

“I really like you,” you blurted out.

Rimmer blinked.

“Thank you?”

“No, I mean-” You huffed and closed your eyes, trying to force your spinning head to focus. “I really like you, Arnie. I think about you all the time. I-”

“Darling, it’s fine. You don’t have t-”

Darling. You were right.

“I want to kiss you so bad, it’s killing me.”

It really did go quiet then. Even the boys a few doors down had fallen silent at last.

Rimmer stared at you. He just stared and stared. You didn’t blame him. You wouldn’t know what to do with that either. But then his gaze dropped to your lips again, and your chest lurched so violently, it almost tipped you forward into him.

“I’m sorry,” You raised your hand to your mouth and shook your head. “I’m sorry, Arn. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He closed his gaping mouth with a snap. When he spoke again, Rimmer’s voice was croaky and unsteady.

“It’s alright.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to tell you like-”

Your stomach lurched again. This time, it was not good news. The hand covering your mouth clamped down.

“Oh, God,” you mumbled.

Rimmer’s expression brightened with understanding.

“Bathroom, now.”

You stumbled to the en suite, tripping over your stupid Captain’s rug on the way. Hands shaking, you gripped the cold cistern and wretched over the toilet.

As you brought up all you’d consumed over the course of the night, you were faintly aware of Rimmer standing over you, his voice soft and steady, reassuring you that everything was okay, that you were going to be alright, that you were doing brilliantly and you’d be in bed before you knew it.

Though you had no memory of it, you must have brushed your teeth after you finished. Mint stung your tongue as you fell onto your bed. Head swimming, you let out a long sigh and pawed at your duvet until it covered your body.

Rimmer was crouching by the head of your bed. You’d never seen him look concerned before. It looked so pretty on him.

“Hi,” you whispered.

Rimmer smiled faintly.

“Hi, Lefty.”

“Mm, I prefer ‘darling’.”

“Maybe on special occasions.”

He raised his hand as if to brush your hair back from your face, but ended up just ghosting it across your cheek instead.

It took some effort but you slipped your hand out from under the duvet and beckoned him closer with the last of your flagging energy.

“Please stay.”

This time, Rimmer didn’t glance towards the door. He didn’t look worried or cornered or confused. He didn’t even hesitate. He just smiled and did as you asked.

“Okay, darling. Budge up.”

//

Next Chapter

Master List

[not-a-coral-snake]

There are a million things for Laurent to be thinking about right now. 

The running of two kingdoms. Securing his rule. Securing Damen’s. Holding Ios together with a handful of men and the strength of his will, capturing the more worrisome of Kastor’s supporters, safeguarding against assassins. Showing the council that he is competent to rule, and not merely a scion of the correct bloodline and innocent of treason.

Damen, who is stable and not in danger of dying, Paschal says, but who will nonetheless face a long recovery. 

But right here and right now, Laurent is having trouble thinking of anything but the revelation that his uncle killed his father. 

He is surprised at himself for never having suspected it before. He feels foolish. He, who seemingly alone at court was so used to seeing his uncle’s hand in everything that went wrong, at spotting treachery in every mishap, had never even suspected. Stupid, he chides himself, stupid not to have realized it, to have never even wondered. To have taken his original understanding of his father’s death, seen through a child’s eyes, and never questioned it once his assessment of his uncle’s character had improved. 

His uncle’s treachery predates him. That is perhaps the heart of this; it matters more than any self-recrimination he might feel about his own naivete. He tries to put the thought of it aside--he’ll have some sort of feeling about this later, when it is more convenient. But the thought resists that. 

His uncle’s treachery predates him. It wasn’t Laurent’s own fault. His uncle was always going to make a play for the throne. One doesn’t kill one’s brother, attempt to get away with regicide, for a regency of six years. His betrayal of Laurent, all his efforts to depose him, was preordained. It wasn’t something Laurent drove him to, the regent acting out of sincere concern that Laurent was unfit for the throne. It wasn’t the regent acting for Vere’s sake because of the flaws in Laurent’s character. There was no test Laurent had, unknowing, failed. 

Laurent had known this, of course. He’s not a fool. But to judge based on the way he is feeling now, on some level he hadn’t really believed it. And believing it now matters. It hits him the same way it did when Herode knelt and called him king. 

And yet, it hurts in a way that thinking of his uncle’s better-known evils, the injuries he has done Laurent himself, no longer do. It’s just--it would have hurt Aleron.

He blurts this out awkwardly a few days later, when a now-awake Damen has asked him what has him brooding so much, and Laurent has, tentatively and unused to the possibility of revealing his thoughts to anyone, told him he was thinking of the fact that his uncle had murdered his father. Damen had made a hurt little noise, had made a face that reminded Laurent all too sharply that Damen now knows far too much, and Laurent had nearly stumbled over his words in his haste to clarify that he himself had already known that there was no good in his uncle, had already mercilessly stamped out any feelings of affection towards him. 

“It’s just, it would have hurt my father, to know he had done that,” he says, and, “My father knew his brother wasn’t a good man. Still, he. He tried to have some kind of relationship with him, to put in effort, to be kind. It would hurt him to know that for all that his brother thought little enough of him to kill him for a crown.” 

And then he realizes what he is saying and who he is saying it to, and cuts himself off. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I shouldn’t--” 

“It’s all right,” Damen says. But he is biting his lip and his face is as shuttered as Damen is capable of making it. 

“Let's speak of something else,” Laurent says.

But Laurent doesn’t stop thinking of it, now and then, in the rare moments of quiet he gets. He turns the knowledge over and over in his mind, occasionally finding new facets to inspect. In the silence of his bedchamber one night between first sleep and second, he thinks, if Auguste had not died at Marlas, Uncle would have tried to kill him, too. 

He shuts down that line of thought quickly and with prejudice, He doesn’t want to analyze whether, had Auguste lived, he, Laurent, would have been able to save him. He doesn’t want to consider whether losing Auguste was inevitable, whether in some way it was for the best that Damen had killed him. Not now, when he’s not yet even completely certain he forgives Damen. 

He loves Damen. Surely for now that can be enough?

So he won’t let himself think about what his father’s murder meant for Auguste. But it’s in his nature to consider every angle, and he cannot banish them all from his thoughts. 

He is glad, he supposes, that now he has a public reason to hate his uncle with as much vitriol as he’d like. No more will courtiers--however well-intentioned or accustomed to appearing so--be able to look at him with condescension and remind him that whatever the state of affairs now, he ought at least to be grateful for the way his uncle had been there for him in the wake of his father’s death.

And he is angry, he knows, angry that his uncle still has the power to unsettle him like this. To shock him with his cruelty like this. To hurt him like this. He thought he had been done feeling anything familial to him years ago. Hell, he thought he was done feeling anything familial towards Aleron years ago too. 

He is thinking of how his uncle murdered his father when Herode, trying to get his attention, says, “Your majesty?” for what appears to be not the first time in a row. He apologizes and tries to find the thread of the conversation. Herode had asked to meet with him privately to discuss his agreement with Damen with regards to Delfeur and just now they had been discussing--what? The fate of the garrison at Marlas?

“If I may ask, your majesty,” Herode says, “Is there something more pressing on your mind? If you wish to reschedule the remainder of this meeting I will of course be at your disposal.”

He sounds sincere, and yet it will do Laurent no good to appear careless of his Council’s time. He runs through possible responses in his mind. For once, it seems that the truth is the most advantageous explanation. He is distracted not by Akielos or Akielons, but with a concern that is properly filial. And Herode had been his father’s friend. 

He tells Herode the truth, the words an unaccustomed, vulnerable weight in his mouth. 

“It is never far from my thoughts, either,” Herode says. A measured, measuring pause. “If your majesty ever wishes for someone to talk with . . .  if you wish it, I am here.”

Laurent dismisses the idea immediately out of habit. He doesn’t have confidants, other than the one. Then returns to the thought of it, files it away for further consideration. In every way, except that Laurent has long ago lost the habit of confiding in him, Herode would be a better person to talk about this with than Damen. 

He says, “Perhaps another time.” Hopes his tone was decisive enough to shut down the conversation for now, but gentle enough to convey a possible openness to Herode’s offer in the future.

“Yes, the news is still so fresh,” Herode says. “It’s only natural for you to be distracted. And with everything else that’s happened as well--you must have a million things on your mind.”

A million things on his mind. Yes, Laurent does. And he probably always will. And for now, he’ll accept that this is one of them.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

Saluti, sono io! :)

Influencing you with Santino x John AHAHAH-

I found an interesting sentence, and I'm curious about your opinion, "Hold my hand. You're going to be fine." Like, whatever you have in mind with that sentence with Santino and John

Bella come sempre!! Wonderful prompt. Guess I’ve been bamboozled into writing angsty drabble, oh noooo…

TW: mention of past physical abuse

“Santino?” John came into their bedroom looking for him, almost done preparing dinner. He found him staring out the window, the setting sun flaring against the edges of his curls. 

Santino didn’t turn to face him. “I will be with you, I’m just…trying to return a phone call.”

“From who?”

He cleared his throat and attempted to sound casual. “My father.” Four months ago, Santino had lied and told his father he was moving to New York on business. In reality, he came to live with John. They had barely spoken since. Santino had asked for space to focus on work, which, for once, his father had accepted. He was no doubt glad that Santino finally seemed interested in making a mark on the world, and relieved that things were so quiet and untroubled on Santino’s turf. But he would call eventually, and now he finally had. 

“You don’t have to talk to him.” John’s voice had gone suddenly flat and hard.

“Yes I do.” He sighed, fidgeting with his tie. “If I ignore him forever, he’ll cut me out of the will. Besides, it’s ridiculous to be upset over this. I’ve talked to him for most of my life. Moving out, talking to him less and less…it made me soft. I should suck it up like I used to.” He made a small, choked sound that should’ve been a laugh. John made him soft, honestly, that was the truth. And he liked it. John made him care about himself, about his own wellbeing. Put him in touch with his emotions. After all that had passed between them over the last few months, to return to being degraded and belittled hurt more than he could explain. To talk politely to the man who had beaten him…after confessing to John how much those beatings had destroyed him…it made something twist inside his gut.

“Hey. No you shouldn’t ‘suck it up’.” John could no longer hold back from embracing him. Santino finally turned towards his lover and curled into him, his face crumpling against John’s shoulder.

“Why did you have to go and make me love being alive, mio caro? I was good and numb before you came along. Now it will hurt so much more to talk to him. I don’t know if I can do it.”

Again, John said, “You don’t have to.”

“No. I have to. And I will.” He pulled back and straightened his vest, composing himself. John hesitated, knowing deep down that this call truly could not be avoided. The best John could do was to comfort him.

“Can I stay next to you?”

“I would like that very much.”

“Good. Hold my hand. You’re gonna be fine.” John held up his palm to Santino, waiting patiently. “No matter what he says to you, I’m here.”

He swallowed, and looked at John with a small glint of confidence growing in his eyes.  He took his hand and squeezed it. “Okay.” Then he dialed.

John didn’t let go or take his eyes off of him for the entire call. Whenever Santino felt misery building in his chest, he just remembered the steady pressure of John’s hand in his, grounding him, and knew that John cared for him. What else really mattered? Whenever Santino had to agree to something, or apologize for something, a look of protective rage passed over John’s dark eyes, making him feel so very loved. The old fool on the other end of the line would never understand the kind of happiness they had. He rubbed his thumb over John’s fingers in a gesture of gratitude. "Ti amo,” he mouthed silently to John, during a particularly vicious speech that he was hardly hearing, and squeezed his hand again. John squeezed back.

[gxldensxldiers]

💚Are they prone to jealousy? (Arthur)

🤐Would they ever confess their feelings first? (Io)

💔Do they have a certain type of person they will not enter into a relationship with? (Roze)

From here | Accepting!

💚 Are they prone to jealousy? (Arthur)

Kinda, yeah. His ego does serve as a sort of buffer some of the time, but it isn't foolproof. If he feels like he's being cast aside, ignored or otherwise 'neglected', jealousy will quickly follow. He'll be clingier towards his partner, showing more PDA to 'get the message across' so to speak. Probably gets quieter, stays amicable if his partner happens to be around but just barely. It's subtle, but incredibly obvious if you know him. If you're at all familiar with Giant Schnauzers, just imagine one all pouty over not getting attention for more than five seconds and you've got a jealous Arthur smh

🤐 Would they ever confess their feelings first? (Io)

Absolutely not. Setting aside her tendency to suppress her own emotions to keep them from getting in the way of her work, she just... doesn't see the point necessarily. She recognizes the inherent risk of opening up like that and wouldn't think it was worth sabotaging a developed connection. Not to mention the fact she places significantly more value on actions rather than words- a verbal confession is more of a formality to her. If you care to pay attention, her own feelings and truth will show in her actions and behavior long before anything's verbalized.

💔 Do they have a certain type of person they will not enter into a relationship with? (Roze)

I'm inclined to say no for the most part. If she 'clicks' with someone, for any reason, it isn't hard for her to grow attached in the slightest. She's generally a very open person, especially when it comes to inter-personal connections, it's actually her own issues surrounding commitment that get in the way a majority of the time.

But if we're being completely honest here, while Roze doesn't have any reservations about dating any particular type of person that she knows about; any sort of long-term relationship with a vegan would never be able to happen. She understands health concerns + potential developed sensitivities surrounding meat, but avoiding all animal products is a different (incomprehensible) beast to her.

[dailyanarchistposts]

Footnotes

[1] Ie-hovah, and in composition Iah, the Being; Iao, ioupitur, same meaning; ha-iah, Heb., he was; ei, Gr, he is, ei-nai, to be; an-i, Heb., and in conjugation th-i, me; e-go, io, ich, i, m-i, me, t-ibi, te, and all the personal pronouns in which the vowels i, e, ei, oi, denote personality in general, and the consonants, m or n, s or t, serve to indicate the number of the person. For the rest, let who will dispute over these analogies; I have no objections: at this depth, the science of the philologist is but cloud and mystery. The important point to which I wish to call attention is that the phonetic relation of names seems to correspond to the metaphysical relation of ideas.

[2] The Chinese have preserved in their traditions the remembrance of a religion which had ceased to exist among them five or six centuries before our era. (See Pauthier, “China,” Paris, Didot.) More surprising still is it that this singular people, in losing its primitive faith, seems to have understood that divinity is simply the collective me of humanity: so that, more than two thousand years ago, China had reached, in its commonly-accepted belief, the latest results of the philosophy of the Occident. “What Heaven sees and understands,” it is written in the Shu-king, “is only that which the people see and understand. What the people deem worthy of reward and punishment is that which Heaven wishes to punish and reward. There is an intimate communication between Heaven and the people: let those who govern the people, therefore, be watchful and cautious.” Confucius expressed the same idea in another manner: “Gain the affection of the people, and you gain empire. Lose the affection of the people, and you lose empire.” There, then, general reason was regarded as queen of the world, a distinction which elsewhere has been bestowed upon revelations. The Tao-te-king is still more explicit. In this work, which is but an outline criticism of pure reason, the philosopher Lao-tse continually identifies, under the name of TAO, universal reason and the infinite being; and all the obscurity of the book of Lao tse consists, in my opinion, of this constant identification of principles which our religious and metaphysical habits have so widely separated.

[3] See, among others, Auguste Comte, “Course of Positive Philosophy,” and P. J. Proudhon, “Creation of Order in Humanity.”

[4] I do not mean to affirm here in a positive manner the transmutability of bodies, or to point it out as a subject for investigation; still less do I pretend to say what ought to be the opinion of savants upon this point. I wish only to call attention to the species of scepticism generated in every uninformed mind by the most general conclusions of chemical philosophy, or, better, by the irreconcilable hypotheses which serve as the basis of its theories. Chemistry is truly the despair of reason: on all sides it mingles with the fanciful; and the more knowledge of it we gain by experience, the more it envelops itself in impenetrable mysteries. This thought was recently suggested to me by reading M. Liebig’s “Letters on Chemistry” (Paris, Masgana, 1845, translation of Bertet-Dupiney and Dubreuil Helion).

Thus M. Liebig, after having banished from science hypothetical causes and all the entities admitted by the ancients, — such as the creative power of matter, the horror of a vacuum, the esprit recteur, etc. (p. 22), — admits immediately, as necessary to the comprehension of chemical phenomena, a series of entities no less obscure, — vital force, chemical force, electric force, the force of attraction, etc. (pp. 146, 149). One might call it a realization of the properties of bodies, in imitation of the psychologists’ realization of the faculties of the soul under the names liberty, imagination, memory, etc. Why not keep to the elements? Why, if the atoms have weight of their own, as M. Liebig appears to believe, may they not also have electricity and life of their own? Curious thing! the phenomena of matter, like those of mind, become intelligible only by supposing them to be produced by unintelligible forces and governed by contradictory laws: such is the inference to be drawn from every page of M. Liebig’s book.

Matter, according to M. Liebig, is essentially inert and entirely destitute of spontaneous activity (p. 148): why, then, do the atoms have weight? Is not the weight inherent in atoms the real, eternal, and spontaneous motion of matter? And that which we chance to regard as rest, — may it not be equilibrium rather? Why, then, suppose now an inertia which definitions contradict, now an external potentiality which nothing proves?

Atoms having weight, M. Liebig infers that they are indivisible (p. 58). What logic! Weight is only force, that is, a thing hidden from the senses, whose phenomena alone are perceptible, — a thing, consequently, to which the idea of division and indivision is inapplicable; and from the presence of this force, from the hypothesis of an indeterminate and immaterial entity, is inferred an indivisible material existence! For the rest, M. Liebig confesses that it is impossible for the mind to conceive of particles absolutely indivisible; he recognizes, further, that the fact of this indivisibility is not proved; but he adds that science cannot dispense with this hypothesis: so that, by the confession of its teachers, chemistry has for its point of departure a fiction as repugnant to the mind as it is foreign to experience. What irony!

Atoms are unequal in weight, says M. Liebig, because unequal in volume: nevertheless, it is impossible to demonstrate that chemical equivalents express the relative weight of atoms, or, in other words, that what the calculation of atomic equivalents leads us to regard as an atom is not composed of several atoms. This is tantamount to saying that more matter weighs more than less matter; and, since weight is the essence of materiality, we may logically conclude that, weight being universally identical with itself, there is also an identity in matter; that the differences of simple bodies are due solely, either to different methods of atomic association, or to different degrees of molecular condensation, and that, in reality, atoms are transmutable: which M. Liebig does not admit.

“We have,” he says, “no reason for believing that one element is convertible into another element” (p. 135). What do you know about it? The reasons for believing in such a conversion can very well exist and at the same time escape your attention; and it is not certain that your intelligence in this respect has risen to the level of your experience. But, admitting the negative argument of M. Liebig, what follows? That, with about fifty-six exceptions, irreducible as yet, all matter is in a condition of perpetual metamorphosis. Now, it is a law of our reason to suppose in Nature unity of substance as well as unity of force and system; moreover, the series of chemical compounds and simple substances themselves leads us irresistibly to this conclusion. Why, then, refuse to follow to the end the road opened by science, and to admit an hypothesis which is the inevitable result of experience itself?

M. Liebig not only denies the transmutability of elements, but rejects the spontaneous formation of germs. Now, if we reject the spontaneous formation of germs, we are forced to admit their eternity; and as, on the other hand, geology proves that the globe has not been inhabited always, we must admit also that, at a given moment, the eternal germs of animals and plants were born, without father or mother, over the whole face of the earth. Thus, the denial of spontaneous generation leads back to the hypothesis of spontaneity: what is there in much-derided metaphysics more contradictory Let it not be thought, however, that I deny the value and certainty of chemical theories, or that the atomic theory seems to me absurd, or that I share the Epicurean opinion as to spontaneous generation. Once more, all that I wish to point out is that, from the point of view of principles, chemistry needs to exercise extreme tolerance, since its own existence depends on a certain number of fictions, contrary to reason and experience, and destructive of each other.

[5] Chemists distinguish between mixture and composition, just as logicians distinguish between the association of ideas and their synthesis. It is true, nevertheless, that, according to the chemists, composition may be after all but a mixture, or rather an aggregation of atoms, no longer fortuitous, but systematic, the atoms forming different compounds by varying their arrangement. But still this is only an hypothesis, wholly gratuitous; an hypothesis which explains nothing, and has not even the merit of being logical. Why does a purely numerical or geometrical difference in the composition and form of atoms give rise to physiological properties so different? If atoms are indivisible and impenetrable, why does not their association, confined to mechanical effects, leave them unchanged in essence? Where is the relation between the cause supposed and the effect obtained?

We must distrust our intellectual vision: it is with chemical theories as with psychological systems. The mind, in order to account for phenomena, works with atoms, which it does not and can never see, as with the me, which it does not perceive: it applies its categories to everything; that is, it distinguishes, individualizes, concretes, numbers, compares, things which, material or immaterial, are thoroughly identical and indistinguishable. Matter, as well as spirit, plays, as we view it, all sorts of parts; and, as there is nothing arbitrary in its metamorphoses, we build upon them these psychologic and atomic theories, true in so far as they faithfully represent, in terms agreed upon, the series of phenomena, but radically false as soon as they pretend to realize their abstractions and are accepted literally.

[6] The passage quoted may not be given in the exact words used by Malthus, it having reached its present shape through the medium of a French rendering — Translator.

[7] “The principle which governs the life of nations is not pure science: it is the total of the complex data which depend on the state of enlightenment, on needs and interests.” Thus expressed itself, in December, 1844, one of the clearest minds that France contained, M. Leon Faucher. Explain, if you can, how a man of this stamp was led by his economic convictions to declare that the complex data of society are opposed to pure science.

[8] “History of Public Credit.”

[9] In France, the sale of tobacco is a government monopoly. — Translator.

[10] A subtle philologist, M. Paul Ackermann, has shown, using the French language as an illustration, that, since every word in a language has its opposite, or, as the author calls it, its antonym, the entire vocabulary might be arranged in couples, forming a vast dualistic system. (See Dictionary of Antonyms. By PAUL ACKERMAN. Paris: Brockhaus & Avenarius. 1842)

[11] “Treatise on Political Economy.”

[12] Tocqueville, “Democracy in America.”

[13] Meeting of the Academy of Moral and Political Sciences, September, 1845.

[14] Journal des Economistes,” April, 1843.

[15] “The Liberty of Labor,” Vol. II, p. 80.

[16] In spite of the most approved authorities, I cannot accept the idea that serf, in Latin servus, was so called from servare, to keep, because the slave was a prisoner of war who was kept for labor. Servitude, or at least domesticity, is certainly prior to war, although war may have noticeably strengthened it. Why, moreover, if such was the origin of the idea as well as of the thing, should they not have said, instead of serv-us, serv-atus, in conformity with grammatical deduction? To me the real etymology is revealed in the opposition of serv-are and serv-ire, the primitive theme of which is ser-o in-stro, to join, to press, whence ser-ies, joint, continuity, Ser-a, lock, sertir, insert, etc. All these words imply the idea of a principal thing, to which is joined an accessory, as an object of special usefulness. Thence serv-ire, to be an object of usefulness, a thing secondary to another; serv-are, as we say to press, to put aside, to assign a thing its utility; serv-us, a man at hand, a utility, a chattel, in short, a man of service. The opposite of servus is dem-inus (dom-us, dom-anium, and domare); that is, the head of the household, the master of the house, he who utilizes men, servat, animals, domat, and things, possidet.That consequently prisoners of war should have been reserved for slavery, servati ad servitium, or rather serti ad glebam, is perfectly conceivable; their destiny being known, they have simply taken their name from it.

[17] A comparison of this passage, as given here, with the English translation of “What is Property” will show a marked variation in the language. This is explained by the fact that the author, in reproducing the passage, modified it considerably. The same is true of another quotation from the same work which will be found a few pages farther on. — Translator.

[18] This extract from Scott, as well as that from a parliamentary report cited a few paragraphs later, is here translated from the French, and presumably differs in form somewhat, therefore, from the original English. — Translator.

[19] The spinning-wheel is silent in the valley: family feelings are at an end. Over a little smoke the aged grandsire spreads his pale hands; and the empty hearth is as desolate as his heart. — Translator.

[20] Possibly these paragraphs will not be clear to all without the explanation that the form of association discussed in them, called in French the commandite, is a joint-stock company to which the shareholders simply lend their capital, without acquiring a share in the management or incurring responsibility for the results thereof. — Translator.

[21] Hunting, fishing, mining, — in short, the gathering of all natural products. — Translator.

[22] Little bones taken from the joints of animals and serving as playthings for children. — Translator.

[23] A tax whose total product is not fixed in advance, but depends upon the quantity of things or persons upon whom it happens to fall. — Translator.

[24] This sentence, as it stands, is unintelligible, and probably is not correctly quoted by Proudhon. At any rate, one of Garnier’s works contains a similar passage, which begins thus: “Given a levy of one on the area of the land, and lands of different qualities producing, the first eight, the second six, the third five, the tax will call for one-eighth,” etc. This is perfectly clear, and the circumstances supposed are aptly illustrative of Proudhon’s point. I should unhesitatingly pronounce it the correct version, except for the fact that Proudhon, in the succeeding paragraph, interprets Garnier as supposing income to be assessed instead of capital. — Translator.

[25] Thank heaven! the minister has settled the question, and I tender him my very sincere compliments. By the proposed tariff letter-postage will be reduced to 2 cents for distances under 12 1/2 miles; 4 cents, for distances between 12 1/2 and 25 miles; 6 cents, between 25 and 75 miles; 8 cents, between 75 and 225 miles; 10 cents, for longer distances.]

[26] The new law regarding service-books has confined the independence of workers within narrower limits. The democratic press has again thundered its indignation this subject against those in power, as if they had been guilty of anything more than the application of the principles of authority and property, which are those of democracy. What the Chambers have done in regard to service-books was inevitable, and should have been expected. It is as impossible for a society founded on the proprietary principle not to end in class distinctions as for a democracy to avoid despotism, for a religion to be reasonable, for fanaticism to show tolerance. This is the law of contradiction: how long will it take us to understand it?

[27] The crime makes the shame, and not the scaffold. — Translator.

[28] See volume II, chapter IX.

[29] Ibid., chapter X.

[30] Ibid., chapter XI.

[31] Date of the Napoleonic coup d’Etat, according to the revolutionary calendar.

[32] The Metaphysics of Morals [1.11]

[33] The Metaphysics of Morals 1.15. (Editor).

[34] “I possess because I possess”; “I possess because you possess” (Editor)

[35] A coupon is the amount of interest paid per year expressed as a percentage of the face value of a bond. A bond is, in finance, a debt security in which the issuer is the borrower (debtor) and the holder is the lender (creditor). (Editor)

[36] Proudhon writes “Il était le courtisan de la terre.” Courtesan historically referred to a courtier. However, these were often considered as insincere, skilled at flattery and intrigue, ambitious and lacking regard for the national interest and so, in French, courtesan figuratively means “sycophant.” (Editor)

[37] Proudhon is alluding to the Latin phrase “conubio iungam stabili propriamque dicabo” from Virgil’s epic, The Aeneid (4.126), in which the goddess Juno proposes to “consecrate” the passion of Dido for Aeneas through marriage, turning unstable passion into a stable bond of property. (Editor)

[38] Artaxerxes I was king of the Persian Empire from 464 BC to 424 BC. After Persia had been defeated at Eurymedon, Artaxerxes began to weaken the Athenians by funding their enemies in Greece. (Editor)

[39] Vincent de Paul (1581-1660) was a Catholic priest dedicated to serving the poor. He was canonised in 1737. (Editor)

[40] Harpagon was the name of the miser in Molière's comedy L'Avare (The Miser) (Editor)

[41] Perrin Dandin is a simple citizen in François Rabelais’ Third Book. He seats himself as a judge and passes offhand judgements in any matter of litigation. (Editor)

[42] Bertrand du Guesclin (1320-80), known as the Eagle of Brittany, was a Breton knight and French military commander during the Hundred Years' War. (Editor)

[43] This is an allusion to tradesmen who owned their own tools and took them in a bag or sack (“sac”) when they were dismissed from employment. Hence the expression “get the sack” which is derived from the 17th century French expression “On luy a donné son sac.” (Editor)

[44] There is a play-on-words in Proudhon’s “Chacun de vous porte dans son sac la verge qui sert à le corriger, et qui peut lui servir un jour à corriger les autre.” Corriger as well as meaning “to correct” also means “to give a good hiding to” or “to punish.” (Editor)

[45] Proudhon wrote: “Vous ne serez libres qu'après vous être rachetés, par l'asservissement de vos maîtres, de la servitude qu’ils font peser sur vous.” Racheter as well as meaning “to atone for” or “to redeem” also means “to buy” and he plays with this dual meaning. (Editor)

[46] “Thus I wish. Thus I command” (Editor)

[47] Licitation is sale to the highest bidder. (Translator)

[48] From the Latin Bible: “Jesus said to him: Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with thy whole heart and with thy whole soul and with thy whole mind. This is the first and greatest commandment.” (Matthew 22:37-38). (Editor)

[49] A form of long-term lease that was an institution of Roman law (although derived from the Greek law) and found in French law. An owner of poorly cultivated land granted such leases so that a tenant would take on the task of improving the land. The tenant paid a small rent or canon for this right and the owner regained the land in its improved condition after a number of years. (Editor)

[50] See [Raymond-Théodore] Troplong, Contrat de Louage [Rental Contracts], volume 1st, in which he argues, alone among all the jurisconsults who are his precursors and contemporaries, and with reason, as we think, that in renting, the tenant acquires a right in the thing, and that the lease gives way immediately to a real and personal share.

[51] “even as though some force tearing earth apart should unlock the infernal house, and disclose the pallid realms abhorred of heaven, and deep down the monstrous gulf be descried where the ghosts flutter in the streaming daylight.” (Virgil, The Aeneid of Virgil [MacMillan and Co. Ltd: London, 1920], Translated by J. W. Mackail, Eighth Book, 178). (Editor)

[52] In Kantian philosophy, a thing as it is in itself, as distinct from a thing as it is knowable by the senses through phenomenal attributes. (Editor)

[53] Adam Smith, The Wealth of Nations, Volume 1, Book I, Chapter 5, 34-5. The original text is used where appropriate, although Proudhon quotes a French translation which differs somewhat from the original. (Editor)

[54] Smith, Volume 1, Book 1, Chapter VI, 54-5. (Editor)

[55] Smith, Volume 1, Book 1, Chapter 6, 56. As before, Proudhon is quoting from a French translation and this ends with the words “Il faut qu'il paie pour avoir la permission. de les recueillir; c'est-à-dire qu'il paie au propriétaire une portion de ce qu'il recueille ou de ce qu'il produit, sans lui, par son travail”: “He must pay to have permission to collect them; that is to say, he pays the landlord a portion of what he collects or produces, without him, by his labour.” (Editor)

[56] A combination and slight re-organising of selections from The Wealth of Nations. The first sentence is from Volume 1, Book 1, Chapter 6 (57) while the rest is from Volume 1, Book 1, Chapter 9, with the second sentence originally appearing at the end of the rest of the passage. (110, 109-10). (Editor)

[57] In chapter VII, Proudhon writes of “great family of preventive, coercive, repressive, and vindictive institutions which A. Smith designated by the generic term police.” In other words, State power. (Editor)

[58] A paraphrase of Adam Smith: “the law, besides, authorises, or at least does not prohibit their combinations, while it prohibits those of the workmen […] Masters are always and everywhere in a sort of tacit, but constant and uniform combination, not to raise the wages of labour above their actual rate. To violate this combination is everywhere a most unpopular action, and a sort of reproach to a master among his neighbours and equals […] The masters upon these occasions are just as clamorous upon the other side, and never cease to call aloud for the assistance of the civil magistrate, and the rigorous execution of those laws which have been enacted with so much severity against the combinations of servants, labourers, and journeymen.” (Volume 1, Part 1, Chapter 8, 74-6). (Editor)

[59] Smith, Volume 1, Book I, Chapter VIII, 72. Indicators of missing sentences have been added. (Editor)

[60] Hodgskins, Volume 1, Book 1, Chapter X, Recherches sur la nature et les causes de la richesse des nations (Paris: Chez Guillaumin Libraire, 1843), 132. (Editor)

[61] Smith, Volume 1, Book 1, Chapter 8, 88. (Editor)

[popiacopia]

Benvenuto, welcome.

Here is the lay of the land. Please read:

TLDR: Admin is a legal adult. Blog will contain NSFW content, so no minors please (MDNI). Hateful behavior is not tolerated.

More guidelines below.

Detail from Masaccio’s “Holy Trinity” [Inscription: IO FUI GIA QUEL CHE VOI SIETE, E QUEL CH’ IO SONO VOI ANCOR SARETE]

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[soulsxng]

GUYS, I CAN NEVER TELL WHAT MORAL ALIGNMENT THIS LIL' SHIT (Eluvias, my lovely little problem child) IS. I'm putting the rest under a read more because I know it's gonna end up super ramble-y.

So first, the way I look at the alignments is loosely this: - Good = Would save someone in trouble without promise of reward. - Neutral = Would leave someone in trouble to their fate. Might intervene for reward. - Evil = Would harm/kill/otherwise detriment person in trouble. and then: - Lawful = For principle - Neutral = For necessity - Chaotic = For impulse

And I can never tell if he fits best as true neutral, chaotic neutral, or neutral evil. Which...look, I know that technically no character should fit perfectly into an alignment. Different situations, and pressures, and whatever else could always make a character act outside of that alignment after all-- if they didn't, it would make the character kinda flat and predictable. (Plus, examining what would make them act out of that "norm", how they would do it, and how they would react to it afterwards is one of the most interesting parts of writing a muse imo)

But with Luvi, it always just feels like he decides how he's going to react to everything on a whim. Which...immediately points me toward chaotic. But good and evil don't really fell like they completely fit him, so I always sway towards chaotic neutral.

Except that he has done and will do some really fucked up shit. Sometimes just because he felt like it. Other times because he felt it was what he had to do, or even because it was what he should do in that situation.

And sometimes it's a little frustrating when I write him, because I feel like he can come off so all over the place at times that I worry that he doesn't come across as a consistent muse...like he does whatever, because...well, whatever. Which wasn't the case when he was still in Elyki.

Noticing that is what made me realize that it's because of that, that Luvi is so unpredictable now, though. Even if Zahine spoiled the hell out of him when he was young, he still grew up under very strict rules. Pretty much everything he did was heavily regulated. (With Zahine, it was for Luvi's health and wellbeing at a time when he was very frail and weak. With Mattias later on, it was just because Luvi was a tool that was potentially very dangerous to everyone in Elyki as well if he wasn't...essentially "holstered properly")

Now that he's away from that, he's suddenly bombarded with choices that he's never had to make before. He wants to be nice, and good-- partly because that's what he views his older brother and Zahine as being, and partly because he wants to make friends. (and then not have to worry about feeling like he has to or wants to hurt them)

His upbringing with Zahine taught him more that he needs to watch out for himself, and that-- while he should be cautious of others, he shouldn't hurt them unless he actually has to. That, as long as it won't detriment him, he should help people in dire need, but to generally let those in lesser need take care of their problems on their own. Kind of a good/neutral bordering.

But his upbringing with Mattias also taught him that...essentially, the lives of others that he doesn't know shouldn't ultimately matter to him. And that if he wants or needs something, he should just take it, regardless of how he has to get it. That if someone slights you even a little bit, or even if you just don't really care for someone. They annoy you? You can get rid of them.

And so really, he's just caught in this really confusing limbo where...kind of like a child that's just trying whatever comes to mind, seeing what happens from there, and deciding "Wow, that worked out pretty well!" or "That went really poorly..." from there.

Io and Zai try to help him with all of this, because they know he's overwhelmed, but neither of them can (or should, since that was a bit of an issue in and of itself; Luvi's obsessive nature definitely didn't help any of this) be there to hold his hand all the time.

Anyway, all of this is pretty much to say that I don't think I can put Luvi in any alignment, at the moment. He's got too much learning to do.

It also makes me wonder if Io was ever that way too, but I honestly don't really think he was. Not only was he old enough when Zahine went missing that he remembered a lot of the things that Zai stood for, but he was always especially defiant with Mattias. So while there might have been a little bit of figuring things out in that manner when he was taken under Pythius and Rhezar's wings, it wasn't anywhere near what it currently is with Luvi.

[coldshrugs]

landmark

pairing: io laithe / estinien varlineau word count: 4.6k summary: [modern au] estinien meets io in a support group for grieving youths. set five years before this.

Estinien is early—the first one in the room, as usual, even before Counselor Miounne arrives. It’s part of the ritual.

Hit the lights and dim them to three-quarters. Turn on the fancy instant coffeemaker, make sure there are enough of those little fucking pods for everyone. Sugar and powdered creamer too. Music on, some unobtrusive classical harp thing he doesn’t care for. Then he arranges nine chairs in a loose circle and, selfishly, puts the least squeaky one in his spot across from the window.

It helps, to do these tasks before their sessions. The work allows him to mentally prepare for this, because when is it easy to circle death’s drain for two hours?

With the space set up, he slings his backpack over his claimed chair and waits.

They stroll into the meeting in ones and twos. They make their coffee, ask about their weeks (in the casual way, where you’re supposed to answer “fine” even if it wasn’t; the real answers will come later). Eventually, Miounne enters and everyone finds a seat.

He isn’t great with names, but he knows a few by now. Lyse, the one with the sister and dad, and one of the youngest members. Leofard, the one with the mom. He knows all the faces though, and the one hovering by the door is new.

She’s tall, but slouching a little, crossing her arms like she’s scared to take up space or trying not to be seen. Inky blue hair is piled into a loose bun on top of her head, with long wavy strands hanging around her freckled face. Her eyes are bloodshot, almost too focused. She must be new.

As he watches her, her gaze cuts over to him—

“Estinien,” Miounne calls. His attention snaps from the girl at the door to his counselor. “Another chair, please?”

“Yeah, sure.” He quickly grabs one from the nearest stack, looking for a decent place to put it. Two kids slide their chairs apart so he can fit this one between them. Right in front of the window.

He sits again and Miounne claps softly, still standing in the center of the circle.

“Hi friends,” she says, more gently than usual. “It’s been a while since we’ve welcomed a new face, hasn’t it? I know we’re all capable of extending warmth and patience to those who need it, so let’s be mindful of that as we welcome Io to our group, okay?”

She gestures to the door, beckoning the new girl in. Io. He’ll try to remember that. He wonders who she lost and when, and tries not to wonder how. The how never matters anyway. Gone is gone.

“Welcome to Haven: Youth Grief Counseling, Io. Take a seat, just there, sweetie.”

Io sits down and Estinien regrets this seating arrangement; he’s lost the window view. She glances around the circle, her polite smile is a tight line. Her eyes flick to him once more, then back to the floor.

Miounne sits too. She claps one more time and they begin.

Next week starts the same. His chin is in his hand, elbow propped on his bouncing knee as they arrive. Lyse. Leofard. New girl.

Leo takes his seat next to Estinien and leans over. Oh god.

“Estinien,” he whispers loud enough for almost everyone to hear. His eyes flash to the new girl making coffee by herself. “I found out what her deal is.”

“Happy for you,” Estinien says. That’s not his business. But he stupidly glances at Leo anyway.

“She’s like you. Total wipeout—we’re talking mom, dad, two younger siblings—about a year ago. Just now going back to school, apparently.” He looks at her again, taking a bold head-to-toe survey, and Estinien follows. She’s tall, willowy, and there��s something disciplined about her posture; the set of her shoulders feels intentional even in her depression slump. Her ears tilt, and he turns back around. Leofard is still staring. “Wonder what else she’s ready to get back into…” He winks at Estinien.

“Probably best to leave her alone. She’s not here to find a date,” he says.

Leo huffs in fake offense. “Well, neither am I but if it happens, it happens.”

A month passes, one week bleeding into the next, and Estinien is always early to Haven. But someone is earlier today, of all days. The door is open, the light is on, and the chairs are in their circle.

Io is waiting.

He remembers her name now. It’s easy to remember the girl who hasn’t said anything in five sessions. It’s unusual, but understandable; they’re all strangers to her, and if what Leofard said is true, he’s impressed she’s showing up at all.

Estinien recalls what his loss was like a fresh wound—the anger throbbing in his chest, sobbing his voice raw for days, not eating or sleeping. He wouldn’t speak to Alberic at first, either. It feels so childish to him now. But looking at her… those feelings echo in his chest, and he is sharply reminded that grief doesn’t shrink.

He shoots her a courtesy smile as he starts the coffeemaker and CD player.

“Sorry about the shitty music,” he says as the sound of softly plucked strings fills the space. When he looks over, she’s staring at the floor again, eyes wide—that awkward “what the fuck” face—and his stomach flips. He said something wrong.

Cool.

He takes his seat across from her, trying to bury the urge to wait on the bench just outside the room when his chair squeaks. Great. He takes a deep breath and rolls his eyes. To deal or not to deal? He is, unfortunately, too big for the noise to keep from happening and he can’t be annoyed for the next two hours. What does he care if she thinks he looks crazy?

He stands up and jostles the next chair, which is better but not great. He tries the next. Even worse.

“What are you doing?”

The rasp of her voice is so quiet that he doesn’t fully catch the words.

He looks up from the red plastic in his hand. “What?”

She looks like she wishes she’d not asked at all, rubbing a hand anxiously over her arm. She sighs. “With the chairs. What are you doing with the chairs?”

“Trying to find one that doesn’t squeak. I usually—”

“I took that one.” She glances up at him, grimacing, but there’s a light in her eyes. It’s the least miserable he’s seen her so far. She thinks this is funny. “Sorry. You can have it back.”

He puts a hand up when she stands. He’s not taking the chair from the sad girl. “Uh… no. No, you can take it. There’s probably another one that isn’t annoying as fuck, I’ll find it.”

“Then let me help you. It’s only fair, since I disturbed your whole—” she gestures slowly around the meeting room— “process.” God, her voice is in shreds.

He can’t say no when this is the first sign of life she’s shown in over a month, at least here. He nods. “Sure, if you want.”

They go through the chairs in the circle, then the others neatly stacked in the corner. They don’t really talk, besides simple directions: “I tried that one already,” and “will you pass me another,” and “holy shit, that’s the worst one yet.” Estinien is keenly aware of her shifting around him, slowly at first, and then with less hesitation. Finally, they find a chair that doesn’t creak when he sits or moves. It goes in his spot and they clean up the rest.

“Hey,” Io says, and the word is conspiratorial. She catches his gaze, and something about hers makes him feel like glass, like they almost know each other. Like he’s seen her before, a blurry smile littering the backgrounds of photos in the album he managed to salvage, only viewed in profile or half out of frame, obscured by the barely remembered vacation or birthday party in the foreground. He swallows as she reaches into her bag and pulls out a black marker. “Should we make sure we never lose these again?”

“Vandalism? In our therapy group?” He squints, shoving down the fondness she’s conjured in just a few minutes. “Do you even need to ask?”

She laughs, or tries to. It comes out weak and cracked as she crosses to his side of the circle and kneels beside him. She pops the cap off the marker. “It’s Estinien, right?”

He nods, “Yeah.”

“I’m Io. The other total wipeout”—she air quotes Leo’s label—“but you already knew that.” She scribbles a small “E” on the side of the chair then heads back over to her own, where she writes an “I.”

It’s almost time for group to start.

“Are you gonna talk about it today?” Estinien asks. It’s just them sitting directly across from one another, surrounded by empty chairs.

Io shrugs, and her body seems to fold in on itself. Making herself small again. “I don’t know. It’s hard to talk about it at all. I’ll try?”

“You don’t have to. But it does help, in a weird way.”

The others drift in at the usual leisurely pace, Miounne claps, and they begin.

First question: “How are you feeling today?”

They go in a circle starting at Miounne’s left. Some answers are simple, like Leo’s.

“Pretty good. I started planning a trip for fall break, somewhere I think Mom would’ve liked to see. I’m looking forward to telling you guys about the trouble I got into when I’m back.”

Sometimes there’s a follow-up, sometimes Miounne will let it hang. Estinien has no idea how she gauges that, but it feels right.

He’s third to answer.

How does he feel today? He picks at the frayed edge of a hole in his jeans.

“I’m kind of anxious today. I declared my major this year so everything feels… more real, I guess. I’m trying to study for a couple of tests next week but I read the page and it may as well be blank. Nothing sticks. I keep worrying I might…” He pauses. This is normally when he’d look out the window; when something heavy rises to the surface, it’s easier to look outside, but for five weeks, Io has been sitting in front of him. The broken habit means he shares less. But how can he encourage her if he can’t bend a little himself?

He looks up, and there she is—dark, curious, and strangely calming, her eyes burn a hole right through him. Behind her, the trees in the courtyard are starting to take on shades of autumn, gold and bronze intensified by the sunlight filtering through the leaves. It’s a view he can deal with. Io gives him an almost imperceptible nod.

“I worry I might let them down. It feels stupid to say out loud,” he laughs with a short snorted breath. “It’s always in the back of my mind though: what would they think of me now? What does this action mean to them? I guess it doesn’t mean anything and I should just study for the damn test so I can actually be someone they’d be proud of. Anyway… yeah, I’m anxious today.”

Miounne reclines a little in her seat. “Have you tried anything to help you study, to shift that focus on what your family would think towards something more current?”

He nods, looking from Io to Miounne. “Yeah, uh, I’ve asked a friend to join me. We’re going to try that today. He’s been pretty supportive since learning about all of this, and his grades are better than mine anyway. And I try to think about Alberic, my former guardian, I guess. I think he’d be proud of me no matter how I end up, so that helps.”

“Excellent,” she says, looking around at the others before spelling out the lesson. “Leaning on others is a great way to remind ourselves how loved and valued we are, especially when lower moods may make you want to isolate. Re-establishing bonds of friendship, or building new ones, helps bring your focus to just how strong your current support system is, or where it’s lacking. I think you’re doing that beautifully, Estinien. Thank you.”

He exhales, shying away from the praise and returning his focus to his frayed hem. Maybe that’s enough sharing for this week.

They keep going. Io is second to last, and though everyone expects silence by now, Miounne asks anyway.

“How are you feeling today, Io? Anything you want to share?”

He looks up again—will she actually say something today?—and she’s focused on him now. The room is empty again, except for the two of them in the empty circle. Fresh sharpie smell rising from their initials on the chairs.

“Hey,” she says, raising her hand in a little wave. “Sorry for being weird. I’m trying.”

“No such thing as weird in this room,” Miounne offers.

Io doesn’t look away from Estinien. She brushes a stray lock of hair from her eyes, and the tiniest hint of a smile pulls at the corners of her lips.

“I’m feeling okay today. As okay as I think I can feel right now, anyway. I cleaned my apartment this morning. And I’ve been working really hard on a piece for my school’s symphony showcase before fall break. I even invited some friends I haven’t talked to in… too long.”

“That’s wonderful, Io!” Miounne leans forward, elbows on her knees. “I read you major in music at RSU? What do you play?”

Her eyes fall to her lap. “Pedal harp. Mostly classical, but sometimes I make arrangements of new music, for fun.”

Shit.

“Thank you for sharing today, Io. We appreciate the opportunity to get to know you.” Miounne moves on, and so does everyone else.

But Estinien is stuck on this one thing. His stomach ties itself in a knot. Without knowing, he insulted her, and then she helped him with the stupid chairs… And it doesn’t even matter, because she doesn’t know him. They don’t go to the same university, and the only things they have in common are their dead families and the two hours a week they spend in this room. He has no notions of being friends with her, and definitely nothing like what Leofard has in mind. Still, he can’t stop it gnawing at him.

The session wraps and he approaches Io before she leaves.

“Io?”

She turns to him, for once standing at her full height, and they’re almost eye to eye. The almost-smile is back, and that gnaws at him too. “Hey, thanks for the nudge earlier. You were right.”

“Yeah, well,” He fidgets with his keys. “I’m sorry for calling the music shitty. I didn’t know harp was, like, a thing for you.”

Her laugh is stronger than before. “Wait, are you serious? You had no way to know that, and I’m not the music police. You don’t have to like it.”

He shrugs. “Still not a cool thing to say. I mean, I only really know it from this place anyway.”

“Would you… want to come to my concert?” She asks slowly, then shakes her head. “That might be dumb. That’s all the way across town and we basically just met. I—”

A strand of hair falls into her eyes and his fingers twitch as she tucks it in with the rest. She’s still rambling when the words rush out of him before he considers them.

“Yeah, I’ll come.”

“—Oh.” Wide, surprised eyes blink up at him. “Okay, great! You can bring a friend, or a date, or whatever. I’ll bring tickets for you next week?”

Estinien pockets his keys. “Sure. I’ll see you then.” Despite his clumsy apology to someone who may as well be a stranger, as Io leaves, he feels the same wave of nostalgia from earlier. Some things are true no matter how you fight them.

Estinien enters his dorm with two tickets in hand. Keys in the bowl by the door, backpack under his desk, shoes in the closet. He falls onto his bed with a little bounce, holding the shiny slips of paper up to the light.

“What took you so long?” Aymeric asks from his bed on the other side of the room. He’s reclined on a few pillows, and it looks like he’s alternating between two books. “I’m starving.”

Estinien shrugs. “Got caught up talking to someone after the session. She invited me to her concert in a couple of weeks. Wanna go?” He holds the tickets out for Aymeric’s inspection.

He looks them over, brows raising in slight surprise. “You actually want to go to this?”

“I don’t know, but I said I would.” Estinien sits up. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”

“Is she cute, whoever she is?” Aymeric lazily passes the tickets across the canyon between their beds. “Can’t see why you’d want to go otherwise. I mean, I definitely want to go, it sounds kind of fancy, but you… Hmm.”

“Shut up,” he laughs. There are other reasons, but the most important is making amends for being a dick, even by accident. “Her name is Io. She’s nice, seems cool now that she talks. She’s new to the group.”

“We can go, but you didn’t answer the question.”

“Look, it’s nothing like that. She even said I could bring a date.” Estinien places the tickets in his nightstand drawer, regretting the decision to ask for company.

Aymeric shakes his head and returns to his reading. “You poor, sad muppet. Order a pizza already.”

They stand outside the theater in their untucked button-downs over jeans. Estinien hasn’t been on this campus before, but Aymeric has; thanks to an on-again-off-again thing with some miqo’te guy who goes here, they were able to find the place quickly.

“Are we meeting her before the show?” Ayms asks, scanning the crowd. He’s been eager to learn more about Io in the days leading up to this.

“Nah, she’s backstage, but said I could text her after. It’ll be quick. She has other friends coming, so I’ll just say hi.” It sounds simple enough, but anxiety prickles across his chest.

Inside, they find their seats in the front row of the balcony—a surprisingly nice view.

“Not bad,” Aymeric admires the architecture, comparing things to this venue to the one on their campus, but Estinien hasn’t been in that one either. He only catches half of what’s said, eyes focused on the stage. Aymeric nudges him with an elbow. “She’s the harpist, right?”

He nods. “Yeah, she has a solo at some point.” He rubs his hands on his jeans, sitting forward in the seat a little as the lights go down and the musicians file onto the stage.

“Relax,” Aymeric whispers. “You might enjoy it if you chill out. Look, there she is.”

He points through the dark as she approaches the harp in the back center, almost directly in front of him, and he’s reminded of how they sit during Haven. She’s wearing long black boots and a short dress of the same color, with loose sleeves he can see through. Her hair is down tonight, but pulled back from her face. She’s pretty, even from here.

“Whoa.” Aymeric sits forward too. “You couldn’t just say she’s cute, could you?”

“I told you, it’s not like that. She just lost her fami—”

“SHH!”

Aymeric’s smile is infuriating, cradling his chin in his hand. Estinien shoots him a dark look, then passes a hand over his face as anxiety twists into hot embarrassment, thankful for the darkness as the music starts.

And it’s the music he can’t look away from. There’s more movement in it than he expected, a rawness the CDs or digital streams just don’t portray. Everyone is working to build part of a whole, and each of them can be heard in the larger sound.

Then there is Io.

Admittedly, his experience is limited, but he’s never seen her like this. Every motion is fluid, yet deliberate, even while supporting such a heavy-looking instrument. She is focused, on her hands, on the sheet music in front of her, on the others playing around her. And she looks… serene. Happy.

The tempo slows during the fourth song and a godlight falls on her, a little spot of brightness that eclipses all else. Her solo. Estinien holds his breath.

She builds suspense with sound, then her hands move faster than he can make sense of. Sometimes she places a hand flat against the strings to still them, and that is what hollows out his chest. The elegant control in what he thought was so simple. This is nothing like the CD in their support group. He could listen to this forever.

The rest of the orchestra gradually rises around her until the lights on them lift once more. He might be disappointed if the whole thing didn’t work so well. They bring the song to a close, then stand to take their bows while the audience applauds.

Estinien pulls out his phone. He’s supposed to text her, but how does he follow that? Aymeric hovers over his shoulder, watching him type and delete the same sentence three times.

“What do I say?”

Aymeric rests his chin on Estinien’s shoulder, loudly um-ing and ah-ing, and he almost regrets asking. “How about this: ‘Loved the show. I’m still around if you want to meet up.’ Simple, right? And contextually open-ended, in the unlikely case you get a grip.”

He rolls his eyes but types and sends it while she’s still on stage. It’s several minutes after the musicians exit the stage that he gets a reply: “I’m so glad you came! Take the exit to the left and the door immediately to the right, and tell the attendant you’re with me, see you soon!”

They follow the instructions to a cramped backstage area. People are carrying flowers. Should he have brought flowers? Too late now.

They wander the crowd aimlessly, and his anxiety creeps in with each passing second. There’s a touch at his elbow, light but guiding.

“Estinien,” Io’s voice. Her quiet rasp is familiar to him now, and she sounds far more healthy than when she first spoke to him. He turns to her, and she beams. “Thank you for coming!”

He isn’t sure what to do, and he has no token of congratulations to give her. “Thanks for inviting me. Inviting us, I guess.”

“Us?” Io looks over his shoulder, where Aymeric is practically buzzing as he waits to be introduced.

Ayms extends a hand, “Io, it’s wonderful to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you—”

“He asked constantly. I didn’t want to tell him anything—”

“—and it’s nice being able to put a beautiful face to a beautiful name.”

Estinien covers his face with his hands. “A merciful god would’ve killed me by now.”

Io accepts the handshake, “And you are?”

“Aymeric. Estinien’s roommate and, because he won’t say it out loud, his best friend.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Aymeric. I’m glad you guys came; I know it’s a big ask and it’s not everyone’s taste but—”

“It was amazing,” Estinien’s mouth moves before his mind catches up, something that seems to be common in her presence. Io and Aymeric stare at him, brows lifting in unison. Her neck has flushed red. “I just… didn’t know what to expect, but it was impressive.”

Io’s half-smile, the one he’s learning she wears when she’s nervous, lifts the corner of her lips. “Thank you. I wasn’t trying to change your life or anything. I just thought it’d be cool to show you what I do, and maybe get to know you better too. You know, the “bonds” Miounne is always talking about.”

“Io!” A group of people call out from several feet behind them, waving her over.

She waves to them, then turns to him with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, those are my friends. I’ll be right back.” He watches as she walks away and they sweep her into a noisy group hug.

“Dude,” Aymeric whispers, “Should I go? Do you want me to go?”

“Go where?”

“Go! Home!”

Estinien glances back at Io, and her friends are definitely looking over at them. “And leave me with them?”

Ayms grimaces, balling his hands into fists. “With her!”

Estinien shakes his head. “No, just give me a second and we can both go.” Aymeric silently fakes a scream.

Io returns, wringing her hands as she says, “We’re going to grab some dinner from a place nearby; you guys are welcome to join us.”

He hesitates. Maybe Aymeric is right and he should stay, or maybe assuming someone working through her grief wants anything more than a friendship with him is not in either of their best interests. “We should probably get back. We’ve both got to pack before break starts.”

Io’s expression dampens. “Oh, okay. Well, thanks again for coming out. I’ll see you at Haven in a couple of weeks?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “See you there.”

Estinien turns on the light and adjusts the dimmer. It’s been a while since he’s been first, but Io shows up right after him.

“Hey,” she says quietly, heading to the CD player while he starts the coffee maker. The ritual is no longer just his.

“Hi.” He’s rummaging through the cabinet beneath the coffee station, gathering the supplies, when she starts the music. It’s not their usual instrumental album… “This is from your concert?”

She starts on the chairs. “I hope it’s okay. I emailed Miounne when I got the recording to ask if I could bring it in, to show everyone what I’ve been working on and that I’m kind of normal outside of all this. But I can switch it back, if you’d rather keep the routine.”

His eyes fall closed and he is back in the theater, watching her play in a beam of light, arms unfurling around the strings like flightless wings and he doesn’t think “normal” is a good description of her at all.

“Estinien?”

He opens his eyes.

“No, this is fine.” He stands and arranges the little coffee bar. “I meant it. I thought it was great.”

“That’s a relief,” she laughs a little. “I mean, I believed you, but…”

He frees the rest of the chairs from their neat stack. Their initials are on the last two. He passes her the “I.”

“But what?”

Io crosses her arms behind her chair, bites her lip. The early evening sun illuminates the courtyard, and as it streams through the window little specks of its light catch in her hair. “I don’t know, I always feel nervous trying to make friends.”

Ah.

It’s like he thought. He can tell Aymeric once and for all there’s nothing else going on here. Which is fine, of course. It’s fine. He wants to learn more about her, and let her get to know him too. He doesn’t have a ton, but he thinks he’s a decent friend. He could be a good friend to Io.

“Yeah,” he says, ignoring the heavy, unnameable thing settling in his stomach. “Me too. But it kind of feels like we’re already friends, right? So don’t worry about it too much.”

Io’s smile pokes through her bitten lip as she takes her seat across from him, the sun at her back. “Yeah, I guess we are.”

She is still smiling when everyone joins them, when the session begins, when Miounne asks how she’s feeling today, and when she bids him goodbye with the promise to text him this week. He knows because he can’t help but look at her.

Some things are true no matter how you fight them.

[svedupelle]

Definition, Ontology, Anthem Anatheme and the Final Shape : what the hell is going on in Destiny 2

Hello. this post is about the video game destiny 2, though it might not be apparent at first. it is also a tithe to @flowers-of-io, whose posts are the inspiration to this one.

1) To define is to separate

What is a rock? I mean, when I say "a rock" we all know what I'm talking about, but how do you define it? We can call it a "concreted mass of stony material" (Merriam-webster) or a "naturally occurring solid mass (...) of minerals or mineraloid matter." (Wikipedia). But we can always go deeper; a rock is made of minerals and minerals are molecules and molecules are atoms and so on and so forth. Whatever definition we give a rock is a description: here is what this is. In all above examples we defined the rock by describing its components, primarily because it's the simplest way to define it : all rocks are made of minerals because we have decided that is what a rock is; something cannot be a rock if it is not made of minerals. So in order to properly define something, we have to separate it from that which it is not: a rock is made of minerals and stony matter; a tree is made of biological mass and water; a tree is not a rock. "To define is to determine or identify the essential qualities or meaning of" a thing (Merriam-webster).

At that point, definition is not dependent on terms and descriptions, but simply on the understanding that one thing is not another thing. If a dog sees a pile of small brown rocks next to some dog food, it will through its senses make the difference between the rocks and the food; it has defined the rock from the food, and in context it assigns to the food a meaning: that it is food to be eaten, it is nourishment for it smells like nourishment and tastes like nourishment: to define is "to discover and set forth the meaning of" a thing (Merriam-webster).

To define is to separate one thing from another, both in order to give it meaning but also by giving it meaning.

2) Ontologic definition

... and by giving it meaning we choose to elevate it; a thing with meaning is more real to us than a thing without meaning, and nothing that is encountered is without definition. A thing without definition is less real, and really, not real. It is ontological idealism: our perception of the world, which is a dissection of the world, creates the world. A rock is only a rock because I have said that it is one, otherwise it is nothing but a collection of molecules and electrical charges and atoms, none of which are real either.

Step away from the idea that "real" means "to exist"; for something to be real it must be itself with no one to define it as such; its meaning is autonomous, independent: the meaning itself is real. A rock is not a rock when I am not calling it a rock, is it? It's really just an instance, an occurrence of various laws of physics and chemistry, a bunch of reactions happening right now (all of which I have also defined, all of which can be reduced to something else also defined; how to describe the world without defining it first?). The empty space between the atoms of the rock is the same as the empty space between the atoms of the air; they flow into each other. Take a porous rock for example: it is filled with air. The delineation between them is artificial, it is...

3) Anthem Anatheme

... the subjective asserting itself over the objective. Now that we've arrived to the thing I'm actually meaning to talk about, the silly video game lore, let's talk magic: imagine if you could, for a moment, rule over objective reality. Your thoughts become real, your desires, your will; ontological idealism taken to an extreme where your subjective mind is not only more real than the objective universe but can directly change it and subjugate it. This is the Anthem Anatheme, it is the "temptation to dominate the objective universe with the subjective will" (Whisper of the Worm). This idea appears a lot in Destiny, in many various ways across characters and species.

When Xivu Arath and Savathûn are conjured back to life by Oryx, it is possible because they have made themselves, their subjetive wills and minds, ontologically synonymous with the ideas of war and cunning respectively, and have as such made those ideas real. Oryx' goal is to similarly make himself synonymous with death. In truth the entire functioning of the Hive depends on the Anthem Anatheme, as they directly employ it in form of the sword logic: if a subjective will can dominate the universe, and decide what is real, then the clashing of wills is the ultimate test of reality, and the winner is more real than the loser.

In the Vault of Glass, the Vex employ ontological weapons in the form of the Oracles, the Templar and the Gorgons (and maybe Atheon idk). They decide if you are real or not. Unlike the rest of Sol though, the Vex do this through the sheer power of math and not wonky space magic (who's to say math isn't wonky space magic..). Hence why this stuff only works in the Vault. You know who doesn't need a fortress outside of time and space to decide if you're real or not?

Techeuns. In the Last Wish raid, when the Techeuns wipe you, the death screen says you were killed by an ontological weapon. Neat!

One could even say that the Anthem Anatheme rules the story itself: in The Hidden Dossier, Ikora and Arach Jalaal (Dead Orbit dude) argue about Truth to Power (like the redditors they are). Ikora proposes than TTP is not just nonsense, it's an engine and manual designed by Savathûn to help her cross into the parent universe of their universe, in other words, to help her come into our universe. Which she did when she took control of Bungie's blog or twitter or whatever it was. Regardless, my point is that Ikora mentions that if such a parent universe exists, then it would be more real than they are; and it does exist, and it is. Because let's assume Ikora does exist for real (ykwim) in a child universe to ours, brought forth by Bungie's writing and my reading; her life and day-to-day does not exist until it is written and read and birthed by all its readers. My subjective will dominates her objective reality, or at least the Bungie writers' wills do. If they someday decide she's a lesbian, then she will be, not against her will, because her will is also subjected to theirs. Anthem Anatheme all the way down.

(If you can think of other instances of it, feel free to share lol).

4) Final Shape

All of this to say, the Final Shape is another expression of the Anthem Anatheme. The Witness' will dominating the universe. Freezing it in a single unending moment, permanently defining it and assigning it meaning. Because how can you define it all otherwise? To define the rock as a rock it needs to be unchanging, the minerals can't suddenly become something else or else we're lost. (That's the great crime of the Gardener, the transformation of One Thing into Another, completely ignoring cause-and-effect, through paracausality. The first knife is the first definition/dissection/delineation?) The Witness aims to define everything now and forever, and by doing so, assign it meaning, synonymous with purpose.