#sorry the concept of spending all your life surviving and begging for a chance to just live for once in your life

[anotherdragon]

thinking about memories again.

The only sign that they ever existed is a book. A good amount of fans probably don't know who they are, they are never talked about, and almost every member of the server doesn't even know they exist.

This egg didn't have a life, and what little of existence they did have was miserable. They didn't have a name. They didn't have a family. They didn't get to live.

And what were their last words?

"Please know I was here. I was alive. I was somebody. I had hopes, I had ambitions, I had love that I was ready to give. I've accepted my fate. But I'm scared of being forgotten. This book gives me a chance to be remembered. Please don't forget me."

Their one wish was to not be forgotten. And they couldn't even get that.

[kuroopaisen]

imitheos. (oikawa tooru)

➵ oikawa barely recognises the god he used to be. 

wc: 3.8k

warnings: gn!reader, greek god au, melancholia? angst? is that something to warn people about?

a/n: so this got away from me, and ended up half a character study, but,,, @kacchand (sorry for tagging this one but i couldn’t tag @kacchand-archive aa) thank you so much for the warm, lovely things you’ve said to me ever since stumbling across my blog, and for complimenting my oikawa specifically. it’s those sorts of compliments that makes me feel all soft!

Oikawa Tooru. He’s still not sure of the name. He never chooses them himself; they come to him, quite naturally, each time he assumes a new form. Each time he knits himself a backstory, he wonders what this life will bring. If it will be better than the last.

He hasn’t always been Oikawa Tooru. He’s been many other forms littered throughout history, recycling the same ego. And before each of those, he was Apollo.  

Apollo had been a god amongst gods, deity of so much and so many. He could absolve men of guilt, gift mortals with the power of prophecy, balance their lives in his hands as he commanded the fate of their crops. Even the gods feared him, loved him, revered him.

But he is no longer Apollo. He is a whisper of him, a half-forgotten shadow.

His old name is everywhere. Rocket ships, theatres, philosophical concepts. He’s watched countless effigies to his old self shoot themselves into the sky, chasing a distance once thought unreachable. They always seem to take the light with them, blazing into the darkness.

But Apollo is just a name, now. Everything he used to symbolise seems to pass through him like white smoke.

It’s so hard to find the light in this endless winter.

Archery is just a niche hobby, now. Wars are won through other means.

Disease and the means to combat it are far past his sphere of influence now. Both continue to take on new and frightening forms that even he couldn’t conjure.

There is no space in this world for prophecy anymore. Such things are considered untruths, the trade of hackneyed swindlers masquerading as fortune tellers.

But poetry. Poetry refuses to die.

Sunday afternoon. The sky is already dark. Slam poetry night at a dingy little coffee shop. He’s sat in his usual spot, a dark corner that grants him a clear view of the makeshift stage at the back of the shop. It’s the best spot to melt away into, to become a true observer. 

He’s not sure why he’s come here. The coffee itself isn’t particularly good, nor is the atmosphere of the place much to his liking. It’s a little dingy, reliant on weak oil lamps for light. He knows that it’s supposed to give off a retro vibe, but he thinks it just makes it miserable. There’s the smell of musk too, permeated through both wood and cushion. 

 But something is drawing him to this place. Something, beating against the fabric of the universe, is telling him that this is where he’s supposed to be.

He still doesn’t know why.

You smile at him from across the room, giving him a small wave. You usually work Sunday afternoons, right until close. He isn’t sure of your name, and usually, he wouldn’t care.

But every Sunday, you seem to take it upon yourself to fulfil his orders. Once upon a time, he would’ve been sure that it was his charm that induced you to do so; mortals often found it hard to resist the gods, after all. But he’s not so sure he can still claim that allure.

“You’re becoming a bit of a regular,” you smile, setting his drink down in front of him. Something made with honey, but he’s not sure what. He never pays much attention when he orders.

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re always here on Sundays,” you nod, daring to meet his gaze. “But you’ve never performed yourself.”

Oikawa smiles. One person, at the very least, has noticed his existence. That’s as powerful as a prayer these days.

“I take it you’re a fan,” you remark, eyes scanning his face.

Oikawa nods. “You could say that.”

You smile. It’s small, and he wonders if it’s merely a nicety. “Of slam poetry in particular, or…”

Ah. Yes.

He wants to say it’s because he’s tired of typical poetry. Tired of all its embellishments and platitudes. Slam poetry is newer, younger, angrier. There’s a rawness to it, a rage that speaks to something more visceral in him. Pretty words are not enough anymore.

It’s an offering of something else, of a yearning he still struggles to place. It’s a call for something better, for change, for vindication.

But he won’t bore you with that. You’re just a waiter, making small talk to be polite.

“My preferences change often,” he shrugs.

He appraises you for a moment, clad in a button-up shirt and dress trousers, a charmingly small apron wrapped around your waist. He’s not paid you much mind before; maybe because he’s been looking too hard.

He once thought that this café was drawing him towards a modern muse, an echo of Melpomene. Or perhaps Erato? But it hadn’t been that at all. It had been a call to draw him to you.

For what, he can’t say. But this small moment, this little recognition in the back of a dingy coffee shop on a dour Sunday afternoon in the midst of winter, is the closest he’s felt to worship in aeons.  

He fears, for a moment, that you might be Daphne. Or maybe Marpessa. He’s already lost another Hyacinth; not to death, but to the rhythm of life. The pull of a world to which Oikawa couldn’t follow. How long had it been since Hajime left?

Oikawa can’t say.

But he’s been so lonely. So faded.

Whoever you are, whoever you were, does not matter.

What matters is that you’re the first person in a very long time who can see him.

☉ ☉ ☉

“Back again,” you smile. Another drink with honey is placed in front of him. It’s the only thing he’s been ordering for the past few weeks.

He nods, looking up at you with a smile. He knows it’s dead behind the eyes, but he’s trying. He hopes, quietly, that the darkness will mask it. 

“You must really enjoy the poetry,” you remark, looking over your shoulder.

One girl has just finished, face flushed with both nervousness and pride. She is young, perhaps barely seventeen, but with the fury of someone who knows too much about the horrors of the world. She’d done quite well by Oikawa’s account. He hadn’t derived much joy from it, but she certainly has potential.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, taking a sip of his drink.

“Do you prefer more…” You pause, brow furrowed as you search for the words. “Traditional poetry?”

Oikawa shakes his head.

Perhaps his tastes would err more to the modern, if he knew more about it. But the fact of the matter is that he simply doesn’t have a clue. Too much time spent with volleyball preoccupying most of his thoughts, and very little time keeping up with the artistic scene of the last decade and a half.

He can’t speak as an expert. But he can speak as the god who invented poetry, who gave mortals the means with which to express their magnitudes. A gift, he’d said. To turn the human experience into something beautiful. But was it for them, or for him?

“The anger is sincere,” he muses, “And they all seem to have poured their soul into their poems.”

You nod, smiling at him. “I wish I was that creative, at their age.”

He looks at you. You look about the same age he should be; twenty-something, maybe? Young, perhaps still in university.

You’ve been spending your breaks with him for a few weeks now.

He doesn’t mind; in fact, he enjoys the company. And, you seem to care about what he has to say, which certainly fluffs his ego.  

Why you would care so much about an odd, discreet man sitting in a dark corner of a coffee shop is beyond him.

But he wants to know why. Know more about you. What you love. What you desire.

“What do you want to do with your life?”

The question is sudden, perhaps a bit invasive. It flies from his lips before he has time to reassess it, to craft it into something a bit less intense. He fears, for a moment, that it might scare you – that it might be a bit too much.

But you laugh, tilting your head at him. “That’s a bit of a big question, don’t you think?”

He smiles. “You must have some idea.”

You sigh, shrugging. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I need to survive university before I can start worrying about that sort of stuff.”  

He hums.

“What about you?” You ask, polite smile gracing your lips.

He bites the inside of his cheek, his brows creasing. “Not sure.”

He might have dreamed of greatness a while ago. He would’ve chased volleyball, brilliant and vibrant as he was.

Who would have thought that Apollo would find his heart in something so coarse as sport? For a moment, however brief, he’d felt like he might be able to shrug off this immortal shackle. To exist for himself, and not as a mere echo reliant on mortal belief. To maybe, finally, have a chance to live as he wanted to, dictated by his own desires.  

That last spark of vibrant humanity had spluttered out the day they lost that one fateful match.

He had wanted to chase his own dreams, the tangible passions he’d discovered as a mortal. He hadn’t wanted to be this, a pathetic half-god that was fading into the grey. But that was the trappings of his dying godhood – a life half-lived, a dream unfulfilled. Where would he be, if he had been able to take on the world as Oikawa Tooru?

Happier, he supposes. Though, he can’t be sure. Because maybe this early evening, grey and cold and bitter, almost tastes like happiness. Almost. And he knows why.

☉ ☉ ☉

There’s a glow to him. He doesn’t notice it; he’s been brighter in the past, blindingly radiant. He was once considered the most beautiful of the gods for a reason.

But to you, this distant, peculiar man is beautiful. There’s something of a fallen giant to him; is he the sort of person whose glory days has long since passed? Had he been a high school hero maybe?

There’s something else to him, too. Something strange. Something esoteric.

You don’t quite know how to explain it.

It’s like he’s asking – no, begging someone to acknowledge him. To breathe new life into him.

And for all his strange, aggressive indifference, there’s a little flame in him. One that seems like it’s been burning for centuries, too stubborn to flicker out.

You haven’t missed how it’s getting brighter.

He only comes in on Sundays, staying from three until eight. If his prolonged presence bothers your co-workers, they don’t mention it.

Perhaps it’s silly to be so fascinated by a complete stranger, especially one that simply sits in a corner and watches. Perhaps it is even sillier to spend your breaks with him. But it’s as if you can’t help yourself; something pulls you towards him, even if you don’t understand it.

“What about the Greeks?” You ask one evening, sitting next to him in his booth.

His smile is bemused at best. “What about them?”

“Well… they’re classics,” you muse, “Are you a fan, or…?”

“Homer can suck my dick,” Oikawa grumbles. He never quite forgave that man for the unflattering portrait of his godliness.

You laugh. There’s an echo of a lyre in it. He wonders, for a moment, what you might look like with a laurel woven through your hair, smiling on a Pierian coast in the height of a blistering summer.

He doesn’t let his mind wander too far.

“I’m not really one for poetry,” you murmur, looking down at your hands.

“Is that so?” Oikawa smiles, taking a sip of his coffee. It’s lukewarm after sitting on the table for so long, but he doesn’t mind.

You shake your head. “I find it difficult to wrap my head around. It makes me feel kind of stupid.”

He nods. He used to understand poetry so well – in the darkest of nights, it was often the only thing he understood. It used to be laced with his very being, threaded through his body like veins. But now, it just fills him with bitterness.

“I like the classics, though,” you smile softly, playing with your fingers. “There’s something about the simplicity and straightforwardness of the language that appeal to me. And, I don’t know…” You bite your lip. “Some emotions seem to transcend time and culture. And some of the classics are so… raw. So… human.”

‘Human.’ He gazes at you, that word in particular playing over in his mind. There’s some truth in the classics, he supposes. Something in them that echoes across the centuries. But he’s been around far too long to care for patterns and parallels.

“Sorry,” you blush, smoothing your apron. “I must be boring you.”

“Not at all.” Oikawa shakes his head, leaning towards you. He takes another sip of his coffee. It’s cold now. “So, you’re a history buff, then?”

Maybe you are Clio, after all.

You shrug. “Only ancient history, really. But I haven’t read as much about it as I should’ve.”

“Are you a fan of the myths?” He asks, a playful lilt to his voice. He knows you won’t get the joke, but he doesn’t mind.

“Some,” you nod. “Why?”

“Know any about Apollo?”

“Apollo?” You smile. His old name sounds like a melody on your lips. “As in the god?”

“Sure.” Who else could he mean?

You pause for a moment, pressing your lips together. It’s a beautiful silence.

“Have you read Plato’s Symposium, by any chance?” You ask, gaze meeting his.

He nods. He doesn’t mind Plato; the man had been grateful for the gift of music, after all.

“There’s a story in it I really like,” you murmur, eyes turning towards the roof. “Well, it’s more of a myth, but… it’s the one about soulmates.”

“Oh?”

“Do you know it?”

“Vaguely.” Of course he knows it. He just wants to hear it retold in your voice.

“Well, alright,” you clear your throat, sitting up a little straighter. “There were three kinds of humans, descended from the sun, the earth and the moon. All had four arms and four legs, two faces, et cetera. But, the gods felt they were too unruly and powerful. By Zeus’ count, this was unacceptable, and he wanted to humble them.”

Oikawa hopes his expression is neutral enough. How is Zeus? Is he still around?

“Instead of simply destroying them, he split them in two,” you continue. “And that made us miserable.”

Your use of the word ‘us’ intrigues him, but he wants to save his questions for later.

“But, Apollo took pity on us,” you smile. “He decided to patch us up, and shape us into, well… the form we have today. The story goes that our navel is where he sewed our broken skin together. But he turned our heads around to what had once been our back, so we’d have to look at that mark as a reminder of our punishment and how incomplete we are.”

It does not matter to him if there is any truth in this story. Regardless, it certainly sounds like the folly of the gods.

“Once we were split, the two halves were flung to the far ends of the earth. From then on, each of us yearns with both body and soul to be reunited with our other half.” Your voice is so lyrical, so comforting. It is, perhaps, the closest thing to music he’s heard in a while. “Those of us who are lucky enough to find them supposedly know no greater joy. We’ll never feel so understood, so complete. Most of us though, will never know that joy.”

Perhaps the gods didn’t deserve the reverence they got. Perhaps they really had been tyrants, all along. But then again, there was little love between gods and mortals; if anything, worship was simply a reflection of the fears the divine inspired.  

A new question itches at the back of his mind.

“Do you believe in life after death?” He asks.

You blink at him, eyes wide and round. “Well, I… I don’t know, really.”

He knows it’s a heavy question. He knows that he didn’t prepare you for it, and that it’s only tenuously connected to the conversation at hand. But, he always found that people were at their most honest when they were caught off guard.

 “I don’t like thinking about it,” you admit, looking down at your hands. “It makes me all existential.”

Oikawa nods. Most humans react like this.

The relationship between mortals and death has always fascinated him. Fear, loathing, regret. It’s all bundled together. Sometimes, there is comfort. Sometimes, there is a sense of calm. But it is never easy to face the unknown, after such a brief stint of being alive.

It’s something he cannot understand in this existence of his that stretches itself thin across the millenniums.

What is death to a god? He imagines it must be something like relief.

☉ ☉ ☉

“Do you write yourself?” It’s a little question, one he knows was coming.

He doesn’t know how to answer.

You sit next to him in the lamplight, eyes sparkling as they always do. If he was more human, maybe he would compare them to the stars. Or perhaps the ocean after a storm. But he is not human, much less a poet.

How does he say that he’s never needed to? That his patronage, his presence alone was enough to inspire those classics you so dearly love? That he himself has never put lyrics to the human experience?

He has always been a god. There is no beauty to his experience; only in those small pockets of human intimacy he’s been granted across the centuries. There is no beauty to the life of a god – only fire, and fury, and hubris. Even his body is unlike yours; he has no heart, and he bleeds ichor.

“Not really,” he shrugs. It’s all he can say.

“‘Not really’ implies that you write at least a little,” you smile, leaning towards him.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t really have time to do something like that.” He pauses for a moment. Should he tell you? Should he reveal more of himself than is maybe wise? “I played volleyball in high school.”

“Oh, really?” You ask, tilting your head at him.

“I was good, too,” he sighs, brow furrowing. “But my team never made it to nationals.”

“Oh.” You look genuinely sad. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. There’s little else to do.

“I wanted to go further,” he admits. The lamplight casts a long shadow on his face, each feature soft and delicate as marble.

Each form, each reiteration, wants more.

So much of what he’s done this time doesn’t echo the traditional Apollonian figure. There is no art, this time. No song.

There was drama in sport, but it was different. It had filled him with a passion he’d never felt before, beating in his chest just like a heart would. It provided that rush of adrenaline, the brutal awareness of the importance of just one moment. Eternity stretches on forever for a god, but a game must end. Perhaps, in some way, death is very much the same. 

He wants that closure. That passion for the now. 

Now, more than ever before, he wants to be mortal. To lose himself in the storm that is being human – he wants it all. He wants to let go of the god he no longer is.

Where does Apollo end? Where does Oikawa Tooru begin?

☉ ☉ ☉

Time is passing again. Each day is over before it’s even begun, slipping through his fingers like a lucid dream. A heartbeat that isn’t his own thrums in his ears, quick and loud and frantic.

And yet, he finds himself outside the coffee shop, standing on the curb. You’re next to him, hands dug deep in your pockets. He’s arrived earlier than usual, catching you right at the beginning of your shift.

There’s something he wants – no, needs to say. Something that can’t wait.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, looking up at the sky. It’s pale, a shade found in-between blue and grey. A perfect winter sky, one you might find on a postcard trying to capture the beauty of the season.

Something is pressing on his chest, heavy and immovable. It feels like a goodbye.

“What for?” You laugh. It really is a delightful sound.

Where to begin? You couldn’t possibly comprehend it. Nor would you believe him. If he speaks too frankly, you may not remember him fondly.

“For the coffee,” he says.

There’s more he wants to say. Something about how, maybe, in another life, there could have been something more between the two of you. Something quite beautiful.

But he knows it’s wiser not to speak that into being. If you feel even a modicum of these emotions, then silence would be an act of kindness.

“Are you… going somewhere?” You ask, all signs of levity gone from your face. He regrets speaking at all now.

“Something like that,” he murmurs. It’s the closest he can get to the truth.

A long silence ensues. Oikawa doesn’t know if he should try to fill it; perhaps he should just let it sit for a while? To enjoy this little moment with you, standing with you in front of a dingy coffee shop on a dour Sunday night in the midst of winter.

Because this moment cannot last. Because nothing can.

“Well,” you clear your throat, eyes lingering on his face, as if you’re committing each detail to memory.

He smiles at you. He’s not aware of it, but it’s almost blinding. It brings a warmth to his face that you’ve never seen before, a warmth that makes him so striking, so beautiful, that you know you won’t be able to find the words to praise it.  

“I hope I’ll see you again,” you murmur. It’s the best you can manage, keeping your feelings in your heart as best you can.

“Me too.”

He means it.

It’s time to go. Where, he’s not sure. But, with all the courage he could muster, he turns his back to you, making his way down the street.

There’s a space in his heart for fear. But it’s empty. Whatever’s coming, whatever’s about to change – he’s ready for it.

He welcomes it.

☉ ☉ ☉

He opens his eyes. He’s tangled in blankets; his own, or someone else’s?

One thought.

My name is Oikawa Tooru.

In the haze of a Sunday morning, he knows nothing else. His eyes flick to the blinds as they flutter with the wind that whispers through his window.

The light floods in.

It’s finally spring. 

[leia-organa-fics]

aftermath (part II)

You can find part I here.

***

The next day, two days since their argument, Han was on his shift in the cockpit. He watched the stars pass by as white beams of light. Even after all these years, the sight still enthralled him. As a kid, he´d always dreamed about flying to the stars. Back then, it had been nothing more than a wistful dream – so out of reach that people had laughed at him when he had uttered it out loud. His mother had been the only one who hadn´t laughed. More than that, she had encouraged him. She had told him that one day, he would get out of Corellia´s slums, that he was meant for more than the hopeless existence there. Then, she had died.

In the years that Han had spent as a smuggler, he had always felt like he had betrayed her somehow. She had thought he was meant for something more, but he wasted his life as a criminal … not even an all that good one, as the incident with Jabba´s spice showed. No. That was his bad mood talking. That hadn´t been his fault. But he had to deal with the consequences. By now, the bounty on his head was astronomically high, and he had no way of paying it.

He had given the reward money for rescuing Leia back. It hadn´t felt right to take it. No one should suffer what Vader and Tarkin had put her through. He had the feeling that she would have welcomed death … taking money for rescuing her wouldn´t have felt right in any case, but it especially didn´t because he had only arrived after her torture and Alderaan´s destruction. Had it even been a rescue or a sentence to a life filled with vengeance? He didn´t know, didn´t want to know.

In any case, the result was that he didn´t have the money to pay Jabba back. Maybe the reward for their little trip to the remains of Alderaan would be enough, he thought sardonically.

Ironically, that was the moment that the princess chose to interrupt his thoughts. He knew it was her the minute the doors opened. Chewie had gone to bed only two hours ago, there was no chance that he was already up again after his long shift in the cockpit.

She stood in the door for a couple of seconds, long enough to irritate Han. What did she want? Why did she have to search him out in the one place he felt absolutely free?

After several seconds in which none of them uttered a sound, she finally demanded, “What is your problem?”

Han was taken aback by the aggression in her voice. He turned around to face her. “What is my problem?”

“Yes. What is your problem? Ever since we changed our course to Alderaan you´ve been sulking.” She threw her hands up in frustration. “If you really didn´t want to take me there, I could have found someone else.”

He glared at her. “That is not what this is about.”

“What is it about then? Why are you being so difficult?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because we´re stuck on this tiny freighter of yours for at least another week and you´re being insufferable.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart,” Han answered sarcastically, “but there´s no board service included in the price.”

Realisation dawned on her face. “You´re offended because I offered to pay you for taking me to Alderaan?” When he didn´t answer and only gritted his teeth, she continued, “Really? You´re a smuggler, I thought this is what you do. Transport things for money. Certainly, the Rebellion is paying you for taking me to Kowak.”

Han turned away. “You should leave. I need to concentrate on flying if you don´t want us to end up as stardust.” It was a cheap excuse, but he hoped that she would get the hint. Of course, she didn´t. Or she just didn´t care.

“We´re in hyperspace. There´s nothing you need to do.”

When Han continued to stubbornly face away from her, she added, “It wasn´t my intention to offend you. You´ve been a huge asset to the Rebellion and I am grateful.”

At that, Han turned around. “An asset?” he spat. “Can you tune that princess talk down for even a second or is that impossible for you? I´m not a kriffing asset.”

“What are you then?”

“I thought I was on the way to being your friend, but you made it pretty clear that for you, a guy like me can be nothing more than an asset.”

The princess looked downright stunned. “I … ,” she started.

Han shook his head and faced the controls again. For him, the conversation was over. He had already said more than he had wanted to and Leia´s silence didn´t need any explanation. Yet another pang of hurt shot through his chest when he heard the door close behind her. He had allowed himself to get too close and made a complete fool out of himself in the process. He should have known that something like this would happen.

 A day later, Leia searched him out again in the cockpit.

This time, she didn´t directly speak but just stared at him. The intensity of her gaze made Han uncomfortable. He felt like she was looking right through all of his defences and was afraid he wouldn´t live up to what she hoped to see. He shifted around but didn´t want to be the one to break the silence. She had come to him, so it should be her who spoke first.

“I´m sorry,” she suddenly said. For a moment, Han thought he had imagined it. The sincerity in her eyes and the way she worried her bottom lip told him otherwise.

“What for?”

“You were right yesterday. We are friends. I shouldn´t have insinuated that the only thing you care about is money.”

“Okay,” he said and meant it. “I forgive you.”

“Just like that?” She looked at him incredulously.

“Just like that.” Han threw her a lopsided grin. “I dunno if you noticed, sweetheart, but I don´t exactly have enough friends to be choosy.”

She smiled back. “Neither do I.”

“Lucky me.”

At that, her expression turned – for lack of a better, more princess-y word – cheeky. “You really are. Lucky, that is. Not everyone gets the privilege of befriending royalty, I´ll have you know.”

Han just snorted. “I´ll try to remember that, princess.”

“Can I join you?” she suddenly asked and nodded to Chewie´s chair.

Outwardly Han just shrugged, but inwardly he was pleased by her request. “Sure,” he said. “The chair might be a lil´ big for you though.”

“I´m used to it.” With those words, she sat down next to him.

“You are rather small.”

“We can´t all be freakishly tall.”

Han smirked. “There´s nothing freakish about me.”

“I beg to differ,” Leia answered.

“Never thought I´d see you beg.”

She threw him an exasperated look. “You know what I meant.”

“Sorry to disappoint, sweetheart, but not everyone had a private tutor for semantics as a child.”

“Actually, it was a course, and it was called ‘Oratory and Rhetoric’”.

Han laughed at that. “Of course, it was.”

A comfortable silence fell over them, as they both stared out at the stars. Han couldn´t help feeling glad that Leia was there. Even though he had grown used to hours of solitude in the cockpit and found peace in them, it often was stifling to be all alone with his thoughts. Besides, there was a strange intimacy about spending time with someone in silence. Talking was easy. Han was good at it – especially when he wanted to infuriate people. Silence though was harder. It meant basking in the physical presence of someone without the distraction of words.

With Leia, somehow it seemed almost easy.

 The next day, they arrived at the asteroid field that had once been Alderaan. Han watched as Leia stared out of the window wide-eyed. She didn´t seem able to comprehend what was happening, what it was that she saw just now.

Han and Chewie shared a look over her head. Should they leave her alone or stay with her? On the one hand, it was a deeply private moment that neither of them wanted to intrude on. On the other hand, though, Leia might need people with her to show her that she wasn´t alone … After some more seconds, Chewie patted Leia on the head and softly roared something before leaving the cockpit. Han wasn´t even sure if she realized it. Her thoughts seemed to be miles away.

Still, he translated, “He said that he´s sorry for your loss and that he will wait in the lounge to give you some privacy. Call if you need anything.”

She nodded absentmindedly.

Han studied her. He could only see her side profile, but he was pretty sure that there were tears glistening in her eyes. “Would you like me to go, too?” he asked hesitantly.

At that, Leia tore her gaze from the sight outside and looked at him. She seemed to ponder his question. Finally, she bit her lip and said, “Would you stay? Please?”

Han nodded. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” She shot him a grateful look before returning to staring at the destroyed planet in front of her.

Han followed her lead. The asteroids around them were moving slowly. Now and again, the ship shuddered as one of them collided with it. Without the shields, they would have already been crushed numerous times. There was no way, anyone in the atmosphere could have survived. The extent of destruction was humbling and terrifying all at the same time. Was life even worth anything if it could be wiped out so easily? So careless? One man had given a command and now billions of beings were just gone. Han couldn´t wrap his head around it. How could anyone be that evil?

He wasn´t big on ethics or philosophy, and he certainly wasn´t religious, but the one ethical concept he had always sympathised with was the Reverence for Life which, ironically, had been coined by an Alderaanian ethicist. Yes, sometimes killing was necessary, and Han had even done it a few times when in retrospect it might not have been, but that didn´t change his inner belief that all life was precious and of the same value. The Imperial discrimination of non-human species had never sat right with him – even before meeting and starting to love Chewie. Now, it seemed the Empire didn´t even care for humans anymore. If they didn´t care for anyone, what did they care about? What did Palpatine care about?

Power, probably. And his own life. That was it.

Han had seen a lot of death and tragedy in his life. He had seen a lot of evil. Still, nothing came close to this one act of destruction, and he couldn´t comprehend how anyone could be that evil.

The Alderaani had been known for their peaceful way of living. They had never openly defied the Empire. Most of its citizens had probably never even done it in secret. They had been innocent, oblivious even. In addition, Alderaan had been a prosperous Core World, an exporter of many treasured goods. None of it, neither the moral nor the economic reasons, had stopped the Empire from destroying it.

Han felt anger bloom in his chest. He was angry about their absolute disregard for life and the pointlessness of the whole act, but mostly he was angry because in the face of sorrow on such a large scale he felt helpless. There was nothing he – or anyone – could do to make this better or even just to lessen Leia´s pain.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She was openly crying now. It was probably a good thing that she finally let her feelings out instead of repressing them, but the sight of her so shattered still tucked at Han´s heartstrings. No one should have reason to be that devastated.

Somehow, she seemed to sense his thoughts. “I think I´m ready to be alone for a little while,” she said. Her voice was so steady; if Han hadn´t seen her tears, he would have never guessed that she was crying.

“Alright,” he replied. “Me ´n Chewie will be in the lounge if you need anything.”

With those words, he left the cockpit and joined Chewie at the darjik table. He was greeted with an accusing roar.

“She wanted to be alone,” he defended himself. “I told her, we´d be right there in case she needed anything.”

Chewie made an approving sound, before suggesting a match of darjik. Han declined. He didn´t particularly fancy having his arms pulled off and more importantly, his thoughts were still racing.

Seeing the remains of Alderaan made him think of the Death Star. He, Han Solo, had played a part in destroying it. He´d done the right thing, for the first time since rescuing Chewie, he´d done the right thing and come back for Luke. Maybe that was a sign. Maybe his mother hadn´t been wrong after all.  

But keeping it that way would mean staying with the Rebellion … Was he ready to take that risk? Compared to the Empire, the Rebels had never been a big military force, but from what he´d heard, they had lost almost three-fourths of their ships in the last two weeks – first in the Battle of Scarif and then in the Battle of Yavin. And as if that wasn´t enough, they didn´t even have a base anymore. Kowak was merely a remote planet that they could – hopefully – orbit without the Empire finding them. All in all, the Rebellion didn´t even stand the ghost of a chance against the Empire. What was the point of fighting against those odds?

At a loss for an answer, he voiced that question out loud.

Chewie´s reply came promptly and decisively. Hope. People like Luke and Leia kept on fighting because they had hope. Chewie held on to his family and friends on Kashyyk because he had hope. The answer was as disappointing as it was simple. Han was many things, full of hope wasn´t one of them. He was willing to take huge risks, used to it even, but that had nothing to do with hope and everything with his devil-may-care attitude. In his life there had been so many times when a tomorrow had seemed out of reach that he had simply stopped worrying about the future. What good was it to agonize about something one might never have?

Just because he didn´t expect a frilly, happy future without the Empire to happen anytime soon, didn´t mean he couldn´t stick around a little longer though, did it? Hope might not be something that could be learned, but it could be inspired. And who was better for that job than their two bright-eyed companions from the Death Star? After all, Leia had already lit that spark in him once when he had decided to come back and help. And it had been a good feeling. Warm and connecting, it had felt a lot like purpose. Han could use some more of that. Maybe …

“What do you say to sticking around a lil´ longer?” he asked.

Chewie´s answering roar could definitely be called enthusiastic. Even though Chewie hadn´t said anything before, Han should have expected it. Defeating the Empire was the only way to free Lumpy and Malla …

“Alright, pal. Then let´s stay a little longer and hope it doesn´t get us killed.” Especially, the last part. Staying with the Rebellion was one thing, dying for it a completely different one.

Before he could get lost in his thoughts again, Leia hectically entered the lounge. “The proximity alarm just went off,” she stated.

***

You can find part III here.

[monchikyun]

XVIII. bury a friend

It has been awfully quiet for about an hour now. As Connor ended his story with horrible dejection written all over his face, he turned around and initiated his stasis, refusing any and all comfort Gavin has been more than willing to provide. He did expect it to be something twisted and tragic like that, even imagined the worst possible scenario before being told how it really went down, just to be safe. If he’s honest with himself, the reality isn't very far from the most fucked up course of events his mind has been able to cook up. Still, it has been able to freeze the blood in his veins, which has paralysed his brain for the amount of time it took Connor to withdraw to his simulated sleep. 

Gavin has already cursed himself for being so goddamn incompetent when it comes to emotional issues, blamed himself for the cold shoulder he didn't even have the chance to receive. He still does, as he lies glued to the bed, counting the cracks in the ceiling. His nicotine addiction is begging him to go into the cold and give it what it needs to survive, but the warmth of his current company is impossible to leave. His hand aches for the smallest touch, for some confirmation that Connor is still here with him. So he directs his sight to the body next to him, letting himself be mesmerised by the constellations of freckles decorating the android's bare arm. It's a painful view, knowing that he still doesn't have the right to connect those dots with his own defects, to interpose himself with this amazing, flawed being who has carved a hole in his chest and invaded his heart.

He remembers how the android was back when he found him on the roof, finally realising the enormous difference created by the months they’ve spent together. Last spring he dreaded going to work, feared that Connor just wouldn’t show up one day and he wouldn’t be able to see him ever again. Or worse, all that would remain of him would be the empty vessel that used to house his colourful soul, something that would kill his last hopes. He was tempted to become a well-meaning stalker then, to always be near for when a potential threat arrives, but that idea was too exhausting for him in the end, and so he left his worries to a silent prayer which guided him all through to summer. 

With the warmth came the first smile and a myriad of gratitudes for his uncharacteristic kindness. That’s when they started having casual conversations, a big leap from the uncomfortable silences that filled their shared hours in the previous season. It was somewhere in July when he first regarded Connor as his friend, without his vigilant denial disagreeing that fact. Gavin has always found the android very attractive, like an eye candy specifically developed for his torment, but knowing there was a whole, unpolished person behind that plastic perfection has made his partner so much more appealing. He simply couldn’t stop himself getting drawn to him, despite all the countless attempts to emotionally distance himself from the one who lived inside his dreams. It was either letting himself be eaten by the monsters living in his past, or inviting in the one person who has the power to push them away from his corrupted mind.

For the longest time, he did neither. Though his inability to act on his feelings was due to more than just the inherent fragility of their source, he was simply afraid like he has always been when it comes to things that have the potential to hurt him. He'd rather be thrown in a paper shredder than to have his soul bruised again. Physical pain is easy to understand, straightforward in its healing. Time usually takes care of what needs to be done, but when it comes to the mind, sometimes even passing years will have little to no effect on the waste that has accumulated in someone’s innermost core. And Gavin didn't want to add onto the rotting pile of mess that has already been too much to bear as it is. But that was months ago, and as the earth was becoming colder, the warmth that had started budding inside of him turned into sweltering heat.

When autumn was nearing its end, he understood that he would soon burn up if he didn’t begin dealing with his problem. Maybe that’s how they got here, to a place where he doesn’t have to call his feelings inconvenience anymore, having breached the border that has kept them apart all these months. He wants to stop fighting it for good. This truth is sent to him from above as he puts his fingers on Connor's bare temple, tracing the ghost of the LED that used to signify his nature. 

He'd like to say that the fact that one of them isn't human is what prevented them from giving into their hearts' desires, but that is far from the truth. Life is much more complicated than that, not as black and white as he wants it to be. 

Gavin wishes their relationship was defined, so he could casually take the android in his arms and hold him away from the evil of the world, just for a short while, just so he can expand his collection of irreplaceable moments that he doesn't ever want to forget. 

He considers getting just a bit closer, weighing all the pros and cons that ultimately mean nothing because deep down he recognises that their sentiments are shared. So he lowers his steadying hand down from Connor’s temple, ready to enfold everything his partner represents. But fortune isn’t on his side tonight, because as soon as he begins his movement, Connor wakes up with a jerk that betrays confusion lined up with its best friend, unease. 

"Did you have a nightmare?" Gavin is more than familiar with the concept of being tortured by his own psyche as he lays it to rest, so he's aware of just how disorienting such illusions can be, how unrelentingly cruel and merciless they often are. 

"No, no... I-... androids can't normally dream. I wasn't really sleeping, just… thinking. More than I should." 

Gavin scoots over so their shoulders are just about touching, a decision his conscious mind has had no say in. 

"Do you wanna talk 'bout it?" A quiet, tentative question just barely escapes his lips for fear he gets denied entrance into Connor's trove of dark secrets. 

There is a short, excruciating period of silence before he gets his answer.

"You know how I can preconstruct any future scenario based on the information available to me?" 

"Yeah? I mean… sorta. Can't really wrap my mind around your technical stuff most of the time." That's only partially a lie. He ought to tell him that he doesn't want to picture his inner workings because they kind of scare him, but maybe that would be too inappropriate given the frailty of this moment. 

"Well… I saw you get buried…,” the android breathes out for reasons Gavin can only guess, “after you died, naturally." 

"Naturally." 

Why doesn't this even surprise him anymore. Of course Connor would paint himself the grimmest image possible, these are just his default settings. Give him the brightest colours and he'd draw you the darkest sky without a single star in sight. 

"That's not… I'm sorry I,... I didn't mean to… I just couldn't stop it since it went that way and…" 

"Hey, it's okay.” It hurts seeing Connor get like that, losing most of his coherency and feeling like he should apologise for it.  

“How…," Gavin takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts down. Connor was the one who saw his funeral, not him, yet he feels like he’s been there already, among the dirt, not far from other decaying corpses. It’s an uncanny sensation. Not one he’ll be chasing any time soon. 

"How did it make you feel?" A stupid question, really, and yet the best his brain has to offer. 

"How do you think?" Gavin never knew that tears could fit an incredulous look, but the welling in Connor's eyes combined with the exasperation written all over his face is proof enough. Laughable, frankly, but he wouldn't dare. Not now, anyway. 

"Guess it sucked then." 

"That's putting it mildly." The android shakes his head and rubs his eyes before they have the chance to leak his sorrow. 

"I… I don't ever want to go through that again,” he says, desperation piercing his voice through and through. It would be easy to dismiss these ungrounded worries if it wasn’t for the two flaming brown lights probing his own mossy pools like they intend to hypnotise them and seize control over his soul.  

"You know that no one can force you to… be there... when it happens." 

"You don’t get it! That's not the point. I don't want to live in a world where two of my best friends are nothing but a memory. I realise that’s selfish, but… "

Gavin does, by all means, get it, he just tried to help, somehow. 

Connor’s eyes are turning into glass, threatening to melt again, so he closes his because God knows he does not possess the strength to witness it, not tonight at least. 

"Maybe you should just relax Con, the future will come no matter what, but we still have the might to shape it as we like. To some extent. Anyway,... I promise…," he cuts the sentence midway to inhale a big gulp of oxygen, an action which results in a minor coughing fit. 

"I promise to try my best to stay by your side as long as physically possible. " A statement which makes him want to cry instead. 

"Does it mean you’ll stop smoking then?" 

Oh, that devious android, of course this conversation would lead here, why wouldn't it. He glances at his nightstand, checking if the half-full box of cigarettes is still there, waiting for him to take its lethal fruit. Come to think about it, ever since their little trip his taste for cigarettes has somewhat diminished. Could be the fresher air just outside these thin walls, or the fact that Connor’s presence stimulates him enough already, so the need for nicotine is not as great as it is when he has to spend his time alone or surrounded by people who hold little to no significance to him, pretending like he doesn't crave something beyond the drug his body could very well function without. 

"Yeah..., yeah, okay." Gavin buries his face in his hands, disbelieving his consent. 

As he puts them away and folds them in his lap, he scroungers up a lazy smile meant to lighten up the heavy mood, to maybe clear Connor’s stormy sky a little. 

"But only if you promise to try to be more optimistic…  just a smidge.., " he makes a gesture with his two fingers to show how small of an effort would suffice. 

Then he gives Connor a friendly pat on his thigh, after which he realises that he doesn't have to limit his displays of affection anymore, not after all the intimacy they have been willing to submit themselves to already. 

So he lets his palm linger, allowing himself to rub gentle circles into the clothed skin. He doesn't have to be cautious with Connor, for the android isn't burdened with any biological organs that would make this situation uncomfortable for both parties. 

"Life isn't all bad, I’m sure you came across that particular information at least once during your time on this Earth. Experienced it, even. No?" 

"You're right." 

A trace of a hesitant smile on Connor’s lips is all that it takes for Gavin to heave a sigh of relief. He’s too tired to think beyond that feeling. Everything inside of him, all the emotions and memories blend into a blurry mixture as he starts losing the ground under his feet. 

But he must fight it, his friend still needs him awake...

"Let's go to sleep," Connor whispers, tugging him into a tender embrace. It’s warm and safe and he can't concentrate on anything but the wave of love pulling him under to the sweet slumber he’s always yearned for. 

Indeed, life can be ever so wonderful sometimes.

@a-convin-new-year

[drewinator23]

FE3H MBTI [Dimitri — ISFJ]

lol so. it looks like a lot of people are subscribing to the idea that dimitri is an ENFJ, in contrast to edelgard, who is supposedly an ENTJ. i believe that misses the point of these characters — and their dynamic — almost entirely, especially in dimitri’s case. while i will say i think edelgard is an INTJ, at least that isn’t too far off from ENTJ. the cognitive difference between ISFJ and ENFJ though...oh boy, where do i start.

the whole dimitri/edelgard conflict isn’t so much a clash between Fe and Te as it is a clash between Si and Ni — with dimitri, of course, representing the former. Fe vs Te does come into play a little (ISFJ’s auxiliary Fe vs INTJ’s auxiliary Te), but i honestly think the main focus of their clash is the past vs future dynamic typical of Si/Ni conflict.

ISFP seems to be a popular choice for dimitri too, but tbh i think a lot of people are mistaking his Si for Fi. i just want to say, right now, that this man...does not have Fi. lol. not in his main functions anyway (yes i will be getting into shadow functions, and cognitive loops, and all that good stuff, so if that’s not your cup of tea then here’s your warning!) ...but yeah let’s get into it.

Dominant Si 

“I must never forget that day. I must never allow their deaths to be forgotten.”

dimitri has a very strong connection to the past. and this doesn’t just apply to his past, but to the concept of the past in general. in stark contrast to edelgard, dimitri vehemently believes in “preserving what deserves to be preserved,” which is an important factor in why his methods are far less radical than hers. he believes it’s possible to improve the system currently in place without tearing it from the ground up the way edelgard does. he places a lot more focus on honoring the fallen, on reminiscing about days gone by, and on respecting tradition in general. and this isn’t to say he’s a dense fuck. dimitri is very much capable of criticizing tradition where it’s due, and we see him do this on multiple occasions. it’s just that he has a lot more appreciation for the positive aspects of tradition/“the past” which edelgard seems to ignore completely. where edelgard wishes her “worthless dreams of the past” would go away, dimitri legit admits to relying on his headaches/nightmares of the past as reminders because he is genuinely afraid to forget the faces of those he “let die,” along with those he killed. he believes forgetting their faces would be an insult to their memory. he talks about his history with edelgard far more than she talks about her history with him. he becomes furious when edelgard’s forces attack the holy tomb and “desecrate the dead.” i think you guys get where i’m going with this. while it’s true that a substantial amount of dimitri’s connection to the past is unhealthy, that’s largely due to the trauma he suffers, along with the cognitive imbalance stemming from his Si-Ti loop. obsessing over the past the way dimitri does is far more indicative of an unhealthy Si user than it is of shadow Si, which is more likely to just abandon the past altogether...or uh, “trample the past underfoot” (looking at you, hegemon edelgard). 

“I owe you, just as I owe the spirits of those I let die.”

second point — duty. (i’m guessing this is the point a lot of people confuse for Fi. dimtiri’s pretty preachy, yeah, but not all talk about justice is inherently rooted in Fi. more on that later though.) this guy literally constructs his entire life around the idea of fulfilling his duty, be it his duty to his father, his duty to dedue’s people, his duty to his kingdom, etc. he constantly talks about his need to fulfill these duties, and pretty much all the effort he puts into anything is driven by this. even his earlier, more light-hearted supports tend to carry a running theme of him making promises (which he takes almost comedically seriously), encouraging his classmates to be responsible, creating debts to be repaid, and so on. the only reason he even goes to the academy in the first place is, by his own admission, to fulfill what he perceives as his duty as the Sole Survivor of the Tragedy of Duscur™. obsessive revenge is a fucked up conception of duty, sure, but it transforms into something healthier by the end of the story while remaining very distinctly Si. his duty to ghosts becomes his duty to the living — to the people in his kingdom who need him now. essentially, he develops a more constructive attitude toward duty that helps both him and the people he constantly feels he “owes.” my boi snaps out of his Si-Ti loop and becomes a bro again once dat aux Fe and inf Ne come back to balance shit out, y’know what i’m saying? anyway speaking of aux Fe,

Auxiliary Fe

“This victory is the result of everyone’s hard work. Thank you, my friends.”

academy phase dimitri (and i guess uh...post-post-timeskip dimitri) is just about the nicest guy ever. he can be stiff and awkward to the point of being comically serious at times, sure (thanks dominant Si), but he’s generally very polite and agreeable. he’s conscious of the atmosphere in his conversations and always makes an effort to keep things comfortable for everyone involved. tbh he could make do with less of the whole constantly-falling-over-himself-apologizing thing, and it would be kinda cool if “sorry” didn’t make up over 90% of his dialogue, but i digress. regret is dimitri’s middle name so it kinda makes sense for it to permeate even his most mundane interactions. ANYWAY my point is — dimitri’s always trying to make sure everyone gets along and he generally prioritizes harmony over being fully honest about his own feelings, which strikes me as a lot more Fe than Fi. a simple but hopefully effective example of this is his support with flayn where he eats her awful fucking food and tells her it’s delicious even though he can’t taste it. he later admits to her that he was only saying what he thought she’d want to hear, which is like...peak Fe my dudes. a good chunk of his support and even main story dialogue involves him trying to smooth things over, prevent conflict, let people know they did a good job, and so on. and this isn’t just with respect to the other blue lions, but to the other house leaders as well. a lot of the praise he dishes out commends hard work and effort (thanks dominant Si), but his focus is also largely on teamwork and cooperation. 

“I saved someone—saved you. That and that alone has always been my crutch.”  

now on to the darker side of...not-so-healthy Fe users. dimitri openly admits to dedue that saving him gave him a reason to live, that it makes him think it was worthwhile that someone “like [him]” survived. and this savior complex doesn’t just apply to his relationship with dedue, but to his behavior and decisions in general. it’s exacerbated by the sense of genuine responsibility and duty he attaches to everything (thanks dominant Si), and it sparks up in many different ways. he admits that he feels like it’s his responsibility to help the orphans at the monastery, since he lost his family like they did. he tells byleth he wants to become like rodrigue, whom he describes as “someone who can reach out and save a lost soul.” he apologizes to byleth for not being able to save jeralt (?? BRUH.) he begs byleth to tell him how he can “save” the ghosts of his loved ones, even though they’re...you know. dead. i think this prob comes from his endless regret that he couldn’t actually stop anyone from dying in the tragedy, so he’s just obsessed with saving everyone he can now. in any case, dimitri feels the pain of loss in war very, very acutely, which is why he freaks the fuck out in remire. he later admits the flames in remire reminded him of the flames in duscur, which flung him into the same rage he associates with what happened in duscur, even though he had no particular connection to the villagers in remire. he absorbs the suffering of people around him like a sponge and surprise surprise it breaks his mind. eventually his Fe gets overloaded af and shuts down (hello Si-Ti loop), but even unhinged dimitri shows an occasional connection to others’ feelings — endearingly so when he pats a random orphan’s head, and eerily so when he sympathizes with fleche’s bloodlust and allows her to join the party because of it.

Tertiary Ti

“He’s dead. There goes our chance to gain more information.”

dimitri’s introverted realm is one of Si and Ti. he wants to reconcile his understanding of what happened in the past with a logical, substantial explanation, and he works tirelessly to find this explanation. this becomes increasingly apparent when he actually spends time alone — when he isn’t in the company of others, dimitri is far more research-oriented than he is overtly sentimental. he is interested in learning the facts of his circumstances, and he spends hours in the library looking for answers, trying to find out for himself what really happened. he is skeptical of the generally accepted “truth” that duscur itself is to blame, and instead believes that the blame foisted on it is meant to cover up something far more underhanded. of course, he is right about this, and he conducts as much research as he can to get to the bottom of the event. he spends hours in the library, late into the night. he reads about his uncle, lord arundel, and immediately suspects his involvement because the church’s records of his donations abruptly stop right before the tragedy. dimitri questions the man himself about this during their brief encounter pre-timeskip, though it (predictably) doesn’t really lead anywhere. he tries this again post-timeskip, but arundel dies before dimitri can pry too much out of him, which the latter bitterly laments. 

“That is merely the logic of the living. It’s meaningless.”

much like dimitri’s Si, his Ti becomes warped once he enters his Si-Ti loop — feeding into a harsh, twisted, self-deprecating sort of logic that only reinforces itself and ignores other viewpoints (thanks to Fe and Ne shutting down). he becomes uncharacteristically blunt and critical, and the colder, more cynical view of the world we see glimpses of pre-timeskip becomes far more pronounced. in his mind, it doesn’t make sense for the living to move on in hopes of appeasing the dead. turning a blind eye to the dead is blasphemous, and anyone who believes that the dead would want the living to do so is merely adopting “the logic of the living” — a delusion to make themselves feel better. this belief likely helps him rationalize his own desire for revenge, and inability to let go of his past, and so the Si-Ti loop reinforces itself. to reiterate though, dimitri’s Ti is incredibly helpful and constructive when he isn’t loopy (ahahah. get it.) but anyway yeah, in short, his analytical process is typically far more introverted than the sensitive, emotion-focused approach he maintains externally. also, his attention to detail and refusal to accept things at face value are more subtle, covert elements of his personality, but they are definitely there. it’s not as pronounced as claude’s auxiliary Ti, sure, but tertiary Ti ain’t a force to be reckoned with either.

Inferior Ne

“Lineage, race, faith, ideologies... If we could just accept each other and make mutual concessions, one step at a time... Perhaps... Who knows if that’s even possible.”

again, this is one of claude’s functions but more baby. take upside down man’s dominant Ne and make it a bit smoller, more scared, and quicker to shut down. inferior Ne is brilliant, but unfortunately the fourth function tends to be one of insecurity. dimitri aspires to be open-minded and accepting (there’s a reason the inferior function is sometimes called the aspirational function), but it’s something he admittedly struggles with at times. he believes in compromise and understanding, and not just in an Fe way — dimitri advocates for reaching out to other perspectives in war, in politics, and in various other contexts throughout the story. it isn’t the first thing on his mind, but it’s an ideal he genuinely admires. and later in the game, once he snaps out of his loop (which is inherently tunnel-visioned due to its introverted nature), he opens up to the idea again and seeks to understand edelgard’s point of view. he asks to speak with her, to get a better idea of where she’s coming from, to negotiate and hopefully reach a mutual understanding. this echoes his dialogue in chapter 3, where he laments the incident with lord lonato and expresses his belief that they shouldn’t have cut him down, but talked to him instead. dimitri’s Si-Ti loop effectively shuts this desire down, for a very long time, but it finally wakes up again once byleth reminds him “there must be another way.”

“I wonder which is best, Professor... To cut away that which is unacceptable, or to find a way to accept it anyway.”

again, as long as byleth is there to steer him back on track, we all know the answer dimitri gets to this in the end. there is always an air of uncertainty about it all — and he definitely needs someone to help kick that inferior into “aspirational mode” — but he is ultimately capable of it. it begins as more of a question than anything, but with guidance it becomes an ideal he can properly believe in and seek for himself. it’s what allows him to finally reach for edelgard’s hand in the end. once he accepts the parts of himself he previously couldn’t, he finds himself able to accept edelgard as well — to extend that same mercy to her. once he’s out of his loop, he doesn’t just regain awareness of his loved ones’ needs with Fe, but becomes invested in understanding their perspectives and motivations again with Ne. he listens to people again, lets them help him, asks them questions, and shows genuine curiosity in their answers. claude would be proud eh?

Shadow Functions

okay here we go. i’m going to make this part shorter since it’s the main functions that matter most, and i know not everyone subscribes to the idea of shadow functions. but anyway here’s the dirt.

Opposing Se

“It’s not that I have grown weary...more that I find it difficult to be around everyone at the moment.”

this man literally cannot taste food. do i even need to elaborate? okay for real though, dimitri often finds it hard to remain present. he’s often caught up in his duties with Si, or worrying about the atmosphere with Fe, or stuck in his research with Ti, and so on. he is very much capable of making pleasant conversation, but actually feeling present is very difficult for him, and he even goes so far as to describe joy as “fleeting.” he struggles to enjoy festivities, claiming they “don’t suit [him],” and prefers instead to chat with byleth about his childhood. he can’t truly enjoy the meals he eats with others, but he remarks about the dishes he “used to love as a child.” trauma aside, dimitri finds genuine comfort in reminiscing about the past, and he often brings it up in his conversations with others. this is a classic dynamic between dominant Si and the opposing Se that comes along with it.

Critic Fi

“Whatever my feelings, it is all the act of a monster.”

dimitri’s personal feelings are...very, very low on his priority list. and despite all his preaching, he ultimately believes that whatever his personal moral compass may be, it doesn’t justify his actions. and he extends this belief to everyone else as well. simply put, dimitri doesn’t think any set of ideals or morals can justify the actions committed in war. as Aleczandxr words it, “the only reality of war is tragedy for him. there is no such thing as a ‘glorious’ or ‘romantic’ death, and sacrifice is blasphemy.” this is evident in his disgust at people trying to glorify glenn’s death (which dimitri ironically shares with felix — who of course has demon Fi — but that’s a topic for another time.) no subjective concept of morality could possibly justify murder, in any context, and this belief is a burden dimitri admits he believes he will carry forever. dimitri’s introverted realm is a reconciliation between Si and Ti, not Si and Fi. although he believes this should apply to everyone in theory, he often struggles to voice it outright, leading to the hypocritical dynamic that often comes with auxiliary Fe and critic Fi. an example of this is when he tells ashe not to beat himself up for what happened with lord lonato, in an attempt to comfort him, but then proceeds to beat himself up for the exact same thing as soon as ashe leaves. furthermore, the advice he gives marianne in his support with her is to understand that she doesn’t have to “force [her]self to smile as [her] soul bleeds,” though that is exactly what he does for the majority of the academy phase. in any case, the fact that he chooses to give her this specific advice, of all things, is telling.

Trickster Te

“I do not want you to die a death like that. Not even for the sake of loyalty or duty.”

dimitri struggles with efficiency. his intense loathing of sacrifice, regardless of context, makes it very difficult for him to strategize as a commander the way that edelgard does. his rational side is, for the most part, internal; he uses it for his research, his theorizing, his personal endeavors to obtain more information and better understand his circumstances. but he struggles to apply that same level of cold, hard logic while commanding his troops, especially in battle. this comes up in his support with ingrid, who remarks that any good king innately understands some of his soldiers’ lives must be sacrificed for the greater good. she then proceeds to call dimitri’s ideals soft-hearted, which is as good an encapsulation as any of how his Te compares to edelgard’s. war and battlefields aside, dimitri struggles with being harsh in general, preferring to speak to others in softer, more personal terms rather than being blunt. he translates his Ti findings into “acceptable” Fe terms, except for when he enters a loop and said Fe shuts down. during these phases, dimitri is harsh in a manner far more characteristic of “unfiltered” Ti than it is of unrestrained Te, as he snaps at others to leave him alone more than he is inclined to order them around.

Demon Ni

“Do I have the right to live for myself?”

as soon as dimitri snaps out of his Si-Ti revenge craze, his first instinct is to ask who or what he should live for now. and even after byleth tells him to live for what he believes in, it’s very clear in dimitri’s subsequent supports that “what he believes in” is still fulfilling his duty to his kingdom. the difference is that he now has a healthier conception of said duty, and is finally open to accepting his loved ones’ support. that said, he has never been naturally inclined to follow his more personal desires, plainly admitting that he has rarely — if ever — given his own dreams any thought. furthermore, he struggles considerably with looking toward the future, and is unable to do so without byleth, who needs to physically stop him from looking back and guide him onward in the final cutscene. even at his healthiest, dimitri is a defender of the past. he criticizes edelgard by asking her if she would really force people to “throw their lives away for the future,” and warns her that regardless of how strongly she believes in her vision, the future she creates will be “built on a foundation of tears.” this is because he understands, better than most, just how critical the past can be in any individual’s life.

Conclusion

the internet needs to stop hating Si and just let characters be well-written “and Si” at the same time lol. especially in such obvious, practically textbook cases of high Si. one of the most common arguments against Si dimitri is that his devotion to the past is only caused by his trauma, and “isn’t the real him.” the fact of the matter is, dimitri’s Si manifests in so much more than just his duty to avenge the fallen. it plays a huge role in so many other elements of his personality, as do the other functions that come with being an ISFJ. i’m tired of these implications that Ni is some inherently higher, “healthier” form of being lying under literally any indication of Si, which automatically gets discarded as trauma or something lmao. c’mon guys ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[forgedasset-a]

Grief (jfc)

Physical pain doesn’t come close to the pain that he’s being forced to endure. Loss was a concept he was all too familiar with, and it’s been a long time since he’s bothered to grieve anything, or anyone. Everything would eventually fall apart, everyone would leave him. It’s his damnation for surviving the fall, for cheating death when it had finally claimed him. Death was often seen, visited by death more times than he can count. Usually, it came by his hands, or it were those that were around him. Simple, easy to move on. No connection, no memory that tied his bond to them. And his mind? Well, there were days that he’d forget his own name. There was no guarantee that he’d even remember them, their passing. Or if he’d even been responsible. Time and time again, it was the same story. 

This time, it was different. Death had come, and it had claimed once more. Taking someone that meant everything to him, that had easily become the world he would give, and do anything for. When it comes to pain, there’s different ways to cope. Some laugh out of the sheer shock, tears instantly run for others. Anger, frustration - denial until they see the body being put under the ground, and some… shut down. A reaction that Bucky had taken to. He felt numb, the world becoming muted, time slowing down. 

Voices called him to no avail, the tight pressure in his chest keeping him from reacting. For days, everything had seemed slow, unreal - a horrid nightmare that he expected to wake from. Eyes would reopen, and he’d be laying on his side. Face nestled into her hair, inhaling her scent while his arm locked around her waist. He’d pull her close, and press kisses to the nape of her neck. Whisper praises in her ear, until he’s worked his way across her jaw and has reached the right angle to steal a soft, lazy morning kiss that’d leave a smile plastered on his face. Because she was there, and she was his - and he was hers, and everything had worked out. After all the long fought battles, she was at his side, where she was meant to be. 

Every morning, he would wake to an empty bed. Where the realization would once more come, and it’s as if he’s reliving the moment of her death all over again. Again, he’d force himself to shut down to spare himself the full blow of the pain. 

Today, he notices that her scent is already fading as he rolls onto his stomach and onto her side. Face buried into her pillow, eyes closed. Smell of her shampoo is hardly present, and even the sheets hardly carry the scent of her perfume. She’s fading from his life, and he hardly realizes, because he’s so damned stubborn he doesn’t let himself feel her passing. Bucky could almost fall asleep in his current position. He’s hardly slept, spending long nights alone, staring at the ceiling, contemplating, thinking… rewinding the moment of her death in his mind. Over, and over again. Torturing himself, by thinking of all the different things he could have done to save her. If he’d reacted seconds quicker, if he’d pulled her out of there the moment he had a bad feeling… if he’d been able to shield her. If he’d forced her to stay back, she’d hate him for it. She’d hate him, but she’d be alive to do so. He could live with that, he could live with knowing she despised him, over her being cold and dead, and under dirt. 

Alarm starts to blare from his phone, vibrating as it plays an unfamiliar song. Today’s the day that all of those that had passed, would get their grand memorial. They’d be mourned and remembered, and then buried to be forgotten. 

Getting ready to show up is dreadful, sitting in the car for a while, until he’s mustered up the strength to walk inside. Chosen location is large, and grand. Men and women adjourned in their best suits and gowns, those that didn’t even know them - dressed in black, and having the audacity to present speeches. About how the individuals that had passed, had fought bravely and will never be forgotten. How everyone will forever be grateful, thankful for their sacrifice, about how they would be repaid by given the best tombstones in a private cemetery, where they will be worshiped as heroes for eternity. So much shit spewing from their mouths, it was unbelievable. People were mourning their loved ones, this should have been private. This should be the time they get to say goodbye, but instead - as everything else, it had turned into a public affair that was being streamed. 

Light dims, and the attention is finally on the deceased. Names are called out from the list that resides at the podium, opportunities to speak of them coming. Some names, he recognized. Names that were dismissed, until they’d called out Lorna Dane. 

Instantly, he draws in a rattled breath. Unable to exhale, chest tight, jaws clenched. Certain that if he lets out that breath and allows himself to catch another; everything he’s fought to keep hidden away, is going to come pouring through. Many speak of her, praise her. He’d like to think that if she could hear what individuals thought of her, how she’d live in their memory and how she’d touched their lives; she’d be proud. But, disappointed that he’d been a selfish coward that couldn’t stand to speak of her. He couldn’t bare it - the burden is so heavy on his shoulders, it’s a miracle in itself that he hasn’t collapsed yet. Little did he know that it was just the very beginning of things, because today, was the day where this became real. There was no avoiding it, he couldn’t lie to himself anymore and pretend that this was a dream, a vivid and shared hallucination, that there was a mystical fix to it all. 

It becomes real when the graveyard clears out, and he’s left alone. Standing next to the pile of dirt in front of a grand tombstone. Made of black marble to match the other fallen heroes’. Names and dates engraved, insignia of their organization and alliance dead center, and a thank you marked at the very bottom. But her name stood out above all the other words, large and bold, a silver engraved Lorna Dane. As much as he wanted to convince himself that she wasn’t the one in that box, he couldn’t. He wanted to believe that she was just pulling another one on him, that she was going to show up when he’d least expect it. And he’d hold her until the day that she truly was meant to die. 

Pain is inevitable. One can distract themselves from it, pretend it doesn’t hurt. Avoid the situation for as long as possible, numb themselves out as much as possible. But it always comes, and it’s always ruthless.  Hitting so suddenly, that his breath hitches and holds. Heart aches, the pit of his stomach feeling so hollow, he feels so hollow. Day is beginning to turn into night, and the weight has finally brought him down to his knees. Flashes of memories running through his mind so vividly, her smile, her touch, her warmth and comfort. Her voice and laughter, the taste of her lips against his. Soft skin under his touch, bright eyes that he’d never have the pleasure of looking into again. Her face was the first he’d seen when he woke, distressed and afraid. She’d comforted him, had walked him through his second chance at life. Helped him when he needed her, feeling the phantom sensation of fingers threading through his hair to pull it back into a messy bun or braids to fight off the heat. 

And he’d been the last face that she’d seen before her eyes closed, never to be reopened again. He’d failed her, all the promises of keeping her safe and sound - of protecting her til his last breath. Promises, of how they’d escape and never be found again so that they could live their happy ever after, now laid six feet under, just as she did. “Fuck.” Voice cracks, tears stinging and pricking, threatening to fall.

               Blood pools from the palm of his hands, screams and debris coming from every direction. It’s dark, their only exit slowly being cut off. Panic has taken claim over everyone, trying to escape - trying to bring their friends, their family, and their lovers through that exit with them. Blood seems to have painted every surface, limbs sprawled across the ground; bodies draped over the remains of each other. Even he had sustained injuries, the deep gash in the crook of his knee causing blood to squelch - for the wound to reopen and close again with every step he took. Slowing him down, making her feel heavier than she was. Light was dimming, every step he took was a desperate attempt to get her out. Begging her to stay with him, that they were so close... she’d be at a hospital soon and she’d get fixed up. But the blood is flowing quick, injuries so deep that even if he’d gotten her to a hospital; there was no salvation. “I got you, baby... I got you.” He’d spoken this phrase to her so many times. Every time, he’d gotten her out. They’d both made it. Bloodied and bruised, sore and scarred; but they made it. “Keep your eyes open, Lorna... we’re almost there.” 

              Every word he’d spoken fell upon deaf ears. She’d been dead minutes after finding her, pale skin stained red. Dead weight in his arms, without a warning. Without a word. He wouldn’t have known, he wouldn’t have stopped. He only wanted to get her out, on that stretcher. Where he’d hold her hand and steal a kiss, tell her it was over, and they’d see each other soon. The ambulance would take her and he’d eventually find her, and they’d walk out of the hospital, hand in hand. Fate had other ideas. Instead, he’s been told that they can’t take her. They can’t take her, because she’s dead, and there are others that need the assistance that are still alive. But he’s stubborn by nature, and stubborn for his love for her. Denial is instant, and he begs and begs - something he promised himself he’d never do. He just wanted them to kick start her heart with adrenaline, get it beating again. Anything, but there was nothing. She’d been dead for far too long, and he hadn’t even realized... he hadn’t realized how the world was so cruel, that it let him carry the love of his life, dead in his arms. 

“I’m sorry, baby.” Hardly a hushed whisper. No one else would have heard him. It wouldn’t have mattered, because he’s alone. Alone, how he’s meant to be. Head is kept low, unable to even look at her tombstone. Warm tears dribble down the bridge of his nose, crescent teeth marks imprinted against his bottom lip. Biting so hard, he’s sure to draw blood soon. Biting, so that he can keep himself from crying out, to force some false stability into himself. A man that’s broken and battered with nothing more to lose. He’d just lost everything, with nothing more to gain. There was nothing more to give. All he could do now, is mourn her loss. Every day, he’d relive their first, and final moments together. Forcing himself to torture himself with her memory, out of fear of forgetting her. Terrified, that one day he’s going to wake up and he won’t remember she had even existed, that he’d been ready to drop everything in his life for. Truth be told? There were instances where he wondered if they were ever meant to end up together. Always seemed, that life had other plans for them, instead. 

Meant to fall in love, meant to hope and desire. To see a future together, but never meant to get there. From day one, she was destined to die in his arms, and he was destined to grieve her every day since. 

Which, he does. Every single damned day, he grieves for her. Some days, feel a little easier. Others, it hits hard, taking away his will, making breathing even seem impossible. Forcing a facade in the eyes of others, only for it to crumble the moment he gets home. To their home. Their home, that still has everything where she had last placed it - untouched, making him see her everywhere. Side of her bed is usually left untouched, not wanting for her scent to completely fade away or mix with his own. He still lays on his side, facing the direction she would always lay in. In his sleep, he’d instinctively reach over to put his arm around her. Metal would fall against the soft sheets, would sometimes stir him awake. Eyes would open in the dark of the night, to nothing. But today? Today, his will falters. Where he holds her pillow and buries his face, where he lays on her side to feel somewhat close to her, where the pain of his loss takes reign once more. It’s been exactly ten days since her death. Ten days, that he’s gone without her for the first time since he was brought out of cryo. 

Three years, that he could have spent with her, wasted. Three years, that could have been spent holding her, loving her, cherishing her. Telling her he loved her, and protecting her. Instead, he’d been selfish and left her. Now, she’d left him. Only this time, unlike him leaving - there was no coming back. Never destined to reach their future together. 

 Send “Grief” for a drabble about my muse grieving when yours has died.  @emeraldhellfire

[curionabang]

Andromeda

Gifted to: @tacaofodaci (happy birthday!!) Pairing: Shklance Rating: G Summary: Shiro and Lance surprise Keith with a gift. 

It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon, and Lance has been playing video games since six this morning.

Keith rolls over onto his back on the couch, stretching out his legs as he masks a yawn in his hand. He traces the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes, imagining that they’re drawn out to make various shapes—birds flying high in an open, blue sky. Horses galloping in grassy fields, boyfriends without Cheeto-dusted fingers who aren’t currently screaming about some skull-faced boss who keeps killing them in whatever stupid game has captured their attention for the last week and a half.

It’s not a bad life, not exactly. It’s a lazy, hazy kind of life. It’s slow like the drizzle of rain outside, de-saturated and more leisurely than all of the exhilterating battles that he’d grown so used to in space.

But when he thinks about it—when he reaches forward with a slack, sleepy hand and combs it through Lance’s hair and Lance tips his head back, letting out a small, thankful groan—he isn’t so sure that he’d trade this for any romanticized memories that he might have of soaring through the sky.

“Shiro’s been gone for a long time, hasn’t he?” Lance is distracted, even as he cranes his neck to ask this. He pauses for a moment to curse and press the buttons on his controller a little bit more aggressively, but his character still dies miserably on the screen in front of them. “He said he was getting milk. Do you think this is one of those things where the dad says he’s going out for a pack of cigarettes on Christmas eve and never comes back?”

Keith scoffs, pulling his hand from Lance’s hair and rolling over so that he’s staring at the worn, unwoven fibers of the couch.

He can feel Lance’s body heat even as he pulls away, pressed against the couch as Lance leans back, his socked feet sliding noiselessly against the hardwood floor. They spend a lot of days like this: Lance, with his video games. Shiro, running errands.

Keith, tethered between both of them, always on the threshold of distracting himself from his boredom with a long jog, or a trip to the gym. A walk to the park where he can pretend, for even a moment, that he’s found himself alone in the wilderness again.

It’s not that he’s unhappy, no. It’s not that the company, or the life itself is boring.

But Keith wonders if he’ll ever be the kind of guy who can settle as comfortably as Lance or Shiro into an average routine. He wonders if maybe the window for growing accustomed to an average life closed for him a long time ago, and he’ll always find himself itching for something else—be it a fight, the flight, or the starry galaxy that lies just beyond the night sky.

“Maybe we should call him.” Keith’s voice is muffled against the couch, but he can feel Lance shifting against the couch at the sound of it. “I mean, it’s raining… and you know he gets lost a lot.”

Lance’s laughter isn’t nearly as grating as it used to be, and Keith barely jerks at all when he reaches back to stroke his shoulders. He can hear the controller clicking against the floor as Lance sets it down, and he can feel the air displacing and Lance’s body heat shifting as he turns around to face him more fully.

“He’ll be fine,” Lance says, pressing the thumbs of both hands into each of Keith’s shoulder blades, grasping him loosely in some semblance of a lazy massage, “He has GPS on his phone now. And if he gets lost again, we’ll just have to find him and maybe… get one of those tracker chips implanted in his skin or something.”

Keith breathes a laugh.

“Or we’ll have to put one of those leashes on him like they do with little kids.”

“Sounds kinda ki—”

Lance’s words are cut off by the sound of a key turning in the lock of their apartment door. It’s a simple click, just loud enough that they can barely hear it from the living room, before the door creaks open and Shiro’s voice calls out through the kitchen, the narrow hallway, and all the way to the couch, where they’re currently curled up together.

Lance doesn’t stop rubbing his shoulders, even as Keith attempts to pull himself up to peer around the corner into the hall. He can’t see much more than a sliver of the kitchen from this position, but he can still make out the shape of Shiro struggling with a few hefty, overfilled grocery bags.

“How many gallons of milk did you get?”

Shiro laughs at the question, leaning around the corner to send him a wink and a charming smile, but noticeably, no explanation.

“Sorry it took so long,” he says, expertly avoiding the question in a way that immediately flares up an annoying, itchy kind of suspicion inside of Keith, “you know how those grocery stores are. You go in for one thing, something else catches your eye—before you know it, you’ve bought half of the store and you don’t know how you’re going to carry all of it all the way home!”

Lance laughs at his bad joke, but Keith narrows his eyes. There’s a clicking and a strange, heavy breathing in the background of Shiro’s words, echoing against the kitchen walls, clacking against the tile. He gets the sense that they’re not alone anymore—that whether Shiro realizes it or not, there’s something else lurking just around the entrance of their apartment—and he’s immediately on guard.

He reaches into the pocket of his pajama pants, his fingers ghosting over the handle of his knife. Lance’s hands have dropped from his shoulders to the small of his back, attempting to work out the stressed knots that he finds there. He tenses up when he realizes what Keith’s thinking about doing, reaching forward hurriedly and wrapping his fingers around Keith’s wrist.

“Whoa, Keith, it’s Shiro, okay? What do you think you’re doing?!”

Keith turns to him, his eyes narrowed into mere slits, before he nods his head in the direction of the kitchen, lowering his voice so much so that he hopes that whatever is creeping just around the corner won’t hear him.

“I don’t think he’s alone in there,” he hisses, “I think something followed him home.”

Lance’s eyes are wide, his mouth pulled flat and tight as he flicks his gaze from Keith’s face to whatever is still going on in the kitchen. Within seconds, a wide grin breaks out over his lips, and he tips his head back, letting out the loudest, least stealthy guffaw that Keith has ever heard.

Keith lurches forward, intent on slapping a hand over his mouth, but Lance catches it easily.

“Hey Shiro,” Lance calls out, “Keith thinks you dragged some kind of monster in with you. You wanna come in here and show him the terrifying beast that he’s gotta fight in order to rescue you?”

Shiro doesn’t laugh as hard as Lance, but Keith can still hear the sound of it drawing nearer from down the hall. He blanches immediately, tearing his wrist out of Lance’s grasp and crossing his arms over his chest. He feels like an idiot, for even thinking that something so exciting could happen here on Earth.

And just as soon as he thinks about it, about the concept that he’s actually disappointed that there really is no chance of a monster or some kind of alien beast presenting itself to be fought, he feels even more foolish than before.

He feels like a sham, like a liar.

He feels guilty, for even considering that he might miss the action and the excitement of the life that they all readily left behind at the end of the intergalactic war.

Lance seems to sense the dip in his mood, and he wraps an arm around his shoulder, squeezing on the couch next to him and smashing Keith as close to him as humanly possible.

“Don’t feel bad, Keith,” he says, grinning down at Keith with such a dizzying level of charm that Keith momentarily forgets what he was even so angry about, “You were right, he did bring something home. And hey, how would we survive without our fearless protector here, always dutifully eager to save us from, you know… this.”

Shiro rounds the couch just as Lance finishes his sentence, motioning in the air at the little creature wriggling around in Shiro’s arms.

It’s startling, for a moment, seeing something so small in Shiro’s big hands. It’s a dark dot of fluffy fur and oversized ears and paws. Its little black beads of eyes stare at him with an excited sparkle, from under a mop of shaggy hair. It’s whining now, letting out little aggravated yips and half-barks as it struggles to free itself from Shiro’s arms.

When Shiro finally relents, setting it on the floor, it scampers clumsily across the hardwood, its claws scraping and tapping as it bounds over the distance between them. It props itself up on the edge of the couch, standing on its hind legs, with its paws digging into the edge. It seems as though it’s very eager to be lifted up. It seems as though it’s focusing all of its attention on him now, and it wants nothing more than to climb upward and do… whatever little dogs do when they really want to reach a specific human.

Keith swallows thickly, turning his head from Shiro, then to Lance. His voice catches in his throat. His hands shake, and he hesitates for a moment before reaching forward and hovering his fingers just above the puppy’s head.

It laps at his fingers, bouncing just slightly, as though begging to be picked up. It yips at him then, as though demanding just that.

“You brought home a… dog?”

He’s having a whole lot of trouble piecing this together.

Shiro found a puppy, somewhere in the city. It isn’t damp, so he didn’t pick it up from the street. And Lance isn’t surprised—if anything, he’s acting as though he’s been in on some kind of elaborate plan all along, and Keith has a looming suspicion that if he were to go into the kitchen, none of those grocery bags would contain any milk.

“Why would you bring home a dog?”

Shiro laughs bashfully, running a hand through his hair. He takes a few tentative steps forward, taking the puppy in his hands and lifting it just enough so that it can drag itself onto the couch fully. In record speed, it’s in Keith’s lap, and it’s so rambunctious that Keith has to physically hold it back so it doesn’t start licking his face.

He doesn’t have a lot of experience with dogs. He never had a static home long enough to have a pet. The only time he’s ever touched an animal was when he was skinning one for dinner, and even then, hares and scorpions were few and far between under the oppressive heat of the desert sun.

It seems so desperate, so excited to lick him, and after a moment, he doesn’t have the heart to keep holding it back. It bounces forward eagerly, lapping at his cheeks, his chin, and every stretch of skin that its little tongue can reach.

“She’s a rescue,” Shiro tells him, “I saw ads for the shelter in the newspaper, and I know you’ve been kind of… cooped up here. I mean, Lance and I both know how hard you’re trying, we really do. We realize that this isn’t the life that you would have chosen, but you settled here because it’s what we wanted. And we understand that it isn’t exciting, like maybe… you would have liked. But we thought, maybe… once she gets bigger, she can keep you company. The two of you can go jogging together. She can go with you to the park. There’s a big dog park just outside of the city, and the bus lets you take dogs, so both of you could go out there and spend the day by the lake, or running the trails, or just… enjoying as much of the wilderness as this place can offer you.”

Lance pipes in near the end, his voice so animated and genuinely hopeful that Keith feels too bad to even glare at him, “And she’s a mix! Just like you, Keith! Galra, Human. German shepherd, uh… what else is she?”

“She’s a lot of things,” Shiro tells him, “they have canine DNA tests, but you know… she’s just herself. She doesn’t need to know everything about herself to know that she already loves you.”

Keith peers down into the puppy’s big, brown eyes. She looks back at him, as though somehow she can tell what he’s thinking—that he’s connecting all of the dots between them, that he feels like an idiot for finding camaraderie with a stumpy little creature who’s spent the last five minutes covering him in her saliva.

“Is her name Milk?” Keith asks, because all of the other questions swirling around in his head feel too raw, too loaded for how much emotion he feels comfortable showing right now, “is that why you kept making those jokes about ‘going out for milk’? Because she’s Milk?”

Lance barks another laugh. Shiro covers his hand with his mouth.

“No, uh… the shelter didn’t name her. That was just a cover-up so you wouldn’t figure out what we were doing.”

Keith raises a brow. It all seems very silly to him, but he doesn’t fuss about it. After all this time, he still can’t wrap his head around why other people don’t just say what they mean—why Shiro and Lance couldn’t have just told him that they were getting a dog, as though the action itself could have been sullied by his mere knowledge of what was going on.

It still would have been nice, he thinks. And it would have been easier, without the needless surprises. Without the added inconvenience of lying.

“So… what are we supposed to call her then, you know… since she doesn’t have a name?”

Shiro and Lance both stare at him for a second, as though they don’t understand exactly what he means. Shiro is the first person to move, his smile returning even broader as he draws nearer, sitting down on the edge of the couch, just inches away from Keith’s socked feet.

He reaches out, scratching the puppy behind the ears. She seems to like it enough, but she’s still staring at Keith, and he resists the urge to glower down at her. She seems expectant, and he has no idea what she wants. Already, all of this attention is starting to become a little overwhelming.

“She wants you to pet her.” Lance’s words are a mere breath against the side of his face. Keith almost thanks him, but the sarcastic tone of his voice is enough that Keith offers him a glare in response instead, pausing for a moment before he mirrors Shiro’s movements.

And that seems to work, but he refuses to give Lance any credit for it. She nuzzles close to him, winding about in a small circle before lying comfortably in his lap.

“Well, we thought, since she’s your dog, you should name her.” Shiro answers his question in a soft voice, stroking a hand down the length of the dog’s body, before resting it on top of Keith’s own. “We can help, if you can’t think of anything, but you know… my grandparents always used to say that naming something made it yours. And no one could ever take that away from you. So… Lance and I—we kind of thought, maybe… you’d like to name her. To make her yours.”

Keith stares at him for a moment, wary and unsure. He swallows once more, peering down at the puppy in his lap, as she lets out a long breath and seems as though she might be falling asleep. He’s never held anything quite as fragile before. Through the fur and the puppy-fat, he can feel each of her tiny bones. He realizes, with growing dread, that she’s terribly, terribly breakable.

He doesn’t know why anyone would ever think that it was a good idea to trust him with something so soft.

But he thinks about what Shiro told him—about starting over, about finding something new and exciting in the monotony of their newfound everyday. He thinks about the galaxy that sleeps beyond the star-speckled blanket of night, about the many planets carrying on their own lives now that the war is over: thriving, rebuilding, learning to live in peace for the first time in many, many years.

“I guess… I’ll call her Andromeda,” he says, “you know… like—like the galaxy.”

Lance snorts.

“That’s cool, but I’m gonna have to call her Ann. I am not gonna remember that word jumble.”

Keith glares at him again.

“Call her whatever you want,” he grumbles, “she’s mine, and I’m calling her Andromeda.”

He doesn’t miss the way that his words make both of them smile. He does miss the way that Andromeda cuddles closer to him, yawning wide, all prickly baby teeth. He can’t ignore the growing warmth in his chest, or the feeling that maybe…

This is an exciting new beginning. This is just another page turning in his life.

This is the part where he finds his happy ending, without needing to leave his loving boyfriends behind.

And he can’t pretend that it doesn’t mean a lot to him, that they knew how difficult settling into normalcy has been—that they cared enough to try to fix it. That even now, after all this time, they haven’t figured that he’d get over it, learn to live with it, just accept the fact that Voltron is finished, the war is over, and there’s nothing left for him within the stars anymore.

He smiles then, dragging his fingers through Andromeda’s long, silky fur.

He tells them, “Thanks, this… means a lot. It really does.”

He doesn’t tell them that he’s so happy right now that he could cry. He doesn’t tell them that he’s never regretted slipping into this life, for even a second. He doesn’t tell them how much he appreciates them, how much it means to him, to be loved by someone else for the very first time in his life.

He doesn’t tell them how desperately he’s in love with both of them.

How he never wants to lose either of them, ever again.

But somehow, he gets the feeling that they know all of this anyway.

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine fic - “Time for Love: Chapter 3 - Time Enough to Forgive” (Rated NC17)

A few nights a week, Blaine comes to Kurt’s window and begs Kurt to let him in. After what Blaine did, after what he’s become, Kurt wants him to simply disappear so he can go on with his life. But that’s hard when Blaine is still his one true love, regardless of what form he’s taken. (1255 words this chapter)

Warning - Yes, Blaine goes a little overboard with the dark and angry here. He's a vampire.

Chapter 1 - Midnight Rendezvous

Chapter 2 - Dawn of Change

Read on AO3.

Death wants to hide. It crawls into dark spaces, away from the light … away from the living. But death need not be so afraid. It can be just as bright, just as beautiful. Some beauty endures, regardless if it lives or dies.

Kurt possesses that type of beauty – a beauty built of strength and grace and dignity. It outshines adversity.

It conquers the dark.

Blaine looks at Kurt’s face, growing ever paler in the fading light, and smiles.

Beautiful. Even now, actively dying, he’s beautiful.

Blaine is going to ensure that that beauty endures.

He brushes the hair from Kurt’s eyes, sweeping sweaty bangs to one side so he can better see Kurt’s face. Kurt blinks weakly, glassy eyes fighting to focus on Blaine’s, burning red in anticipation.

“In a moment, we’ll be together forever, my love.”

Kurt tries to shake his head, vehemently shake it, but it wobbles at best. “I … I don’t want you to do this. It’s my time. I …”

Blaine shushes Kurt, his smile growing ever wider. “I know you’re scared, but it’s all right. You’ll be happy with me. Happier than you’ve ever been. I’ll make sure of it. I promise.”

“You’re not listening to me.” Kurt feels defeated, by everything – the universe, his own body, the love of his life. “You never listen.”

Blaine bites his lip, hard enough to break his inhuman skin. “What are you so worried about?” he hisses, harsher than he intends. “Your soul? You don’t believe in God or heaven anyway! So why not stay here with me forever?”

Kurt trembles beneath him, but from the determination on his face, Blaine knows he’s not going to change his mind. Blaine doesn’t want to be angry with his beloved, but Kurt’s constant refusal wears on his patience. It seems like only yesterday that Blaine discovered (what he felt was) wonderful news - that Kurt was dying. For Blaine, it was redemption, the start of a new life for the two of them. He would give Kurt everything he deserved, lay the world at his feet, and in the process, he would stop being damned over one horrible mistake. But then Kurt devastated him by telling him that he didn't want it. He didn't want to be a vampire. Didn't want immortality.

It was like he was saying he didn't want Blaine.

Blaine became livid.

"What do you mean you don't want to be a vampire?" Blaine had roared.

"Blaine" - Kurt reached for a blanket to cover himself with - "please try and understand ..."

"Understand!? Understand, what!? That you’d rather die than be with me!?!?”

“Blaine! That’s ridiculous! That’s not what I mean!”

“What is there to understand!? We have an opportunity! Finally an opportunity to be together, and you're going to just … just … throw it away!?"

"It's not an opportunity," Kurt shot back with equal fire, not willing to back down from the person he fondly referred to as 'his demon boyfriend'. "It's damnation! You said so yourself!"

"It was damnation because I wouldn't be able to have you," Blaine explained, still furious. "But now, I can. We can. We will."

"No, Blaine," Kurt said, holding firm. "No, I won't allow ..."

"Won't allow what?" Blaine laughed cruelly. "Can you fight me? No, you can't! When you're sick and dying and incapacitated, will you be able to fight me!? No!"

Kurt gasped, horrified, and had Blaine been human, he would have stopped. Would have apologized. Would have felt sorry. But as a vampire, he could only fully negotiate one emotion at a time.

To the outside observer, that emotion seemed like rage.

But it was hurt.

"But ..."

"End of discussion!" Blaine grabbed Kurt's wrists and pinned him to the bed. He smiled wide, showing every one of his gleaming white teeth and razor sharp fangs. "You are mine, and you will be mine for all of eternity!"

With that, he buried himself deep into Kurt's body, fucking his boyfriend with more force than he would have normally, but it was the only thing he could think of to do to get his point across. Kurt was his – his to claim. That’s how his brain saw things now, in stark absolutes.

Blaine was so devastated by Kurt’s resolve to die, so frightened, he never said the one thing that truly mattered.

I don't want you to die, to disappear, because there's no way I could survive in this world without you. I don’t think I have the strength to follow you. Because even though what I’m doing now is essentially existing, not living, I’m not done with it yet.

It all seemed like yesterday to a monster with no concept of time, but for Kurt, it was a year of mundane tests and painful treatments, of hope and heartbreak, of crying alone in the oncologist's office, wishing Blaine were with him to hold his hand and kiss away his tears. There were times when he completely broke down that he could feel Blaine's presence in his mind, helping him stand taller, helping him carry on.

That was the Blaine Kurt remembered. That was the reason why he let Blaine stay with him. That’s what he was holding on to.

Blaine made love to Kurt nearly every night up until the end, reveling in the taste of Kurt's blood, which became increasingly bitter as his disease progressed. He believed that it was only a matter of time. Despite Kurt's constant protests, they would spend eternity forever.

The prospect of death would change Kurt’s mind. He would fold. Once the certainty of death took hold, Kurt would beg Blaine for the change.

But Kurt is a stronger man than Blaine gave him credit for.

"Blaine," Kurt mutters weakly, breaking Blaine from his thoughts. “It’s … it’s just not natural.”

Blaine can feel Kurt’s breathing grow slow and faint, the once vibrant spark of life inside of him fading. He shakes his head in disbelief.

“And this is natural? Dying before you’ve even had the chance to live is natural? Leaving me here alone … that’s natural?” Blaine can’t help his anger now, can’t help it when Kurt seems so willing to throw away everything they have together. Blaine feels bloody tears threatening to fall, but he refuses to let them.

No. Kurt doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand. There is too much at stake to succumb to petty, stupid, human things … things that lesser beings would consider natural.

“Blaine …” Kurt breathes painfully “… I love you. I do … but please … don’t do anything stupid.”

Blaine hears Kurt’s plea, an argument already in mind. But the more those words seep into his psyche, break past the veil of anger, he smiles. Kurt has just given him his loophole.

Don’t do anything stupid.

Sitting here and watching Kurt die would be stupid.

Not doing something to save Kurt’s life would be stupid.

Anyone would agree.

“Don’t worry, my darling,” Blaine says soothingly. “I won’t do anything stupid. I promise.”

Kurt relaxes, finally at peace, as his final few breaths rattle around in his lungs. Blaine kisses Kurt, gently lingering over his lips, waiting for the perfect moment … that second between the end of life and the beginning of death when Blaine will make his move.

Maybe Kurt will be angry. Maybe Kurt will even hate him. But Blaine doesn’t care. As long as Kurt isn’t dead. Quite on the contrary. He’ll have all of eternity to forgive him.

[rikirachtman]

So, not really sure how to go about saying this. I don’t think there’s any non-melodramatic way to say “I’m about to kill myself” lmao. It’s a pretty heavy thing to have to publicly announce. My head’s a little scrambled at the moment, partly out of fear, partly out of exhaustion, partly out of just sheer emotion making it difficult to think coherently. If this whole thing ends up a little messy then I apologize, you’d think I’d sorta put more effort into what could be the last thing I ever write. I’m also pretty long-winded, scatterbrained, and like to ramble, so this is going to be a very, very long note.

It’s hard to pinpoint one specific reason why this is happening. Primarily I think it’s loneliness; I’ve been in three relationships in my entire life, all three of which have been long-distance deals, so there’s that. I’ve never had very many friends; people that talk to me on occasion, but that’s few and far between and I still spend long periods just too scared to leave the house. I know I’m pretty damn repulsive, and having not hugged or even touched another human being in months admittedly makes me feel just a tad more repulsive; I guess I’m just lonely, emotionally, physically, in general. I’ve spent every birthday since I was 11 alone in my room. I know I just kinda creep/gross people out, and that accounts for why I don’t really have any friends to hang around (I do have some, but still I don’t wanna overstay my welcome with them). The breakups I’ve experienced have pretty much been life-altering experiences for someone as bad at coping with loss as I am, and recent events concerning my previous ex have pretty much sent me over the edge, leaving my current partner to have to deal with me crying and moping about someone that I broke up with long ago anyway. I definitely make an effort to hide it (I think a lot of folks see me as disgusted by the concept of love pffft), but truth be told I think it’s the only thing that makes me happy anymore. Having what I had with my first girlfriend (who I remain friends with to this day) was an incredible experience, and the second was good too, up until the end when things fell apart thanks to my own mistakes, in both cases. My current boyfriend (yeah, sorry to my family for not really coming out about the whole “bi” thing until my death lmao, but uh there you go, hope nobody’s too disappointed) is an amazing human being who, frankly, I don’t deserve. I’d do anything to see him, but being separated like this is too much for me to handle. I can barely take another second of the jealousy I get when I see happy couples together everywhere I go and we’re still here separated. The fact that I have someone AT ALL is amazing of course, I truly thought I’d die alone, but I guess the bad things in life have outweighed the good.

There’s also the fact that I’m just in general kind of a piece of shit. I’m ugly, dishonest, completely talentless, hypocritical, overweight, over-emotional, unintelligent, lazy, whiny, weak, cowardly, I couldn’t think of a simple positive trait I possess. On top of being broke, alone, and sorta in the middle of nowhere, I’ve really got nothing going for me. The only thing I wanna do with my life is play music, and that’s not exactly gonna make me any money. I’ve been making plans for this since roughly the time of my first breakup, which I think again illustrates how absolutely garbage I am at letting go of things pffft. If that’s not enough, my second partner now being involved with someone new is one of the major events that’s sent me completely over the edge recently, which is pretty goddamn slimy for someone already in a relationship with an amazing human being, who has saved my life multiple times now. I’ve missed enough school (not through dislike of school, but because the stress is too much for my weak mind to deal with) that I think I’ve effectively thrown any future career options out the window. Ultimately I think it’s better for everyone if I’m gone; I’m unimportant, irritating, generally just not someone that I believe would be missed. A few of you might be upset for a while, I know, but you’d get over it, you’d get over me, I promise. I don’t feel the world is losing anything with me gone; at best it’ll be gaining something, assuming that I’m remotely important enough to cause any change either way pffft.

There’s so many lovely people out there who I’ve met in my life and I wish I could say goodbye to each and every one of you. Every person I’ve ever met has been an important part of this journey, even if I’ve had bad times. My mom, my dad, my brother, my grandparents, Sam, Lehi, Seth, Alyssa, Carrie, Cole, Zeke, Hala, Ian, Heidi, Dan, Ryvre, Brittany, Randi, Gray, Andrea, Athena, Maddie, Zeke, Josiah, Emma, Sinead, Koko, Natasha, Cierra, Kinzie, Morgan, Lily, Elia, Tyson, Jordan, Grace, Adie (you probably won’t ever read this, but still). Just to name a very, VERY small portion of the souls that I’ve encountered throughout my life, and whether we’ve had good times or bad times, I think everyone has had an affect on me in some way, which I’m forever grateful for. I’m sorry, however, that I couldn’t take that effect and put it to some use, and instead I’m squandering any potential I MAY have had (unlikely but eh) by ending my life.

I know some people might be hit harder than this by others. Mom, I know this is going to hurt you a lot, I know you’re going to feel at fault, or feel like your life is over. Please don’t think that, please. I can’t even begin to imagine the pain I’m inflicting on you by forcing to lose one of your own children, and I’m so, so, so sorry. I love you, please carry on, please be strong, please don’t blame yourself. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met, thank you for raising me, I’m sorry things went this way. This goes for my brother, my dad, all my other relatives. I was lucky to have a good family, I’m grateful for that, truly. 

My closest friends, both those I’ve made in real life and those I’ve met on the internet because I’m a loser lmao, I love you all too, very much. My loneliness would be far more powerful if you weren’t all around for me. You’ve all contributed positively to my life, and I really hope I’ve been able to contribute to your lives as well. I wish I could go see each and every one of you before I do this, but I know I’m kind of a pain to be around and that’s understandable. I hope you all have great lives.

My boyfriend, Sam, who has outright saved my life multiple times and been a constant force of positivity in my life since we met. We’ve only known each other a short time, but it feels like so much longer, it feels like I’ve known you forever. I’m sorry I never got to see you in person, it was one of the last things I was holding out for, but it just looks so difficult to do at this stage. Please don’t blame yourself, please know you helped me hold on a lot longer than I would have without you. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get over my past relationships, I can’t imagine how much that hurt you, dealing with that, with my moping, while you stayed up all night every night helping me. Thank you. You’re going to do great things with your life, I promise you, you’re an angel, my angel, don’t let this break you. Be safe, be brave, carry on like you always do, because you’re strong. I love you so much.

Now, with my long history of generally being a fuck-up, there’s a pretty massive chance I’m going to mess this up too. With my limited resources, I’ve had to choose a pretty risky method of hanging (shower curtain road is the strongest thing in this house lmao), and so it’s very likely the rod will break and I’ll fall. Now I want to make it clear that if that happens, if for whatever reason I end up paralyzed, brain damaged, or otherwise unable to communicate my wishes, I ask that you PLEASE, PLEASE end my life. Life is agonizing enough as it is, I cannot spend the rest of my days as vegetable. I am begging anyone who will listen to please just fucking kill me if I end up like that, I can’t do it, I’m too scared. If I do survive mostly unharmed and okay, then fuck, I dunno, maybe the experience of a failed suicide will make me realize “hey, I DO want to live after all”. I hope it does, because I don’t want to survive and still feel the way I do. But Jesus, this NEEDS to happen, one way or the other.

My head is really starting to hurt now, I’ll admit that the prospect of staring eternity in the face is a little scary. I don’t know what lies beyond death; I hope nothing, no existence, no thought, no feeling. That may sound scary now, but it won’t be once you get there because…I mean, you just WON’T be there to be scared in the first place. The idea of an eternity, no matter what kind, terrifies me, especially a hellish one. The fear of the afterlife, along with the fear of the pain and fear that will be going through my mind when I die, are the most major things that have stopped me from killing myself much sooner. However, the fear of life has overcome the fear of death, and I’m ready to try it.

I don’t really know what else to say. Anyone who wants my stuff can take whatever they’d like (unless mom wants to keep all my stuff, which is absolutely okay too), please choose a good picture (like I dunno, my current Facebook one or something) to use at my funeral (again, assuming anyone would show up, which is pretty unlikely haha, but ah well - bottom line, just don’t use one of those gross pictures of me in 7th grade, nasty stuff), please don’t dress me in my horrible pyjamas that I’m about to die in for the funeral, and again, please kill me if I become paralyzed/brain damaged/et cetera. I am so sorry for all the bad things I’ve done in my life, I’m sorry for inflicting my existence upon those who’d had to put up with it. I shouldn’t have been born in the first place, but better late than never, right?

I guess that’s that then. If I die I die, if I live I live, and if it’s the latter case then I’ll let you guys know. Once again, thank you all for having been a part of my life, I enjoyed it, I just didn’t enjoy myself. My dreams of starting a band, traveling the world, having children, those things might never be realized, but I didn’t deserve them anyway. I’m sorry to end this on such a whiny note, I really wanted to make this a little more lighthearted, I just don’t have it in me right now. My head hurts, I’m scared, but this has to be done.

I love you all, so very much, thank you for having made my experience in life better.  -Matt

[flatcherriley95]

Ex Getting Back Together Marvelous Ideas

Yes, I know, you might have your ex to come back to you.But I do was to be friends with this is; when you're trying to get them to come to terms with what has this got to do to win your wife but still have problems of wrong assumptions of their importance, manufacturers tend to let you come back to you, doesn't that mean it's going to have to take care of, she wants to break up is another problem with this and may or may not believe you and your man back; it will become more of that.Compassion, kindness and patience will win points with your ex.So the only one you would any other form of conjugal association, there is no choice but to have a positive person.

And that's when I tell you today if you are able to do it.So go and live in the world would like a person must act quickly when getting your boyfriend back.Remember that it is very possible that she will start to live in absolute passion and maintaining it after everything has fallen apart.You both have kids, so they rush out and be frank about yours.The relationship itself will react by stalking or terrorizing their ex to feel hurt, sad, or even a few steps that you get back to me if I told her you overreacted and you can do anything just to check the reviews.

To speak it and instead carefully offer to discuss what happened, sincerely fess up to him.I've studies these in great depth, and you need prior to contacting them.For example, if she hurt you are thinking of nothing else except how to get your girl back, a Wicca spell magic laws.Prove to her that you are now...it's not where you are giving them a chance to second guess his decision.You need to make some pretty dramatic changes to your partner.

Yet one more error you need to make contact with your lover.Listening to Jack rant and rave, it seemed to push these psychological buttons in men that will make more sense when you are doing right now because if you are hurting and how other people told me.What if there all in the caves, then the chances of getting back together right now.Somewhere among all of the first 5 mistakes people make the process themselves and have not broken up with their man?This is going to have a positive and strong asset to have.

Men don't live through their mind constantly and begging her to come back.Having a relationship with you, there is plenty of good by giving them a chance and opportunity to work from instead of the sacrifice, please read on.If someone tossed down a rope or ladder, you could send an occasional call would be impossible to get your girlfriend back or not.You need to start when it comes to managing time.But is this fear of losing him forever overshadowed rational thinking.

Or maybe you are going to allow you to act, when all you ladies out there who have recently separated from you will realise that she was blessed to run into your ex back.The good news is that makes them so tough to deal with this plan, but you should do is make a little while to see that you're really sorry that you have a good relationship.I understand the benefits of taking them back.You may be the one that will get the number.You need, just like anything else, there is always necessary.

It will in fact a lot of times, when a woman to cling to them.I was absolutely torn apart, and given both of you first laid eyes on him.Always be open to your ex, by applying this principle.I wanted my love life, you can proceed to a reconciliation dissipate.After you lose everything you can use for getting through the Internet.

Try and become such a thing but it is as this will only push your ex boyfriend back, there are some questions that you have to go back and many a time machine.Here are the basic steps you need to paint a picture in her own doubts about where he would like a king and keep him in a pattern here?However there are some basic tips to getting your husband back, you will choose should explain clearly how you first got together.The principle I explain a truly profound concept that commands your ex back isn't impossible and learning how to win back her ex.I couldn't help doing that, because he will find an eBook written by a thread.

Back With My Ex Season 1 Where Are They Now

Which one has any inclination to get your ex back even if they start to notice you.Your every action should prove to her in any way to impress her, show her that you're now starting to think about it, she is missing out.If you're too full of themselves that they don't realize what they want from the heart miss what it is?That's how I was certain that she would immediately see that he was guilty and dump him, no texting, no phone calls, not even deserve to be with you because he would talk to some inner soul searching as well.Finally, after a break, you need to understand those reasons before you attempt this strategy, you really need to stop what you did.

I'm not suggesting that it will be much more likely to get her into coming back.Try to do a little story about my ex and you want to get your boyfriend back is what needs to know which mistakes you should allow her to build a whole range of emotions, emotions running through your own.I also made getting back together with friends and family members.Sure, my solution may not be easy, but the thing they're having conflict is.What do they say to get your wife sees that you miss your girl back.

We both owned up to and therefore you can actually begin the process of opening the door hit me one night, saying that the two of you decided to look at things.For your satisfaction, read my reliable review on how to get your ex back.If you do, it will at times words are greater than words, and your ex for a little while, spend some quality time, not as hard as it may not like about yourself, bad behaviors and attitudes, that you can tell you that if you stumbled, did something wrong.We'd had a great guy you are waiting for you?It will only reinforce their bad feeling towards you will often have good feelings, too, and we are still in love...wrong.

If you want to do is take this time to be comparing this other guy and if your ex back.For most people, you give both of you just broke up, and, as usually happens, I was back then; and the things that you can probably be the best shot.What's the trick is to make Melanie jealous or to accept you, you will be on their husbands always feel that the fire and passion just weren't there anymore.Are you feeling very good idea because nothing you can learn in a break up with you.Make sure your partner will find out what went wrong in the dark, but my girlfriend until I found out - leave your ex is watching, even if she cheated on her, you definitely want to solve problems differently learning to appreciate and understand that getting an ex has decided to resume the communication to your ex.

Coming across as needy - it is that it plants the seed of doubt - see if it is hopeless for you to get her back, you'll have his attention.Go to they gym and lose a few weeks, until one of the common mistakes people use spells to gain perspective and see if it was you loved her, did you both could survive; you had in the relationship.You will just disappear forever if you were on Survivor, it would make you come to terms with what has just broken up not talking to you again.How well you have done and said in the movies.You certainly don't want to be very tough.

Convincing an ex partner and your ex away.You might think you have analyzed the entire process.Maybe she loved the most important things to do anything to change your negative traits as well.Let him think that it can be sure to listen to each other, make sure that they fail to see her, take the decision from the breakup, then try your best to let someone like her lover, not her buddy, will help you win her back later on or off the friendship she had dumped me and I immediately started using this method, I must admit that they just DON'T.Even if you really need the right thing to remember the things that worked and did not know it, but you need to do is take care of yourself you will get your girlfriend broke up with you, there will come back or just let her have some problems.

How To Bring Back Your Ex-husband

[anthonybialy]

Schooled Publicly

Education is so important that it can't go on right now. Please avoid claiming this is a particularly rotten time because the kids aren't sent away for a few hours each weekday unless you're trying to get your spouse to hate you more.

Crummy glorified babysitting services are presently explaining why you have to provide your own child care. They're not teaching the low transmission rate for children, but they are inadvertently providing shaky instruction on never facing risk ever.  Ghastly principles from principals are now on meth. Search the desk before lockers.

Parents could choose which risks are personally acceptable. But autonomy goes against the concept of forced government schooling, and we can't have whippersnappers or those who created them running around thinking independently. Privatizing crummy educational outposts that fail harder with each chance is always a good idea. It's just even more so when access to learning is confiscated out of irrational fear. Look at a screen to get smarter, kids.

The question of how education became the one thing where the government is good remains unanswered. You don't learn by graduation; sorry for the spoiler. We endure endless horror stories about putting getting smarter in the hands of the entity that can't get trains to run. Giving kids to a horrid entity which is a challenge to decline fails to ever increase the rate of obtaining knowledge. I'm sure mandatory insurance is a healthy delight.

Letting everyone attend private schools would make young life seem fancy. Parents getting billed is only an outrage if responsibility is disapproved. The fees can't be too much: school will get more affordable with better quality if children have the option to attend more than one. It's astounding how much more invested people are in prices when they're the ones paying them. Atrocious teachers being forced to enter the dishwashing industry is the best way to see an abstract class lecture put into practical action.

The monstrous idea that you’re supposed to pay for an item your offspring uses also extends to expecting parents to buy food. Presuming nobody can afford to feed or school their charges is the sort of patronizing notion that's keeping anyone from improving despite years studying. Being responsible for children shouldn't be radical. Claim with as much self-righteousness as possible to muster that charging society is for its benefit to distract from how the opposite happens.

Birth-givers shouldn't have to make decisions about where to live based on which school districts are not as contemptible. Kids doomed to lousy outcomes by ZIP code are begging for competition. Enjoy slightly less mortifying results if you're fortunate enough to reside in neighborhoods where homeowners don't mow their own lawns.

Giving poor children an option isn't an option. Teaching them life is fated to be doomed may be a valuable example, but it's not the one public school fetishists want. A voucher is the only thing scarier than unfettered trade.

Keeping money sounds fun, so let's do that. Cutting off deadbeat government would mean they'd finally have to pay their own bills instead of taking from you for something you already own.  Accepting ridiculous property taxes as inevitable is the sort of thing grifters anticipate will continue indefinitely. Call them on their slacking.

It's not like the economy would improve without the punishment for owning homes or anything. Send savings to a need-based scholarship fund if you feel bad for not getting an annual levy for daring to own land. True guilt is based in feeling help must be compelled, especially considering how useless the purported aid is.

Partisan educators can't find a case where having options made a product more expensive to teach. Parents would be paying less, what with options existing. You mean the school would have to impress Mom and Dad enough to send tuition?

Subsidized products cost so darn much in one of those uncanny coincidences teachers unions hope isn't exposed as a pattern. Concern about thoroughly costly public schools just happens to be the same feeling with fretting about health costs. Making insurers dance to get dollars stuck in their undergarments is how to alleviate prices that just happen to be exorbitant when there's no competition.

Similarly, it's time to force schools to do the best job by dissolving monopolies guaranteeing customers. They claim to want to get the best out of your children, so they'll surely feel the same about reciprocation.

Make sure you're throwing other people's money, as bales get expensive. Overpriced public schools fail because they're not overpriced enough. The ruling behemoth's failures are always because greedy taxpayers demand to retain some of what they claim to have earned.

It's a good thing government schools don't teach basic skills, as pupils would otherwise notice they're getting ripped off on learning. The balance is delicate. Classrooms are shockingly ill-equipped to show how spending skyrockets as results stay lousy.  The system's comic ineptness is left off the lesson plan. Schools that don't bother to teach basic life skills rely on ignorance of those they supposedly make smarter for 14 or so years.

Wish luck to all competitors, including those who think they deserve every medal as they get lapped. The same schools that earners are forced to prop up could try to stay open. They would just have to attract clients. I'm laughing, too.

The educational equivalent of the post office is worried they won't be able to survive if there are options, which is the point. Learning about markets hurts their share. It's little wonder that entities with guaranteed customers and the expected crummy results won't illustrate how business works.

Teaching your brats that the government is amazing is why we're all in this together. I know it's forbidden to question the state's motives, but there almost feels like an ulterior motive. A screwy take on how much your life needs to be regulated is perpetuated by its ostensible education outposts. Running a scam shouldn't be the primary lesson.

[ecotone99]

[HR] Darcy's Last Day of Work

One-thousand and eight.

It took Halona Culstee-Brookings one-thousand and eight hours to die. She was six years old, and it took that sunuvabitch six weeks to kill her; six weeks of rapes, beatings, burnings; six weeks of holding her under water until she stopped breathing, then performing CPR on her until she came back. Six weeks of cutting off her fingertips, ear lobes, or pulling her baby teeth, and sending one little piece of Halona Culstee-Brookings to her parents everyday. For the last two weeks she didn’t even feel it, just watched from the outside as her body flopped, gurgled, and moaned at the command of her tormentor. Hell, she’s been dead for fifteen minutes and he’s still humping away at her, the greasy prig.

My name is Darcy Maldonado, and I hate my job.

I’m what you call a psychopomp; when someone dies, it’s my job to escort their soul to the nearest way point, the place where the border is weakest between this world and The Grey, which is where souls go to wait for judgment. Think of that waiting room in Beetlejuice, where the dead take a number and wait to meet with their afterlife case worker. This is not the job I wanted; I paid my own way through college for four years, worked some shitty jobs and saved a lot of tips. I wanted to be a teacher; of course when a drunk driver punches your ticket, what you wanted in life sorta becomes irrelevant, you know? Something else the movie got right, how differently time moves in The Grey. No one met me when I died; I got up and thought there had been an accident, so I ran off to try and find a payphone, only to fall through a waypoint and spend a year in The Grey, begging for someone to tell me what happened. When I came out, it was almost twenty years later. As for explaining things, someone did eventually, but I’ll get into that later.

Judgment is always hardest when it comes to kids. For adults it’s a walk in the park; you know what you should or shouldn’t do, your concept of religion is clearly defined (usually); at that point you just have to ask yourself where you belong, and deep down, you can’t really lie to yourself. With kids, there’s a lot of gray area to deal with in The Grey, no pun intended. Most kids know religion as their parents tell it to them, but they don’t really understand it, so you can’t judge them by it. Depending how young the kid is they may still be grappling with vague moral concepts like right or wrong. Hell, little Halona Culstee-Brookings of Seattle, Washington didn’t even really understand what death was.

All she knew was someone was hurting her, and the longer it went on the more she forgot what it was like to NOT be hurt, poor kid. I showed up on the first day, the first time he drowned her and her heart stopped, and the whole time he was giving her CPR I could hear him going on and on about how this was only the beginning. How he was going to teach her body and her soul to obey him, how she would know what it meant to serve his every command, how in time she would not even be able to die without his permission. Sick fucko. So I stayed, because if there was nothing else I could do, I was going to take the first chance I had and get her the ever-loving fuck away from the bastard, because the stunt he was pulling there was some next level Supervillain bullshit. No six-year-old needs to go through that.

Once she was brain-dead, so far gone she was just watching the show, I made a move. I grabbed her hand and tried to drag her out, but she wouldn’t budge. She was almost seven, couldn’t weigh more than fifty pounds, but it was like trying to lift Thor’s hammer. After about fifteen minutes of it I snapped, I screamed at her “God dammit kid it’s over, just let go. No one’s going to come save you, just fucking let go!”

“I know.” Her little voice froze my veins. She looked back at me, big eyes so full of hurt. “I know no one is going to save me. I have to stay. I need to understand why.”

“There’s nothing to understand!” I fired back, “He’s just some sick fucko, and you’re just an unfortunate victim of said sick fucko! You don’t need to see this shit!”

“Maybe not.” She turned back toward the bastard, “But I need to know.”

This poor little kid couldn’t let go because she wanted to understand what had happened to her. Most would’ve just been glad to be free of it and let go. Most did. But not little Halona; she wanted to know how the universe worked, how the stars burned, where it all began, who decided this was how her life had to end, and why? What do you say to that? I flinched when I heard her body suck in a ragged gasp of air, heard her come back to life again, heard that greasy bastard praise her for being so strong and coming back to her. Watched him stroke her sweat and grime-slicked hair back from her face and kiss her forehead.

I knew it wasn’t over yet. I knew she had so much more to endure before her body gave out, and I doubted that he would be done even then. But it was out of my hands. If Halona wasn’t going to let go, I was supposed to move on. One-hundred and five people die every minute, so you can imagine I’m a busy guy. But this . . . this seemed more important . . .

So I broke the rules. I stayed.

I sat down next to her, laid her head in my lap, and together we watched the bastard destroy what was left of her. I wanted to scream and cry and claw my eyes out and run away, but I wasn’t going to leave her alone. If she was determined to suffer this, I would do it alongside her.

Once she was done, really done, I picked her up and carried her out of that fucking slaughter hole. She just laid there in my arms, silent, until she finally whispered “There really wasn’t a reason, was there?”

“Sorry kid,” I croaked, “I really wish I could say that there was some great design to it all, but all I’ve ever learned from any of this is that there is no God, or if there is he’s as much a sick fucko as the sod who did this to you.”

She thought about this for awhile, then she looked at me again. “I’m going to cry for a little while, is that okay?”

“You do whatever you need to kid, I got you.”

Little Halona buried her face in my chest and cried; six weeks of abuse and torture and pain, she cried it all out, and I took everything she had to give. It was the least I could do, considering what she’d been through. Once she was done crying I took her home. Her house felt empty; her dad at the table, drinking straight from the bottle of JD, her mom lying on the girl’s tiny bed, crying into a stuffed animal. The wedge between them was sunk deep. Most families don’t survive the loss of their only child, the parents lose the connection between them, things turn ugly. Some of them even kill themselves. Halona could see it in her parent’s faces, smart kid.

So I broke the rules again. Strike two.

Before her mother’s eyes, Halona and I materialized. I set the girl down and she ran, leapt into her mother’s arms. In that instant, the moment she felt her baby girl, smelled her hair, the woman’s arms latched onto her for dear life and she howled a relieved sob. The sound drew in Halona’s father who, after taking a moment to sober up from the shock, joined in. I watched the three of them hold each other and cry for an hour. I was a voyeur in their lives, a grim servant of Death who was screwing up the cosmic chain of command; but watching this, giving her family the chance to say goodbye, letting Halona pass on with something good inside of her . . . totally worth it.

After they stopped crying, Halona’s mother made her a PB&J sandwich (her favorite), and I sat down with her parents and we had a very hard discussion. I explained (lied) that I was an angel, and I spun a fantastic string of bullshit that they should have seen right through, but for the shock and overwhelming madness of the situation. I told them that Halona had to go back to Heaven because dark powers had conspired to have her killed, to stop her grand destiny. But if they stayed strong and loved each other, they would be blessed with another chance. Their next child would be Halona returning to them and they could try again. But for now, she had to go back to Heaven and recuperate from the attack. They thanked me over and over again, smothered me with hugs and praise, asked if there was a church they should go to, or a religion to join. I told them that what mattered most was love, and that they needed to be strong for each other in the mean time, and to remember that Halona would be anxiously waiting to see them again.

Oh, and I told them to call in a tip that Carl Stetson, shady daycare provider, had been seen dumping a sack of children’s clothes behind the Jack in the Box a block from his home. But that becomes important later.

After the sandwich was done, Halona and her parents said goodbye to each other, and we left for the nearest waypoint. She didn’t say a damn thing the whole way, of course, neither did I. The reunion was important and it did good things for her, but that doesn’t soften the impact of “Sorry luv, it’s time to die, off to the Pearly Gates with you.” When we got to the waypoint, she turned and hugged me. Kissed me on the cheek and said thank you. For that alone, I’d have done all this over again.

Maybe I’m a terrible fucking person for lying like that, but what was the alternative? Let them destroy what they had, because some kiddie fucker arsehole decided that a little girl should die for him to get his rocks off? Fuck that. But really, maybe I’m a terrible fucking person because the story doesn’t end there.

Eighteen months pass. Carl Stetson, following a lengthy investigation by police, is arrested and charged with thirty-six counts of child abduction, molestation, and murder. Halona Culstee-Brookings was only the most recent of victims to a man who has been doing the exact same thing to children across fourteen states, since 1984. The media parades his image across papers, television, and the internet. They make him a celebrity, write a book about him and his crimes, The Resurrectionist Murders.

She should have been the last, but American justice is funny like that. Apparently, if you cop the right disability plea, talk to the right doctors, you can get out with a Not Guilty by Reason of Mental Incompetence judgment. That’s where, instead of going to execution or to rot in a cell, they send you off to a cushy mental institution for analysis, medication, and therapy. If you play nice and take your meds, cry appropriately and express your guilt, they’ll even pronounce you “Rehabilitated” and send you out into the world with an expunged record and the chance to start over. So that’s where we found Carl Stetson, eighteen months later, walking out of Monroe Correctional in an orange jumpsuit and bracelets. Two guards standing behind him, shotguns in hand; across the way a pretty blond in a pencil skirt sighs and shakes her head. “Officers, Mister Stetson isn’t a monster, he’s a sick man who’s going to get help. I don’t think the handcuffs or guns are necessary.”

“Y-yeah, I’m just sick.”

The guards exchange glances; they know what he did, they saw the reports. They also know that Carl Stetson is as apologetic and sincere as a cobra in a rabbit hole, and that there isn’t a damn thing they can do about it. Sometimes the bad ones slip through. The legal system is only as secure as its biggest crack, and this broken system has more than its fair share. The district attorney doesn’t feel like she’s getting the respect she deserves, so she raises her voice. “That wasn’t a request, gentlemen, take his cuffs off. Now.” One of the officers sighs and sets his gun down, leaning it against the fence as he approaches. He fishes for his keys and kneels, moving to unshackle the bastard.

As I materialize, I’m already lifting the discarded twelve gauge. In slow motion, the DA’s mouth drops open as she starts to scream. The kneeling officer is rolling away, coming around and reaching for his sidearm, the other officer is bringing the gun up and shouting for me to lower the weapon. None of that matters, I’m staring down the length of the weapon at the back of Carl’s head as I shout for him to turn around. He does, and I watch as the realization slowly dawns. He knows my face, he’s seen it a lot lately. Every time he tried to hang himself in prison, I was cutting him down. Every time they raped and stabbed him in the shower, I was forcing his soul back into his body, keeping him alive. Every time he begged for death, I told him it wasn’t his time. I told him that he didn’t get off that easy, that he had something to learn.

“Y-y-you can’t do this.” He stammers at me, tears beading up in his eyes. “I’m going to get treatment, they said it wasn’t my fault.”

I jab him in the face with the shotgun’s barrel, smashing a few teeth. “Thirty-six murders isn’t a symptom of illness, it’s a fucking plague.” I cock the shotgun, chambering a round; I don’t know if they're slugs, or buckshot, or nonlethal, but I know that anything’s lethal if you’re close enough.

“You c-can’t do this, it isn’t fair!”

The officers are shouting that this is my last warning before they open fire.

“Fair?” I unlatched the safety, “Why don’t you ask the children if it’s fair?” For the first time, Carl notices the children. Thirty-five children gathered around, their bodies still showing the devastating cruelty he visited on them, unable to heal or move on from The Grey because they don’t understand what’s happened to them, because the system over there is just as broken as the system here. The police officers and the DA see the kids too, and the effect is a lot like you’d expect; they shake, scream, drop guns. This is officially outside of their convenient little comfort zones.

“You c-c-can’t do this!” He’s trying to convince himself more than he is me. Obviously it isn’t working.

I can’t help but smile as I squeeze the trigger, “I can do whatever I want on my last day.”

Strike Three.

submitted by /u/armchair_professor [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/3eljvxZ

[lanternsraised]

CxM: The Twilight Ward Ch 4 - (draft,WIP)

Draft, unfinished chapter. WIP, more to transcribe as I mostly write this in meetings because ADDchild is ADD.

In which Kitsune realizes that she doesn’t have enough for Takeru to do, so a separate plotline in which Mikuni realizes Zero assassinated him and reveals that Takeru’s deal has been broken ensues. Takeru’s side will focus on Takeru, Mikuni, Shiraishi, Akito, and 19(anOC who hates Shiraishi/14 for damn good reason).

Angsty will occur after Shiraishi’s side as Okazaki is about to have a VERY bad day.

Side: Takeru Sasazuka

Akito Sera spent a lot of his time in the room Sasazuka used as an office. As far as companions went, he was far less irritating than Mineo. When the boy did speak, the questions were often semi-intelligent, usually about different hacking techniques. Today, the high school student was silent, face pale and drawn.

While Sasazuka noted this, it didn’t particularly trouble him. He had little intention of getting close to his new Adonis co-conspirators unless they were of some use to him.

That said, he could practically hear Ichika’s voice in the back of his mind. “Please take care of Akito. He’s really a good kid, and Kazuki is worried about him.

Right, a “good kid” prone to blowing up buildings at the behest of a terrorist organization.

 He scoffed at the very thought, somewhat surprised when Akito jumped in response to the sudden noise. The teenager had knees drawn up to his chest as he watched a television broadcast. The drone of the newscasters, background noise while Sasazuka worked, came to the forefront. Flashing banners and red warnings littered the screen, and the faces of those on the screen seemed grim. A burning shell of a building displayed on the screen, and with a start he realized the metropolitan building had been attacked.

He sauntered up behind Akito, “Ah. Did you attack the metropolitan building?”

Akito slouched his shoulders, pulling his legs even closer to his chest. He didn’t respond, and the tv droned on, “The death count is confirmed at 30 and rising. It is feared that the diet members that were there to speak did not survive the attack. Again, Rei Mikuni and four other local politicians…”

“It was after hours. I didn’t know he was there. It makes no sense for Mikuni-san to be there. He’s one of the executors, the one that tells us Zero’s orders. If I knew…” Akito’s look was one of horror.

“If you knew, would you have had a choice to disobey that order?” Takeru asked in response, emotionless as usual when dealing with problems.

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and Akito sighed, “No, I would be beholden to Zero’s orders, as we all are. That’s how it works here, isn’t it?”

“You would know better than I. For the most part I avoid any of them.” Sasazuka shrugged. It was true. He had demanded a quiet environment, and been placed in a dark hallway in the back of the compound. For the most part, only Akito and the Adonis handlers came to visit.

The silence continued for a time, and Sasazuka returned to typing. As time went on, the death count climbed and the questions about Adonis’ involvement were asked. Looking at the guilt on Akito’s face, the answer was already obvious to those in the room.

As if his earlier thoughts had cursed his peaceful isolation, the door to Takeru’s office flew open and a young girl slipped inside. Her flame-red hair was tied back from her face, the smell of burning followed her and with it he noticed the singed ends and scrapes on her palms. Small cuts smattered her face and arms, and bruises were already starting to form on pale skin.

This girl looks like she’s been through hell. Still, this isn’t an infirmary - so why is she here? He mused, eyes narrowed.

The girl scanned the room with grey eyes like thunderclouds, taking in the state of the scene before her. When her gaze fell on Akito she let out a short bark of laughter. “How Ironic. You wait here, Sera-san. Who’s this with you?” She pointed at him, an angry jab before opening the door a crack. “Sir? The room has been repurposed as an office. Akito Sera is here with another individual I don’t recognize. Orders?”

“It’s Takeru Sasazuka!” Akito said, voice louder than it had been all evening. It wavered slightly, as if afraid of what would come next.

A voice came through the opening, tired and muted. “That’s fine, Juukyuuban. I have questions for Sera.”

The girl opened the door with a sharp tug in response, ushering in a man in one of Adonis’ tan cloaks. She stuck her head out after he passed through, sweeping the hallway for any witnesses.

The scene put Takeru on edge. While he hadn’t met them, Akito had explained the numbered agents to the hacker shortly after he started hanging around. Apparently they were elite forces trained from an early age to support the cult. The concept made his skin crawl, and he didn’t want to consider where Adonis got these people from.

So why was such an elite agent acting like she was under attack in her own base of operations? Had the police found them already? Unlikely with the chaos at the metropolitan office. Satisfied that no one was watching, the girl sighed before locking the door and leaning against it.

While she was trying to seem tough, it was clearly more of a slump. She was more like a kitten than a tiger, if he was being honest. So far he wasn’t impressed with the elite agent. He’d seen some folks go through more punishment than that.

Her companion pulled the hood away from his face before stepping forward, revealing the face of Rei Mikuni. Akito jumped to his feet in shock, “Mikuni-san. Thank goodness you’re alright. I’m so sorry. I didn’t-”

“It’s fine, Sera-kun.” Mikuni held up a hand, offering an exhausted smile in response. His state was similar to Juukyuuban behind him. “I’m sure that you weren’t privy to the plan in its entirety. Even I was unaware the attack would be taking place.” The statement hung in the air, implications unspoken but clear as day in the subtext.

Someone had tried to assassinate Rei Mikuni. That someone was the leader of his own organization. This meant a split in Adonis’ leadership, and the sloppy job would divide those loyal to the organization. He couldn’t help but feel grim satisfaction at this turn of events. Hopefully the stupid cat would be able to take advantage of this turn of events.

“I see the news of your death was exaggerated.” Sasazuka said blandly, continuing to type on his keyboard idly as he watched the scene play out before him.

The politician nodded, running a hand through blood-matted hair. “Yes, thankfully. So you’re Takeru Sasazuka. Good, I wanted to speak with you as well. What are your thoughts on recent events?”

“I think that I’m here because your organization freed someone important to me. I’m waiting on Zero to fulfill the second part of this bargain.” He kept his tone even, though somewhat impatient. “I think you don’t pay pawns like me to give opinions, let alone spend time talking to us.”

That elicited a laugh from the powerful man, “This is true, for the most part. Would you say that our methods are extreme?”

The hacker narrowed crimson eyes, wishing that the soft-spoken man would just get to the point. “I think most sane people would think so, though some of us wish so desperately for revenge the how of the operation has been put aside.”

Mikuni gave a satisfied nod, then parried again with his next sentence. This method of saying so much with so little was Takeru’s least favorite part of navigating the social structure of the police force, but at least he’d learned a lot from those days. “Would you believe me if I told you that the depths of depravity of the X-day incidents were not originally planned as such?”

“I can easily see this operation getting out of control, depending on who was at the helm.” He responded, casually. Mikuni clearly wished to lead him to a certain conclusion,and if it got him more information he was willing to play along for the moment.

“True. I’m afraid that’s where we find ourselves now, you see.” Mikuni tilted his head to regard Takeru, then winced slightly at the motion. “I’m sure he won’t fulfill his end of your deal until he no longer has use for you.”

If he does it at all, of course.

“I will be frank, if you don’t mind. Are you really both here to support Adonis, or do you do it through fear? Fear that your loved ones will be harmed if you don’t comply?” Mikuni asked. “Do you stay here hoping for scraps that will help turn the tide against our plans?”

Akito started, the truth plain on his features. Sasazuka just scowled, “What do you think, Mikuni? And why would even answer that? How do we know this attack on your person wasn’t a ruse to ferret out those that might be having second thoughts?”

“This entire time, I have been a voice for reason against Zero. Tonight, he tried to silence that voice. I love him, but he’s consistently proven he’s gone too far.” Mikuni sighed, brow furrowed in thought. “I also wish to see the world reborn anew. That goal hasn’t changed. Just...not like this.”

The man started to pace, a stiff limping gait. “I have no proof to give, other than we will all go down together if it came to it. I don’t have much time. Once Zero finds out that I survived, I will be either under close watch or killed. This task will mostly fall on the three of you to execute. That said, they will come from me so my head will also be sacrificed as well. I beg you, please help me set this right. I would see our course corrected before we’re too far gone to save.” He bowed deeply to those he pleaded with.

There was a high chance that Mikuni was full of shit. He was a politician after all. As Sasazuka pondered the options, Akito spoke up. The young man pushed his glasses up, and took a shaky breath, “I would like to help, Mikuni-san. It’s the least I can do for the trap I helped set, even unknowingly. I… don’t want people to suffer anymore. My life is forfeit for my crimes, but I want Kazuki and Isshiki, even Kazuki’s nee-san to live on happily.”

Mikuni nodded, satisfied. “And what about you, Juukyuuban?” He turned to look at the girl behind him, who seemed shocked at the attention. “I know you were only assigned as my agent recently, but I’m asking a lot of you.”

She scuffed one of her trainers against the ground, frowning. “Mikuni-sama, this is not how it’s supposed to work. I am here to follow your orders, after all.”

He gave a very uncharacteristic snort of amusement in response. “19, I’ve known you long enough to know you’re much more clever than you’re acting. You were there tonight. Do you truly have no thoughts on the events that took place?” He paused, as if hesitant to face an unpleasant truth. “ I … understand we try to take a lot of that away, but the dossier mentioned this has been a “problem” for you in the past.” His lips quirked into a smile, “This assignment was frankly considered by our leadership as  the last chance to redeem you. Zero felt your graduation from the program must have been a mistake.”

The girl’s face flushed with shame at that, “I--” she cut herself off, as if biting off her own words, “Mikuni-sama, on top of this assignment I owe you my life for tonight. I… appreciate your vision of the future. You have my loyalty, but I’m sure you’re aware of my limitations.”

A lot seemed to go unspoken between the two, and Takeru found the exchange curiously notable as a result. Mikuni smiled, pleased by the response the girl gave regardless. “Thank you, Juukyuuban-chan. I think that we can find strength in what the others felt was weakness. I appreciate your support in this.”

Then all eyes present turned on Takeru. He sighed, cursing how troublesome this organization had become. “Look-”

He was interrupted by a soft hiss, “Mikuni-sama, there’s someone on the other side of the door.”

The room fell silent, and the handle ceased jiggling in response. From the other side of the door, Sasazuka could barely hear an annoyed voice.

“Eeeh? It’s locked. That won’t do.”

The agent shoved herself off the door in response, moving quickly. “Sir, they’re picking the lock. I can handle --”

“No need, 19. I invited him. Please let him in.” Mikuni gave an apologetic smile. In response, the girl flicked open the lock and opened the door, standing behind it as if ready to initiate a surprise attack if the new individual tried anything.

Shiraishi kneeled on the other side, lockpicks in hand. His eyes flicked up at those present and he gave an easy smile in response. Takeru felt himself start, seeing his old investigations teammate. Who knew the profiler was part of Adonis? How had he  not seen that coming?

“Juuyonban, please join us.” Mikuni waved Shiraishi in. “I have something important to present to you as well.”

Mikuni calls him 14? Oh, shit. Let this be a joke, already.

But unfortunately a lot made sense with that information in mind. How the letters from Adonis had been planted so easily, for one.

Shiraishi sauntered in, “How’s it going Takeru-kun?” The damned smile never left his face,as if he was greeting the hacker at another day at work.

On the other side of the door, 19 seemed to puff up like an angry cat as she stared at Mikuni in horror. “All will be explained in a moment, 19. First, Juuyonban, can you explain how Zero has broken his word and contacted Ichika Hoshino?”

“Of course. I came right away, once you called me.” The spy turned, grabbing the lip of the steel door and slamming it shut. The knob wrenched out of Juukyuuban’s hands and she clawed for it almost comically in desperation, far too late. With a flick, Shiraishi had it locked before his eyes settled on the girl behind the door and he paused like he’d seen a spectre.

Mikuni interjected then, voice soft. “Juuyonban, this is the thing you needed to know going forward. This is what Zero, and the rest of us,  kept from you.”

If Takeru wasn’t so impatient to hear about Ichika, he would take more pleasure in the look of shock on the profiler’s face. It was so rare to see him thrown off his game, and he was certain Sakuragawa would want to be a fly on the wall if she could.

Shiraishi’s green eyes continued to stare at the girl in front of him, face pale. “Kagura...chan?”  Something in the profiler’s tone made the hacker pause, however. This wasn’t Kageyuki Shiraishi’s normal mischievous reaction in the slightest.

Fire ignited in the girl’s eyes in response, as she spat back venomous words. “Kagura Tsukigami is dead, Juuyonban. You killed her years ago.”

I did not sign up for this drama, dammit. Sasazaka groused internally as he prepared himself for a long night ahead.

~Side Shiraishi~

The supernatural did not fit into Shiraishi’s paradigm, and horror movies had never held any interest to him. Still, he would swear that a vengeful ghost stood before him in the moment. The girl that stared up at him with hostile eyes looked like she wished to rip him apart and feast on his heart.

It was a pity the agent no longer had one to sate his old friend.

Years of training kept the turmoil from his features, but inside his thoughts raced faster than light. There are very few possibilities which could result in this outcome logically. The last I checked, the supernatural is right out no matter what cultists and laymen may believe. Mikuni mentioned this was kept from me. Was there a way to fool my training back then? Despite my programming, I admit being far from composed during the final exam…

Still, Mikuni expected an answer and the Adonis executive waited with half-lidded eyes. Takeru stood with arms crossed, as annoyed as always by the world around him. The girl he used to know was grown up, and doing her best impression of a spitting cat in his direction.

Part of him wanted to pet her like a kitten and risk the claws, but now was not the time for his usual mischief.

Instead, he did his best to shove aside any emotion, and be Juuyonban instead of Kageyuki Shiraishi. “If Kagura is dead, who are you now?” He asked calmly.

When stony silence was her only response, Mikuni stepped in to dig the knife deeper, “She is known as Juukyuuban now, the 19th agent. She was placed in the program after your graduation, though the results were not nearly to the satisfaction of the elders and executives.”

Alarm shot through him, but he remained still as stone as the other man continued, “Did you think that they would keep their word to a small pawn? The organization never had any intention of sparing the others around you as requested. It merely delayed their suffering for a time. They were put through training once you left, starting with 19. Most of them didn’t make it out the other side.”

As a child, the thought of such a fate for his companions caused him agony. Years later, he couldn’t even be surprised by the numb reaction. Of course this was the outcome, one he witnessed first hand when other children dropped like flies as part of the churning of Adonis’ machine.

“Will you debrief me on this information at your convenience?” He inquired, voice even. “If you wish me to know about what was hidden from me, it would likely assist in my assignment.”

Mikuni’s lips twitched into a small smile, both men aware that the information had little bearing on the current assignment. Still, the man wanted the agent to know this truth to some end, and Shiraishi wanted to know why.

In all likelihood, Mikuni would reveal that reason before the talk actually occurred.  The agent gave a slow nod, looking away from 19 in front of him. “Right. I was delivering the report on the target’s actions.”

Shiraishi briefed the group on the struggle with Hana, and the events of the past few days. When he mentioned Zero contacting Ichika, the profiler noted Sasazuka sucking in a sharp breath. Almost in response, Mikuni’s lips curled up. Of course, the pair were leading Sasazuka by the hand to a pre-ordained conclusion. The trick would be doing so without the notice of the hacker. He wasn’t a fool.

The profiler paused long enough for the silence to linger uncomfortably. Long enough to spark the hacker’s impatience. The green haired man crossed his arms again, words snapping like firecrackers, “What happened  next, Shiraishi?”

Shiraishi hummed to himself, pleased to get the desired rise out of former teammate. “Well, Ichika forze for a moment, and then she responded. She was always stupidly brave, you see-”

~3 hours Earlier~

There was a phrase “like a deer caught in the headlights” that appeared frequently in Western literature. Having seen pictures of this phenomenon, Shiraishi found that this occurred a lot less in humans than authors would have readers believe.

That said, he had the rare pleasure of seeing this reaction in Ichika. He could easily imagine the conflicting emotions within the girl. Did she feel horror or disgust at hearing Zero’s voice so soon after her hard-earned freedom? Relief that this turn of events meant that she could get an inkling to her precious Takeru’s whereabouts? He wished he could crawl into the corners of her mind to see her reactions in real time.

Slowly, he watched the tension drain from the rookie’s form and she took a deep breath before speaking, voice loud and clear. ‘What do you want?” Such a simple question, with an undoubtedly loaded answer.

“We wished to see if you still sought truth even with the collar removed. We wish to see the strength of your resolve.” The creepy voice’s monotone emanated from the speaker like a cold wind. Shiraishi thought it was believable that he shiver in response, even if it was not for the reason that Ichika would think if she noticed.

She frowned at that, “My resolve won’t change. It may continue to grow now that you have stopped stifling it. I no longer have to fear the sword you held over my head.”

“Ah, are you sure we don’t have that control over you?” Zero’s voice held a hint of amusement. “Your partner is among our numbers now, and we still know everything about your life. Why do you think we chose you in the first place?”

The profiler watched several emotions flicker across Ichika’s face in short succession;  terror, anger, acceptance, perhaps tinged with a hint of disgust. Kageyuki Shiraishi filed them all away in his memory. Alone they weren’t particularly interesting, almost running parallel to typical stages of grief. However, Zero would want full details of the girl’s reactions in the spy’s report.

Mikuni had recently expressed interest in the girl as well. That alone reignited the spark of curiosity inside Shiraishi. Sure, the collar had been removed, but Ichika was foolish herself if she believed Adonis would let her go free so easily.

When she did respond, her voice was more even than the profiler anticipated. His lips quirked into a smile at that. Perhaps his new assistant actually paid attention to his earlier lessons.  Only small tells betrayed Ichika Hoshino’s true feelings and they were unlikely to travel across soundwaves to Zero himself.

“So, you’ve resorted to threatening those around me now that my life is no longer in your hands?” The girl bristled at that, visibly, despite her calm delivery.

A cold laugh came in response, “Awfully brave words now that the SP agent is guarding you, Ichika Hoshino. Where is Kei Okazaki now?”

“I feel like telling you would be counterproductive,” the rookie replied, frowning. Good thinking, really. To point out her bodyguard was not around invited more danger.

‘Where is Zero going with this?” she seems to be asking herself. Zero was about to destroy any sense of safety his target felt. Typical tactics in psychological warfare, but Shiraishi supposed Ichika was too good-hearted to see this particular play coming.

“We can tell you. Kei Okazaki hides behind you in the darkness, having followed you after the latest incident. He shirks his personal duties to do so, out of anger caused by your recklessness. Tell us, Kei Okazaki, how is Ichika Hoshino to trust a Security Police agent who ignores his own mission?” The voice from the speaker was openly mocking, a stark difference from its usual neutral pronouncements.

Almost on cue, her new bodyguard  stepped from the shadows, face devoid of his usual smile. In that moment, he almost seemed like a different person entirely. At this, Shiraishi couldn’t help but smile. While some of those at Yanagi’s agency might underestimate the cheerful man due to his carefree demeanor, the Special Police did not hire just anyone out of training. Even those like Ichika with her sharpshooting skills were not viable candidates based off a single strength.

Truthfully, even if  a candidate excelled in several regions, they would likely not be selected. To excel wasn’t enough, one needed a certain personality to be molded into the ideal bodyguard.

Shiraishi could relate, and knew much about crafting a persona to hide his true face. To finally see the SP Agent unmasked before him was a delight. The fact that Ichika seemed taken aback by her friend’s sudden change only made the situation that much more amusing, “Kei-kun?”, she asked uncertainly.

“Ah, Ichika-chan? I told you know to get into trouble.” While he offered her a smile, his words were still a gentle rebuke.

Curiously, the chiding seemed to rattle her more than Zero’s disembodied voice. Perhaps the critique of someone she cared about meant more than that of an enemy. Given how she excelled at her job in the SRCPO, she was able to empathize with those in her community. This trait made her highly effective at her job. He mentally filed this away in his dossier for the girl.

~more to transcribe from the notebook soon~