#something tangibly like constant in a world that always and forever changes

[dxxtruction]

Not to psychoanalyze (Yes, to do that), but given Armand's history, his only preconception of what love is, is to view it through pure desire. Love - and more broadly accurate, his life purpose for like half a millenia - as only he's ever known it, has only been experienced through transactional wish-fulfillment fantasies, of which he was the one typically sought after to complete such an exchange. And so naturally, in his own seeking, he replicates it. Though to some degree he also replicates the fantastical existence of fictional romances to compensate.

This lack of true experience of love without desire or fantasy, making his always unfilled 'objet petit a' - his object of desire - (a partner he desires a particular love from but does not receive to his fulfillment) - the catalyst for believing there is no other form of love to be had. That he can simply love the person, and be altruistic to their personhood, without them filling a role or desire for him, just would never occur. He's egotistical and overly pragmatic towards others by the fault of formative experiences denying him his own personhood. In being groomed into the object of desire, he no longer sees anyone else but as such. It's equal parts lack of self-awareness, meaning he simply has no way to counter-reflect upon himself the way one should behave, and developed coping mechanism, either consciously or unconsciously, taking on the role of those who inflicted upon him their desires to gain a sense of control over it.

In never escaping this cycle of love as desire, he always denies himself his full person, and simultaneously denies the personhood of others.

[ooooo-mcyt]

It's also deeply fascinating how the different gimmicks or context for each season sets the tone and culture of the server during it.

Third Life was a uniquely "serious" season when it comes to the depth of the emotional weight put on things, I'd argue. It was the first season, and presumably the last. It wasn't a looping endless death game at the time, it was their only life (well, only three lives) and everyone built real roots. Kingdoms and marriages, things they wanted to genuinely protect, things they wanted to last. There was this thought that if they were to die, that would be the end. There was this thought that if they- and their allies- were to live, they could be happy together. There was this idea that they could live, that there was a world where they keep what they've earned in this place. Which isn't to say emotional stakes don't exist in later series, but Third Life is the one time where permanence and ending were both real tangible concepts to be sought after or feared, unlike now, where there's always last time and next time hovering over the players.

Last Life, on the other hand, was a season of remarkable instability. I've credited this in the past to two core mechanics within the season: the Boogeyman Curse, and the new rule that red names have to leave their teams. These two rules made teams practically impossible to keep. There was the constant fear of betrayal from the Boogeyman, and the constant knowledge that friend could turn into enemy within a second, that the only constant for you to rely on is yourself. Teams were flimsy this season, most people were fundamentally lonely, and distrust permeated most relationships. Beyond the mechanic changes, though, there's also the grief to be talked about. This was the second season, the first time they came back. And with that, came the full reality of impermanence. All their walls and castles and forts and tunnels, even the graves they dug for fallen friends, were gone now, as if they never existed. Nothing in this world is theirs to hold onto, no matter what they do. All they truly have forever is themselves. Last Life is the first time they grapple with this.

Double Life is a server I've talked about a lot because of the sheer cultural isolation promoted by its gimmick. Each player was assigned one other person who was linked to them, who they were forced to rely on for their survival, and, very quickly, an attitude formed that posed soulmate bonds as the most important- no, in some ways the only important- relationship one can have. There was an obligation to be with your soulmate and stay with them and want them and noone else. Alliances outside of soulmate pairs were flimsy, if they existed at all, as the server fell into an isolationist mindset, each soulmate pair an island. People who didn't conform to the soulmate system, people who wanted to choose their own soulmates, or who were alone, or weren't interested in soulmates, were often looked at strangely. With pity or judgment or sometimes aggression. Double Life was just deeply isolating because there was very little community. It was you and your soulmate, and everyone else is the enemy, or at least an outsider.

Limited Life, surprisingly, felt like a series with a lot of freedom. You would expect the constraint of twenty four hours to live to feel like a cage, a limitation, it's literally called Limited Life. But in practice I think you actually got the opposite feeling a lot, because lives were in hours, which meant instead of dying 3-6 times, you could hypothetically die 20+ times. Because of this, I feel like you got a lot more playing around and taking risks and petty rivalries and side storylines in this season, people being less cautious because there was less to lose with an individual death. The fact that you can gain time for killing in this series helped as well, making time feel like a renewable resource, something that's running out in theory, but that you can really just replenish, if you have the competence for it. This made people possibly even more aggressive than in past seasons too, I'd argue, because there was very real incentive to kill, because you will always gain something for it (as long as the kill is legal). This is how we ended up with winding sky paths and tnt falling from the sky every five seconds. Because people were simultaneously more aggressive and less afraid than usual.

Secret Life's another interesting one. I feel like the secret tasks had the capacity to be isolating- and in some cases they were- but I kind of feel like Secret Life had a pretty good sense of community overall, not in spite of, but in many cases because of the secret tasks. Most tasks were funny, tasks were conversation starters in a way (obviously you couldn't talk about them outright, but people would follow someone around to tease them while they're doing their task plenty), tasks typically forced people out of their bases and into going around the server where they'd inevitably talk to people, many tasks even outright involved mandatory interaction with people (often people outside your alliances). And sure, everyone had secrets they couldn't tell, but the non-red tasks (usually) weren't anything harmful, and everyone could have some kind of solidarity in the fact that they all had tasks of their own. And sure, the yellow names being able to guess tasks added some 'tension', but that gave yellow names solidarity with each other and a reason to talk amongst themselves and to the greens. I just feel like Secret Life was an especially social season because of the tasks themselves and how a lot of them mandated communication outside your own alliance.

And then there's Wild Life. This..is another season I think was pretty social, for very similar reasons to Secret Life. The Wild Cards were fun, they gave people something to bond over (because they all have to deal with the wild cards), and they'd often offer an excuse to leave your base and go around the server instead of spending whole episodes working at your own base with your preexisting alliance. People still tried to kill each other of course (particularly when there were dark greens alive to get lives from), but there was also often more focus on the wild cards than on the battle royale aspect of the game. I mean, it took shockingly long for people to even start really killing each other in the finale, I remember sitting through practically half the session and wondering how they were going to wrap it up this session because noone was killing each other for a good chunk of it. This season also had the zombies (both in the super power episode and in the finale), which I think gave some more levity, because even if you die, you're not even gone from the series, you get to pop back up and be silly for a little bit, which I think also lightened the pressure to play too intensely.

I just feel like every season had a very unique culture caused by the gimmicks and context surrounding them and that's fascinating to me.

[eliaah]

Mean It.

fluff ! <3

Will he allow himself to feel again, or will the weight of his memories forever chain him to a love that’s no longer there?

It had been four years since the day she left him, but for Fuegoleon Vermillion, the pain still felt as raw as if it had happened yesterday. The echoes of Eleanore’s laughter, the warmth of her smile—these memories haunted him, lingering like shadows in every corner of the estate. She had been a strong, kind woman, and everything to him. Her absence had left a void that seemed impossible to fill.

He stood in their once-shared bedroom, the dim light of dawn creeping through the heavy curtains. Everything remained untouched, preserved as if time had stopped the moment Eleanore took her last breath. The scent of her favorite jasmine perfume still clung to the sheets, a cruel reminder of what he had lost. His fingers traced the delicate embroidery on the pillow where her head once rested. How could he ever forget? How could he ever let go?

The weight of his grief was a constant companion, an invisible chain that held him back from the life he once knew. He had become a ghost of the man he used to be—stoic and detached, yet still a gentleman bound by the remnants of a love that was no longer tangible. His duties as a captain, his responsibilities to the kingdom, were the only things that kept him moving, kept him breathing. But even those had begun to feel like a hollow routine.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway broke the silence, drawing Fuegoleon’s attention. A new servant had recently arrived at the estate—Y/n, assigned to help manage the household and attend to his needs. Though he had reluctantly agreed to her presence, he wasn’t sure anyone could truly understand or alleviate the deep-seated sorrow within him.

As you knocked softly on the door, Fuegoleon took a deep breath, bracing himself for the interaction. He wasn’t ready to let anyone into his world of pain, least of all a new servant who couldn’t possibly grasp the depths of his loss. But as the door creaked open, and her compassionate eyes met his, something flickered in his chest—a faint spark of something he hadn’t felt in years.

But Fuegoleon quickly extinguished it. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow himself to feel again. Not when every part of him was still bound to the memory of Eleanore, a love that had been taken from him too soon.

You stepped into the room, your eyes taking in the untouched space with a mix of curiosity and sympathy.

"Good morning, Captain Vermillion." you said softly, her voice gentle yet firm as she approached. "I hope I’m not intruding.”

Fuegoleon turned to face you, his expression a carefully maintained stoic mask. Once, his face had been full of light and warmth, but now it was a stark contrast, shadowed by the loss he had endured. "Not at all. Please, come in."

You moved cautiously, your eyes occasionally drifting to the items that seemed to hold a poignant history. "I’m here to assist with managing the household and any tasks you might need help with. If there’s anything specific you need or any adjustments you’d like to make, just let me know.”

Fuegoleon nodded, though his gaze remained distant, betraying little of the internal struggle he faced. "Thank you. I’ve been managing fine, but your presence is appreciated."

You hesitated for a moment before speaking again, concern evident. "If you don’t mind me asking, how are you adjusting to the changes around here?"

Fuegoleon’s eyes, though hardened by time, momentarily softened as he spoke. "My routines have been established for years. It’s just a matter of continuing as always."

Your eyes then met his, filled with gentle empathy. "I understand this must be challenging. If there’s anything I can do to help, even just in small ways, I’m here for you.”

Fuegoleon’s gaze flickered with a hint of gratitude. "Your kindness is noted, Y/n. Even the smallest gestures can sometimes make a difference."

You then offered a reassuring smile. "Sometimes, just having someone to talk to or a helping hand can bring some comfort. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do, whether it’s practical or simply being a listening ear."

Fuegoleon looked at you with a softened expression, a rare moment of vulnerability showing through his usual stoicism. "Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind."

As you began to organize the room, Fuegoleon watched you with a mixture of curiosity and reluctant hope. Your presence, though new, seemed to bring a subtle shift in the atmosphere. He wasn’t ready to fully embrace it, but he couldn’t deny the small comfort it provided.

Fuegoleon arrived home after another grueling day, the weight of exhaustion evident in his every step. The manor, usually a sanctuary of order and control, seemed oddly serene tonight. As he made his way through the hallways, he couldn’t help but notice how impeccably clean everything was. The place was immaculate, a stark contrast to the usual disarray.

When he entered the sitting room, Fuegoleon’s tired eyes fell upon a surprising sight, Y/n, the new servant, was asleep on the couch. You were curled up under a modest blanket, a picture of serene rest amidst the orderly surroundings. The soft light from the lamp cast a gentle glow on your face, highlighting your peaceful expression.

For a moment, Fuegoleon just stood there, taken aback by the scene. He had been expecting the quiet solitude of his usual evenings, not this unexpected comfort. The sight of you, asleep and seemingly at ease, struck a chord within him.

He approached quietly, not wanting to disturb you. The blanket you had wrapped around yourself looked cozy and inviting, a stark contrast to the cold, impersonal atmosphere he had been surrounded by all day. Fuegoleon’s gaze softened as he took in the sight of you—an ordinary moment of care that somehow made the weight of his responsibilities seem a little lighter.

Gently, he placed a blanket over you, ensuring you stayed warm. He hesitated for a moment, feeling a pang of gratitude for the quiet kindness you had shown, even in your rest. Fuegoleon took a final look before quietly turning to leave, a small but significant reminder of solace amidst his often overwhelming duties.

In the days following that unexpected evening, Fuegoleon found himself increasingly aware of your presence. Despite his initial resolve to keep his distance, he couldn’t help but notice the small ways you had begun to impact his life. Each morning, you went above and beyond, ensuring the manor was in perfect order and finding subtle ways to offer comfort.

The day had been long and taxing, leaving Fuegoleon feeling drained. As he entered the manor, he was greeted by the usual calm, the sense of order you had brought to the place evident in every corner.

He spotted you in the hallway, organizing some documents with meticulous care. Despite your focused demeanor, you looked up and offered a polite smile when you noticed him. Fuegoleon nodded in return, though his attention was drawn to a small detail that he hadn’t noticed before—your worn shoes.

Later that afternoon, as Fuegoleon made his way to his study, he took a brief detour to the manor’s storage room. He emerged carrying a pair of neatly wrapped, high-quality shoes. He approached you, who was now sorting through a stack of papers.

“Y/n,” he said, trying to sound casual, “I noticed your shoes were looking quite worn. I thought you might appreciate these.” He extended the package towards you.You looked up, a bit taken aback by the unexpected gesture. “Oh, you didn’t need to…”

Fuegoleon cut you off gently. “It’s no trouble. Just a small token of appreciation for your hard work.”

You accepted the package with a soft smile, touched by the thoughtfulness. As you unwrapped the shoes, you noticed how well-made they were—far nicer than what you had been wearing.

Later, Fuegoleon was passing by the kitchen and saw you getting a drink. He paused, noticing how you seemed to be winding down after a long day. He quickly picked up a thermos filled with a comforting herbal tea he had asked the kitchen staff to prepare earlier. He approached you and handed it over.

“You seemed to be working hard today,” he said simply. “Thought you might like something warm.”

You took the thermos with a grateful nod, your eyes reflecting a mix of surprise and appreciation. “Thank you, Captain.”

Fuegoleon nodded, feeling a slight warmth from your gratitude. He offered a brief smile before returning to his tasks, but a part of him lingered on the small interactions.

He felt a mixture of anxiety and uncertainty about the changes in his heart. The kindness he showed you was more than mere courtesy—it was genuine, and it was starting to challenge the walls he had carefully built around himself.

As he turned away, he couldn’t help but question his own motivations. Was it possible that he was opening himself up to something new? And if so, was he ready to confront what that might mean for him and for you?

Days turned into weeks, and Fuegoleon’s small acts of kindness had become a routine. Each day, he found new, subtle ways to show his appreciation for your hard work, though he began to do so almost without thinking.

One morning, as you arrived at the manor, you found a neatly wrapped bundle of fresh, homemade muffins waiting on your work desk.

Alongside them was a small note that simply read, “Y/n, here, thought you might like these.”

As you continued your tasks, Fuegoleon made sure to check in occasionally. Whether it was a warm drink on a particularly chilly afternoon or a freshly sharpened quill for your writing, his gestures became a regular part of your daily routine.Another day, you found a new set of organizing tools placed neatly on your desk.

Fuegoleon approached you, offering a familiar line, “Y/n, here, thought these might help with your tasks.”

On yet another occasion, after a long day, you discovered a cozy blanket draped over your chair in the sitting room, accompanied by a thermos of your favorite tea. Fuegoleon stopped by with his customary line, “Y/n, here, thought you might enjoy this.”

Despite the repeated nature of his gestures, each act was genuinely thoughtful and considerate. Fuegoleon had become so accustomed to these small acts that they seemed to flow naturally into his routine. Yet, as each day passed, he found himself pondering the growing significance of these actions. The line he repeated with each gesture had started to feel like more than just a phrase; it was a reflection of his evolving feelings and the quiet comfort you brought into his life.

Fuegoleon’s small acts of kindness had become an integral part of your days, though he often wondered about the deeper implications of his own behavior. The routine had become so automatic that it sometimes felt like a part of his own daily rhythm, making him question whether he was simply maintaining a habit or if there was something more meaningful unfolding between you.

That night, Fuegoleon lay in bed, the room dimly lit by the soft glow of a single bedside lamp. The day’s fatigue had settled into his bones, but his mind was restless, turning over the events of the past few weeks.

He stared up at the ceiling, his thoughts swirling around the routine acts of kindness he had become accustomed to. The muffins, the organizing tools, the warm drinks—all seemed like small, friendly gestures, but they had become more frequent and instinctive. Fuegoleon couldn’t shake the feeling that something deeper was at play.

He thought about you, Y/n—your smile, the way you accepted his gestures with quiet appreciation. He replayed moments in his mind, the surprise in your eyes when you found the muffins, the genuine gratitude when he brought you tea. Each memory stirred something within him, and he felt his heartbeat quicken, an unfamiliar flutter in his chest.

Fuegoleon turned onto his side, trying to dismiss the rising unease. “This is just mutual.” he told himself. “Just friendly acts.” Yet, despite his attempts to rationalize, a nagging thought persisted. His actions and thoughts were no longer just about courtesy, they had begun to affect him more profoundly than he had anticipated.

The weight of his past began to press heavily on him, and he was overwhelmed by a wave of certainty. “I would never love anyone again except Eleanore.” he thought resolutely. The memory of her, strong and kind, was a constant presence in his heart. The walls he had built around himself felt impenetrable, meant to guard him from anything that could rival what he had lost.

Fuegoleon closed his eyes, struggling with the conflict within. He was torn between the growing affection he felt and the conviction that no one could ever take Eleanore’s place. He laid there, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the warmth he felt when he thought of you, trying to reconcile his feelings with the promises he had made to himself.

As sleep began to overtake him, Fuegoleon’s last thoughts were a mix of confusion and resolve. He was convinced that his growing feelings were merely a consequence of the routine he had established. The idea of loving someone again seemed both impossible and undesirable, overshadowed by the memory of Eleanore.

The next day came and Fuegoleon returned home at midnight was marked by an unusual quietness, the manor draped in darkness except for a faint light coming from the kitchen. His senses were on high alert as he noticed the odd noises—clinking sounds and muted thuds.

Drawing his grimoire instinctively, Fuegoleon moved cautiously toward the source of the disturbance. He opened the kitchen door, flipping on the light switch with a swift motion. The sudden brightness revealed a scene that was both surprising and slightly chaotic.

There you were, stumbling around the kitchen with a bottle in hand. Your movements were unsteady, and you seemed disoriented. The counter was cluttered with a few overturned glasses and a spilled bottle of tequila.Fuegoleon’s eyes widened as he took in the scene. “Y/n?” he said, his voice filled with concern and confusion. “What’s going on?”

You turned to him with a dazed expression, your eyes struggling to focus. “Captain? Oh, I’m sorry,” you mumbled, swaying slightly. “But, what is tequila?”

Fuegoleon’s initial shock faded into a mixture of concern and amusement. He moved quickly to steady you, gently taking the bottle from your hand.

“It seems you’ve had quite a bit too much,” he said, guiding you to a nearby chair. “Tequila is a strong alcoholic drink. It’s not something you should consume without knowing its effects.”

You sat down with a sigh, trying to make sense of the situation. “I didn’t know... I thought it was just something sweet.” you slurred, still trying to piece together the evening.

Fuegoleon’s gaze softened as he observed your state. He grabbed a glass of water and a small plate of snacks from the counter, placing them in front of you. “Drink this and eat something.” he instructed gently. “It’ll help with the effects of the alcohol.”

As you began to drink and nibble on the snacks, Fuegoleon stayed close, ensuring you were okay. The sight of you, vulnerable and somewhat embarrassed, softened his usual stoic demeanor.

He couldn’t help but feel a pang of empathy for you. Despite his own struggles and reservations, seeing you in this state made him realize how important it was to offer care and support.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Fuegoleon said softly after a while, helping you up. “You should rest.”

As he guided you out of the kitchen, he felt a sense of responsibility and protectiveness he hadn’t fully acknowledged before. The earlier internal conflict about his feelings seemed to shift into a more immediate concern for your well-being. Fuegoleon knew he needed to navigate this situation with care, balancing his own emotions with the practical need to ensure you were safe and comfortable.

Fuegoleon guided you carefully up the stairs, your steps uneven as you clung to the railing for support. The quiet of the manor seemed more pronounced in the stillness of the night, broken only by your unsteady footsteps and occasional mutterings.

As you reached the landing, you looked up at Fuegoleon with a hazy, apologetic expression. “I’m sorry.” you slurred, your voice tinged with worry. “Are you mad?”

Fuegoleon paused, his tone soft and reassuring. “No, I’m not mad. It’s alright. You just need to rest.” You blinked at him, clearly struggling to process his words. “But, I don’t believe you.” you said, the slur in your speech making your words less coherent. “Are you sure you’re not mad? I’m sorry…”

Fuegoleon felt a pang of sadness at your repeated concern. He stopped and looked at you, his expression a mix of empathy and mild frustration. “I’m really not mad,” he said more firmly, but gently. “It’s okay. You’ve had a bit too much to drink, that’s all.”

But you seemed unconvinced, your gaze wavering as you clung to the railing. “I don’t believe you.” you repeated, your voice wavering with a mix of fear and insecurity. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

Fuegoleon sighed softly, his concern deepening. He reached out and placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his touch steady and warm. “Y/n,” he said, his voice calm and earnest, “I promise, I’m not mad. You’re safe. I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

You looked up at him, your eyes searching his face for any sign of anger. Seeing none, your expression slowly softened, though you still seemed a bit uncertain. Fuegoleon’s gentle demeanor and sincere words eventually helped you start to relax.

Fuegoleon continued guiding you up the stairs, his hand steady on your back. As you reached the landing, your earlier question resurfaced with a hint of desperation.

“I’m sorry,” you slurred once more, looking up at him with a pleading gaze. “Are you mad?”

Fuegoleon’s patience was wearing thin, though his concern for you remained strong. He stopped and turned to face you, trying to maintain his composure. “I’m really not mad,” he said gently, but firmly. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

The repetition of your concern was wearing on him, and he felt a surge of emotion. Without fully thinking, Fuegoleon’s gaze softened, and he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. His lips lingered for a brief moment, a tender gesture of comfort and assurance.

“You believe me now?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Fuegoleon carefully helped you lay down on your bed, ensuring you were comfortable and settled. You were already starting to drift into a more peaceful sleep, the effects of the tequila slowly fading. He adjusted the blanket over you and took one last look to make sure you were alright.

As he quietly left your room, he tried to process the evening’s events. The kiss on your forehead had been an impulsive gesture, born out of a moment of deep concern and affection. Fuegoleon walked down the hallway, his mind racing with the weight of what he had just done.

Stopping in the quiet of the hallway, he placed a hand on his forehead, feeling his face flush with heat. “How come I just did that?” he muttered to himself, his voice a mix of confusion and embarrassment. The kiss had been a tender, intimate act that he hadn’t anticipated, and it left him feeling unsettled.

Fuegoleon leaned against the wall, closing his eyes as he tried to calm his racing thoughts. The warmth of the kiss, the gentle reassurance—it all seemed to echo in his mind, leaving him with a growing realization of his feelings. His usual stoic demeanor was challenged by the sudden, emotional turbulence he felt.

The night’s events had blurred the lines between duty and personal emotion, and Fuegoleon found himself grappling with the new, unexpected feelings that had surfaced. As he composed himself and headed back to his study, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the kiss had changed something between you and him, and he was left questioning what it meant for both of your futures.

The next morning, Fuegoleon moved through the halls of the manor with his usual composure, but the events of the previous night weighed heavily on his mind. He was deep in thought when he spotted you approaching from the opposite direction, looking a bit groggy but otherwise cheerful.

“Good morning, Captain!” you greeted, your voice carrying a warm, friendly tone.

Fuegoleon nodded in response, a slight, somewhat distracted smile on his face. As you drew closer, you hesitated for a moment before speaking again.

“Captain.” you said, pausing to catch his attention. “I don’t know if I’m right, but… did you kiss me on the forehead last night?”

Fuegoleon’s heart skipped a beat, and he quickly masked his surprise with a neutral expression. He forced a calm demeanor as he responded. “I don’t recall doing that.” he said smoothly, trying to sound casual. “Perhaps you were dreaming or mistaken.”

You looked at him with a hint of confusion, still unable to fully piece together the fragmented memories of the previous night. “Oh.” you said, though you still seemed uncertain. “I must have been mistaken. I remember feeling something, but it’s all a bit fuzzy.”

Fuegoleon offered a reassuring smile, hoping to ease your doubts. “It’s alright. You were a bit disoriented last night, so it’s understandable that things might be unclear.”

You nodded, accepting his explanation, though you couldn’t shake a lingering sense of curiosity and unease. “Thank you, Captain. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t imagining things.”

Fuegoleon watched you walk away, his own mind racing with a mix of relief and frustration. The lie had come easily, but it left him with an unsettling feeling. He knew he had to navigate his feelings carefully, but lying about the kiss only deepened his internal conflict.

As he continued his day, Fuegoleon couldn’t help but reflect on the moment of intimacy and his decision to deny it. The kiss had been a genuine expression of care, but his reluctance to acknowledge it made him question how he could reconcile his actions with his own sense of duty and personal boundaries.

It was a calm Sunday morning when Fuegoleon approached you in the manor’s garden. The early light filtered through the trees, casting a gentle glow over the landscape. You were busy tending to some plants when he walked up, a casual yet purposeful look on his face.

“Good morning, Y/n,” Fuegoleon greeted, his tone warm and inviting. “I was wondering if you’d be interested in joining me for church this morning. Afterward, I thought we could have a picnic nearby.”

You looked up, surprised by the unexpected invitation. “Church and a picnic?” you asked, your brows raised in curiosity. “That’s quite a change from our usual routines. Why the sudden offer?”

Fuegoleon’s expression remained composed as he searched for a suitable explanation. “It’s just that... I’ve been reflecting on some things lately.” he said, trying to sound casual. “I thought it might be nice to start the day with some quiet reflection at church. And a picnic would be a pleasant way to enjoy the rest of the day and unwind. It’s a good opportunity to get some fresh air and take a break from our usual tasks.”

You nodded, still a bit puzzled but intrigued by the offer. “That sounds nice.” you said with a small smile. “I’d like to join you.”

Fuegoleon returned your smile, feeling a sense of relief that you accepted. “Great. I’ll meet you at the church in about an hour. We can head to the picnic spot afterward.”

As he walked away, he couldn’t help but feel a mix of nervousness and anticipation. The invitation was intended to be a gesture of kindness and an opportunity to spend time together outside of the usual context, but it also marked a shift in his own feelings and intentions.

Fuegoleon hoped that the day would offer both of you a chance to connect more deeply and perhaps provide him with some clarity about his evolving emotions.

After the serene visit to the church, Fuegoleon and you made your way to a beautiful park for the picnic. The sun was shining brightly, casting a warm glow over the green expanse where you laid out a blanket and began to unpack the food.

You were quickly drawn to a group of pigeons pecking at crumbs nearby, and you found yourself engrossed in feeding them. Fuegoleon sat on the blanket, observing you with a soft smile, his gaze filled with affection as he watched you interact with the birds.

As you fed the pigeons, you noticed a group of people riding bicycles past the park. Your attention was captured by a bicycle stand nearby, and you couldn’t help but glance at it with interest.

Fuegoleon noticed your gaze and, sensing your curiosity, approached with a friendly offer. “I see you’re interested in those bicycles. Would you like to give it a try?”

You looked at him, a bit hesitant. “Oh, it’s kind of you to offer, but I don’t really have time for that today. Plus, I’m not sure if I should…”

Fuegoleon smiled and shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s on me. You don’t have to concern yourself with your salary or anything like that. Just enjoy the moment.”

You hesitated for a moment longer, but Fuegoleon’s insistence and kind demeanor made it hard to refuse. “Are you sure?” you asked, your tone a mix of surprise and appreciation.

Fuegoleon nodded reassuringly. “Absolutely. It’s a small thing, but I thought it would be a nice way to make the day more enjoyable.”

Seeing the genuine interest in his offer and the thoughtfulness behind it, you finally agreed. “Alright then, let’s do it.”

Fuegoleon’s smile widened as he led you to the bicycle stand, his hand lightly guiding you. As you picked out a bicycle and started to ride, Fuegoleon watched with a mixture of satisfaction and affection. The sight of you enjoying yourself and the carefree joy on your face added a new layer to the day’s experience.

As you both rode around the park, laughing and chatting, Fuegoleon felt a growing sense of contentment. The simple pleasure of spending time together and seeing you happy made the day feel special and memorable, reinforcing the connection he was beginning to cherish more deeply.

As you rode the bicycle in front of Fuegoleon, the breeze tousled your hair and the sound of your joyful laughter filled the air. You pedaled with enthusiasm, your face lit up with a carefree happiness that was contagious. Fuegoleon followed behind on his own bicycle, his gaze fixed on you as he observed your exuberance.

Your laughter and the sheer delight of the experience—riding a bike for the first time, taking in the beauty of the park, and enjoying the day’s activities—struck a chord with Fuegoleon. He realized this was likely your first time experiencing such moments of joy and freedom, from seeing a grand church to participating in a simple, yet special picnic.

Fuegoleon’s heart softened as he took in the scene. The sight of you, so happy and unburdened, made him reflect on the present and the possibilities of the future. He found himself smiling, a genuine, heartfelt smile that had become increasingly rare since Eleanore’s passing.

As he watched you enjoy the ride, Fuegoleon’s thoughts drifted to Eleanore. He wondered if it was okay to feel this way, to care for someone new, and to find happiness again. The question lingered in his mind as he pedaled slowly, keeping a watchful yet affectionate eye on you.

“Can i, Eleanore?” Fuegoleon thought, his internal struggle evident. “Can i finally open my heart once again for someone else?”

The question was both poignant and hopeful, reflecting his deep-seated conflict between holding onto the past and embracing the potential of a new future. Fuegoleon knew that while Eleanore would always hold a special place in his heart, the connection he was developing with you was something he needed to explore and understand.

As you both continued to ride through the park, Fuegoleon allowed himself to savor the moment and the feelings it evoked. It was a small step toward healing, a tentative embrace of the possibility of moving forward, and the beginning of something that could be meaningful and profound.

As the bicycle ride came to a gentle end, you dismounted with a beaming smile, your happiness evident in every part of you. Fuegoleon watched you, his heart full as he took in your joy.

“Thank you for everything, Captain.” you said warmly. “I feel so special.”

Fuegoleon’s eyes softened, a tender smile playing on his lips. “You are special,” he replied, his voice filled with sincerity. He hesitated for a moment, then continued, his tone growing more earnest.

“Spending this day with you has made me realize something important. Your presence, your laughter, the way you bring light into the simplest moments—it’s been a revelation to me. I’ve been holding onto the past, but being with you has shown me how precious the present can be.”

He took a deep breath, gathering his courage. “I’ve grown to care about you deeply, Y/n. More than I ever expected. And as much as I cherish our time together, I find myself wanting something more. I want to know if you might feel the same way. If you’re open to exploring what we could be together… beyond just today.”

Fuegoleon’s heart raced as he spoke, his gaze steady and full of hope. He looked at you with a mixture of vulnerability and affection, waiting for your response.

You looked at him, your eyes wide with a mix of surprise and emotion. The sincerity in his voice and the warmth of his words made your heart flutter. You felt a deep sense of joy and anticipation.

“I… I didn’t expect this.” you said softly, your voice filled with emotion. “But hearing you say that, and knowing how you truly feel, it means so much to me. I’ve enjoyed every moment we’ve spent together, and I’d love to see where this could go.”

Fuegoleon’s face lit up with relief and happiness, his smile broadening as he reached out to gently take your hand. “Really? You’re willing to explore this with me?”

You nodded, your eyes sparkling. “Yes, Captain. I’d like that very much.”

Fuegoleon’s heart swelled with joy as he took a step closer to you. Without thinking, he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. The kiss was gentle yet filled with all the emotion he had been holding back. When he pulled away, his expression was filled with a mix of affection and hope.

“Thank you, Y/n,” he said softly, his voice brimming with sincerity. “I’m excited to see where this journey takes us.”

You felt a rush of warmth from the kiss, a sweet confirmation of his feelings. As you looked into his eyes, the connection between you felt even stronger, filled with the promise of new beginnings and shared dreams.

A/N: hello! idk if people are actually reading these because my fics are kinda really long.

this was originally a fluff, which turned into angst, the angst is not here yet because this story is so long, i'm sorry 😭

i'm not really good at writing fluffs so there will be another part coming after this. i just decided to cut it off here since it's getting pretty long.

like i said, this part was cut off so this is just the beginning of the story.

the next part will be uploaded a little early or very late, it depends on what time i'll wake up!

[rantsofamadam]

New Year Thoughts (24-25)

The only accurate way to describe this year, is 366 days of non-stop change. Expected or unexpected, something new was formed, created, or or occurred each day.

Very little breaks or space to breathe, one event after the other, again, and again, and again. This was not a year of rest, 2024.

You were always in the back of my mind. Like a child in December, with Christmas constantly creeping into their thoughts. Holding to hope so tightly in their tiny fists, and letting it all come and go as the holiday passes.

There’s always joy with Christmas, of course. But waking up the next morning comes with a sort of empty disappointment. All that could have been the magic of Christmas, was. The hope has diminished, and next year is now forever away.

All what could have been 2024, was. The hope has diminished- but I don’t feel as empty this year as I have other December 31st’s. Yes next year is forever away but I am not anxious to reach it from where I am.

I needed this year. I needed forceful change, a reason to become the person I’ve wanted to be, and come to the conclusion I am strong and able to persevere on my own.

I have never been without the routine of school, friendships and constant people. Support, reassurance, taking on my self-casted therapist friend role and blending into the background to avoid bothering the rest of this busy world.

What an exercise it was, letting all of that become stripped from me this past year with the nature of time and growth- as well as my own choice.

My hair reached my shoulders as my confidence and willingness expanded as well. 2024 was going to change me no matter what I did- so I might as well control what I can to change with it.

In this current moment where my thoughts are jumbled and self-hate is high, I forget how far I’ve come. I don’t dread the new year anymore, I enjoy grieving what will never be again and reflecting on every new step I made to become who I am now. I have a beating heart, for a start. I did so much more than I ever thought I could.

I stage managed a show, I read an original poem in front of my entire senior class, I turned eighteen, I graduated high school, I won awards in my school art show and literary fest, I broke up with a long-term partner, I discovered my dad had cancer, I published a poetry book, I received two spinal surgeries, I met my current boyfriend and best friend, I grew into my own confidence, style, and creativity- I took action, I tried things, I broke sometimes and got back up again on my own-

I did so many “impossible” tasks this year and more. This is only the beginning.

2024 is not a year of endings, it is a year of beginnings. A year of change, transitions, milestones to begin a new era of life.

There is a bitter sweetness to it. As I reflect on my kindergarten school ID with the words “class of 2024” before I could read or had any concept of how years worked. “2024 is forever away,” almost as if it wasn’t tangible or real for my childhood self, nowhere I could see myself being. 2024 felt like a fantasy, a dystopian dream, something to worry about in the future, light years down the line from kindergarten.

Here I am. A legal adult, alive and breathing, years away from kindergarten with the ability to read and draw better than 5 year old me could ever comprehend. She would like me, she would think I am so cool, and proud of me for drawing, writing and loving what I love just like she always wanted for me.

2024 never felt real for her, it barely feels real for me now, yet here it is, coming to an end. A lost kindergarten ID, a graduation cap behind me, fulfilling my childhood dream of growing in confidence which happens to be mine now as well.

I have a tendency to self depreciate, but I think I will choose this moment to thank myself, for all I’ve tried and accomplished. There are times when credit is due, and I’m claiming this to be one of those times.

I’ve grown so much, I’ve changed, I’ve succeeded, yet this is far from the end.

If you are reading this, you’ve grown so much, you’ve changed, you’ve succeeded and this is far, far from your ending. Thank you so much for being here. For staying. For surviving this eventful year of change and letting your heart remain beating long enough to see the beginning of what this next year could be.

I had hopes, expectations, ideals for 2024. Some came true, some did not, some I forgot about. 2025 is a blank slate. All I know for certain is I am going to stay here through it, embrace every event and step out of my comfort zone just a little more. So maybe I can look back one year from now and thank myself again. If not for growing, then simply surviving. Being. Staying.

Thank you 2024, for all I hoped you would be, all you were and all you weren’t.

And thank you, each one of you, for surviving, being, staying through it all. <3 I’m so proud of you, and I hope we remain in touch through whatever 2025 may bring for each of us.

- C.Joy. (2024)

[comflexxed]

june had never really been afraid of words. he had always known how to wield them, to turn them into something meaningful, something tangible. but as he stood before hans, watching the way the sunlight caught the tears that welled in his husband’s eyes, listening to the promises spoken with unwavering devotion, june found himself struggling to breathe around the sheer weight of his love.

hans had always been careful with his emotions, but today, they spilled freely between them, as if his heart could no longer contain them all. and june felt them in every breath, every look, every tear-stained word.

for a long moment, he could only stare, taking hans in, memorizing him as he was in this moment — his voice shaking, his lips curling into a smile even as his eyes glistened, his entire being radiating love.

it was overwhelming, and yet, it was the easiest thing in the world.

he swallowed against the lump in his throat, fingers tightening ever so slightly around hans’s hands. his vows were tucked safely in his pocket, but he didn’t reach for them — not yet. instead, he took a breath, and then, with all the love he held in his chest, he began to speak. “hans,” he said, voice soft, balanced despite the tears threatening to form, “i think i’ve been waiting my whole life for you.” he could feel his pulse in his fingertips, where their hands met, in the way his heart beat out a rhythm only hans could ever understand.

i didn’t always know what love was supposed to feel like. i didn’t understand why people made promises they couldn’t keep, why they spoke of love as if it was something fleeting, something that could disappear when the seasons changed. but then i met you. and suddenly, love wasn’t some distant, unattainable thing. it wasn’t a word without meaning. love was you. love was in the way you looked at me like i was something worth holding on to. it was in the way you reached for my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. it was in every quiet moment, every whispered word, every dream we’ve shared together. love wasn’t a feeling. it was a person. it was you.

he exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing over the back of hans’s hand, grounding himself in his touch.

i have loved you in so many ways, hans. in the way i watch you tend to the flowers, as if your hands were made to bring things to life. in the way you hold our little family together with so much care, so much patience, as if you were always meant to. in the way you stand beside me, even when i’m too stubborn to ask. and i will love you in all the ways i have yet to. in the quiet mornings, when the world is still waking up. in the moments of uncertainty, when you need someone to remind you of who you are. in the years to come, as we grow old together, as our hands wrinkle but still find each other in the dark. so today, i vow to you what my heart has already promised a thousand times before. i vow to always stand beside you, even when the path ahead is unclear. i vow to be your home, your safety, your constant, just as you are mine. i vow to keep growing with you, to keep learning with you, to keep loving you in every way that i can. and above all, i vow to choose you — over and over, in this life and in the next, in every lifetime we are given. because you are my love, my light, my forever. and i will always be yours.

june let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his vision blurred now with the weight of his own tears. and then he smiled, just for hans, just for this moment.

the ceremony hadn’t started, but as hans looked into june’s eyes, it was like they were having a ceremony of their own. there in that quiet moment shared between the two of them, they had already spoken their love, bound their souls together, and became inseparable before they could even reach the dais. 

his smile was that of assurance, with no trace of worry for what could go wrong—just that calmness within him that told him june’s presence was all he needed. “let’s go get married,” he echoed, and finally, his feet moved. 

their walk to the dais felt like a glide to the ocean, the sand beneath them shaping around each footfall, immortalizing the steps they took to get to the altar. seagulls sang with the gentle waves for their procession music, and jinx and scooter trailed behind, not quite cognizant but joining in the solemn moment. hans never let go of june’s hand—the hand that always kept him steady. the hand that he would soon adorn with their wedding band.

as they reached their destination, the flowers welcoming them with the sweet scent of life they had started for themselves, hans turned to face june with a deep inhale. “this is it,” he whispered, lifting his hand to cup june’s cheek as the first tear fell from his eyes. he chuckled, knowing he’d be the first to cry on this day, but still being surprised at how such happiness could overflow so quickly. 

he brought his hand down only so he could reach for the piece of paper he had been carrying with him everywhere, his vows scribbled in neat handwriting but with tear marks all over. he smiled at june, a gentle smile, and he took a deep breath before reading through his vows. 

they say souls wander the earth after we pass, waiting to be reborn into our new life. my darling june, i think my soul did not do a lot of wandering. i think it always knew where it wanted to be reborn and went straight for it—because it is wherever you would be born in, so that we can be together again as two pieces of the same soul.  i have always thought that there was nothing waiting for me in this life, until you came along and taught me what living was like--what truly being alive felt like. it was not going through the motions of waking up and sleeping; it was experiencing all the joys, all the pain, all the love that made our hearts grow fonder of each other. you taught me how beautiful the world could be, even if we had so little. you taught me that nightmares made appreciating good dreams possible. and you, my love, you showed me that life could always grow where there is someone to nurture it.  you always saw my decisiveness as a good thing. you always saw my daydreaming as a foundation for our reality. you always made me feel strong when i thought i was helpless. and today, i vow to continue to dream with you about the life we will have, and to turn it into reality day by day. i vow to be a strong foundation when it’s your turn to feel weak. i vow to never waver, to always turn to you, my best friend and protector, to be my guiding light. and in turn, be yours.  i vow to be with you in this life and the next, and to always fill your days with adventure, love, and support. i will always see you in every little plant we grow, in every wave that crashes to the shore, in every ray of sunshine hiding behind the clouds. you are the other half of me, and i vow to never leave your side now and forever. 

hans’ eyes were misty with tears as he finished, his hand still shaking as he returned the piece of paper in his pockets. all he could see was june, and as it always will be, he was the only one that mattered. 

[alyssainalaska]

Dry Cabin Living

Hi it's me,

I've been iced into my cabin from winter rains turning to mirror-slick ice on the roadways. Most everyone has been cleared out, but my road is one of the last holdouts until it can be graveled and sanded and made passable again.

That being said, I've had a LOT of free time at home this week.

I live in a dry cabin here in the interior. It's a pretty common way of living in Alaska, and you can find and build them with all different levels of amenities. Some are powered by generator and heated by woodstove, some are on the electrical grid but not wired for internet, and some are just bare bones, woodstove heat, no electric or water.

Mine is pretty luxurious comparatively. I'm not "roughing it" by any means. I have electricity and an oil-drip heater, so I don't have to keep a constant fire going. I have 3 pets, so I want to be sure my house is always warm when I'm not there, and if I'm away from home for awhile, I want to know all my things didn't freeze. -30 is not a good temperature for most electronics.

It's a two-story cabin with a full kitchen, a living room, a loft bedroom space, and a front room that I use as a gear room, dog room, and extra closet. The only thing missing is running water!

I use an outhouse beside my cabin to use the restroom, and really it's not as bad as you'd imagine. The "seat" is foam insulation, so your bootybutt doesn't get cold. You're warmed a second time when you burn your toilet paper in the burn bucket (I know. I know. I was horrified too. But it's kind of nice.).

For cooking, cleaning, drinking, and pets, I haul 14gal of water in 7gal jugs from town. It typically lasts me a week to two weeks unless I try to get funky and do laundry or something. We have these water fill stations that operate like gas pumps, except water comes out. It's something like 3c a gallon. Last winter I had two 5gal jugs-- I had to fill more but they were much more manageable for my weak little arms.

The shower situation is definitely one of the bigger adjustments to dry cabin living. There's a singular public shower about 3mi from my house at the general store, where there's also a laundromat, a weed dispensary, and a bar. What more could you need? Despite the local amenities, I normally drive into town and shower at a very kind friend's place.

Dishes in a dry cabin are the absolute bane of my existence. Never in my life will I complain about emptying the dishwasher ever again. Everyone has a different system; I normally use a two-basin approach-- one with hot, soapy water, and the other with clean water for rinsing. When the clean water gets too soapy, I dump the first basin and fill it with clear water and swap them. It takes forever and my motivation to take care of my dishes is usually gone before I even get the water warmed up on the stove. The process irks me.

Laundry is kind of fun. I take my big items to the laundromat, but a friend of mine generously gifted me a "camper washing machine" this summer that has changed the game for me. I use it for the bottom layer of my clothes that have to be washed more often-- base layers, socks, and undies. It does use a few gallons of water so I have to be prepared for that, but one compartment washes and the other spins the clothes "dry." Obviously they don't come out of there like the Arizona desert, but I am impressed with how dry they get and simply hang everything near my heater until it dries. Last winter I had to go to the laundromat once a week.

I've really enjoyed dry cabin life. It forces me to engage my brain more and plan in advance. I feel like we get trapped in Wall-E world so often, with everything just right there in front of us, that we don't engage our minds in our lives much. It's been a nice grounding couple of years for me. I'm much less wasteful, give my day-to-day a bit more forethought. It's nice. It's teaching me how to take care of myself in a more tangible way.

[civildisorderstream]

Feeling Alive

Last week I almost let myself lose. I was almost done, completely forgotten and ineffectual on the world.

There's a constant in my life and it's something I've been actively aware of only for the past ten years or so. To get right to it, the only times I feel truly alive and have a lust for life are the times where I am confronting an adversary. It's easiest when it is direct, like the bullies I faced when I was a child. The more difficult conjuration is the abstract enemy, like capitalism, or general asshole behavior perpetuated by the internet. Cruelty, that sort of thing.

Just now, I had an epiphany. The straw that broke the camel's back and almost had me end my life, I have just now realized a manner in which it is an adversary. To 'defeat,' too dramatic, and my feelings about that situation don't run that deep.

But to get back at?

I want it. I yearn for it. I am NOT backing down until I get what I now realize is an owed apology. It's too soon to ask for such, even if I had the means right at this moment. It will take time and resources and a platform to be in a position to demand it, but it will be worth it. Not only for its own sake, but those abstract things I've stood against my whole life, I'll be better equipped for it to take it all on.

I live to spite things. Terrible things and terrible people. I wish I could live for myself, I wish I could life out of a sense of love.

The fact of the matter is, I will always be incompatible with others. Friendships and belonging in communities, it's all a luxury I will never have. But as long as I have something to fight against, to yell about, what the hell do I care? I said at the start that I almost let myself lose. Over the years, I have been scolded, rejected, lost in very tangible manners that include near homelessness. None of those consequences has resulted in me changing. I know in my heart what is right to stand for and the only person that could ever take that away is myself.

I almost lost to myself. What a foolish goddamn thing.

I'll stay out of peoples' lives for their sake, and I don't deny what was said of me being abusive. I may not mean it, but that doesn't matter, because it's something I fall into doing and it's still a wrong I end up doing to others. So distance is the best shield for them and me.

But this whole arrangement can only work out if one thing is granted to me: that they, be it you the reader or people I've known in the past (fleeting or personally close) don't stand in the way of my fight against the awful hate and power structures in our society.

No, it isn't something I do alone, and I've been such a quiet voice in lending mine to others who do the same. But all those people, the advocates you all know, the famous people who occasionally throw their power into these fights, they all can do it from a place of love and can speak with voices that move and motivate people.

I am incapable of that. And the big takeaway I have from last week is that realization. But in having that realization, I can now focus on my strengths. For as unappealing a person I am in a general sense, there have been times I have helped people. I have kept people from attempting what I tried to do to myself last week. I have motivated people to stand up to their bosses or abusive work environments and make change, even if it was just in one single location for place of employment. But damn it, it was change, and it was worth it.

More importantly, I have been thanked for these things and people have had happier lives for it. Even if over the course of time I'm not there to be a part of theirs anymore.

That makes it worth it. I don't need the approval of people who sit on the sidelines who pearl clutch about decorum.

I. Am. Alive.

EDITED ADDENDUM: To speak plainly; I am vocally aggressive. It's incompatible with communities where things are meant to be chill and forever hide away from the troubles of the world. I tried to change, and I failed, so those places aren't for me. On another point, my behavior - while resulting in reprimands over the years - has also yielded approval (even from authority figures in any given situation). Sometimes people gaslight me on having mental health problems with their armchair diagnosing being based on my views (workers should be paid better, LGBTQ rights, etc). Those people will forever be wrong, even if they're telling me about "time and place" for that stuff. It is ALWAYS the time and place to say people should be treated right and trying to stifle that means YOU are the problem, NOT ME.

[momthesearemydinnerguests]

TVL Liveblog Update / IWTV Meta

"And his naivete conquered me always, his strange bourgeois faith that God was still God even if he turned his back on us, that salvation and damnation established the boundaries of a small and hopeless world.

"Louis was a sufferer, a thing that loved mortals even more than I did. And I wondered sometimes if I didn't look to Louis to punish me for what happened to Nikki, if I didn't create Louis to be my conscience and to mete out year in and year out the penance I felt I deserved."

-Anne Rice, The Vampire Lestat, 498

So I know I've been terrible at keeping up this liveblog. Oops. BUT I got to this quote in the epilogue to TVL and the parallels between Louis, Lestat, and Armand just really kind of hit me all of a sudden, you know?

The one constant throughout TVL is that Lestat never fully heals from losing Nicolas. Like Louis, Lestat feels this terrible need to remember. There's something almost classical in Lestat's belief that life is meaningless, that meaning is found only in the beauty that humans create and in the ability to endure. He needs to remember his guilt and his loss and the terrible, beautiful tragedy of Nikki's end because otherwise, all of that suffering and pain simply doesn't matter. And that thought is unbearable to him. He calls Nicki's attempts to find meaning in the evil and his haunting performances "petty" (IV.6, 264), but in the end, Lestat isn't so different. In the end, he, too, transforms his suffering into myth and immortalizes through story those he failed to through the Dark Gift.

And he carries them with him always. Lestat is a very material person. And he's sentimental. He's all too aware of the ephemerality of memory, even vampire memory, and he needs the tangible to make it real. So he carries Nikki's violin with him everywhere, to keep the memory alive and to punish himself for failing him. He rescues it from the apartment when Armand captures and tortures Nicolas. When Nicolas becomes semi-unresponsive, he brings the violin in hopes that it will awaken something in him again. He carries it from place to place as he travels with Gabrielle, and even risks his life to save the instrument when confronted by a more dangerous vampire in Cairo. The violin represents Nicolas, and Nicolas himself becomes a symbolic figure representing everything that Lestat has loved and lost since his mortal death. It is his tether to the past, and a reminder of the promises he has made to himself for the future.

Then Enkil crushes the violin in his jealousy over Akasha, right at the moment that changes Lestat's destiny forever. His tether is gone. Lestat is transformed.

And then he meets Louis. Lestat himself admits that he was originally attracted to Louis because of all the ways that he reminds him of Nicolas. His self destructiveness, his enduring faith in God despite his anger and sense that he himself has been forsaken, and, unfortunately, his dependency upon Lestat. In a lot of ways, Lestat views his struggles to protect Louis from himself as penance for his failures to protect Nicolas, and the things that Louis hates Lestat for (his materialism and his efforts to monsterize Louis by pressuring him to attack humans) are direct responses to the things that Nicolas learned to loathe about him (his compassion, his attempts to do and be good, his love for life).

And while the AMC series is far from perfect, I love all the little ways that the writers have brought these aspects of Lestat's character into the series. The way Lestat originally planned on moving to St. Louis upon coming to the states, still haunted by the memory of the Ile St. Louis and his life with Nicki and Gabrielle, only to find Louis and New Orleans instead. The music box Lestat commissioned for Nikki being opened before his and Louis' first sexual encounter, and then it being closed after. The imagery of Lestat as God the Father, but also as God the Son seeking redemption from his sins.

And it sets up a really interesting discussion of the cyclical nature of trauma in the series! We've talked about the penitential nature of Louis' relationship with Armand and his stay in Dubai. When he first meets Armand in Paris, he and Claudia are fleeing from their own patricide, but Louis is fleeing from his own shame at still loving Lestat in spite of everything. But we haven't really discussed how Lestat is basically doing the same thing when he first comes to Nola? Lestat flees Greece in shame and disgrace after destroying every good thing he has had in his life. He doesn't know the customs, he's out of time with everyone else, and he is still deeply, deeply broken by everything he's suffered when he meets Louis.

[wifiwuxians]

Hi I was curious...

In your fanarts and content what kind of dynamic you percieve for XY and SL? Strangers how had to deal with each other, fahter who didn´t wanted to adopt a cat but now there´s a cat at home, enemies just holding into each other because they don´t have anything else left?? Personally I don´t like them in a romantic way and it´s interesting to know what opinion the other perople who don´t percieve them as romantic has on them...

Sorry if this bothers u!!!

Not bothersome at all!! It really depends on what exactly I'm drawing, I think, because a huge chunk of my yi city art is just family/friends goofing off or just straight up songxiao LMAO so a lot of my solo XY and SL art is kind of riding off of that as well, so like: when it's happy, they're friends or family (looooove dad SL and love songxiao adopt XY and A-Qing the most out of any dynamic), or in the case of the lantern they get there eventually

But when it isn't, like the most recent piece or the deboning one or anything to do with angst, it is more like a sick, one-sided 'friendship'. SL can't stand his ass and will always end up killing him, but XY doesn't see him as a threat and deludes himself into thinking he's akin to a friend, the bestest kind of friend in the whole world, the kind that never complains and does everything you ask. Of course he will never say this out loud! But Song Lan is the only thing he has left in the world at that point, in any sort of tangible sense, so I really don't buy into the idea that he still hates his guts those many years later.

I also think that there's always been something impersonal up until that point on how XY treated SL; he did seem to antagonize him way more than XXC upon first meet, and he did make some threats he acted on (dig out his eyes, shatter his heart), but the way he got there was always in order to hurt XXC more than anything. Which I always found really interesting, like Song Lan has reasons to hate him more than anything else in the world but Xue Yang sort of just sees him as an annoyance. His victory over him is so swift that there's barely any time for him to let his hatred fester (yes, I do believe he blamed him for things going wrong initially, but as time goes on, that stops mattering). I dunno, they could be nemeses or something but ultimately I can see it turning into that sort of "this is my emotional support home depot skeleton but I will never admit this to anyone" lol. He will continue to use him, because he uses people and because he has to see things through to the end, but just because he uses you doesn't mean he doesn't like you uaaghhh

Like, he wants to hurt them both! And the way he hurts SL is the most painful way anyone can imagine, but he most likely would have just left him alone and never spared him another thought had he not shown up whereas he clings to XXC like a tick. He gets domesticated and doesn't bother to go hunting for new prey because life is nice now lol

I think ultimately I just really like them both as characters and I feel there's a lot of missed potential, and I really hate the constant take that Xue Yang hates Song Lan forever and ever amen, so while the end goal is always the same (Song Lan is in control and lays waste to Xue Yang or otherwise has the upper hand in all their interactions), I guess the answer is... It's up to you! My reasoning for each individual piece changes, but my canon interpretation is what's listed under angst, but anyone is free to take away whatever they wish from my art of them tbh.

Just as long as it isn't straight up hatred because I don't vibe with that, we're nice to Song Lan in this house!! In fact, in just about any AU I make, assume they get along even if it looks like they don't lol

[aknosde]

Omnes Una Manet Nox

The chronologically first installment of my Reyna Swap AU, Alea Iacta Est // Reyna Avilla Ramírez-Arellano // Fluff & Angst, but minor on the angst // the night before Reyna disappears //  tw: mentions past minor character death // light swearing // 4.4k

ao3

—————

“That went well, didn’t it?” Jason asks with that familiar, absently intense energy. They’ve just descended the steps of the Senate after their monthly meeting with the consuls.

The two consuls, in their late thirties, oversee all of Camp Jupiter. Of course, the legion manages their own grounds and budget, under Jason and Reyna’s command, but the little oversight they do get is from the consuls.

Johnson was one of New Rome’s praetors, a few years back. He doesn’t care much about the legion, being from a legacy family and largely skirting his training and service, and he never ceases to make that known. Malhill is the one that always gets under Jason’s defenses. He’s good on policy, good on veterans, good on kids, everything that they could want. But he was the legion’s champion only ten years ago. A direct son of Apollo, a talented archer but an even better bender of light, a legion praetor, and he’s had his eyes on Jason’s career since day one. Reyna’s seen the way he eyes Jason whenever she and Jason are in New Rome, already pegging him for a consul position once Jason’s old enough.

“It went well, Jace,” she says. “Your mission plan is flawless, the only thing that could make them happier is if you’d go on it.” She regrets the words as soon as they’re out of her mouth.

Her remorse is tangible, visible in the line of his spine, the way he taps the place in his pocket where Ivlivs would sit if they were not inside the Pomerian Line, the subtle flick of his wrist.

Not for the first time, she thinks about Mount Othrys. Everything it took from her. Sometimes when she sleeps–not often, but enough–it plays over in her head. But something is always wrong.

She’s leading the charge, but suddenly it’s Jason next to her instead of Michelle. Or Jason and Michelle run into the throne room, but when she closes the door behind them it locks. She makes it into the throne room, slaying all of the Dracaena, but when she enters Atlas is holding Jason over his head, instead of fighting him hand to hand. On the good nights, Michelle isn’t dead when she bursts through the door, on the bad, she watches Michelle die. The one constant is Jason, gold ichor dripping down his face in a horrific mask. When she and Jason land the killing blow, together, she can always see it.

He doesn’t talk about it, of course. Not about Michelle, not about his election, not about the mountain. But she can see it weighing on him through the big things, like how he hasn’t been out of camp borders since the battle, and the small things, like how he glances up at the stars, as if one will come down and crush him any moment.

She rolls her right shoulder, feeling the ligaments shift, as if it will rid her of the thoughts, prepare her for a topic of conversation that often hits a little too close to home.

“Did you hear how Johnson pronounced my name? He’s even worse than you.” Maybe the small huff of a laugh Jason expels is worth it. “‘Miss Ramírez-Arellano,’” she continues, in a nasally imitation of the consul.

“I don’t say it that badly.”

“You say it like a white boy who didn’t know Spanish was a language until two seconds ago.”

“Ramírez-Arellano,” he says, better than consul Johnson, but she still hates hearing it. That girl is long gone, the only thing connecting her to Reyna is Hylla, and although Reyna loves her sister, she’s grateful for the distance that keeps Hylla from being a constant reminder.

“‘We were– were very, erm, dazzled, by your most recent proposition.’” She continues the impression until they are walking through the Praetorian Gate, Jason half hanging off her shoulder and giggling like they’re thirteen again.

He has a nice laugh. A friendly one. It seems to feed off of her volume, her effort, fluctuating the longer he goes. He shouts at her to stop several times, but he’s doubled over in armor, snorting, and all she wants to do is make him laugh like this forever.

It only gets worse on the steps of the Principa, when he decides a good revenge plan is to trip her. The building is dark like the rest of the legion. Two lamps, invisible under the light of day, flank the double doors, but the light is faint and barely makes its way to the stairs, washing everything in a pale yellow. She side steps his foot–his sneakers have reflective decals on them for the sake of the gods, he’s an idiot–but he’s shifted his weight so much that he ends up tripping himself.

They stumble through the doors, still chuckling, and make their way across the great hall as quickly as possible. They must have gotten a new tender for the Principa, because the lights are off like they forgot that people actually live here. Only two people, but still. The darkness makes the place unsettling, and now she’s counting on Jason to keep her occupied. A job he seems all too willing to fulfill as he runs through the next set of doors, still in full armor, clashing against the wood.

Upstairs is worse, she decides. The abandoned lounge reminds her of her childhood living room. Any moment her father could rise from one of the low couches, ready to scoop her up and throw her in her room, that crazed look in his eye.

Something clangs and she jumps.

“What the heck is this?” Jason’s whisper-shouting when she catches up with him in the hallway outside their rooms. He’s partially on the floor–hands keeping him from being face flat–and something is crinkling under his knee.

For some reason all Reyna can say is: “Did you just say ‘heck?’”

“Shut up,” he whines, and she wishes the lights were on just so she could see his ears turning red.

“Of course, farm-boy.”

He’s sitting back on his heels now, she can see the object’s dark outline as he holds it up, rustling in his hands.

“Seriously, what is this thing?” he asks, looking up at her.

“A bag with my old clothes,” she says, squinting. “I was going to see if any legionnaires need some.”

“And you have it by your door so you don’t forget,” he says, explaining for her. In the stress of running for office, of war, she forgot the ways in which they are attuned to each other. She forgot that she doesn’t have to explain and defend her every little action to him. It’s sad that it’s taken her almost two months to remember.

He sets the bag back down, nudging it into almost its exact spot, and hefts himself to his feet with a sigh. His brow furrows once he’s standing, looking out into the middle distance, but he sees the quirk of her brow and quickly explains himself, “We have that meeting with the centurions tomorrow after breakfast.”

Jason is a social person. A true extrovert. He hates being alone, working alone, and the quiet that comes with both. So what he’s really saying is that he has work left to do and wants some company. And who is she to deny him that? “Do you want to work in the main hall, office, or my room?”

He grins, clapping his hands and then raises his palms to the sky. “Bedroom, praise Fortuna.”

“Five minutes, Sparkplug,” she says, bumping her shoulder into his own as she sidesteps him into her room. His eyes follow her as she goes, like she’s his North Star, and damn him for making her heart skip a beat, because in the empty space Venus’ words always echo. She stomps them down, before her face can fall, before the hollow silence can fill the hallway, and in their place she jams a smirk. “If you’re lucky I’ll even edit your speech.”

As her door clicks behind her she can hear him groan, “I just prayed to Fortuna.”

She stands with her hands on her hips, briefly surveying her room to decide what to do first.

Being praetor has its perks, like private bath and bedrooms across the hall from her best friend and king sized beds, but it also means she is no longer in the practice of keeping her space ready for inspections. Her comforter is pulled up, but her bed isn’t made, files are scattered across her desk and on her dresser, and her wardrobe is wide open.

She decides on doing everything at once, which involves a crooked path across her room as she shucks off armor, not bothering with her armor stand, and changes out of the nice clothes she wore to meet the consuls. All the while she turns on lights, puts on sweats, makes her bed, and tucks away files.

Jason knocks on her door five minutes later, that ever punctual bastard, just as she’s zipping her hoodie over her tank top.

“Help me, Reyna,” he says, holding a typed copy of his speech out to her in both hands like some sort of trophy. “You’re my only hope.”

She snorts, snatching the pages out of his hands. “Nice reference.”

He cocks his head to the side, brow furrowed, and she bets if he were actually a wolf one of his ears would be turned as well.

“You just made a Star Wars reference,” she says, but he looks just as confused.

“What’s Star Wars?” He asks warily.

She swears to herself in Spanish, because otherwise he’ll tease her about the legion’s anti-swearing policies, collapsing dramatically back on her bed, and sighs. “It’s a movie trilogy, wolf boy.”

“Ah.”

Another thing she forgot, apparently, is how little Jason knows about basically anything outside of camp. He says he arrived when he was three, and wasn’t even allowed into the city until he was eight, which apparently means he’s never been to a movie theater.

By now he seems used to her telling him about the more innocent aspects of the mortal world, and at the very least takes his lack of knowledge in stride. If only he would watch the movies and shows she’s downloaded on his laptop for him.

When she looks up after reading his introduction he is sitting at her desk, picking at some invisible blemish while subtly putting highlighters away, and looking around her room.

“If you start cleaning I’m throwing you out.”

He grumbles to himself, but she makes out a yes ma’am somewhere in the mix, so she decides to throw him a bone.

“If you want to occupy yourself I have a speech about legion veterans you can fact check,” she says, faux casual, not that he can tell. He needs to do something before he starts picking at his nails instead of the wood.

“Sure.”

“It’s in one of the red folders.”

“Would that be the one on the floor under your desk or the one on your dresser,” he says, sounding far too cheeky.

“The one on my dresser, and stop pretending you’re better than me, asshole.”

He clutches his chest dramatically, walking to her dresser. “Better than the best? How could I be?”

“Mmmhmm,” she responds, half ignoring him in favor of his speech, aware of the ticking clock.

It’s truly impossible for him to stay awake past ten, a fact that is only proven the next time she looks up and he’s asleep at her desk, pen still in hand and a research paper opened on her laptop. No matter how often she reminds him that the regimented lights out of the legion no longer applies to them, he just can’t seem to break the habit.

“Jason.” She nudges his shoulder, extracting the pen at the same moment so he can’t smudge her speech.

His head jerks, eyes alert, but voice groggy when he says, “What’s going on?” All legionnaires wake up in a similar manner, but for some reason it only strikes her as amusing when he does it.

She hadn’t thought of what she was waking him up for, besides a need to do it, and her mind wanders to the Forum, wondering if her favorite café would still be open at this hour. She’s starving, she realizes. Their meeting with the consuls had been pushed back and they had had to skip dinner to make it.

She grins. “Are you hungry?”

“Uh, yeah. How did you know?”

“Roof s’mores?”

“Reyna,” he drags out the last syllable, fading it into a sigh. “That takes energy.”

“Okay, but–” She holds her hands out, weighing them. “Would you rather spend the energy to just walk across the hall and go to sleep, or climb up to the roof with me and roast us a couple marshmallows?”

Jason looks at her like is that a real question? which had been her intention. She folds her hands into a pleading gesture and pouts emphatically–he’s always more flexible when she acts a little silly. “Please, Jace. I got that cheap chocolate you like. I’ll even get the stuff myself, you can go straight up.”

“Fine.” He rolls his eyes and she smiles, satisfied, and already on her way out the door.

The praetorian kitchen reminds her of office break rooms on television, besides the fact that it looks perpetually unnatural, mostly due to the fact that only three people go inside–her, Jason, and the Principa tender–and it’s always pristine. The only things actually kept in there are coffee, tea, and of course: her and Jason’s secret stash of s’more supplies, buried in the back of the cabinet with the untouched bowls.

By the time she’s through the roof access door, conveniently placed to hide it from the view of anyone on the ground, Jason is already sitting by the dark spot of ash that signifies their pastime. Because, yes, they started coming up here long before either of them were elected Praetor.

He’s a dark outline against the night sky, sitting criss-crossed and looking down at the façades of the other legion buildings, and briefly she has the thought that somebody could make a painting out of this. She slides her old Camp Jupiter ID back between the lock and door jamb, willing the thought to disappear with the potential of the fire alarm going off.

She shivers as she sits next to him, nose wrinkling with the cold now that she’s fully vulnerable to the elements. Without a word Jason removes his sweatshirt and passes it to her.

“I’m already wearing one.”

“Mine is thicker, trade me.”

And because he’s Jason, she does.

It’s slightly big on her, his shoulders just a few inches broader than her own, and a forest green. On the back is a printed vine of purple flowers and a date. She recognizes it as one of the prizes of the Ludi Florae, or Games of Flora, from Floralia last year. The festival sits right between April and May, and last year’s was the grandest of all. Or so Jason says. Everyone had been anxious about Mount Othrys, and apparently all of that energy had been funnelled into the events.

Reyna herself had been busy running for praetor. All she remembers from the festival is campaigning. And Jason, running up to her looking flushed, this sweatshirt thrown over one shoulder.

“Remember when I told you that you were the best, Jace,” she says sweetly once she is safely swaddled in his hoodie. He’s right–it is thicker.

Jason grins up at her, wrapping his hands around two marshmallows. “I may recall something along those lines having been said a long, long time ago.”

“Well, I just want to inform you that I retract that statement, because this sweatshirt is ugly and the cuffs are burnt.”

The electricity that had been slowly coursing over the ridges of his fingers flares for a second, and his hands fly open as if he was handed metal straight from the forges. “Oops.” Both of the marshmallows are burnt, but his lips are turned up in a poorly concealed smirk.

“I forget you’re a heathen,” she says primly, sticking her nose in the air instead of saying any of the less wholesome options at the back of her throat.

“Does liking burnt marshmallows make me a heathen?”

She pretends to mull it over for a second, extracting the rest of their supplies. “Yes. You have to buy the next bag because you’re mean and I say so.”

She takes the burnt marshmallow regardless, sandwiching it between her own chocolate and graham crackers. Jason takes three squares of the Hershey bar he likes for absolutely no good reason, and does the same. She shakes her head. He’s the fucking all American boy who sticks with the classics even when he doesn’t know they’re the classics. She has no idea how he does it.

They don’t talk while they eat, regrettably the silence reminding her of her childhood, no matter how hard she pushes against it. She looks up at the stars, trying to forget the cold kitchen, cold house, even in hundred degree heat. It’s times like this when the ring, and the chain she wears it on, weigh heavy on her neck.

It feels like a noose right now, just as much as it feels like freedom, like power, every other second of her life. Like a sentence, compelling her to pay for her crimes, to confess to them, to wreck her world so terribly that she would lose up from down and die. A fair punishment.

“What are you thinking about,” Jason asks a while after they’ve finished. She looks at him, sitting back on his hands, looking at her, not the sky. It’s dark on the roof, but the light from the street lamps seems to center around him. It glints off his hair, visibly blond even in the night, and pours into his eyes. They’re always so blue. So blue it looks fake. But they never cease to pull Reyna in. Sometimes she swears she can see lightning arc across his irises.

He’s always asking her questions like this. Innocent and curious, no ulterior motives, no goals. He genuinely wants to know. And if she doesn’t answer, he’ll drop it, because he always does. It’s not something she’s used to, even after all these years; this place she has in his mind, if not his heart. A place of utter respect. He doesn’t question her because he knows what she is thinking, and when he doesn’t, he accepts her. Would he still, if he knew what she did to her father?

She breaks his gaze with that thought. It’s too much. “My sister,” she says instead, and it doesn’t feel right to look back. Under oath, Reyna would say that Jason is the most important person in her life. Her best friend; the person she sees every day, talks to every day, eats with and works with. He is the closest thing she has to a family here. And she– And she loves him. Maybe as a little more than a friend. But talking about her sister while looking him in the eye feels too intimate, too intense. “She would like you.”

It is something to say, simply to say something, but maybe she isn’t wrong. There is something in Jason that reminds her of the Queen Anne’s Revenge, and not in the way that haunts her nightmares and twists her sheets around her until they become bonds she can’t quite break free of. Being on Blackbeard’s crew, that’s how Reyna learned hard work, in a way she never had before. It had instilled a drive in her, to change everything, to rewrite systems, to make something so beautiful it was unrecognizable. And perhaps Jason doesn’t have that same drive, but he knows the work. He goes out of his way to do it dirty and hard and long. He refuses to take the thousands of shortcuts he’s offered. And Hylla would admire that, she thinks.

“I had a sister,” he whispers.

For a second–just a second–she’s stuck. “What?”

“I had a sister.” He picks at a loose thread on his jeans for a moment, and that’s how she knows he’s serious, because he hates ripping his jeans more than almost anything else. He’s refusing to meet her gaze. “Thalia Grace.”

He says her name soft and tender. She can imagine him, standing over a hearth, cradling the name between his palms and looking at it the same way he first looked when he was gifted Ivlivs. Big, round eyes.

“That’s really nice, Jace,” she says, because he rarely surprises her, and for once she doesn’t know what to say.

He looks up at her, smiling tightly. His eyes are sad. Is that how she looks when she thinks about Hylla?

“You can tell me about her, if you want,” Reyna says when the moment becomes two, and then three, because Jason doesn’t bring up things he doesn’t want to talk about. But Jason also has his own ideas about debt, about worthiness, and it is clear to her that he told her about his sister in exchange for Reyna talking about her own.

He smiles at her. A real smile, if small. She feels warm, and it’s not from his extra thick sweatshirt.

“I don’t remember a lot about her, but… She had black hair. So dark, like the night. And her eyes, they were amazing. Bright blue, like a perfect sky. Sometimes I can see them, in this half-memory half-dream, and they’re so strong they look like how an electric shock feels.”

“Like yours,” she whispers, and Jason hums in a way that makes it frustratingly unclear if he heard her or not. She hopes not.

“When I was little,” he continues, after another moment of staring wistfully over the Twelfth Legion, “I used to imagine she was looking for me. That one day she would find me, here, be proud of me for– I don’t know what. Love me, or something. All that stupid shit.” He trails off again, picking at his nails, but she can’t bring herself to chide him.

There are things that she knows about Jason, true as the sun rising in the east and the pull of the moon on the tides and the sound of imperial gold on whetstone. She knows that he works hard, works with the public, flushes under the compliments of people older than him because he has never had a concrete parental figure. Not even one to hate, to fear, to mourn. She knows that he never trusts praise from these people because he knows his parentage, knows they know, knows that he is connected to his father in the eyes of these people in a way he doesn’t feel himself, and never will.

Truths of Jason that are pillars in her understanding of him, that were pivotal in their relationship. But like so many supports, they were never acknowledged. Truth has no need to be stated, and she has no compellence to state that which is unnecessary. He talks of Thalia, telling Reyna that he wants his sister to want him, to find him, and to love him not because he is a son of Jupiter, but because he’s him.

She doesn’t say, I don’t care about you because you’re the son of Jupiter, I care about you because you are my best friend. And she doesn’t say, I care about you because you listen to people, because you care about them and what happens to them so instinctively that I cannot understand it. She doesn’t say, I’m proud of you, and you should be proud of yourself.

She doesn’t say those things because he knows them, because they are truths, and truths do not need to be said.

But still, something must be done.

She– She’s always been bad at the physical things. She can do a handshake, a fist bump, but she has never been a hugger, no matter that Jason is. She’s never managed a hip-check, or a shoulder pat, or ruffled his hair in any way that wasn’t rough and meant to hurt.

But that doesn’t mean she can’t try.

She goes slow, leaning over slightly, feels the cool breeze breaking on her knuckles. Gently, perhaps more gently than she has done anything in her life, she takes his hands, detangles them, presses her finger pads against the bleeding bits where he’s torn his skin away. She closes her hands around his own, cups them in her palms.

He looks up at her, tears welled on his water line but nothing has spilled, and she feels his hands move in her own, feels him latch on, like when they were young and late for assignments, running across the grounds and refusing to leave each other behind. She looks into his eyes, wide. Electrifying. Just like she knew they were.

She waits for the moment to stretch and break, like moments oft do. Her last move is to give his hands a squeeze, hopefully reassuring, and he gives her another small smile and moves to wipe his eyes with the sleeves of her sweatshirt, the one he’s still wearing.

“We should probably be going to bed,” she says, because she doesn’t have anything else to say. He laughs, wetly, but in that way everybody laughs when they’re told something they already know. It makes her smile; it’s special when he does it.

Everybody isn’t wrong, she thinks as she and Jason part ways outside their rooms, Jason Grace is special. But not because he is the son of Jupiter. He’s special because Reyna had never wanted friends, and here he is, her best. He’s special because he does things, normal things, and they make her smile. He’s special because he does everything in his power to ensure he deserves the love he receives. And gods, she thinks, does he deserve it.

She slips off her necklace and gets under her duvet cover, curling up and fiddling with the cuffs of his sweatshirt. Chunks of the polyester-wool fabric are hard and melted from undoubtedly unfortunate rendezvous with electricity. She finds one, right where his thumb would rest, and rubs it between her own thumb and index finger as she falls asleep.

When she wakes up, she’s on a school bus.

—————

Others in this series: Amicus Certus in re Incerta Cernitur

[phantasmagoriaoriginals]

Here There be Monsters: Mage Basic Intros (Part 2)

Cybele

She/her, ??? Mage.

Around three hundred years ago, Cybele wanted to help find peace between humans and Creatures. To do this, she found a way to merge with magic itself, change her form, and become something that the world would listen to. From there, with new, unheard-of powers, she formed the Organization and shaped it to work toward her goal and dream. 

While Cybele started out as a remarkably kind, gentle, loving person, her passions reached heights greater than she was meant to handle. Merging with magic turned her into something inhuman, and as it is, she’s slipped into a dream-like mental state where she only sees the reality she wants to. She’s lost in her own head and forgetting the world around her. 

Cybele’s magic is unique in that she can use all seven kinds with near mastery. This should be impossible, however, and the consequence of such power is the slow deterioration of her mental state. 

5′6, early 30′s (physically). Statuesque, shapely build, gentle, pleasing features, and light, rosy skin. Waist-length, golden-blonde, curly/wavy hair with distinct bangs, ocean-blue eyes with a bright sparkle in them. A soft smile almost always graces her lips, and her eyes are kind. 

Gisette

She/her, Blue Mage.

Born to a high-ranking Mage family, Gisette spent her youth with high expectations. She was supposed to be perfect from day one— with all the constant work that comes with that. Indeed, she grew to reach a powerful position in the Organization, but along the way, she’s become jaded to the world and the supposed purpose of making it better. 

Stern, strict, and severe, Gisette is the kind of person who doesn’t need to be big to be terrifying. She holds high, hard-earned authority, and her very posture makes it clear she knows it. An outstanding strategist, Gisette has spent years with the weight of responsibility heavy on her shoulders, choosing“should” over any “want” she may have had. 

Gisette’s magic involves bringing written messages to life. This mainly suits her work as a strategist and organizer, as she can send moving, encrypted, and physically activated text wherever she pleases. 

5′4, early 50′s. Waist-length, dark brown, almost black hair usually worn in a high bun. Dark gray eyes, pale skin, a fair amount of wrinkles. Usually wears earrings. Despite being a petite woman with a fairly slight build, the way Gisette carries herself shows her status well. 

Maximus

He/him, Red Mage.

Like Gisette, he was born to a powerful Mage family and experienced much of the same pressure. The two were childhood friends and held feelings for each other from a young age. Maximus was the one who could never quite let go of them, even after Gisette gave up on her personal longings in favor of what she knew she had to do. 

The opposite of Gisette in almost every way, Maximus is animated, dynamic, and imposing. His physical size makes most people cower, but his boisterous nature either sets them at ease or makes it worse. While he’s more than capable of taking things seriously, a beaming smile and openly held passions get him where he wants to be. 

Maximus’s magic involves augmenting his physical strength. Instead of merely utilizing his energy, he doubles it back and ups his capacity for strength and movement, giving him nearly superhuman capabilities. 

6′10, early 50′s. Huge, heavily muscled, powerful build. Shoulder blade-length, curly/fluffy hair a shade of blue so pale it’s almost white, almost always restrained in a low ponytail. Tanned skin, dark crimson eyes, chiseled, handsome features, and a good few wrinkles from age. 

Rosaria

She/her, Green Mage.

Aurora’s older sister. From a young age, she was considered a prodigy at Green magic and was showered in the attention and praise that followed. While she remains a sweet, caring person, Rosaria’s outlook toward the world and other people has been distorted by the way she was treated growing up. She can be quite oblivious and ignorant. 

Charismatic and sociable, Rosaria is the picture of the person everyone loves. Between her gift for magic and her skills with interpersonal relations, she’s well-respected and well-loved by almost everyone around her. Rosaria is quite a friendly, cheerful, and kind person, but she struggles with considering others’ feelings properly. 

Rosaria’s magic is typical Green magic— drawing from the world around her to manifest various effects. In her specific case, she augments both her physical strength and her speed capabilities. 

5′9, late 20′s. Tall, curvaceous build with an hourglass figure. Short-cut, chin-length white hair worn in a bob that frames her face. Wide, deep gray eyes with a slight green tint to them and pale lashes. Her features are quite appealing and she always seems to be wearing a smile. 

Adrian

He/him, Yellow Mage.

In his early teenage years, Adrian made a mistake with his magic that caused his body to stop aging. He’s forever stuck at the age he was when the incident happened, even though his mind continues to develop. He became a skilled Mage nonetheless... but life seems to never give him a break. An unfortunate incident with a girlfriend was the tipping point. 

Adrian is intellectual, poised, strict, and somewhat snobby. He has the personality of s stuck-up professor, and definitely enough ego to mirror it. Despite being internally depressed and angry with the world, he’s determined to ignore his unpleasant history and pretend like he’s not miserable. He has more than his fair share of pride in himself. 

The magic he uses involves bringing his words to life. When Adrian speaks a command with magical intent, it happens. He has to be quite careful with it, as the exact mechanisms are tricky and complex. 

4′11, late 30′s. Adrian’s body is youthful, small, and unaging. Brown, past chin-length hair in a fairly straight cut, with bangs, and brown eyes only a few shades warmer and more hazel. Carries a near-permanent scowl and posture that conveys his pride and experience. 

Gloria

She/her, Yellow Mage.

Formerly a Mage of high rank, Gloria’s magic started to affect her mind about a decade ago. From there, it’s been a slow slide into delusions and distorted thinking that have left her with a very different role. When she was younger, she loved her magic for what it could show her and the things she could experience, but now, she can hardly keep track of them.

Gloria used to be a composed, passionate woman who handled her job well and enjoyed every second of it. She was outspoken, bold, and graceful in both speech and mannerisms. After her magic changed her, though, she’s become very disorganized in thought. She has trouble telling what’s real, what’s tangible, and what’s in the present.

The magic that twisted Gloria’s mind is the ability to see into the past and future. While limited, it was highly useful, and she pushed herself too far with it, leading to her mind being unable to handle the information. 

5′5, mid 30′s. Graceful, art-like build with a soft figure and not a lot of muscle. Caramel-brown hair worn in a shoulder-length style with longer sidelocks, shining, golden-hazel eyes, and fair skin. Her eyes have a vacant, spacey look in them more often than not. 

Coulson

He/him, Blue Mage.

For the most part, Coulson has a normal past. He fought his way through education and training to be as skilled as he currently is, and that fight gave him an unhealthy amount of pride. He’s always been competitive and authoritative, and can’t stand others besting him in any way. He worked his way into the Organization for the sake of power. 

Coulson is strict, self-absorbed, and demanding of others. In his mind, he’s almost always the most capable person in the room and he acts like it. He’s a stickler for rules (when they suit him), dismissive of other people and their opinions, and aggressively fixated on his authority in the chain of command. He takes a lot of pride in his power and abilities. 

For magic, Coulson uses a variety of small tattoos self-engraved into his body to create a variety of effects. He adds new ones quite frequently as he learns new applications and methods of utilizing them. 

6′0, mid 30′s. Tall, somewhat lanky build with unnerving strength for how little muscle is visible. Dark blue, curly hair slicked back on the right side and left loose on the left. Darker blue eyes, pale skin, and two silver piercings (right nostril and right earlobe) connected with a thin chain.

Rochia

She/they, Brown Mage.

A perpetual hard worker, Rochia grew up with a love of both machinery and magic. She enjoyed experimenting with everything she could get her hands on and seeing what worked. Once she joined the Organization, Rochia wound up assigned to a top-secret project that killed her optimistic view of the world, leaving her bitter and pragmatic.

Sharp-tongued, logical, and no-nonsense, Rochia is dedicated to her work— even when she hates it. She dislikes unrealistic fantasies and people who go against rules and sensible choices and favors those who devote themselves to something tangible with their whole hearts. Despite losing faith in the world, small parts of her still cling to hope. 

Rochia’s magic is something of a mystery. It relates to creating and maintaining magical machines, but the exact nature of what she knows and does is kept secret by the higher-ups of the Organization itself. 

5′2, mid 20′s. Petite and rather stocky in build, with few curves. Dark brown hair worn in a shaggy, somewhat messy pixie cut easily kept out of the way. Gray, brown-tinted eyes with perpetual dark circles underneath, light skin, and forming wrinkles at her brow. 

[linkspooky]

Like some kind of “Man-Child”

Shigaraki is constantly compared to a child by the other characters around him. Whether it’s the staff at UA calling him a manchild, Ujiko saying he’s a twenty year old brat who has accomplished nothing with his life, or Spinner saying he chases his dreams like a child, Shigaraki’s immaturity and underdeveloped psyche is something constantly commented upon others. 

There are two questions to ask now. One, why did Shigaraki turn out this way, and two what does it mean for his character and future growth? 

1. An Immature Manchild, A Worthless Twenty-Something, The Trash of Society. 

Shigaraki is constantly described by others as acting like a child. In most cases it’s used to insult and demean him, and also to point out his lack of any real tangible goal. 

However, Shigaraki’s childish tendencies, his egocentrism, his lack of ability to see the consequences for his actions, and his emotional instability are not a reflection of whether he is a good or bad person, it’s a reflection of his upbringing. This is an important point I want to make before we continu, the hero system uses all of the signs that Shigaraki shows up legitimate mental illness to dehumanize him and make him out to be a “dangerous psycho” rather than to show him any real sympathy. 

All Might’s analyses him at length and comes to the conclusion not that this is an unstable person who shows clear signs of mental illness, but rather that the signs of mental illness he shows makes him a bad person. All of these traits that Shigaraki shows are used constantly by his enemies, heroes and villains alike to unperson him. 

Once again, Shigaraki acting like a child is not a reflection of whether or not he’s a good or bad person. It’s a product of trauma and his upbringing. Heroes seem to be under the impression that a good person would simply not suffer or react negatively to any trauma. Shigaraki doesn’t grow up not because he doesn’t want to grow up and wants to remain an immature manchild forever, it’s because he was raised deliberately. 

Developmental psychology is a scientific approach which aims to explain growth, change and consistency though the lifespan. ... Developmental psychologists study a wide range of theoretical areas, such as biological, social, emotion, and cognitive processes. 

Shigaraki was raised in an environment where he could not healthily develop into an adult. 

A child’s behaviour is an outward manifestation of inner stability and security. It is a lens through which the family physician can observe the development of the child throughout his or her life. All types of abuse are damaging to children—physically, emotionally, and psychologically—and can cause long-term difficulties with behaviour and mental health development.

Seeing the world from other people’s points of view. Thinking about the consequences of your actions. Processing your emotions and stress in healthy ways. These are all things children learn in the process of growing into adults. However, it’s a learned behavior not a natural one. The idea that people, children, are either born good or bad and will develop based on some internal qualities of goodness or badness is patently false. Children who receive no adult supervision growing up just turn feral and have no ego at all. The ego, or rather identity is something both heavily influenced by the interactions with the adults that raise them and interactions with members of the same peer group.

Shigaraki, raised in a basement with entirely selective and controlled interactions with others that were always underneath AFO’s direct supervision and his thumb, who probably did not even get that much freedom until the UA attack is just barely one step above a feral child who has no adult supervision at all. 

These three behaviors: 

Lack of Empathy.

Cannot View the Consequences of his Actions

Cannot handle emotions, setbacks and stress 

They’re all explainable by specific manipulations that AFO introduced to him as a child. “Shigaraki feels no guilt for what he does” said by almost every hero who interacts with him, but this is completely incorrect. The truth is Shigaraki is constantly made to feel guilty. 

He hates himself, and constantly holds back his quirk because he still feels guilt for what happened to his family due to the accidental activation of his quirk. 

He accepts the entirety of the blame for what happened for his family, and therefore views himself as a monster. This is what Shigaraki unconsciously believes and accepts, that he deserves to constantly be punished and tormented without relief for what he did for his family and that he can’t be saved. 

These are not the actions of a person who feels no guilt. However, at the same time Shigaraki is seeking some relief from his suffering, he wants to be saved even though he believes he doesn’t deserve it. Therefore, AFO manipulates him into believing he doesn’t have to feel guilty for destroying the people he wants to destroy. This is literally the exact tactic that Chisaki used on Eri. 

Tenko is constantly made to feel guilty for what he did to his family, and because of that he’s dependent on what AFO told him would make him feel better. Just like Chisaki convincing Eri that it was her fault that people who tried to save her died made her return to Chisaki.

Shigaraki doesn’t show any emotional maturity because he can’t. Being surrounded by your peers, being in a healthy environment, being taught lessons by the adults around you these are all things you learn growing up. We are shown constant signs that Shigaraki’s childhood was constantly barren. He was raised in a room that was entirely blank. 

AFO controlled everything about his life. He didn’t even give him toys or books until he started murdering people, and we see that same room several years later almost completely unchanged from the way it was when he was a kid. 

Shigaraki’s entire world was that one room. It’s even remarked that he wasn’t allowed to attend any kind of school. 

Shigaraki was raised to have his entire world revolve around AFO’s desires for him. Shigaraki even acknowledges that he doesn’t even really want to accomplish AFO’s dream and knows it won’t satisfy him. It’s something that’s forced down his throat, but also what Shigaraki views as his only path forward. Shigaraki as a person doesn’t exist outside of AFO’s goals for him because he wasn’t raised or nurtured to be a person just a thing that wants destruction. 

And, the reason Shigaraki continues to follow down the path set by him by All for One is a rather childish one too. This is once again where Shigaraki’s foiling with Chisaki is illustrative of his character. 

This is how Shigaraki reacts when forcibly separated from AFO. Crying and begging like a child ripped away from their parent, completely helpless without him. AFO doesn’t act like a parent at all, but for Shigaraki he’s the closest possible thing. Shigaraki still believes that he owes AFO for saving him all those years back. 

Shigaraki and Chisaki are the core of their beings are propelled by this idea that they need to repay their father figures for taking them in. They have this childish desire to make their father figures happy and please them, that’s just as true to their nature as their destructive impulses. So, they act like they were shaped to be. Chisaki acts like the perfect Yakuza member, and Shigaraki as the perfect symbol of destruction. They are both desperately trying to be what their parents want them to be. 

Shigaraki can’t handle any setbacks or stress, because he is constantly stressed. He was raised to feel nauseatingly sick of himself all of the time. 

Eri can’t act like a normal child because even after removed from Chisaki’s influence, the emotoinal wounds Chisaki left on her don’t magically go away. It’s not about being a good or bad child, it’s about being trapped in a certain unhealthy way of thinking. 

Shigaraki’s not entitled and emotionally immature. He’s emotionally stunted, and deliberately raised that way. If you could say he was raised at all. His captor had no interest in him as a person. He exists to be a pet revenge project against All Might, to turn Shimura Nana’s descendant into an unstable little bomb that explodes and takes out All Might with him. 

The person who raised him constantly threw him into danger with no regard for his well being. He expected Stain to try to kill Tomura when they met and stopped Kurogiri for interfereing for his safety. He expected All Might to beat the shit out of him and for the UA attack to fail. This goes back all the way to the beginning. 

He exposed Shigaraki to dangerous people who would beat him up, insult him, and belittle him. People that deliberately reminded Shigaraki of his abuser. 

So he would be constantly made to feel unsafe and unstable. Shigaraki has no emotional stability because he was constantly raised in an unstable environment, it’s not hard to remain sane in that environment, it’s downright impossible. 

2. Children can Grow Up

This is a theme we’ve seen repeat itself three times. A child is murdered and has their name taken away by their paternal abusers, and they make it into adulthood (despite symbolically dying as a child) with entirely different names and identities. Takami Keigo grows up into Hawks, Touya grows up into Dabi, Shimura becomes Shigaraki. However, all three of them as adults are malformed and still clinging onto the hurt feelings that they held as a child. Shigaraki and Dabi literally both look like corpses, and Hawks has literally no personality or name outside of being a hero. 

It’s not a reflection of who they are as people, it’s a reflection that they were not raised to be people. However, Shigaraki is constantly remarked on as a child capable of growing up. 

Spinner, Shigaraki’s friend sees the good side of his childishness. He is someone who late in life, is still learning and developing empathy. We see him change over the course of the story. Shigaraki who claims that he doesn’t care about anything besides destruction, also specifically states that he won’t destroy his companions hopes and dreams. 

Shigaraki who is presented as a person who is entirely devoid of empathy, is shown being able to deal with somebody like Twice perfectly. Not only does he listen to Twice’s demands that they rescue Giran. 

He also knows how to make Twice listen, and then carefully places his mask back on again to calm him down afterwards. He deals with him like a person and is accomodating of his quirks. 

Shigaraki makes it deliberately a point that he’s not okay with someone else playing around with Twice’s feelings. 

He also tells Twice to make saving Giran and protecting him a priority when he plans on finishing Rikiya himself. 

All of this consideration for the feelings of an individual. Shigaraki’s empathy has grown and developed to the point where he can imagine the feelings of other people outside himself. Now compare this to the way Hawks deals with Twice. Shigaraki finds trampling all over the feelings of Twice as unforgivable, whereas Hawks brags to Twice’s face how easy it was to deceive him. He belittles him and rubs salt in the wound. 

Hawks can only accept Twice as a good person. It’s Shigaraki who gives a home to those who have no other home, the outcasts, the bad people that heroes would never save. 

Shigaraki who understood how important Twice’s feelings for his friends are, built his entire plan against the MLA around saving Giran, and Twice’s own desires to want to help his friend Giran and pay him back for giving him a place to belong. Hawks literally goes out of his way to single out Twice as the only one he can save and not extend the same helping hand to his friends. Shigaraki recognizes Twice’s feelings for his friends, Hawks goes out of his way to trample on the friends that Twice finds so precious. 

Hawks wants to save Twice but doesn’t understand him as a person. Shigaraki has created a place where people like Spinner, Toga, Compress, Twice, Dabi are all accepted and valued as people. Shigaraki’s childishness is both a good and bad thing. It shows that even after all of this trauma, the core of who Shigaraki is has not changed. 

He is still the kid who deliberately plays with the kids on the playground who get left out. Who states that he specifically wants to be a hero because there were kids who were left out of being played. And who wanted to be a hero even when he knew his father would severely disapprove of it and kept that dream in his heart. 

Shigaraki is still Shimura Tenko. He’s not the child who wanted to be a hero, or the child who wanted to destroy to make the pain go away, he’s both at the same time and that’s where his complexity comes from. Shigaraki like anybody else is capable of good and bad, but what’s especially important about his arc is that we’ve been shown that when removed from underneath the thumb of his abusers, and surroudned by his found family in the league Shigaraki gets better and is able to begin seeing the emotions and feelings of other people outside of him, and becomes a more empathic person. He is a child yes, but also a child capable of growing up. 

It’s also important to remember his arc. When Shigaraki is fighting for the league he always succeeds (against the Yakuza, against MLA). He only ever fails, and relapses (such as his current failure in the hero war arc raid) when he believes that he has to follow the dream laid out for him by AFO. It’s almost as if Shigaraki was intended from the start to shake off AFO’s influence of him and eventually grow into his own person. Shigaraki is a child waiting to grow up, he’s still Shimura Tenko, and he should be allowed that chance to grow past his abuse. He might never become a hero but by the end of the story he deserves to be his own person, not AFO’s thing. 

[straymackerel]

idk if your requests are open but if they’re not then feel free to ignore this. 😅 id like to request an imagine with dazai having a long, deep conversation with his new co-worker who happens to be a former member of the port mafia but she left for obvious reasons and only fukuzawa knows for now but ofc dazai being dazai, he’s sharp af so he decided to talk to her bc one, he understands her and second he developed feelings for her shortly after she joined ada. thanks in advance! 🥰

➽─{done! they were actually closed, but this was such a fun request i made it 2k long (✿´ ꒳ ` )}─❥

You often wonder if it was something you said.

Ever since you joined the Armed Detective Agency, all of your new coworkers have been nothing short of friendly and accommodating. All of them––except for the bandaged mystery who can’t quite take his eyes off of you.

At first you thought it was just your imagination. When he answered your questions dismissively, you thought maybe he didn’t have a way with words. When he bailed on group trips to Café Uzumaki––but only when you were going too––you brushed it off as a coincidence. And when you first ‘caught’ him fixated on you, looking you square in the face from his own desk, you hoped he was actually looking at something above your head or next to you.

After all, in the Port Mafia, you always felt as if you were being watched, precisely because you were being watched. Your every move was silently documented, your behavior acutely observed within a larger culture of distrust and suspicion. You wondered if maybe you carried that instinctive unease with you to your new day job. (The only proper day job you’ve ever held.)

But there was no need for deft maneuvers to realize that this intimidating brunette was, indeed, staring you down in silence. He has no intention of hiding it; he’s openly tracking your movements, peering into your essence. And the most unnerving part of all: he’s smirking half of the time. If you didn’t know any better, you would confront him the first chance you got; but your situation is precarious, delicate. You have no business drawing attention to yourself, a former member of the Port Mafia. Sure, the President is already aware of your circumstances, but the Mafia has engrained the virtues of secrecy into you. You hope to keep your past on the down low.

Besides, there’s something off about this brown-haired detective. Something you realized at the beginning of your employment, way before he started staring into your soul. Something you hope you’re wrong about.

So you wait it out, anxiously. Drained by the presence of your colleagues, you find yourself in Café Uzumaki alone one slow-moving afternoon. The paperwork was piling up, the tension in the air almost tangible as Dazai declined yet another offer to do actual field-work with the others in favor of keeping tabs on you (unbeknownst to anyone else). You’d left the office at your earliest convenience, hoping to relax in the corner with your favorite beverage.

It is all you can do to keep from spewing the profane as he invites himself to your table, waltzing in without a care in the world. 

You’re trapped.

Ordering himself a double shot espresso, your coworker ignores your apparent apprehension as he gets comfy in his booth seat. Downing his drink while you’ve barely touched yours, he glances behind him to check out the waitstaff. No words are exchanged until the baristas are out of earshot.

“Well, you certainly seem to have a vested interest in me,” you say in the most nonchalant manner manageable––nervous because of his constant surveillance, but also because he’s quite handsome for a borderline stalker.

“You can drop the tight-lipped smile,” Dazai replies, eyes darkened.

You lower your voice, hackles raised. “How much do you know?”

“I suppose it’s all speculation, but my hunches are rarely wrong. You chose to work at a detective agency after all.” Though he’s avoided your question, the look on his face tells you everything you need to know. Eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth upturned, he most definitely has your former occupation pegged.

“What gave it away?” is the only thing you can think to say.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Perhaps it will aid me in playing detective,” you quip. He chuckles dryly.

“Oh, where to start. That concealed weapon you carry––it’s not issued by the Agency. Though its outline is comparable to our standard Beretta 92FS Inox sidearm, there are some subtle differences, even when it’s tucked away and wrapped in cloth.” You raise your eyebrows, surprised that anyone would notice.

“The way you move soundlessly and seamlessly,” he continues, not bothering to pause. “It’s obviously second nature. You hardly make a sound if you can help it. And then there’s your understanding of the underworld, even though you try to hide it. You obviously know much more than you let on; your knowledge is too convenient. You claim to know just the perfect tidbit or two for a case, having overheard a street vendor or a barkeep, but the expression on your face is all too telling of a certain sense of pride. Such a seemingly mild-mannered sweetheart as yourself. Did you know that when you flinch at violence, you always react a hair slower than everyone else, as if you’re simply following suit? Also––”

“Okay, OK, I get it,” you say, defeated. “So that’s the reason why you’re leering at me every day? To add to this never-ending list of yours?”

“Well...” Dazai’s voice trails off. His features relax for the briefest moment, more alarming than reassuring to you. And then that nagging thought resurfaces. That is, the very first thing that came to mind when you were first introduced to him. Again: something you hope you’re wrong about.

“You’re quite suspicious yourself,” you interject. “Let alone your little stalker habit... you have the same name as him.” The corners of his eyes crease. 

“That’s an odd way of putting it,” he says with a hint of mirth in his voice, and not a smidgen of denial. Fuck.

Logic dictates that you should be scared shitless right now, sitting across from one of the most dangerous men in Mafia history. Logic dictates that you should’ve used more covert methods of uncovering his past. Straightening up, you tell yourself not to think about it.

“Well, I was under the impression that Dazai Osamu was only a legend and nothing more. I mean, a teenage orphan prodigy who threw their life as a Mafia exec away, only to disappear forever? Sounds like bullshit,” you state with as much cool-headedness as you can muster.

“I take that personally!” he gasps, twisting his arms every which way in mock offense, as if to shield himself from your harsh commentary. 

“You didn’t consider changing your name?”

“Not even once.” He winks, to which your heart may or may not skip a beat. Are you scared, or oddly enamored?

You push your cup along your side of the table. “How come you turned tail too? You had the status to do literally anything you wanted.” He brushes it off.

“What is this, my interview? The last time I checked, you were the one on trial,” he says, waving his hand like he’s batting your assertion out of the air.

“I’m on trial?” you ask, the cup coming to a stop. “Do the others have suspicions as well?”

“Oh no, nothing in particular to go on. Though Ranpo most definitely has you figured out,” he says, to which you startle. “...but he couldn’t care less, so don’t worry.” You unintentionally sigh relief as he continues: “My colleagues have this peculiar way of testing their new recruits. We call it an ‘entrance exam.’ And before you ask, I’m not responsible for administering yours, but I might be able to push you in the right direction.”

“Any hints?” 

He shakes his head, “Not really. No general tips or tricks. I need some more information,” he says, leaning in a bit. “So tell me about yourself. Why leave the Mafia for the ADA?”

You press your lips together, realizing he’s asking you the very same question he himself dodged moments ago. “I needed a change of atmosphere. And scenery. I wasn’t quite taken up with the constant death threats and daily bloodshed.”

“Oh, death threats? And bloodshed? I don’t suppose you were on the receiving end?” Dazai asks, one eyebrow cocked.

You laugh a restrained laugh, nodding. “I wasn’t. But those kinds of tactics... they aren’t in my nature. Everything about that job was suffocating, and I just couldn’t do it anymore.” Dazai looks at you thoughtfully.

“It’s interesting, though. You carry your past line of work in all of your mannerisms. Any chance you were born into it?”

You nod again, “Not my choice.”

“What a coincidence.” He flashes a toothy smile, silence thickening the air. You scramble to break it, eager to talk about something else.

“...So? Any advice for my test?”

“I’d be a little more forthcoming if only you’d tell me the full truth,” Dazai responds, and your face falls.

“What do you mean?” Your strained voice comes out meeker than you’d like, and it’s Dazai’s turn to sigh. He leans back into his booth seat, as if a little distance might solve your unease.

“I lost someone. The best friend I’ve ever had. He told me I wouldn’t find what I was looking for in the Mafia, so here I am. And I’m pretty sure you have someone like that too.” How does he know? Why is he telling you this? Your hands––they’re clammy. You turn your gaze to your lap, realizing that he’d dismantle anything but the truth. There are no options but one.

“It was... a family member.” More silence. Is your nose getting red? You hope your nose isn’t getting red.

“The Mafia threatened them?” he prods.

“They were collateral,” you say slowly. You hadn’t expected to talk about them today. You hadn’t expected any of this from a coworker who kept you at several arms’ lengths for days. Another coworker might respond “that’s horrible,” or “I’m sorry for your loss,” but not Dazai.

“Dazai, do you ever wonder if it’s our fault they got hurt?”

“No,” he replies immediately. Then he hesitates. “I mean, yes, and for a very long time, but not anymore. Evil will do evil; if not to our loved ones, then to someone else.” 

He’s right. Of course he’s right.

“But does it make it any easier?” You peer at him, hopeful, and he dismisses your expectations with a quick shake of the head. “Right.” Pause. 

“But you’ve come to the right place. Unlike the Mafia, this is an environment where you can heal. Sometimes the wounds reopen,” he says, “but I promise you that your feelings will go towards something productive.” You swallow, blinking back would-be teardrops. The salty marinade seeps back into you.

Then, under your breath: “Okay.” “Thank you.” 

“Of course. I could talk about this all day.” The tightness in your throat dissipates, the water in your eyes no longer threatening to spill.

“So, the entrance exam? I’ve told you everything now,” you pry. He thrums his fingers, amused.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I figured pretty early on that you would be okay. You’re gonna pass just fine without my help––I only wanted to get to know my new coworker better.” His fingers stop as he gauges your response.

“Wha–?” This guy! He played you, straight to the verge of tears..! Shoulder tense, you jump to your feet.

“Sorry to deceive you. I’ll see you upstairs, then.” Jeez, the bandaged bastard’s already heading out!

“Wait!” Cheeks flushed, you’re unsure why you’re calling out to him, but it makes him stops in his tracks.

“...Yes?” 

“...You’re not gonna tell anyone, right?”

“I’ll think about it.” Dazai’s coy voice is all but reassuring.

“No, seriously,” you plead, eyes wide. “I really need this. God forbid someone else prompts a retelling of my life story.” He turns to face you.

“Then let’s make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” 

He steps towards you, leaning in to whisper in your ear: “Meet me in front of this building tomorrow at 10 PM. There’s a restaurant I want to take you.” You feel your mouth open, then close by itself. 

This is it. This is why he can’t look away from you. If he was only observing you, he could, would do it without being so obvious. You’re sure of it now. You replay each once-menacing occurrence of eye contact from the past few days in your head, and you notice something new. Hunger? Want? Even greed? You can see it in his eyes right now. Those eyes, they threaten to dance around, maybe even travel a bit... lower. 

(You jest yourself. ‘Once-menacing?’ He’s still menace, still a danger.) He turns away, heading for the door again, not waiting for a response:

“Don’t be late.”

A chill runs up your spine. It’s a mix of fear, and bitterness, and panic, but most of all... 

A growing anticipation.

[naughtydaaikon]

A Rose By Any Other Name...

Title: A Rose By Any Other Name... (Chapter 1/2)

Also on Ao3!

Fandom: Jibaku Shounen Hanako-kun

Rating: T (warnings for major character death, but it’s not gonna have a sad ending, I promise!)

Word Count: 7,480 words

Summary:

Death wasn’t as dramatic as stories made it out to be.

Nene had read plenty of books growing up. Romance, drama, horror (her favorite!), and of course, tragedies. She had never been a big fan of that particular genre. It was always too melodramatic for her tastes, and not in the whimsical, romantic way that she liked. Death was always tragic, that was undeniably true, but in the stories, it always seemed as though the dying person would cling desperately to life, fighting with every fiber of their being to cling to that one final breath. Nene didn’t fight when she died.

Oh, she had thought as it hit her. I’m dying.

That sucks.

Predictably, Nene dies. Fortunately, contrary to what Hanako claimed, death wasn't necessarily the end. 

--

Notes: Okay, so like this was posted on ao3 forever ago, and I just realized that I never posted it here, so I’m correcting that right now, I guess. I hope you all enjoy. Please leave a comment, like, and reblog if you enjoy. Also shoot a message to me if you want to talk Hananene. I forget about tumblr sometimes, but I will surely answer eventually. 

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...Would still smell just as sweet.

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 Kamome Academy was a place where legends were born and made real. 

 The school had been the one unchanging fixture within Shibuya of what was now Tokyo’s bustling financial district. Kamome had stood for a near century, its walls still made from the same stone that had been used to construct it all of those years ago, back when it had first been built over an old wooden school house that shared its land with an old Shinto shrine to the god, Inari. 

 There were strong spiritual roots here, even in the iron jungle that was Tokyo. 

 Perhaps that was the reason so many spirits were born here — were bound to this place. 

 Within the crowded, lively halls of Kamome Academy, secrets and rumors had a way of becoming tangible; real. All you really had to do was breathe life into that secret and it would animate itself. 

 Or in some cases — reanimate.

 “Hey, have you heard this rumor?” A girl leans close to her friend during their lunch period. They sit at the same desk, hunched over, giggling. It is here that a rumor is whispered, a rumor to be spread. “If there’s someone that you love with all your heart, you should go to Kamome’s outdoor pool. If you throw a 5 yen coin into the pool and wish for your lover to be yours, the mermaid who lives in the depths of the pool will grant your wish.”

 “Really?”

 “Yes! It’s said that when she was alive she fell in love with a mortal that she couldn’t have, for she was a mermaid and he was a human. In the end, she tried to change her fate.”

 “And then what happened?”

 “What do you think happens when you try to change your destiny? She turned into sea foam and died!”

 And so, she was born. Or was it reborn?

 Just — like — that. 

 -------

 Death wasn’t as dramatic as stories made it out to be.

 Nene had read plenty of books growing up. Romance, drama, horror (her favorite!), and of course, tragedies. She had never been a big fan of that particular genre. It was always too melodramatic for her tastes, and not in the whimsical, romantic way that she liked. Death was always tragic, that was undeniably true, but in the stories, it always seemed as though the dying person would cling desperately to life, fighting with every fiber of their being to cling to that one final breath. Nene didn’t fight when she died. 

 “No -- no, Yashiro! You’ve got to fight! No, no, no--”

 Oh, she wanted to fight, of course. She wanted to kick, to punch, to scream about how badly she wanted to live. She wanted to perform a long soliloquy about the unfairness of it all, the spotlight shining directly on her as she decried her fate. After all, who wanted to die at sixteen? There was still so much that she hadn’t done! 

 “Yashiro, hold on!”

 She hadn’t gone on a real date, hadn’t gone on a long romantic walk underneath the starlight, nor had she been swept off of her feet, or even kissed. The subject of her own mortality had been a constant burden that she had carried with her since living in  Shijima’s pseudo-perfect world. How could she not think about it, after all? Though, at the moment of death, it was as though all those feelings crashed within her, and the impact was both sudden and brutal. It was a strange duality, wanting so badly to live, and yet having not a slither of energy or ability to fight off that impending finality.

 It was her fate, after all.

 No, she couldn’t fight.

 Nene had simply slipped away.

 One moment, she was there — filled with light, with warmth. She had been helping Hanako with something —  though, that was difficult to remember. What had she been helping him with? A yorishiro, perhaps. Yeah, that sounded right. One moment, she had been reaching to undo the 

seal on a yorishiro. An action that she had done so many times before. She hadn’t even considered that this would be the moment that the sand within her hourglass would finally run out. 

 That was all that it took. 

 She doesn’t even feel being stabbed.

 Then she’s losing feeling in all of her limbs, growing numb —  cold.

 “Yashiro!”

 The most difficult part of dying, Nene thought, had been lying in Hanako’s arms as he held her and screamed. She remembered that with almost crystal clarity. Had she ever seen him cry before? Yes, she had. Thrice -- once as Amane, when he had still been full of life, bruised and sobbing in an empty classroom. Then once more on the school’s rooftop after he had encountered his brother, and again back in the painted world as he admitted how badly he wanted her to live. She had felt awful, then. He wanted her to live, to survive  —  and she wouldn't, even when he had taken on her wish to live for another 99 years.

 An impossible wish.

 Too impossible to grant.

 A selfish wish. Just who was she to try to defy fate, after all? 

 She had promised herself that she would never be the source of those tears again, though. I’m just breaking all of my promises, she thought as she gazed up at him, his voice growing so far away. His voice sounded like nothing more than a distant, far off echo. He seemed so alive right now -- amber eyes burning, red and swollen with tears, as though he had true flesh to bruise and swell. He had been trembling, shaking her as he cried her name again and again. 

 Oh, she had thought as it hit her. I’m dying.

 That sucks.

 Nene had wanted to comfort him, to cup his cheek and promise that everything would be fine. She would be fine. She wanted to lie to him -- to assure him that her own mortality was nothing but a fallacy to be ignored. What happened? She wondered, watching his expression, as tears that she could not feel fell onto her skin. They should have been wet. Under normal circumstances, she might’ve even panicked about him getting her skin wet. Didn’t he know that she’d turn into a fish if she got too wet? 

 And with that last, foolish thought  —  she was gone.

 Here  —  and then not.

 No, death wasn’t the hard part.

 It was leaving him behind -- knowing that she had caused that pain within his eyes. That was the hardest part.

 ------

 It was a bright and sunny morning when she regained consciousness.

 At first, she hadn’t found anything to be amiss. The school bell hadn’t even rung yet as Nene stood just beyond the entrance to the school building. Strange, she thought to herself, looking around and taking in her surroundings. It was still too early for the rest of her classmates to arrive, earlier than she normally even came into school. Had she needed to finish something for Aoi in the gardening club? That was usually the only time that she came in early. “That has to be it,” she said, satisfied with her answer.

 Something had felt off.

 It was an odd feeling, as though her skin was pulled too tightly over her own body, as though her organs didn’t fit correctly inside of her. There was an acrid, bitter taste in her mouth that just didn’t seem to dissipate. Something was wrong; she couldn’t place just what. Nene’s lips twisted into a frown as she tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth. Come to think of it, she didn’t remember even coming to school. She didn’t even remember the previous day. Had she cleaned the toilets with Hanako? Had she eaten dinner? What had her mother prepared for her and her father? Her stomach felt -- off. There was a dull throbbing sensation in her belly, as though she had eaten something that hadn’t sat right with her. Absentmindedly, she rubbed the spot.

 Had she remembered to clean Black Canyon’s cage? She had to clean it out every Wednesday.

 What day even is it? Nene wondered, that awful feeling only growing, like bile rising in her throat. She could feel it gathering in her throat as she made it to the school gardens. It was empty, of course. It was still far too early for anyone else to be there. She looked around, checking the soil and growing even colder as she did so. 

 Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

 Something was very wrong.

 The last time she had gone to her gardening club, they had harvested the tomatoes and cucumbers that had finally finished growing. She knew that she had meant to come in early and plant new vegetables for the summer season like Aoi had asked her to do, and if Aoi had delegated the task to Nene, that meant it was her job to get it done and hers alone.

 And yet -- 

 All of the summer vegetables had already been planted. Some of them were even fully grown. The squash plants were large and supple. They would need to be pulled soon. 

 How much time had passed? 

 When was it?

 It couldn’t still be Spring. Hadn't the trees just been blossoming with soft pink petals days before? Calm down, she thought to herself, though it felt as though her heart was about to burst out of her chest. Her hands felt cold and clammy, as though they were covered in sweat.

 One, two. Breathe.

 Try to remember. There had to be an explanation for all of this  — 

 What was it  — 

 The memory came to her suddenly, barrelling through her mind like a bullet train. 

 -- There had been new supernaturals that had cropped up, plaguing the schools with their wretched pranks. Hanako had called them Amanojaku, imp-like troublemakers who had begun appearing around the school, whispering in the ears of the students before their cruel persuasion eventually incited the object of their torment to mischief and violence. It had started with arguments amongst the students within Nene’s class. Simple things -- everyone just seemed more on edge than usual, until the moment that Lemon-kun had thrown a punch right at Akane-kun’s face.  

 And then...

 And then what? 

 It’s fine! She thought, even though she was already falling to her knees, nerves threatening to overtake her. I can just ask Hanako! He’ll know what happened!

 She’d talk to him  — and then he’d fill her in. Then, everything would make sense  —  

 “Yashiro?” A voice whispered. She could barely even hear it, though she recognized the voice immediately. She could feel her breath catch in the back of her throat. Hanako! She thought. Good! It was just the person who she wanted to see! Nene smiled, all but scrambling to her feet as she turned around to face him. He was the same as he normally was  — translucent as the rays of sunlight shone through his body. It was as though he was there, and yet not. A fading fixture in a solid world.

 Haku-joudai hovered around him, though the two orbs appeared to be agitated about something. They shook in place, dashing around him as though in a frenzy.  Hanako, on the other hand, hadn’t moved an inch.

 “Hanako-kun!” she cried, delighted as she began to run towards him. “Something really weird is going on!” Tears of frustration and relief filled her eyes. 

 It was only then that something about his reaction struck her as strange. Normally, Hanako would’ve already been all over her, wouldn’t he have? He’d be floating near her, arms wrapped around her as though he were a second skin. 

 But  — 

 Hanako hadn’t made a single move towards her. He simply stood there, staring at her, lips parted in what seemed to be disbelief. 

 Wasn’t he normally happy to see her?

 His usual cheshire smile was gone, replaced with a look of pure horror. His large eyes seemed even wider, pupils constricted as his body trembled hard. “Yashiro,” he breathed, sounding as though the very action of speaking was a laborious effort. “Yashiro  — I’m so sorry.”

 An apology.

 What was he apologizing for?

 She laughed, unsure of herself. “Hey,” she said, taking another hesitant step towards him, as that feeling of wrongness in the pit of her stomach only mounted. Why was he looking at her like that? The expression of his face was difficult to place. His eyes seemed swollen, lips quivering. It was like he didn’t want to look at her. Was he feeling guilty?  “What are you apologizing for?” She couldn’t remember. Had she complained to him about cleaning the toilets again? It wasn’t like him to be sorry over something like that, though.

 She smiled, “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Hanako-kun.” She grabbed his hand, meaning to calm him. The moment that she does, however, she noticed that his hand felt different. It wasn’t cold. In fact, she could feel a warmth emanating from him. It was reminiscent of how his skin had felt in the picture world. Soft. Warm.

 Strange.

 “Hanako-kun -- I’m glad that I ran into you here,” and truly, she was. She could mull over the warmth of his skin later. Finally, things would begin to start making sense!

 “I wanted to ask you what happened the other day?” she began slowly. “With the Amanojaku!”

 No answer.

 Why was he looking at her like that?

 “Hanako-kun?”

 He swallowed as though there was something thick trapped within his throat. “Yashiro,” from the moment that he spoke, he seemed to come back to himself. He was pale, shivering as he slowly lifted a hand to her cheek. He squeezed the hand that she was holding, before lacing their fingers together. “Yashiro,” he repeated her name, but it sounded like he was in pain. 

 He still hadn’t answered her.

 Hanako leaned against her, moving so close that for a moment, she thought that he might kiss her. She grew warm, cheeks burning when he rested his forehead against her. His eyes squeeze closed. He felt as though he were actually alive. How was that possible? Hanako’s touch had always been cool, but his skin was so warm that Nene couldn't help but melt into it. As bemused as she was, it felt nice to be held like this by him. Like she belonged there -- in his arms. The school was quiet all around them, and for a moment, she wondered if time had stopped.

 The romance novels that she read often described moments like this. It was the moment that magic became real, and the feelings of the two lovers became too overwhelming to be contained. Perhaps there would be a confession  — an embrace or even a warm kiss. Nene felt swollen with excitement.

 It felt —  perfect.

 Right.

 “You need to move on,” he spoke suddenly, jolting her right out of her thoughts. 

  —  And the spell had been broken.

 “Move on?” She asked quietly. She didn’t understand what he meant. Move on from what? 

 His eyes averted, looking lower, towards her abdomen. His skin seemed to turn ashen before his eyes flickered back to hers. “You  — you don’t feel that?” He asked quietly. His question makes her pause. 

 Feel what? 

 “Why aren’t you answering my questions?” It didn’t make any sense. This evasiveness was ridiculous even for Hanako, who always kept his secrets locked close to his heart. It was normal for him to use a question or some other means to distract her when he wanted to keep his lips sealed, but this was far too much. He kept on answering her questions with more questions. Really -- there had to be a limit to how much Hanako could keep from her! 

 His eyes flickered back down to her abdomen again.

 He grit his teeth, untangling their fingers to her disappointment and bringing them to rest on her shoulders. “Look down,” said Hanako, choosing to be evasive once more. Still, his insistence that she look at herself made her hesitate. She didn’t want to. She wanted to fight him more -- to demand that he answer her questions, but from the look within his eyes, Nene could tell that this was serious. She was missing something important.

 But what was that?

 Nene could feel that harsh, heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach returning. Come to think of it -- didn’t her belly hurt? There was a dull throb there, right beneath her ribs. It didn’t feel like a stomach ache. No, the pain was much sharper.  It had been building since the moment that she woke up in front of the school. Finally ripping her eyes away from Hanako’s she looked down at herself. 

 -- And then she saw it.

 A gaping hole, ripped ragged and bloody,was torn right through her. It was right beneath her ribs. Crimson blood stained her uniform. There was so much of it. The skirt of her uniform was entirely ruined, soaked through with the fluid. She could even feel the warm, sticky substance seeping into the fabric of her tights. “...What…?” she whispered. The pain dissipated, leaving only a numbness in its wake. And cold -- it was so cold. A part of her had been gouged out and she hadn’t even noticed. Not until now.

 “Hanako-kun,” her voice shook. “Hanako-kun -- my stomach--”

 She’d been stabbed.

 She’d been stabbed  —  

 She’d been stabbed.

“Yashiro!” Hanako’s voice brought her back, grounding her. He pulled her against him tightly, his body a solid anchor within the chaos that had begun to swirl inside of her. Her visage flickered, as though she were nothing more than a candle about to be snuffed out. “Yashiro! Stay focused! I know -- I know this can be confusing at first,” his fingers ran through her hair, brushing through the strands like he had done before when he had come to harass her during her English class before. “It sometimes takes awhile to get a sense of yourself again.” His grip on her was crushing, but she relished in the feeling of it. Hanako made sense, even if none of this did. “Focus on me, okay?”

 She could do that. Nene closed her eyes, breathed deeply. She filled lungs that no longer required air, and shook like a leaf in the autumn wind. The air felt crisp as she inhaled, just as it always had. Nothing felt any different. She could still feel all of her limbs. She had two hands, two legs, and two feet. She could feel Hanako as she clung to him, nails digging into the fabric of his old school uniform. “Hanako-kun,” she said when she finally trusted herself to speak. “What happened?”

 Silence.

 He didn’t answer -- not at first. No, he simply buried his face into her hair.  Inhaling deeply, then he released a ragged breath that seemed to be ripped from his chest. When he pulled back, meeting her gaze, his eyes were set with a sort of weary, grim determination. 

 And she knew.

 She knew without him even having to say it. Though, the words still knocked the wind out of her when they finally did come. 

 “You died, Yashiro.”

 No -- dying hadn’t been dramatic. But... what had come after was.

 ---------

 Days seemed to blend into one another over the next few weeks, each night dying into day again and again. 

 Rinse and repeat. 

 Nene was never quite sure if she was awake or not. She had read about narcolepsy for class once. She thought that what she was experiencing now was most similar to that. There were fleeting moments of consciousness. She would blink and awaken back at the school, before blinking again and finding herself back in a sea of darkness that was thicker than the blackest of nights. 

 When she was awake, Hanako was usually never far away.

 He’d appear minutes after she did, a bone weary and hollow guilt etched into his eyes as he always encouraged the same thing over and over again.

 “Pass on, Yashiro.”

 She didn’t listen, of course.

-------

 Nene came to realize rather quickly that coming to terms with your own death was quite the shock. The awareness of one’s own demise didn’t come right away. No, your body did everything in its power to maintain that illusion of life. She still felt things, phantom sensations of what should be. She couldn’t feel the warmth of the sun on her skin, but something within her brain (soul? She didn’t have a brain anymore -- that had died with her physical body) told her that the rays would brush against her skin like a sultry embrace, and so she perceived it as such. She didn’t have skin to feel the coolness of the wind sweeping over her, and yet, she shivered. Her chest burned when she held her breath, yearning for oxygen that she couldn’t breathe. Though, gradually --

 Those sensations…

 Started.

 To.

 Fade.

 Her awareness was even more fleeting.

 From the moment that she realized that she was dead, Nene had trouble maintaining her form. She would simply blink in and out of existence. Here one minute -- gone the next. She would often wake back up in the school -- by the entrance, in the practice garden, right in the middle of her old homeroom class. Masaki-sensei would be in the middle of a lesson. Aoi would be sitting in class, scribbling notes with a far off and misty look in her eye. She’d never see her, of course.

 No one did.

 Her desk had been outright removed from the class. An empty spot in the classroom was the only acknowledgement that she had once existed. Though, perhaps that wasn’t the only reminder. No one sat where her desk had once stood. When students walked past that spot, they would cast a sad, pitying glance towards it. She’d hear whispers when there was a lull in the lesson. They were always the same words. Whispers that were as loud as screams echoed throughout the entire school -- building to a crescendo that was impossible to ignore.

 Poor Nene-chan.

 It was always the same. 

 Did you hear how she died? She was found stabbed in the school courtyard! Isn’t that awful?

 Poor Nene-chan, indeed. 

 “Insensitive, isn’t it?” A soft, yet almost dreary voice spoke to her. Nene blinked. She was in the school hallway now. How frustrating! She couldn’t seem to get a hold of herself. Her sense of self was off, just as Hanako had said. She was worried that she would disappear for good if she wasn’t careful. “The way that humans discuss the dead has always left something to be desired.” That voice sounded so familiar.

 It gave Nene something to grasp. A familiar voice -- soft, distant, and feminine. 

 “Nanamine-senpai!” Nene found her voice, yelping out loud as she finally noticed the girl standing right in front of her. It was as though Nanamine-senpai had been out of focus, a blurry image in a camera that she had been unable to discern until that very moment. Her head just felt so foggy. Was she disappearing? 

 You are dead, a fact her mind was quick to remind herself of. You shouldn’t even still be here.

 “You haven’t crossed over yet,” Nanamine-senpai observed. She leaned against the adjacent wall, hands folded neatly across her chest. She was as beautiful as always, resembling a painting more than a person -- a beautiful piece of art that had been handcrafted and placed into the real world. Perhaps that was why she seemed so doll-like, her movements perfectly precise, her voice like a distant dream. The sunlight filtering in through the windows from the hallway bathed her in a warm, honey-like hue. “Perhaps you should.”

 “Hanako-kun….said the same thing…” Speaking was difficult. It was as though her tongue was laden with lead. It was difficult to remember how to form her words, like there were some kind of delay between her thoughts and her mouth. Then again, she didn’t have a real mouth anymore. 

 Dead. 

 She was dead.

 Her insides shuddered, squirming at that thought. She could feel herself flicker again -- her consciousness fading to darkness before finding purchase in the school’s hallways once more. Sakura still stood there, watching her. “You should listen to him,” the elder girl advised. “Nothing good comes from remaining bound here.” Her tone became almost wistful. She turned slightly, glancing out of the nearby window, as a caged bird would stare longingly outside of the gaps in its cage. 

 “I wish that I had known that, before.” 

 Before? Before what? Nene wanted to ask what she meant by that, but the words never seemed to reach her lips.

 The other girl didn’t elaborate on her meaning, either. Instead, she took her hand in hers, holding it in a similar manner to the way that she had back in the tea room Boundary. Imploring, asking for understanding. “Go, Yashiro-san.” 

 “Go where?” Nene rasped, her form trembling as her hand squeezed around Nanamine’s. “Where do I have to go?”

 There was nowhere to go now. There was nothing to do. There was nothing to be. She was stuck, frozen in place from the moment that she had been stabbed. Nene had a whole list of things that she had wanted to do before she died. She’d wanted to get a boyfriend, get her first kiss, go on a date. Maybe one day she’d grow into a sexy older woman with men fawning all over her. One day she might’ve even gotten married!

 Nene had wanted to stream Space Hamsters Strike Back on her laptop, curled up beside Hanako on the floor of his bathroom. She’d wanted to watch his eyes light up as he watched all of the modern special effects. Nene had heard that the effects made it feel like you were really in space while you were watching. She had downloaded the movie, and planned to bring her laptop with her the day after they had gone after the Amanojaku. 

 She wanted to see him get all excited about the stars, telling her all of the facts that he knew like the back of his hand. When he was like that, the mask of Hanako fell away until he was only Amane -- a boy who wanted to be an astronaut. The boy who wanted to go to the moon or to Scorpius. The boy whose life had been cut far too short.

 Kind of like her.

 A tight knot formed in her chest. Right where her heart would have been if she still had one. It felt as though her feet were cast in iron, given a weight that she hadn’t felt since she was alive.

 “So, you’ve made your choice,” Nanamine-senpai murmured, watching her with hooded, secretive eyes.

 Her choice? Nene clung to the sick feeling of sloshing acid that formed in the pit of her stomach. It was real. It anchored her in place -- kept her from disappearing, even as her consciousness began to slowly fade.

 “Staying isn’t always the better option,” she informed her, dropping her hand. Her lips curled into a sad smile. “A wish cannot always be granted. Even if it is, it might just chain you in place. You can become imprisoned by that wish.”

 Nene didn’t understand. How could a wish become a prison? 

 “Nanamine-senpai,” Nene asked quietly. “How do you know that?”

 The older girl remained quiet, her eyes holding an answer that Nene didn’t want to acknowledge. Why do you think that I know, they questioned. Tsukasa-kun was a supernatural who only granted wishes to spirits, after all. How else had Nanamine-senpai been able to form a bond with him if she didn’t already intimately understand the danger of such wishes? Her wish had become the elder girl’s shackles.

 Crimson eyes widened, understanding dawning within them. “Nanamine-senpai…. Are you…?”

 “It doesn’t matter what I am, anymore,” Nanamine’s voice was clipped. She didn’t want to talk about that, then. “Every wish comes with a cost. Are you prepared to make such a sacrifice, Yashiro-san?”

 Was she?

 “You all keep saying that!” Her form flickered. Here and then not -- as though she had glitched out of reality. “You tell me it’s better to pass on! Then you say that it’s up to me to make a choice! Make up your minds already!” All of the frustration at the unfairness of the situation erupted.

 Stupid supernaturals! They kept things from her, tried to force her to make decisions that she didn’t want to make, and all looked at her with that hopeless, resigned expression that she had come to loathe. 

 It was all too much.

 She was still just too young. Before meeting Hanako her biggest concern had been her thick ankles and whether the boy she liked would return her feelings! Nene had been thrust into a world far more complex and layered than she had ever been able to fathom before. A world of wishes, apparitions and separate pockets of reality where all manner of creatures roamed, and all of her older concerns seemed paltry in comparison. Still, she had toed the line of the Near Shore and Far Shore for so long that she had come to love this dark world, filled to the brim with ancient legends and rules that were too difficult for her to comprehend.  

 It had always been her destiny to die.

 Though, that didn’t mean that she needed to fade away, either.

 Hanako. She thought of his sad, remorseful eyes. He had promised her a wish that he hadn’t been able to grant. He must be agonizing over that. He probably felt as though he had failed. 

 Did he always feel shackled by his wishes? Like Nanamine-senpai? Had her own wish added yet another chain to the restraints that bound him? 

 There were two paths laid before her, and while she knew what the easiest choice would be, she found herself yearning for the other more treacherous road that offered her nothing but overgrown thickets and branches that could easily snag her into place. It was a merciless path. Perhaps she’d even end up as bound as the rest of the apparitions who frequented this school.

 Even so....

 Hanako was at the end of this road, wasn’t he? 

 Nanamine-senpai smiled, a slight slither that seemed almost cut onto her face with knives. “Just remember this, Yashiro-san--” The girl leaned closer, resting her hand on her shoulder. She squeezed it, though Nene was unsure if the gesture was meant to be comforting or not. 

 “ You’re a spirit of the Far Shore now, Yashiro-san. That means if you stay long enough to manifest a wish…”

 Nanamine-senpai didn’t even need to finish her sentence.

 Nene knew.

 “He’ll come to grant it.” 

 Strangely enough -- that didn’t frighten her. At least, not completely. 

 -------

 And come, he did.

 Nene wasn’t surprised to see Tsukasa when he finally sought her out. Her wish had already manifested, building itself in her heart until her entire spirit was consumed by it. It sang its song in every molecule of her form, making sure that even if she vanished, she was never gone for long. This time, she was on the roof of the old school building. She opened her eyes, and could see the sun shining down on her, even if she couldn’t feel its rays. The wind blew against her, causing her hair to blow across her face.

 “Aaaaaaaaaaaah!” A loud, boisterous voice cried out. She recognized it immediately, flinching as her hands balled into fists. “Amane’s assistant died! You really died! I mean -- I knew that you would, but that’s a lot faster than I was expecting!” He laughed, floating in the air before flying above her, lowering himself so that his face was right in front of hers as he hung upside down. It was an action that reminded her almost too cruelly of Hanako. The boy had his face, after all, even if that was where the similarities ended. 

 He stared down at the wound that had yet to repair itself in her chest. “Hey! Someone stabbed you! Squish!” He reached for her, mimicking the stabbing motion with his hand. She grimaced, but she took a step away from him, eyes narrowed as she covered the wound with one of her hands. “Hey, when you got stabbed, did it make that sound? It kind of sounds like that, right?”

 She didn’t want to think about that -- or the sound of it.

 “Tsukasa-kun…” Nene said hesitantly, watching him with wary eyes. 

 “That must’ve broken Amane’s heart,” he giggled, eyes closed and grinning wide. He had a smile that was like a wild animal, all teeth -- a warning. “Did he make a good face?” She didn’t like it when he spoke like this, eyes darker than the obsidian. “I wish I could’ve seen that!”

 She didn’t answer his question, her mind flashing back to Hanako’s face as she had died. No -- it hadn’t been a good face, at all. She bit into her lip -- hard.  “You’re here for a reason, aren’t you, Tsukasa-kun?” She was sure that if she was still alive, she would’ve ran from him. She would’ve cowered away and called for Hanako, probably. All of those fears seemed so far away now, like a distant memory. Tsukasa would do as he pleased, whether it was favorable for her or not. 

 Her words seem to snap him back to attention. “Yes! Your heart called me. You have a wish, don’t you?” He had such large eyes -- round and wide until they thinned, pupils zeroing in on her. Malicious curiosity shone within them, as though he were looking right through her. It was as though he were peering into her soul. She forced herself not to cower from him even if there was still a part of her that wanted to run and cry. “I do,” she answered, voice trembling.

 Well, dead or not -- she couldn’t change her crybaby ways completely. 

 “You know what it is already, don’t you?” Nene’s hands clenched around the hem of her skirt. 

 “I do,” he sang as koku-jodai danced around him. The orbs were just as excitable as he was. “You want to stay with Amane, right? You want to be with him from the bottom of your heart!”

 His smile softened, startling her as he moved closer, invading her space. She wasn’t able to move away quickly enough as he grabbed both of her hands, entwining their fingers the same way that Hanako had done back when he had first granted her wish.  “You want to make him happy.” She didn’t expect him to look like that. He almost seemed like his twin at that point -- kind and gentle, though those words were not what she would’ve ever chosen to describe Tsukasa. 

 Why was he behaving this way? She had almost expected to be run through or hurt in some way. Though, she remembered even he had stopped himself from hurting her at one point. You’re not supposed to hurt girls. Had Hanako told him that? 

 She nodded, “Y-Yes.” She wished she could get her treacherous voice under control. 

 “Are you scared?” he asked cheekily, grinning as he stuck his tongue out at her. “I won’t hurt you. I’m here to grant your wish. And well… I like your wish.” 

 That made her pause. He… liked her wish? 

 “What--?”

 “We both want Amane to be happy.” He flew above her, koku-jodai practically vibrating as they circled him, glowing darkly as his power gathered. His response only served to further confuse her. He wanted Hanako to be happy? If that was the case, then why did he torment his brother? He had called them arch-enemies before. Rivals -- and yet, it seemed as though Tsukasa-kun genuinely wanted to help her. Hanako's eyes were always so sad and regretful whenever he saw him. A question formed in her throat, scratching at her vocal chords. “Do you really?”

 “Yeah!” He stretched his arms out wide, as though he were going to fall to the ground and make a snow angel. “He and I are playing a game, but that’s not really what I’m here to talk about, is it?” He tapped his lip with his index finger, smirking as sharp fangs bared themselves. 

 She would get no more answers out of him. 

 A game.

 She wasn’t sure what kind of game he was playing, but Nene was certain that neither Hanako nor the other spirits who got drawn into the web that he cast wanted to be a part of it. You’re confusing, Tsukasa-kun, she thought sadly, lips drawing into a deep frown. She wondered if anyone truly understood the boy in front of her. The members of his little broadcasting group didn’t seem to, all drawn together by the wishes that they had made to him, with the exception of Natsuhiko-senpai. She wasn’t sure why he was there, to be honest. Had Hanako understood him at some point? 

 Would she ever really know? 

 “Your price has already manifested. I’ve granted you an audience, so be sure not to be boring and disappoint me!” 

 An audience?! With whom?

 She didn’t get the chance to ask him what he meant before the floor opened up underneath her.

 “T-Tsukasa-kun!” she cried out, flailing out, trying to grab onto something to no avail.

 “Bye-Bye!” He waved at her, and then --

 Lights out. 

 -------

 The next time Nene awakened, she was surrounded by a pitch black void. 

 There was nothing in this abyss -- nothing but emptiness and vast space. There was nothing to feel here, nothing to think; nothing but everlasting and far stretching darkness as distant as the eye could see. She wondered if this was the true afterlife. Was this where she was supposed to be? Was she only clinging to her worldly desires, tethering herself to the Near Shore when all that actually awaited her was an endless abyss? 

 Her final resting place.

 It was almost peaceful. If she let herself, she could drift off into an endless, calm slumber. There would be no more pain. No more suffering. No more agonizing about her life, cut far too short. She hadn’t even had her first kiss. How cruel was that? Sixteen years old and deader than a doornail. Sleeping was much too tempting.. She could feel the desire tugging at her chest. It’d be so easy to simply close her eyes and drift off into nothingness. It’d be so easy. So peaceful. Right. This was fate, wasn’t it?

 Her eyes were so heavy.

 Maybe she could take just a little nap?

 She could think about it more later.

 “It’s kind of nostalgic -- like having a friend again.”

 Nene’s eyes snapped open almost as suddenly as they had started to drift closed, suddenly alert. No. She couldn’t leave -- not yet. Not when Hanako was still tethered to the third floor girl’s bathroom of the old school building. She couldn’t believe that she had almost forgotten about him! No, she couldn’t fade away. Not while Hanako’s eyes still held that haunted, tired look as though he had seen more lifetimes than she could count. He was dead -- and yet, he couldn’t rest.

 If he couldn’t rest, then neither should she. 

 Hanako wanted a friend. Hanako was lonely -- bound to his duty, to a penance that seemed far too great to burden a fourteen year old boy with. He’s a murderer, she reminded herself. That was true. Hanako had killed, but as she thought back to the way that he had looked on the floor of that empty classroom, all covered in bruises and bloody marks, bandages covering older wounds that had no business marring his skin, she couldn’t find it within herself to blame him. He had never told her why he had killed his brother, nor had he ever told her what had happened to him all those years ago.

 There just hadn’t been enough time.

 “Pass on, Yashiro.”

 No, she couldn’t rest yet. 

 Hanako’s words only served to piss her off. He was always talking like that, making it seem as though all the dead had to look forward to was annihilation. He was a slave to rules and order -- what should be. There was still so much to do! Hanako was still at Kanome, after all. If he was there, then she would have no choice but to stay as well. She was his assistant and his friend. What would he do without her? He had urged her to move on, but that was just him being his normal, self-sacrificing self. Of course he’d say that. He was determined to make himself miserable, but Nene would be damned if she let that continue. 

 She wouldn’t.

 Hanako needed to be protected, too!

 That thought filled her like air, grounding her -- providing her with an alertness that kept her steady even in the recesses of this abyss. 

 Poor little lost spirit. Why do you scoff at death? 

 Nene could hear a voice in that abyss. It was a whisper, something that slid gently against the edges of her consciousness. It beckoned, called to her sweetly as she imagined a lover would. It was insistent, and yet too soft for her to discern its words until it slowly became more clear and present. That was, at least until the voice slowly became clear and present. It filled the space with an energy that rocked her to her core. It demanded attention now, as though it had grown tired of being ignored. She wasn’t alone here, and yet whatever she shared this space with was just out of her grasp. Nene grasped at air that wasn’t there, reaching -- searching for that voice.

 Hear me, Spirit. I am here with you.

 “I’m not alone?” Nene asked as she finally found her voice. There was an echo when she spoke, one that seemed to vibrate throughout the dark abyss, filling each of the spaces as it reverberated again and again. “Who are you?” 

 There was a rumble in the darkness, something deep and warm -- like laughter. 

 That is the question, isn’t it? Funny, how those who come here never seem to know the answer to that question. 

 Was the voice talking in riddles? Nene had never been very good at solving those. She wasn’t sure who this person was -- but who did you talk to when you finally died? The answer hit her suddenly, and she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it right away. “Are you God?”

 The rumble was back, ouder this time, and it shook her as it reverberated through her like ripples of a raging river. Was it… amused by her? 

 Some have called me that. That seems to be the only thing humans can come up with, at least.  I’m not God -- or anything of the sort. 

 She didn’t understand. If this voice wasn’t God, then what was it? She panicked for a moment, flailing out into the void wildly out in fear. If not God -- then was it a demon?! She didn’t voice that thought, but it seemed to recognize her fear, regardless. The laughter is deep and echoing.

 I am from this land. You died on my land, and so you are tied here. Your soul refuses to pass on. 

 That much was true. She still had things that she needed to do, after all. If Hanako was still at Kamome, then she needed to be there, too. She was sure of it, even more sure than she had been when Hanako had tried to lock her away in the picture perfect world. She hadn’t belonged there. Even with the news of her impending death, she wanted to live with him in the real world. That wish hadn’t changed. 

 You are a funny human. I’m quite curious -- who are you?

 Nene sputtered, “Me?”

 Yes, you. You have yet to fade away. You have yet to accept death. You even solicited the help of that apparition to appear here. Why is that?

 Why couldn’t she accept death? 

 She knew the answer to that question immediately. 

 “My name is Yashiro Nene.” Her voice was like steel as she spoke, steadier than it had ever been.  “ I have someone that I can’t leave behind,” she answered firmly. 

 The void pulsed. She could hear a subtle sound, like the beating of a heart that only increased in volume until her ears rang from it.

 You are a lucky one, little spirit. Your fate has been tied to that of another. It is a bond that transcends even death.

 A bond that transcended death? She had heard that before, hadn’t she? 

 I’ve heard your wish, spirit -- Don’t come to regret it.

 -- And then, a star burst into a kaleidoscope of colors before her eyes, illuminating the darkness. 

 ------------

 “Hey, have you heard this rumor? There’s a mermaid that lives in the outdoor pool --”

 -------------

[girl4music]

Early morning perusings: A 'thing' is both thought and form. Thus, everything is beyond our understanding.

Without 'yin' and 'yang' there would be no experience of anything ever. And the whole thought of that is incomprehensible to me as there wouldn't even be 'thought'. And 'thought' is the fundamental of every 'thing'. That is not an exaggeration. A 'thought' is a thing in it's fundamental existence. In fact, most would probably say that a 'thing' cannot exist if it is ONLY thought and not form. Well, in that case, there is many formless things we need to reconsider calling a 'thing'.

'Love'.

'Energy'

'Electricity'

'Harry Potter'

If only form is a 'thing', then there is much about our existence and experience we should not call a 'thing'. So what else can we call it instead? An "idea"? A "concept"? A "substance"?

Thought exists if "things" exist. There would be no "thing" without thought. So to distinguish the differences between them is really quite pointless. Because 'form' itself is just another type of thought from the mental type. It is just one with energetic development behind it. And because two or more people can see and hear and feel "form"... It is often assumed that that is what is 'existence' and what is 'reality'. But like I said... If that is true, then there is much about 'existence' and 'reality' that we miss. The entire human experience is both of thought and form. So much so that there really is no separation or division between them. So that means that when the potential is excluded, the understanding is half-done. It means half of the understanding of reality... Or of existence...

Of the very "science" of it...

...

Is missing.

And you see, this is what Albert Einstein was trying to do. He was trying to unify all understandings of reality or of existence. He basically said that if the point was not to understand existence fundamentally, then there was no point to existence at all. Now that I disagree with, but I do understand why he thought that. Our understanding was incomplete in his eyes. In his mind, 'The Universe' was not unified because it was not understood entirely. I would rather put it as The Universe does not need to be entirely understood, but humanity should realize that "understanding" is what "The Universe" actually is in it's own experience. The Universe is fundamentally a formless thing. One formless thing at that. And that is why a "thing" of any form exists to us. Now to entirely understand that is impossible. Even for a genius, as THE GENIUS himself found out. It cannot be entirely understood. Only partially. And that's because only a part of what is going on is included in that understanding. The other part is excluded. Denied even.

I think a problem we have in understanding 'The Universe', of existence itself, is that we understand it in 'parts'. Because the thing is that there are no 'parts' to existence. It's all or nothing. The very nature of 'existence' is for everything to come and go together. There is no "part" to it. Form and thought come and go together. Form and thought imply each other. Form and thought are within and without of one another. How can you possibly "understand entirely" that?

I love Einstein, don't get me wrong. I thought he was brilliant. I do still think he is brillaint. But he was in way over his own brillaint head if he truly believed "unifying" the theoretical meant entirely understanding 'The Universe'.

"The Unified Field Theory".

How bold. How grand.

Realistic? No. Effable? No.

No theory will ever work to understand 'The Universe' because 'The Universe' does not need theory. WE NEED IT! And that is just something we do not get. Will not ever get. The fact that we think existence or reality itself needs a reason, needs an answer to exist or to be real. So I propose instead we should change the way we think and believe about reality or existence itself because our experience is fundamentally a "thoughtful" one. Before physical interaction there is the connection of mind and matter. A connection of which is so truly seamless, you could not distinguish one from the other. Nor should you. That is the only "understanding" we should have of reality or existence. Anything beyond that is a fool's game. We'll never truly see the end of our introspection if we carry on trying to "understand" passed and beyond our experience. That won't work. I am putting forth a suggestion that our experience should be what we understand 'The Universe' to be. And not just OUR experience of it but that of the experience of everything that is capable of experiencing. That of consciousness. That does not 'negate' or 'exclude' form. It does not deny the 'physical' or the 'tangible'. It does not make 'fantasy' more important than 'reality' or make 'theory' or 'philosophy' more important than 'science' or 'mathematics'. I am simply saying it ALL GOES TOGETHER. You cannot 'part' nature. That is what science is currently doing and has been attempting to do for decades. Getting to the bottom of it by slicing the very fabric of 'nature' in half. And they still believe that is the answer. And what for, exactly? What is the need to answer for? What is the POINT? What you're trying to do is better UNDERSTAND reality. Not better actual reality. And I suppose the excuse is that if you understand it better, you can actually better it. No... Better understanding it often leads to worsening it because science does not know when to leave well enough alone. And to think I am just some random white girl from some random town with a mind that is far too active in the early hours of the morning saying this. Postulating is fine and is fun. Attempting to use that postulation as a means to pack the entirety of The Universe in a pretty neat basket? Or to cut it down so that the mathematical equation fits on a t-shirt (e=mc2, anyone?)... Which is exactly what scientists and philosophers alike try to do on a daily basis... That's a fool's game. You'll be there forever and you'll miss out on the actual joy of experiencing. Of living. Just as Einstein did. He was so absolutely wrapped up in his equations and his theories that he forget to actually Live Life and neglected his family. He got lost in his own brillaint head and died unresolved.

I would honestly love to continue Einstein's work on the Unified Field Theory. Because it is without a doubt a brillaint theory, that could explain so much about how existence even works. But if it also means taking on his beliefs and his insistence to exclude quantum physics... I'm not interested. Because unlike him, I believe classical and quantum physics are happily married. I see no quarrel between them. He always did. And yes, it has a lot to do with my personal worldview. I won't deny that. I am biased towards my own personal understandings. But it also has a lot to do with the fact that I believe all worldviews are viable and can and will work together whether I agree with them or not. Whether I think they make logical sense or not. I don't agree with classical physics - or at least much of it. I think it is the wrong understanding of reality. An incorrect picture of existence. But despite that - I do also think it is very useful and beneficial to evolution. To have a wrong and incorrect way of understanding is not necessarily a bad thing so long as you don't close the book on everything else. Every other understanding, point of view, worldview... As long as you stay open-minded and open-hearted. Wrong and incorrect understandings have helped us shape reality from purely thought into form. Have helped us "create" much of The Universe... As well as "destroy" it. Humanity always needs a reason to do anything, right? Albeit a very bad one... But that's subjective of course. But I'm not gonna go into that.

I don't think it is lost on us as a species that this world (Earth) is one of thought and form tied together. Not most of us at least. But it is lost on us that this world (Earth) is a metamorphosis in constant change and evolution. An organism of it's own generation. And it is certainly lost on us how WE fit into that. Or indeed, are also, that. And as a logical opinionated person who does use understanding to a great degree in their conclusions about reality and existence, I think that is a perfectly plausible explanation to reality and existence. It's one that does not disclude "God" or "The Big Bang" or any other interpretation whatsoever. It is one that does not completely side with either classical or quantum physics or of "relativity VS quantum", as the age old debate goes. It is one that does not deny the "spiritual" or the "mechanical" worldviews of The Universe. It is one that is open-ended. And I am always willing to see any and all sides of the argument as I am one that believes in evolution in every way possible and that everything contributes to evolution in every way possible. Yes, even the Darwin "evolution" interpretation as restrictive as it is. I think it's all viable. I don't think any one theory or interpretation nullifies the other at all. Even if they completely contradict. Even if I completely disagree or have bouts of cognitive dissonance on it. I just think it all works in the sense that 'yin' and 'yang' works. Yes, that is the interpretation and worldview I go with most over all. But there is always room for others, for more or different information, and I welcome a great rousing debate on the subject. I don't take the argument so seriously. It's fun to me to peruse and prod existentialism. I believe it is possible to not see the 'The Universe' in 'parts' while still understanding everything has a part to play in it.

I think we take words too literally sometimes. Terms and definitions should be loose, not literal. Especially since they're made up in the first place. And going back to my original rant, I said that a thing would not be a "thing" without thought. Well, it would also not be a "thing" without word either. And while I do agree that words are important to experience. I don't agree that they should be used to term and define it - or nature. And this is because everything IS nature. And you cannot term and define the everything. You cannot box in The Tao. In many Eastern cultures The Tao is 'God'. It is beyond 'God' even. It is The Everything there is. Including that of which CREATES and DESTROYS The Everything there is. It is the fundamental source and fabric of reality and of existence itself . Of ALL THAT IS. And I understand ALL THAT IS as NATURE. And I stop right there. I don't go any further than that because words can only go so far if they are ever useful to understanding anything at all. Thoughts also... Only go so far. At some point you just have to give it up and take it as being beyond you. Beyond your capabilities and capacities to understand. And believe me, in spiritual circles, that's as "enlightened" as you're ever going to get. Ever going to achieve. If you want to move beyond that, you're setting yourself right back on the path to delusion. It is beyond you to move beyond it. In scientific circles, that's the equivalent of letting your theories or logic overcome your common sense and practicality to actually do "science". There is a point. It's not for me to say whether we should or shouldn't step beyond that point. Or insist it. But it is my belief we shouldn't. A belief based on the evidence being so far that we just make things much worse and much more complicated if we try to. And based on the consequences of that means living and experiencing takes a backseat. Goes into the background. That should never happen. Living should always be forefront of every picture we paint. The quintessential experience of everything is nature itself. Is 'God' itself. Is Tao itself. And I just think to want to go beyond that or to need an answer for that... That's a fool's game. I won't play that game. I'm not a fool.

I understand everything as 'yin' and 'yang'. The principle and process. The what and the how. I do not attempt to understand beyond that. I do not need to understand beyond that. Because I understand everything as 'yin' and 'yang', I understand how life itself connects and contradicts both at the same time. I understand how it is happily married and unhappily divorced at the same time. I need no further understanding than that.

'Yin' and 'yang' is it for me.

Done.

[impishnature]

Anything For You

Imptober Prompts so far

AO3 Fandom: Good Omens Rating: G Prompt: Where do you think you’re going? Summary: Pure self-indulgent domestic fluff. 

.

The first touch of dawn filtering through a window pane has a strange ethereal presence to it.

It is without fail beautiful, even if there aren't always many to greet it. It is silent, it is warm; tangible tranquillity filtered through a lens to a sharp focused point and captivating to any who are willing to let it wash over them in waves.

And on one such morning, an Angel let the moment take him.

Aziraphale closed his book, shoulders relaxing in a deep, restful arc. It was always so satisfying to finish a good story. To read a book from cover to cover in one sitting, completely absorbed by all of its intrigue and intrinsic little details until the rays of dawn brushed across the final pages. With a sigh of remorse he read the final words, cutting the ties that bound him to the adventurous path he had been led down. He ran a hand over the well worn cover, slipping it over onto the bedside cabinet before smiling softly at the room around him, taking in everything they had fought so hard for. He sat like that for a while, mind lingering on every soft piece of evidence that his world was finally as it should be.

In a small quaint cottage, on the south downs, Aziraphale finally felt well and truly home.

His smile grew warmer, eyes affectionately drifting to the sleeping form beside him as they shifted and settled once more.

After all, it wouldn't feel like home if he were alone here.

His eyes followed the line of Crowley's body, as serpentine as a human frame would allow, wrapped up in blanket and silk and whatever else they had decorated their bedding with- now tangled between his limbs. He was a heavy sleeper, which was good as Aziraphale rarely slept at all, instead choosing to sit and read beside him with the lamp on, gasping and muttering to himself if and when the story entranced him so.

The arrangement seemed to work for both of them. He'd never seen Crowley so well rested. And without the constant fear of being interrupted by management, he found it such a treat to be allowed to completely ignore the world and get wrapped up in an altogether fictitious one.

That and it was rather comforting to have someone sleep beside him as he read. Feel small kisses and warm hands, hear the soft change in his breathing as Crowley finally succumbed and fell blissfully unware into sleep.

He would be lying if he said he hadn't simply sat and stared the first time, fascinated and blessed to know that the other trusted him so wholeheartedly as to be so unguarded and vulnerable beside him.

Sometimes he found himself doing it again. Just soppily watching his sleeping lover, with an affectionately lovestruck expression that Crowley would have no doubt grimaced at. But even now he was unable to believe his luck; to believe that the fates had aligned and allowed them to live like this, together, in a way he had seldom let himself even think about.

It was all so much, so overwhelming and so absolutely perfect that if he were in the habit of sleeping, he would assume it all must be a dream.

He pressed a kiss to Crowley's forehead, chuckling as the man muttered something thick with sleep and nuzzled further into the blankets in disapproval.

Obviously, Crowley wasn't getting up anytime soon.

But that didn't mean he couldn't. Aziraphale sat up properly, shifting his legs over the side of the bed and letting the blankets fall around his waist. He stretched his arms up high above his head, his pajama top hitching up to reveal his navel as he gave an impressive yawn regardless of the sleep he actually got, the routine a well learned trick that helped him set the mood for the day. After all, a new day was dawning, and the possibilities for what they might do were so domestic and so frightfully normal that he couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of it all.

Just as he was humming quietly to himself, thoughts on the cake they still had downstairs and a boiling kettle ready and waiting with his favourite type of tea, long warm arms draped around him, languidly pulling him back ever so slightly from where he'd been about to stand.

"And just where do you think you're going?"

A huff of surprised laughter escaped him as his arms encircled the ones wrapped tight around his waist. Crowley's head pressed against his side, the beguiling smile stretching across his cheeks warming Aziraphale's skin. He nuzzled sleepily into his midriff, pushing his top up slightly higher to press a soft trail of kisses that left goosebumps wherever they landed. "Nowhere in particular, just up."

Apparently, that was not the answer Crowley was hoping for.

The arms around his waist tightened almost possessively. Long, wiry legs joined his appeal now, pulling up to encase Aziraphale all the more as his serpentine demon nestled further into his side.

"Oh? Is there a reason I should stay?" A mischievous glint took hold of him, a teasing lilt entering his words as Crowley muttered back unintelligibly, muffled by layers of blanket, fabric and skin.

It was always such a treat to have a demanding Crowley on his hands. He wanted, that part was pure and simple, but asking for, and acting on, what he wanted was another matter entirely.

And Aziraphale took such delight in pushing him, bastard that he was.

"Sorry? I didn't quite catch that."

A puff of heated air hit him, along with a louder- but no more sensible- grumble of consonants. He couldn't help but chuckle, Crowley's sleepy whines too amusing to pass up when the world gave them to him.

"Your words, dear, use your words."

Crowley groaned, loud and distressed as he pulled himself away from him. And for one awful moment Aziraphale feared that he had pushed too far, until-

"...Stay." The word was a demand, a question- an answer, all rolled into one hesitant and precious expression of his desires. Aziraphale gave a soft happy sigh, turning to look at his demon, lounging back against the pillows, hand atop his face as if embarrassed by his own admission. It wasn't long before he peeked through his fingers though, gleaming yellow eyes captivating him as they always had. "Please?"

"Hmm..." Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully, already laying back down even as he seemed to debate his answer. "Well, as you asked so nicely." He quickly leant in, pulling Crowley's hand away from his face to kiss at his nose. He laughed, loud and delighted by the scrunched up expression he received for his efforts, Crowley's mouth turned down and nose twitching. Sometimes he couldn't help but think of his partner as an alley cat, full of fire and feist and quite unsure how to take affection when it was presented so freely to him.

His eyes seemed to say the same, mock glaring at him, mouth pouting, even as his arms pulled him in closer in the same instance. How dare you... do it again.

The open moment didn't last long though, Crowley shifting ever so slightly, pointed smirk widening across his face. "Didn't realise you were such a pushover, Angel."

Ah, there it was.

The shift back to normality, that line between vulnerability and exposure that Crowley feared to tread. It was as endearing as it was saddening, how he would do anything Aziraphale asked of him and didn't expect the same in return. He'd indulge and he'd spoil him, but never would he ask.

Aziraphale curled into his waiting embrace, let Crowley circle his arms around him, one hand running down his back while the other carded through his hair. He ran his hands across Crowley's chest, tracing unseen patterns as he wondered if this push and pull between them would ever change, or whether he'd have to pry each wish and longing from his long-suffering lover.

Well, it wasn't exactly a hardship for him to do so. He wanted Crowley as much as Crowley wanted him.

"How much longer should we stay like this, then?"

The words were meant in jest, a small nudge back to keep the line between them steady.

Crowley sighed, a long, relaxed sound as he settled back into the pillows. Aziraphale watched his eyes flutter shut, arms tightening around him once more. "Forever." There was a small lift to the corner of his mouth, waiting patiently for Aziraphale's spluttering response, the roll of his eyes and obvious exasperated rebuttal to his answer.

But... Aziraphale did so like to make him blush.

And quite frankly, he understood the sentiment.

They could do that now if they wanted; lie there forever without any fear. They could do anything at all if they wanted, but right now, this was the most perfect place he could think to be.

Aziraphale pulled himself up over him, sealing their lips together and laughing softly at the sharp intake of breath and soft surprised 'ngk' his actions dragged from him. Crowley's eyes snapped open before half lidding, his entire frame pushing forward to deepen the kiss until he whined as Aziraphale broke the moment to speak, air puffing gently between them.

"Anything for you, my dear, anything for you."