#And I think I understand that the importance of it so far as the ritual goes

[thedandeliongarden]

(red text in the following refers to words used in their original / translation context, and I chose red because I ran out of other colours - did the bit I knew more about first)

Yeah tiki is a pretty ridiculous appropriation. Am I understanding correctly that it means something along the lines of “sacred ancestor”? I’m struggling a little because looking it up is… not a fruitful exercise… so I’d like to check I’m understanding correctly.

I can offer a bit more on the topic of mana/mana, since I’m pretty attuned to that (I actually already knew it was a polynesian loanword / import and the guy who did it was scummier than a pond during an algal bloom) that often gets conflated with the biblical story because the siren call of folk linguistics (aka making shit up) is ever-alluring.

Anyways.

I’m a little curious about the term magicka here - as far as I can tell from a cursory search it’s literally only used to mean magical energy in the elder scrolls game(s?), where otherwise it’s a fairly uncommon word that means “a spell or ritual”.

So it’s more correct usage-wise to say magicka is a stand in for mana (in the game sense) than the other way round.

I think the problem you’ll run into arguing that mana should not be used is that it is so entrenched as the word for magical energy, and so far ahead of the competition:

You occasionally see magic points or spell points, but the former is often abbreviated to mp and interpreted as mana points (another common usage) and both are a bit clunky (being 2 words rather than a proper term) and lame if we’re honest (which probably explains mana’s dominance)

I have encountered other setting-specific words, but none of them were particularly memorable or broadly applicable (and often, as with magicka, they’re an incorrect usage of their word).

So the problem you’re going to run into is that the english word for magical energy is mana, and if you want that to change you need to have a better option to replace it with, otherwise you’ll struggle to accomplish anything.

While I’m (obviously?) not polynesian myself, I’m also not sure it needs to change. Magical energy might not be a technically correct translation / use (…I guess you could argue it makes sense for the contemporary concept of a sorcerer, but that’s such a narrow case it’s silly to even bring it up really) but it isn’t exactly unflattering. I can see the case that it’s insulting because it conflates Polynesian culture with backwards mysticism but… look, a majority of folks don’t even know the word is originally polynesian.

In a very real sense it’s more like a false friend than anything else at this point (and this happens all the time with e.g. french words in english - beef is not the same as bull/cow but is roughly adjacent), and the scumminess of the guy who brought it over doesn’t change that (and arguing that something is bad because the person who made/started it was bad is honestly a bit of a fruitless purity culture pursuit).

Now that I think about it I’m wondering if a more accurate translation of mana would be something like gravitas?

So… yeah. I’d like to hear your thoughts on all that, sorry it’s a bit long!

people will just use polynesian words completely incorrectly with completely made up meanings while being really offensive and won't even care huh lol

[clown-eating-pig]

one of the more random things that disturb me about tma is simply the existence of the gorilla skin. like..........why. what was up with that.

[togglesbloggle]

You Aren't Supposed to Win

There's a species of post on Tumblr that's not uncommon: explainers about neurotypical social interactions for the benefit of the neurodivergent. Others, in an adjacent genre, are vent-posts or bewildered people expressing exasperation and impatience with neurotypical social rituals. And these are usually fine as far as they go, but there's a sort of deficit or hole in them that I think tends to go un-addressed.

Basically, a lot of these explainers are very reasonably helping readers to navigate a system for some desired outcome (getting a job, finding a date, or other such things), but with the understanding that a failure to get the desired outcome is a failure of the system. And that's... only kind of true.

Neurotypical social interactions can be a very complex mix of collaborative and competitive enterprises. The ratio between those things can shift on a dime, it can be really hard to figure out where on the spectrum you are at any given moment, and this is the system working as intended. Or at least, as the players in the game intend, which isn't always quite the same thing.

I don't want to overstate this too much; standard social interactions aren't a fight to the death or anything. Typical examples are more like a preponderance of cooperation, but with some jockeying for a larger share of the rewards that follow from a shared project. Or, perhaps, attempts to spend the least effort in a group project, while receiving a full share of the reward.

The thing about this is, the presence of an antagonistic element within these interactions means that perfect legibility is opposed to most participants' goals for the interaction. There is a degree of confusion and uncertainty that is quite deliberate and instrumentally useful. If a particular partnership is going to pivot to 'pvp mode', it is absolutely in each participants' interest to be the first one to defect, and to mask that defection for as long as possible; perfect transparency prevents them from being able to do so, and they can and will interpret requests for perfect transparency as being hostile acts.

At the same time, admitting any of this is also a loss of strategic advantage during adversarial interactions, so it's one of the hardest things to get people to admit. It's even hard for people to notice that they're doing it, because evolution favors mentalities that keep as much of this as possible subconscious; it's easier to defect without warning if you never consciously think of yourself as defecting at all. So explicit discussions of this are quite rare. (There is, however, an entire genre of party games designed to bring them to the fore and let people show off their capacity for adversarial play among shifting alliances and uncertainty, so it's more 'open secret' than 'forbidden lore'.)

The upshot of all of this is, the desire for an explicit, legible system of social interactions that can be exploited for reliable outcomes- can often be a desire for power over others, in a way that I don't think the proponents fully realize. The fantasy of people just doing what you want is a powerful one for everybody, neurodivergent and neurotypical alike. And this isn't an unreasonable fantasy! it's really not fun to be surrounded by people pursuing their own interests at the expense of yours!

But it's important to realize that a lot of the hard work of aligning those values and making a system of interactions 'purely collaborative', such that everybody will be doing their best to help you succeed regardless of skill level or quirks of neurotype, is a really hard problem that nobody has yet been able to solve. And until we get there, a system in which you reliably get everything you want, and which you navigate with perfect confidence, is one that subordinates the people around you.

[marysfics]

In Your Corner

Your girlfriend has an important match tomorrow.

Fluff

The soft hum of the city at night drifted through the open window, mingling with the distant echoes of cars and the faint rustle of leaves in the cool breeze. The moonlight streamed in, painting the room in silvery hues, casting delicate shadows on the walls.

You sat on the edge of your shared bed, leaning against the headboard, your gaze fixed on her. Alexia stood by the window, the oversized shirt she always wore the night before an important match draped over her frame. It fell loosely over her shoulders, the familiar sight tugging at your heart. Her long hair cascaded down her back, catching the light, and her hands rested gently on the windowsill as she gazed out at the world, lost in thought.

You couldn't help but smile, watching her. There was something about this ritual, this quiet moment of reflection before the chaos of the next day. She had always been like this, calm before the storm, but tonight, something felt different. There was an energy in the air, a quiet intensity radiating from her, and you could feel it in your bones.

You knew how much tomorrow meant to her. It wasn’t just another game—it was the game. The culmination of weeks, months, years of hard work, sacrifice, and dedication. But right now, in this moment, she was just Alexia—your Alexia.

She sighed softly, and the sound pulled you from your thoughts. You watched as her shoulders rose and fell, her chest expanding with a deep breath. Her eyes were far away, somewhere beyond the city skyline, lost in the world of her own dreams, fears, and hopes.

"You're quiet tonight," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper, not wanting to disturb the peace of the room.

Alexia turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at you over her shoulder. A small, soft smile tugged at the corner of her lips, and for a moment, you swore the room grew warmer.

"I’m just thinking," she replied, her voice low, tinged with a hint of nervousness. It was rare for her to be this vulnerable, to let her guard down, but you knew her too well. She was always strong, always poised, but right now, you could see the weight of tomorrow in her eyes.

You slid off the bed, your feet padding softly against the cool floor as you walked over to her. Gently, you wrapped your arms around her from behind, resting your chin on her shoulder. She leaned back into you, exhaling a shaky breath as your warmth enveloped her.

"It’s going to be perfect," you whispered against her skin, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her neck. "You’re going to be perfect."

She didn’t respond right away, but you felt the way her body relaxed into yours, the way the tension seemed to melt from her muscles. Her hand reached up to rest on your arm, her thumb brushing gently over your skin. The silence between you was comforting, filled with unspoken words, with love and understanding.

"I just—" she started, her voice catching in her throat. She paused, swallowing hard before continuing. "I don’t want to let anyone down. My team, my family, you…"

You tightened your hold on her, pressing your cheek against hers. "You could never let anyone down, Alexia. Least of all me. I believe in you, more than you’ll ever know."

She turned in your arms, facing you now, her eyes searching yours. There was a flicker of vulnerability there, a softness that was reserved only for you. The world saw the strong, fearless leader, but you saw the woman behind it all. The woman who gave everything she had, who loved fiercely, and who sometimes needed a reminder that she was enough.

You reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, your fingers lingering on her cheek. "You’ve worked so hard for this moment. Tomorrow, you’ll step onto that pitch and show the world who you are. But tonight… tonight, you’re here with me. And that’s all that matters."

Her eyes softened, filling with something deeper, something you couldn’t quite put into words but felt in every fiber of your being. She leaned in, her forehead resting against yours as she closed her eyes.

"How did I get so lucky?" she whispered, her breath ghosting over your lips.

You smiled, your heart swelling in your chest. "I think I’m the lucky one."

For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, wrapped up in each other, the quiet hum of the night surrounding you like a blanket. You kissed her softly, slow and tender, a promise that no matter what tomorrow held, this—you—was forever.

When you pulled back, Alexia’s eyes were shining, filled with a renewed sense of calm. "Stay with me tonight?" she asked, her voice soft but filled with something raw and real.

"Always," you replied, taking her hand and leading her back to the bed.

As you settled in together, her head resting on your chest, your fingers absentmindedly playing with her hair, you felt her body relax completely, the last remnants of her tension fading away. She was ready for tomorrow, ready for whatever the world had to throw at her, because she wasn’t facing it alone.

And as you lay there, holding her close, you knew that no matter what happened, you’d always be by her side.

-

Note: found this in my drafts. Wanted to give you all a little something. My mental health has been low lately, which makes it hard to write. I can be so self critical. I can't promise if there comes another piece before November. I'll try my best.

[gynnnicsworld]

I was thinking.... Do you remember the scene from 3A where Stiles, Allison and Scott do the ritual of changing places with their parents?

I can't help but think, why was Stiles the recipient of the nogitsune?

I mean, why wasn't it Scott or Allison?

((Please correct me if I'm wrong, it's been a few months since I watched 3A/3B)) okay, I can't stop thinking about the nogitsune giving those riddles and messages to Stiles about;

"When a door is not a door? "When it's ajar".

I'm going to try to explain this, when Stiles/Allsn/scott did the ritual, they "opened doors" and made their hearts darken.... That's why throughout the beginning of 3B we see all those scenes of Allison, Scott and Stiles having nightmares, and strange visions. So far it's understandable, But if you notice, you will see that Stiles is the only one who establishes connections with the doors from the beginning.

But there are no such references with Scott or Allison. So, this is where my theory comes in and I'm going to start by saying that everything is related to the ritual they did.

Let's remember that the person who would bring back Stiles/Allison/Scott were people important to them and with whom they had a strong/solid connection.

Allison— Isaac

Scott—Deaton

Stiles—Lydia

(If you ask me they were basically trying to give a message about anchors there.)

We all know that Scott and Deaton are basically a father-son relationship, and it's very likely that the closeness Scott has with Deaton is more genuine and stronger than the one he has with Rafael. So that anchor is very good. Because the connection between them is *MUTUALLY* strong.

Allison and Isaac? I don't have to explain that the two of them like each other, like IN LOVE. The attraction between them is 100% genuine. And strong. There is no doubt about their connection.

But Stiles and Lydia? They're friends, and they're not even friends as in best friends yet. This is where I think something went wrong, because Lydia didn't even think about being Stiles' anchor, she was going straight to being Allison's anchor.

And we had the wonderful (sarcasm) intervention of Deaton, instructing Lydia to go help Stiles.

There was clearly no other option (I know) because it's not like Derek would have been there, which I have no doubt would have made a difference.

The issue here is that Lydia did indeed bring Stiles back, but I think of the three of them (stls/Allsn/sctt), the connection between them (Lydia & Stiles) was the weakest.Which caused the door that Stiles opened to not close properly. That left the door ajar.

You can take this however you want, but personally this shows me that the connection between Stiles and Lydia was simply never that strong whether one-sided or bilateral.

On the other hand, Stiles is LITERALLY Derek's anchor, and is 100% Derek's strongest connection. And whatever Stiles felt about Derek during 3A, I think it was something like friendship (And he has an obvious crush on Derek, he's a teenager, who wouldn't have a crush on Derek?) ( There is also that in fact Stiles does feel a connection with Derek, and the Hale pack for some strange reason knows it) and if Lydia could bring Stiles back, being that Stiles is NOT her anchor, I think Derek managed to get Stiles to come back without leaving the door ajar.

Whatever, I have no doubt that if Derek had been in that scene, the obvious choice to bring Stiles back would have been him.

[neetily]

Kinktober 2024 — Vampire Sebastian

— ✧ pairing: Sebastian / F!Reader — ✧ genre: smut 18+ — ✧ word count: 8,180 — ✧ warnings: vampire, blood, blood kink, blood drinking, dubcon, biting, marking, pulling out, light angst, wounds, ambiguous/open ending — ✧ synopsis: the only thing he loves more than you is the sweet taste of blood. which is a shame, really, considering that's all you're made of.

— ✧ A/N: um. yeah. im not too sure how i feel about this one. i wrote it in a sickness induced haze, maybe you can tell. please enjoy regardless !! the plot changed a million times while writing lol.

— ✧ kinktober masterlist

Life with you was good. Enough? It was sweet, more than accommodating to his unnatural existence in the most comforting of ways— like a picture perfect snapshot of normality. You do your best to offer him something he knows is ultimately unattainable; because it goes against his very being, against everything he’s come to know and learn. And perhaps worst of all: against mother nature.

It’s not your fault. Far from it, actually. He’s been the way he currently is for… God, he’s forgotten how long for now. But a really long time is the point he’s trying to make to himself, perpetually stuck in the mid way point in his life all thanks to a misguided late night trip down the mines in the hopes of gathering some more of that precious stone he oh so adores, and coming face to face with a swarm full of bats. Harmless creatures the majority of the time, he’s came to understand through various late night study sessions since the incident. But nonetheless, Lady Luck was never on his side, and thus comes the misfortune of his existence.

Try all you like to help him lead and live a normal life; whatever the fuck that means, he’s forgotten all about the time before now… Your well meaning words and actions do very little to help. What did he like to do in the time before? Was it the same things he likes to do now? A couple hundred lonely years by yourself—because of course, he must outlive those he loves—makes you rather forgetful, doesn’t it? Like a corruption, more bat teeth and bat wings than blood at this point, but who’s counting? Certainly not him after that first initial damnation, and certainly not you, not with the way you hum so sweetly in the kitchen without a care in the world; a daily ritual, perhaps one of his most favoured times of day ever.

Dinner time.

Not because he has to eat— far from it, actually. Unless you’re offering up your own neck, that is… Which he swore off upon first meeting you. Far too enamoured with your scent for it to be considered normal by any means, he’s disallowed himself even a single entertaining thought about sinking his sharp fangs into that soft, supple neck of yours. Which is why he has to shake is head to ride those evil desires as he absently watches you, an attempt to banish the wicked ways of his existence to instead focus solely on how lovely you sound when lost in your own world. Busy hands make for empty minds… or something, he can’t quite remember phrases like how he used to. The intent is there, however, to remain thankful for your hard work; as opposed to hungry for more.

On one hand, he doesn’t think he’d ever get enough of you. Lovesick little grin tugging at his lips as he adores you from the kitchen table— though his mind might have forgotten important details, his hands still yet remember the teachings of his mother. Hand carved wood lovingly built just for you, resting under his boney elbow as he props his head up in his palm to dote on you in private. Out of all the people he’s met since falling victim to the bite of… well, you get it, you are by far his most favourite. Does he mean the most tolerable? Perhaps, at times. But most of all, you are the kindest. One of the only ones to truly understand him, to allow him to exist without fear or judgement, which is hard to come by nowadays. Certainly when it comes to dating, of which he hadn’t intended on doing so, least of all with you. But he learnt quick enough that there are plenty of things he didn’t expect when it comes to you.

Like how he finds himself enjoying humming along with you. Soft and quiet, low enough so that he has a chance to hear your dominating tune over his own rather lacking one. But it’s enjoyable nonetheless to share the same happiness together, even if you’re left relatively in the dark of his stalking presence behind as you continue preparing the best meal of the day. The muscle memory of his throat thrums to life every time he catches even a mere glimpse of your heavenly voice— it contrasts well with his own darker presence, don’t you think? He also, for one, enjoys the daily passing of each lengthy day with you. Or was it night? He lost track of time the minute he realised he no longer needed rest… but what matters is that he takes comfort in the normality of each day, so long as it’s spent with you. You, you, you, it’s always about you, and how much he loves you, simply fucking adores you. He’d worship the ground you walk on, so long as you promise to provide him normality. Empty, boring, mundane life. It’s all he’s ever wanted since turning into a blood sucker—stupid decision by the way, do not recommend it—but it’s funny, considering that he at least remembers wanting for anything but normalcy in his daily life before turning cold.

There’s just so much comfort to be had in the simplicity of it all. For how complicated his life has become, just your mere presence by his side seems to calm it all down, put it all into perspective, and reminds him that there is good yet in the world. Mostly in the form of you, slaving away in the kitchen over a meal you know he can’t taste or enjoy to the fullest extent, and yet the charade alone has his dead heart metaphorically skipping a beat. The utter dedication to normal you exhibit is a testament to how much you love him, he thinks. And he can only do his best to return the favour, being mindful to thank the pleasant weather of the day for offering him a nice temperature to his cold skin, and time herself for allowing him to spend it with you. Each day is a blessing, because of you. And he’d never take it for granted, not when you take extra care for his own apparent benefit.

Even if deep down, in the pit of his empty stomach, screaming to gorge on some livestock later tonight when you’re fast asleep, he knows that this comfort he is so thankful for is not to be his. Never has been, and it never will be. Little do you know, of course.

It shows up in ways he could never have guessed to begin with, which is all too unfair, in his royal opinion. Never mind the fact that he’s scorned to a life of very little—especially in the way of relationships, like life itself precariously holds a consistent knife to his throat in an attempt to keep him only close enough to all he holds dear. He at least expects that, y’know? But as he saunters up to you, feather light in his steps so as to avoid interrupting your mundane song, careful not to startle you too much, it seems as though life has different plans in store for him. In that, of course, his plan of doting upon you in secrecy backfires, all because he tries too hard to be that which he is not.

Normal.

A terrible word, he suddenly switches thoughts. Gross in its misconduct, like fire in his upset stomach to leave him wincing in pain. A cuddle—that’s all he wanted. All he ever asked life for. Just a plain old back hug for the love of his life, a sincere attempt to showcase just how thankful he is of your efforts, and how he ever expected things to go his way is beyond him; he used up a lifetime of luck when it came to winning your affections. And yet still, your reaction is normal, he could feel you jumping in his arms with fright the moment he locked them around you, nuzzling unbeknownst against your nape for a brief second or two until it hits him. The loud clatter of a knife, a telling gasp crawled up your throat. And that fucking smell. Like water and oil, it doesn’t matter how hard you fucking try to provide him with a simple life, the burning ache coursing through his veins is quick to remind him of just how much he hates that ugly word normal.

For a normal man would not be frothing at the mouth, champing at the bit for a single. Fucking. Taste. Just a sniff, even, please God, anything for a proper fucking whiff of that sweet scent— he’d fucking kill for that, y’know? Light and mouthwateringly enticing. Perfect fucking—

“Gosh! You gave me such a fright, Seb,” you laugh, airy and convincing. As if you weren’t in the paws of some predator right now. Oh how he hates the thought, wants to reassure you so badly that he doesn’t mean to cause you any harm. But his broken body just begs for him to remain frozen in place. Lock you in tight against his chest; if he had a working heart, he’s sure it’d be racing by now. How quick the dominoes fall into place, right? “Let me— Lemme clean up, okay?”

Inevitably, he knows he has to let go. Not only for your own obvious sake, so that you don’t end up with two puncture wounds in that soft looking neck of yours, but for his own sake too. To prove to himself that he’s in control, that he doesn’t have to give in to his animalistic tendencies, and that normality can be for him, too. But nonetheless, he squeezes you a little tighter before letting go.

“Sorry,” tumbles from his bitten lips— if he bites himself, perhaps it’ll stave off the cravings. “I— I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No I know!” you smile at up at him, gently, like a mother would. And completely unknowing of his internal struggle, he’s sure. He’s only went and tried his best to hide is inner animal from you every chance he gets, and maybe he’s just stupid, but he’s almost certain that you assume he’s in control at all times.

Which couldn’t be further from the truth, really. A mere loose thread away from snapping upon you at all times… it’s a fucking wonder that he’s lasted this long, to be honest with you.

All he does is yearn. Fists tight and balled by his sides, like some sort of petulant child denied dessert at the end of a meal. Physically fucking craving for you, even as he’s standing directly behind you with another sorry spilling from his blood bitten lips. Sorry, I want you too much. Sorry, for scaring you into a gash. Sorry, because I want nothing more than to force that cut finger deep down my greedy maw and lap you all empty.

Sorry, he really can’t compose himself. Not when it comes to you, how precious and fragile you are— it’s beyond tempting to his taste buds, especially when he accidentally catches sight of the red that now stains your finger all pretty for him; because of him. Whether intentional or not, it was his fault that you got cut tonight, and though he plays the role of the concerned boyfriend well enough to properly convince you of his apologies, deep down, he’s more eager for you. He only looked up due to your hushed hiss as the cold tap water kissed your open wound far more gentler than his tongue would, and he couldn’t help but to wet his lips at the sight.

Thirsty. He’s suddenly really, really fucking thirsty. Lying to himself by thinking that it must be the water that’s triggered his natural instincts— idiot. Of fucking course not… Rather, he’s hungry, as he so often is when around you, funnily enough.

“I— Really, I only wanted to—” he stutters out, mind a mess before the drops of red that stain the sink with his absolution, muddled thoughts barricading his lips shut just in case he fumbles out the wrong word. It’s difficult to focus on his thoughts with that smell invading his sense…

And as if to rub salt into his proverbial wound, you oh so gently and lovingly attempt to calm him down. Shield him from the truth that after all this time spent loving, caring, and looking after him: he’s still just a monster at heart. How fucking awful. So fucking predictable, huh?

“It’s okay, Seb. It’s just a tiny little cut, nothing to cry over.”

Yet still, you hiss and wince at the sting his abundant love offers you, his gaze settled on the way you clean the sore spot up while he remains frozen in place behind you. On one hand, he’s sure that it must just look like he’s scared, worried that you’ll hate him for what he’s done tonight— which is to say, he must appear worried over loving you far too much. Enough to cause harm, apparently. And on the other hand, he can already feel his tummy turn with the plague of his existence, how if he were to move even a single fucking inch towards you, he’s liable to jump your bones and suck you dry. Because that’s all his existence boils down to, really. A mess of gnashing teeth and furrowed brows, fuck, he can still smell that sickly sweet scent. Overwhelming his nostrils as you traverse around the kitchen, looking for a bandaid by yourself in the absence of his help.

He is helping, though. Whether you realise it or not, his refusal to move is help in its own right.

It’s been some time since he’s felt his heart flutter as much, his lashes batting at the way you struggle to find an appropriate dressing for your unfortunate wound, misplaced the band aids again? Just his luck, he thinks. Sucking air in through his teeth in a harsh manner, as if to communicate the gravity of his situation with you without need for words.

“I should go—” his words are sudden, but his tone is low and quiet, mumbled under his breath, for he fears that if he were to open his jaw too wide, you wouldn’t survive the resulting affection. “Really, I should— fuck,” so strong now, that smell. So good. “I have to go—” he scrambles, rushing the words out from his choked up throat in an effort to avoid the inevitable, forgetting that Lady Luck has never been on his side, not in the least right now.

“I’m sure there’s, um… Fuck, yknow, the things—” he can’t focus on his words or his thoughts, not with how his lips part with greedy exhales, struggling to find the correct string of vocalisations he needs to communicate just how entierly fucked he is right now. But regardless, he takes a shaky step backwards. Away from you and the awful, scary situation he now finds himself in. He’s done well to avoid your precious red for God knows how long, it’s a shame he must encounter it now, when he’s busy trying to adore you. Even worse that he can’t get his thoughts in order, internally fighting with himself over leave, now, and wait, she’s vulnerable. Always so fucking vulnerable, y’know that? Almost as if you were asking for it—

He loathes the thought as soon as it enters his spinning mind, tightly squeezing his eyes shut to match the constriction in his chest, be still my beating heart. Oh how he yearns though… To care for you, to find the bandaid you’re so carelessly currently search for, and to so lovingly place it upon his mistake. To grab you by the waist and recklessly throw you on the ground, to immediately attach his pearly white fangs to your supple neck and to bite down so hard that you forget your own name.

“They’re��somewhere.” He settles on, hoping that you understand inherently what he’s talking about, gesturing to the kitchen with flailing hands that he has to fight not to reach out and grab, countering the selfish thought with another step backwards. Find the band aids quick, my love. “Sorry I— I can’t help y’look for ‘em.” His words turn slurred, slugging in his movements to escape your rather minor cut.

Anyone else would think he was afraid of blood. But, thankfully, you understand the truth.

So much so that he can hardly stand to greet the soft pitying look you adopt at his frantic actions, gentle eyes watching carefully as he holds a hand up to his nose, an attempt to cover the intruding scent— but you know all too well by now that that never works, don’t you? Like the time he had taken you out to that fancy restaurant, do you remember? Or had intended to, anyway… If not for the unfortunate mortal who had somehow tripped right outside the building, right into a nosebleed, as if life itself was reminding him: you are not normal. The fucking stench, God… still, to this day, he’s so sorry for having to head home. For ruining your night simply due to his natural blood lust. For being the way that he is, and for impeding your sense of normalcy so often as he does.

But your voice comes out whisper light when regarding him with utter affection, and it only makes his mind dizzier with desire, clouding his judgement when you pout prettily at him with “Oh, Sebby… I’m sorry…”

Disgusting. It’s absolutely fucking vile how he has the urge to snuff that meek little voice out for good, frustration balled up in his chest to leave him positively gasping for air before you. For he is but a slave to the bat that had bit him all those years ago, and here he stumbles back upon your sweet voice, intent on hiding in some other sort of cave and out of your sight for a couple days at least— but beneath it all, under the layers of blood and lust and teeth and claws, he is just a man. And a man has no hope in hell of escaping your outstretched hand; though thankfully, it’s the unsullied one. He hasn’t the chance to decline your gentle gesture, as much as it goes against his very nature to accept such undue kindness, though every fibre of his dead being just begs for him to decline, walk away while you still have the chance, while you’re still of mind to do so, he simply can do nothing other than accept your fingers intertwining with his own, in turn prompting him into shuffling closer towards the face of his doom. How long can one man rest on the precipice of utter damnation, without taking that leap? Surely, given the smile you send his way, the universe is communicating with him: too damn long, in your case. He had it coming, or something, fuck— he can’t focus on his thoughts now that he’s a step or two nearer to his downfall. The love of his life; you are the source of his pleasant agony.

And he wants for nothing more than to remind you of such facts. As much as that man within him cries for a break, fucking pleads to remain in control, your most human actions of connection are what brings the monster out of him. Unfortunate, really. Because he loves you, y’know?

He also loves just how strong your scent gets as he gets closer to the source, letting his nose rub lightly against your cheek— an action so barely there that he’s unsure if you even feel it, but the light giggle you let out in response lets him know that he can’t hide from you. Not now, look, do you see how hard it is for him to be around you? How utterly devoted he is to you, enough to ignore his humanity in favour of giving in to you; his selfish desire.

“Is it bad?” You ask him, and he can hear the cringe in your voice. Heavy with sorries, dripping in the metallic tang that hits his nostrils as he inhales along the shell of your ear, humming mild vibrations against your soft skin. He loves you so much, loves that you’re able to communicate with him on such a level that you needn’t express yourself wholly for him to understand your intentions. Didn’t you know? Only a vampire could love you forever, as deep as your blood is red.

Wordlessly, he nods against your neck, huffing and puffing away at the throb of blood just barely hidden beneath the surface. It is bad right now. All of this. You, for offering yourself up to him on a silver platter— you fucking know what you’re doing to him, how could you not? Him, for giving in to his selfish pleasures and accepting your bad behaviour, as opposed to his normal indignation. The situation, because for as much as he assumes you know that what you’re doing is dangerous, he’s not so sure you understand the gravity of just how awful it is; he’s been good at hiding his truest nature from you thus far. It’s all just so bad, isn’t it? Bad, bad, so fucking bad that it hurts to hold back for you, toying with his teeth as he runs his tongue along them, testing just how pointed they are just in case. It’s bad that he’s so close to you right now, because he loves you. Because he loves you too much to say stop, no— not like this, anything but this—

“A taste.” You reason with him, bringing up that bloodied finger dangerously close to his face, oh— he wants to eat it whole. Wants to swallow you up right where you stand, turn you as corrupted as he is… He wants to— “Just a little, one lick won’t hurt no one, right?”

How can he say no to that? How can he, ever, deny his true nature? What reasonable man would ever think of denying you, defying the love of his life the pleasure of his tongue upon that open wound? What kind of a man would pass up the opportunity of the hunt, would choose not to take aim and fire on an innocent creature when his stomach has been rumbling for days on end and he can’t think straight from the sheer magnitude of the hunger pangs in his chest?

And yet still, he hangs on. Tries to, at least. Letting out a muffled: “Shouldn’t.” Against your heated skin, only for you to hum back with “It’s okay. Just a tease.”

At the end of the day, he’s no man. He’s unsure if he ever was to begin with, in truth. For a man might manage to put down the rifle in favour of searching elsewhere to satiate his cravings, leave the poor innocence alone. He, on the other hand, jumps at the opportunity you unfairly present him. Lifts his heavy head with cloudy vision and immediately shoves your tainted finger into his wanting mouth. Lips wrapped tight around the digit as soon as possible, being mindful of his fangs for the meantime as he focuses solely on finally, god, fucking finally, tasting your sweet, sweet nectar. The thing that attracted him to you in the first place. One suck later and…

Euphoria. Strikingly beautiful on the tip of his tongue, God, how hard he has to try not to bite down.

It’s difficult to describe just how much he enjoys this. You. Your taste. The most perfect ambrosia, trickling against his tongue much too slowly for his liking, but he has enough wherewithal not to complain too much when his gaze flutters to stare at your own wicked smirk, his eyes briefly rolling to the back of his head in pure hedonistic enjoyment for the red that soon stains his tongue with sin. You’re sweet. Too sweet, unfairly so, as if made exactly to his personal tastes— meaning that you were worth the wait. The thrill of the hunt culminating in the way his tongue snakes and slithers around your cut, doing his best to suck as much of you out as possible, just to turn his cheeks all warm for once, fuck. He swallows down your warmth quickly, as if starved, because he’s never quite tasted something just as good as you before.

Even when he sapped a few unfortunate souls empty.

Human blood is always the best to consume, he thinks. Full bodied and flavourful, distinct from each other enough to have his preferences. Until now, he wouldn’t be so picky. Emptying any blood bag he could get his grubby little hands on simply because it was better than cattle, even if it was bad, y’know? But after lapping your wound all better, he realises: he can’t go back now. Pandoras box, opened and blushing before him, the way you knowingly smile at his open maw and heavy breaths should be warning enough, and yet still he awaits your instruction. Because he loves you. Because he’s no better than a man.

“Good?” You ask him, as if it’s even a fucking question.

“Uh-huh” he answers anyway, finger still popped inside of his tightly closed lips, as if warning you that if you were to pull back, he’d do nothing but chase after you again. Like some sort of stalker, or predator. Seeking the comfort of your hot flesh against his flat tongue for eternity, just to have your blood drip erotically down his throat.

Because it is inherently erotic. Sharing fluids always is, no? A twitch in his pants coming to life all of a sudden at the realisation, though he hopes you don’t notice it as of yet. The blood he consumed from your simple cut finger travels down, dripping all the way past his heaving lungs, squirming around in his tummy to fill it up with butterflies, and still yet travels south all the way down to his cock, causing a harsh throb to pump him all hard. Like some fucking pervert, leering at the way you simply watch him become less than human. Less than beast at this point, given how he eye fucks you with your red rendering him fucking useless. A dumb mess of a man from just a few droplets; one can only fight against natural instincts for so long before he feels the press of his fangs on his own back.

It’s a shame that you’re so pretty when you sigh, too. A thick bead of precum dripping from his tip in response, popping off your finger only to hum a moan in appreciation of all that is you. Or is he objectifying you now? He can’t quite tell, not with his mind so muddled and cock swiftly growing harder by the second. What makes it worse is how nice it is to feel the pang of pain in his chest when he realises just how kind you’re trying to be right now, withdrawing your finger to wipe it gently on a fresh kitchen towel. You think you’ve done good, right?

You think you’re doing so good when you encourage him further into the depths of depravity with a loving “You can keep going for a second, if you want?”, craning your neck to the side as you busy yourself with removing his saliva from your fingertip. It hurts to know that you’re just trying your best, doing what you think will comfort him, despite the danger.

It hurts to know that he’s getting off on it, too. Finding great sadistic pleasure while teetering on that edge you simply beg for him to jump from.

And who is he to deny his lover? But a fool, of course.

Maybe if you hadn’t offered him your finger, or you hadn’t gotten a fright and dropped the knife, or if he hadn’t spent the afternoon adoring you, maybe then he’d be able to restrain himself. Hold himself back like he should, like what a good partner would do. But alas, the sight of your throbbing neck, thick with life and pulsing with blood, is far too good an opportunity for him to pass up in the state that he’s found himself in tonight. A single drop from you could last him a lifetime, he’s sure.

But he’s intrinsically selfish. And not thinking straight, not since he inhaled the first whiff of your metallic scent. It’s all been downhill since then, hasn’t it? God only knows how long he’s been holding on to restraint for when it comes to you… maybe letting go will make him feel a little better, somewhat less guilty.

You’re just all too tempting, y’know that? Evident from the way he simply saunters closer to you like moth to a flame, till his heavy cock presses insistently against your clothed cunt, and you’re made to feel exactly just how much he adores you. This is enough communication, right? The slight gasp you let out upon the illicit contact, the staggering you do when he doesn’t stop walking towards you, intentionally pinning you against the counter directly behind your shivering back as a means to pin you in place. He needn’t use words when you can see his intentions, clear as day: he wishes to feast upon you. Plain and simple, a forbidden fruit he’s eager to swallow more of—

“Just a little, okay?” you remind him, and it takes him a second or two to nod yes at you, because he’s too busy placing his palms on the edge of the counter top, effectively caging you in against the hard wood and… his own hard wood. No escape, because you’ve got him hooked now. And he’d do anything just to taste you again. Anything, including things that he’d rather not think of, or that he’s scared of.

Thank god you’re the one that offered first.

“Promise,” he does his best to reassure you, but with a slow roll of his hips against your own, he can feel how guilt constricts his throat dry. Liar, he tells himself. There’s no way he’d ever manage life with only a little of you. “Will stop when you say, promise—” he babbles on, saying only that which he needs to in an effort to attach his lips to you neck faster; he’s not even fully aware of what he’s doing, let alone saying. But it works, his weak assurances have you tilting your head to the side for him, and he doesn’t miss the way your lashes flutter shut to the feeling of his hot breath fanning across your sensitive skin as he crowds closer to you.

When his pointed fangs hover over your thin flesh, he can feel his body warm up in response. Naturally, normally. Something this normal could never be so heinous, never as bad as he thinks, right? It’s normal for you to tremble against him when he lets you feel the slow drag of his teeth against your goose-bumped skin, and it’s normal for him to choke on next to nothing when he feels you shift your hips around a little; are you getting comfortable? Or just trying to rile him up some more, huh? Dirty little girl, so fucking filthy, aren’t you? Body begging for his bite— God, his cock is so hard now thanks to someone, that he feels as though he could cum on the spot.

So he bites. Distracting himself with such a simple action, really. Though dripping with desire, it’s so ordinary and normal that he can almost convince himself that it’s not bad. There’s no harm in it, right? No, how could there be, when you pained gasp soon turns into a low high-strung whine, body tensed under his own relaxed frame as he fervently places two puncture wounds on your delicate neck and drives his fangs deep. Deeper than the knife wound, that’s for sure. He, too, tense up a little with the commitment. Though not from pain, rather… an excessive need to restrain. To be slow and methodical with his movements, muscles taut before you as he all too slowly drags his teeth out from your yummy neck to lick them all clean again.

Oh. You’re fucking in for it tonight, aren’t you?

The snap is almost immediate, a rush of dopamine coursing through his system upon salivating over that fresh blood of yours, swallowing it down rashly and thickly, as if he’s just had his first taste of water in years. A growl soon follows, crawled up his throat like a prayer, only to be spat out against your matching cuts before he attaches his lips around them devoutly, and lets his tongue lay flat out against the trickling blood— let none go to waste. A single taste is all it takes, and he’s fucking ruined already. Like putty in your hands, except he’s sure to let you know who’s really in control by lapping at your dripping wound, and suckling on it just a little, just like you asked, to taste some more of that sweet nectar.

He knows he’s being too greedy when you mutter a mumbled “C-Careful, Seb…”, but he simply doesn’t have the power within him to care any longer. Too clouded by the taste of you blood, the smell of your life. He couldn't stop even if he wanted to— and he certainly doesn’t want to, distracting your pitiful cries for a break with another roll forward of his hips, cock pressed right against that hidden cunt, fuuuck. You taste and feel so good when you start to squirm on him. Like he’s actively swallowing all of your worries and fears, all that useless hesitation with every hump and lick he offers you.

“Always.” He whispers against your skin, because he’s not above lying at the moment t if it meant that he got to keep eating you and eating you and holy fuck he feels so dizzy— but in a good way. Like when you’re tipsy, and you’re only somewhat aware of your actions. Allowing his body to go through the natural motions as opposed to remaining in control because it’s easier that way. And it seems you appreciate it too, especially when it leads to him cupping your cheek with one hand, the other coming down to rest easily on the small of your back while he slurps and drools all over your neck. A reassuring hold to some. Utter possessiveness to him.

And he’d love to stay here. Attached sucking at your neck forever, his eyes rolling to the back of his head in pure unadulterated bliss at just how good you taste, cock leaking all over himself at the feeling of your body pressing snugly against his own, how you grow limper by the second in his arms due to the blood loss— but then he remembers something important.

“Here,” he regrettably unlatches from your neck, just briefly. Enough to get his words out. “Lemme put it in,” he doesn’t wait for your reply before hurriedly unbuttoning his bottoms with one hand, just barely hearing your muffled moans of disapproval in response, and he can’t help but to smile lovingly at the way you try to paw him off of you. You fucking asked for this.

“Promise it’ll feel good, even better.”

Though, whether his words of reassurance actually calm your grabby hands down or not is of no importance to him. Because deep down, he knows that he’s telling the truth, letting his underwear fall with his pants the moment they’re slack enough to, and his fist immediately grabs onto the base of his cock with a quiet satisfied sigh blowing across your cheek. You deserve to feel as good as he does right now, even if you’re unable to agree to his actions. Don’t worry, he’ll look after you. All the mortals he’s sucked thus far have expressed just how much nicer it feels when he’s buried balls deep inside of them during the act, too. And he wants for nothing less than to spoil his baby, especially when you taste better than anything he’s ever has before— shit, he has to latch onto your neck again just to keep himself composed as he drags your bottoms down too, leaving you bare and exposed in your cosy kitchen.

But you can feel it too, right? How warm it all is, how his tongue and lips suck you into a hazy daze with a nice heat spreading throughout your body. How about that times ten, huh? Sounds good, right?

The scent of your blood fills his nostrils with another greedy inhale against your neck, followed by the smell of your sex now that he’s exposed your lower half, dripping with desire for him— “See,” he half laughs between gulps of your delicious red, you’re no different from those he’s drained before. They always get wet. “Already feels so good, don’t it?” he mumbles, going back to sucking your neck with hums of appreciation while his cock bobs and twitches against your slit, dribbling precum all over your mound for you to shiver against.

All it takes is a little readjusting, tipping his hips back, bending his knees a little. Such small movements, just so feel so much better when his tip catches on your hole and he audibly gasps against your wounds.

You, too, gasp at the contact. A short moment shared in utter disbelief over how dizzying and exciting this whole situation is, his hips stalling for a moment or two simply to enjoy finally getting what he’s always wanted. Your blood on his lips to turn them all sticky and tacky, and his cock tipping into your cunt to leave you sighing and huffing with bliss. He might be sucking you into a state of stupor, but your body sure is awake enough to communicate pleasure with him, and that’s all the encouragement he needs to continue giving in to his selfish desires.

It helps that your being so pliant and submissive right now too, no doubt due to the amount of blood you’ve lost from his greedy gulps and sinful swallows. A light pink mix of blood and drool drips from your neck, around to your collarbone for him to gawk it. The sight of which, inevitably, prompts his hips into jutting forward, his cock swiftly stretching your little cunt out to accommodate the sudden girth. And it’s fucking hot how you can’t even muster up the energy to complain, really. A slight moan escaping your puffy lips, a subtle furrow of your brows. Whereas he on the other hand, is a downright fucking mess. Salivating all over you, eyes unfocused and glazed over as he gorges on your neck, mouth just swimming in your blood, tongue pointed to dip in and out of your open puncture marks like some sort of crazed animal. Almost making out with your holes, really, with how sloppy and messy he is with his bloody sucks. Gross, right?

And as soon as his cock is in, he’s pulling it back out again. Keeping you pinned against the counter, helping hold you up with both hands finding home on your ass to teasingly squeeze at the fat of it. You taste like you’re pent up right about now, and he loves you all too much to stop. Sucking. Completely smitten with the way you drown him in sweet sticky red, getting him high on the tangy taste while he gets drunk on your meek moans and whimpers— perhaps his pace is too fast to start with, yeah? It’s hardly his fault that he can’t slow down or hold himself back; if only you didn’t taste so good, y’know? If only the blood that stains his teeth a new shade didn’t have his cock throbbing harder than before, the tight squeeze of your insides pairs well with the sweet squelch of your hole, struggling to take his cock, are you? Or maybe it’s just that the amount of blood loss you’ve suffered is making you a little woozy, turned you just a bit too numb to his touch in an effort to hold on to life, maybe?

Though some part of him, deeply hidden and buried in his repeatedly slamming cock, recognises that he’s harming you right now… didn’t you tempt him in the first place? It’s not his fault, right? “C’mon, babe—” he huffs against your neck, unlatching so as to take a proper good look at how fucking dumb you appear right now; rolled back eyes and parting lips, the perfect picture of pleasure, yeah?

It couldn’t be anything more sinister, surely. Not when your cunt chokes his cock so perfectly, dripping slick down to his balls every time they slap back against you as a reminder of how much you’re enjoying this. Feels fucking good, licking his lips in part to concentrate on how warm and wet your little hole is while he picks up the pace to bring your attention back to him, but also to clean himself up from your blood. It swirls pleasantly in his system with his harsh fucks— he doesn’t mean to be so brutal with his affection, but isn’t that your fault for falling in love with a beast such as him? He’s only acting according to his nature, after all.

“C’mon, show me that— fuck, that— pretty fuckin’ face.” His praise comes out almost as a sneer, snarling with his teeth bared as instincts beg him to dominate, to show you who’s boss right now; though, in actuality, it’s you. It’s always been you who he’s beholden to, who he can’t stop thinking about, loving on, lusting after. He might be barely in control right now, but he’s only acting out because he wants you. Terribly so, enough to keep pumping his fat cock in and out of you at such an unfair pace that he has to stabilise you, unable to clearly see your surely pretty face regardless of his attempts because he’s fucking you so fast. His hips just don’t let up, driven to continue from the tight ball of lust your blood pools in his tummy, your squishy insides suck him off so well— almost as well as he’s drained your neck, right? But you do look pretty, absolutely. Hair a mess, tits bouncing before him, a soft necklace of saliva blood decorating your chest with his snap thrusts. It’s disgusting how easy it is for him to lose himself in you, in the soft walls of your cunt, stroking himself off so well with your hole.

In his lust induced drinking spree of your blood, he bets half of it still yet clings to his lips in a show of love for you. And, concerningly, his cock throbs all the harder when you whisper his name. Like feathers on fresh snow, he’s more so filling in the blanks of your mouthed words, but nonetheless fat beads of precum spill out inside of your cunt at how fucked dumb you are right now. You’re so cute.

He promised you it’d feel good, and look at you. Can’t even speak from the sheer pleasure rolling through you, right?

More than anything, he’d like to gulp around your neck some more. Engulf every inch of you with his teeth, leave his mark all over your body like laying claim to his territory. But you’re barely holding your head up at this point, and as he grows close to orgasm himself, so too does clarity come. Just a little, fuzzy at the edges of his blood red darkened mind, enough to give him the idea to plant his thumb between his pelvis and your own to rub sloppy circles around your clit like how he should have done earlier.

But oh, look. There’s a little blood down there, too. From his thumb no doubt, mixing perfectly with the slick your hole gushes out around his fat cock, rocking you up and down his erection desperately so that he can focus more on getting you off than himself.

He’s had his fun, hasn’t he?

“I—” … what? He hadn’t meant to speak just now, chewing on his bottom lip in utter confusion while your insides tighten and, indeed, convulse around his cock. Promising to milk him empty as soon as possible, a choked moan escaping your puffy lips for him to feast on. And as he nears that edge himself, falling forward into you so as to be as close as possible while burying his cock balls deep in your too tight little cunt, a wave of understanding washes over him and he reflexively pulls out.

Still, his hand just as naturally gravitates to his cock as he pumps it fully, a fast up and down stroke that he can barely catch up to, gasping before you with a furrow in his brows. He’s so fucking close, licking his lips a final time to remove the stain of red upon them, and the lingering taste of your blood is all he needs to finally finish upon your front.

Thick, white ropes of salty seed splatter across your wrinkled clothing, dripping down in fat globs to your bare and exposed cunt. So soft and sore she looks, now that he’s had his way with her. And if he’s being honest with himself, he thinks you look stunning painted in white, and he’s never felt so fucking good before.

He felt so unnaturally good. Not normal not by any stretch of the imagination… Which therein lies the main issue.

His grip on you tightens as soon as he’s calmed down enough to realise what he’s just done, a cracked sob urgently crawling up his throat in the face of his actions. How—

“I’m so fucking sorry.” Ah, there it is. What he was trying to say earlier, suddenly rolling like water—or blood—off his tongue in such a pivotal moment. Pain sears through him at the absent look you offer him back, and his gaze finally clears enough to allow him the sight of just how deep his fangs have burrowed. Hidden amongst your open flesh is plenty more sorries, just as much that spill from his gasping throat, though he immediately knows that it’ll never be enough. Not with how tight his chest burns, how his tummy flips with utter sickness at how pale and frail you appear in his arms, no less better looking as he gently lowers you to the ground and he matches you by kneeling at your side.

“I didn’t mean to— I mean, I didn’t want to do all that, y’know? I just— fuck, that’s why I wanted to leave, didn’t wanna hurt you at all, I—” he could mutter about how much he didn’t want to do anything all night long if he could, but the warm smile you adorn when listening to his panic stricken rambles cuts him short. Prompts him into idly chewing on his bottom lip, being sure to hide his fangs from your view as if communicating, again, I’m sorry.

“Seb—” you rasp, and his eyes widen to the sound of your voice. Soft and light, though through the most heinous means possible. Because he hurt you. It hurts, instantly, to hear it. But he doesn’t shy away from his consequences, doing his best to regard you with genuine affection in spite of the tears that well at his lashline.

“It’s okay.” You cough, sputtering blood from under him with reckless abandon. “Was my fault,” you continue, and he instinctively shakes his head out of fear.

No, no, not your fault. Never your fault, it should have been me who walked away from you!

“Really, it’s okay. You were right, it—” felt good? He doesn’t want to hear another word of your dwindling life wasted on his immature actions, shutting you up with a hand held over your lips, and a harsh shh falling from his own. He takes a quick look over your frame, calculating just how near death you really are— though, you’ll always be under on that edge when in close proximity to him apparently, he chastises himself with. But all it takes is that second of taking inventory for him to lift you back up, bridal style in his shaking arms, as he strides out of the kitchen with you in tow.

Not once has he ever tried to care for a mortal after feeding, so he’s not entierly sure what he’s supposed to do in a situation like this. All he knows is that the doctors office isn’t too far away from your big farmhouse, and he’d do anything to at least try and save you.

Lest he joins you, once and for all, with another sorry locked and loaded behind his stained red teeth.

[spockandstars]

I was thinking about how Spock is intentionally paralleled with Sydney Carton from A Tale of Two Cities in The Wrath of Khan, and now I am unwell!

At the beginning of the movie, Spock famously gives Kirk A Tale of Two Cities as a birthday present. This book was specifically included for its themes of sacrifice and resurrection, which obviously mirror Spock’s decision to give up his life to save the crew. Notably, Kirk’s final lines reference the famous closing of the novel.

Kirk: It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done before... a far better resting in place I go to than I have ever known...

Carol: is that a poem?

Kirk: Something Spock was trying to tell me. On my birthday.

So what’s the importance of this line? The famous “far better thing” quote is from the book’s ending when Carton has just sacrificed himself for his beloved Lucie, giving himself up to be executed in place of her husband so that she may find happiness. (Live long and prosper, anyone?)

Interestingly, both Spock and Carton are emotionally repressed characters, and anguish over the depth of their love for the people who uniquely see them for who they are — in this case, Jim and Lucie. While I’d argue that Spock is more at peace with himself and his feelings for Jim after the events of the first movie, the point still stands that Jim is the one to truly understand him in a world that labels him as a cold and calculating being.

I believe that this is what Kirk’s line calling Spock’s soul “the most human I have ever encountered,” is supposed to represent. (Even though I agree with the criticism that it could have been worded better!) Similarly, Lucie is the one to recognize Carton’s inner nature in spite of his aloof facade, begging “I would ask you to believe that [Carton] has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep wounds in it.” (Book 2, Chapter 20.)

When Carton finally admits his love to Lucie, it’s hard not to see the resemblance to Spock’s dilemma in the first movie. You know, that time when Spock, in his heartbreak over something related to Jim (that were not given an explanation for), cries out “Jim! Good-bye my . . . my t’hy’la. This is the last time I will permit myself to think of you or even your name again!” before attempting to purge himself of all feelings in an ancient ritual, and failing because the Vulcan priestess can totally sense that he’s still thinking about Kirk. (Yup, that totally straight time!)

Well, Carton is in a similarly agonizing predicament, because he can’t get his feelings for Lucie to go away. He tells her, “I break down before the knowledge of what I want to say to you” and “I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire—a fire, however, inseparable in its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no service, idly burning away.” (Book 2, Chapter 13)

He also expresses that he could never separate his love for her from himself, saying that “Within myself, I shall always be, towards you, what I am now.” (Book 2, Chapter 13) Yeah, I know the fact this mirrors Spock’s famous “I have been and always shall be yours” is probably a coincidence, but I’ll be damned if I don’t mention it.

Finally, Carton expresses his love for her in his willingness to sacrifice himself for her sake: “For you, and for any dear to you, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you… there is a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!” (Book 2, Chapter 13.) Of course, Carton’s story ends when he sacrifices himself for her, fulfilling this promise. Hmm, now who else does that sound like?

This is definitely not a perfect parallel: Spock doesn’t start out as a lazy alcoholic, although there is an argument to be made that Carton’s low self-worth reflects Spock’s before he went on his conversion therapy fueled journey of self discovery. Additionally, I wouldn’t say that Spock’s love for Kirk is unrequited like Carton’s for Lucie, (as evidenced by many things, but I’ll primarily point to the events of The Motion Picture and The Search for Spock), but you could potentially cast Carol in the role of Darnay, Lucie’s husband.

The most important thing to glean from this is that Spock was very deliberately set up to be the Carton figure, which is interesting given that Carton’s actions are driven by his willingness to do anything to see his beloved be happy and prosper.

[gingermintpepper]

As usual I read your tags always and so you said Apollo did not ask for resurrection of Asclepius and Hyacinthus so i just wanted to share this. About Asclepius death I read it on theoi.com, that earlier authors don't make him resurrect as a god but that's a later development mentioned only by Roman authors like Cicero, Hyginus and Ovid. But still Apollo has a role in Ovid's version

Ovid, Fasti 6. 735 ff (trans.Boyle) (Roman poetry C1st B.C. to C1st A.D.) : Clymenus [Haides] and Clotho resent the threads of life respun and death's royal rights diminished. Jove [Zeus] feared the precedent and aimed his thunderbolt at the man who employed excessive art. Phoebus [Apollon], you whined. He is a god; smile at your father, who, for your sake, undoes his prohibitions [i.e. when he obtains immortality for Asklepios].

So here it is actually because of Apollo the decision was taken to resurrect him as god. And with Hyacinthus, I don't think I've read about Artemis playing the primary role. I know in Sparta there was a picture of Artemis, Athena and Aphrodite carrying Hyacinthus and his sister to heaven.

This is not on theoi.com but I saw on Tumblr it's from Dionysiaca by Nonnus

Second, my lord Oiagros wove a winding lay, as the father of Orpheus who has the Muse his boon companion. Only a couple of verses he sang, a ditty of Phoibos, clearspoken in few words after some Amyclaian style: Apollo brought to life again his longhaired Hyacinthos: Staphylos will be made to live for aye by Dionysos.

So since he is singing inspired by amyclean stories it probably means in that place it was believed Apollo was the one to bring back his lover to life.

Apollo as god of order was very important so i think it shows how special these people (and admetus too) were to him that he decided to go against the order for them 🥺

ANON!! Shakes you like a bottle of ramune!! BELOVED ANON!!!!! I'm littering your face with kisses, I'm anointing you with olive oil and honey - you absolutely made my night with this because, not only did I get the pure serotonin shot of having someone interact with my tags (yippee, wahoo!!) I also got to have that wonderful feeling of "oh wow, have I misunderstood something that was integral to my understanding of this myth/figure this whole time or is this a case of interpretational differences?" which is imo vital for my aims and interests as someone who enjoys mythological content and literature.

I'll preface my response with this: Hyacinthus is by far the hardest of these to get accounts for because his revival itself, as you very astutely point out, is generally accounted for in painting/ritual format which muddies the waters on who interceded for what. I wasn't actually familiar with that passage from the Argonautica - and certainly didn't remember it so thank you very much for bringing it to my attention!

That said, what I've come to understand, both about Hyacinthus and about Asclepius is that in the accounts of their deaths, Apollo's position is startlingly clear.

For Hyacinthus, it is established time and again that Apollo would have sacrificed everything for him - his status, his power, his very own immortality and divinity. Ovid writes that Apollo would have installed him as a god if only he had the time:

(Ovid. Metamorphoses. Book X. trans. Johnston)

Many other writers too speak of how Apollo abandoned his lyre and his seat at Delphi to spend his days with Hyacinthus, but they also all agree that when it came to his death - he was powerless. Ovid gives that graphic account of Apollo's desperation as he tries all his healing arts to save him to no avail:

(Ovid, Metamorphoses Book X. Apollo me boy, methinks him dead. trans Johnston)

Bion, in one of his fragments, writes that Apollo was "dumb" upon seeing Hyacinthus' agony:

(Bion, The Bucolic Poets. Fragment XI. trans Edmonds)

Even Nonnus in the Dionysiaca speaks constantly of Apollo's helplessness in the face of Hyacinthus' fate where he writes that the god still shivers if a westward wind blows upon an iris:

and when Zephyros breathed through the flowery garden, Apollo turned a quick eye upon his young darling, his yearning never satisfied; if he saw the plant beaten by the breezes, he remembered the quoit, and trembled for fear the wind, so jealous once about the boy, might hate him even in a leaf...

(Nonnus, Dionysiaca, Book 3. trans Rouse)

And the point here is just that - Apollo, at least as far as I've read, cannot avert someone's death. He simply can't. Once they're already dead - once Fate has cut their string - all Apollo's power is gone and he can do nothing no matter how much he wants to. And this is, as far as I know, supported with the accounts of Asclepius as well!

Since you specifically brought up Ovid's account, I'll also stick only to Ovid's account but in Metamorphoses when we get Ovid's version of Coronis' demise, he writes that Apollo intensely and immediately regrets slaughtering Coronis. He regrets it so intensely that he, like he does with Hyacinthus, does his best to resuscitate her:

(Ovid, Metamorphoses Book Two. Apollo's regret)

And like Hyacinthus, when it becomes clear that what has happened cannot be undone, Apollo wails:

(Ovid, Metamorphoses Book Two. Apollo wept.)

Unlike his mother, Asclepius in her womb had not yet died and so, with the last of Apollo's strength, he does manage, at least, to save him.

(Ovid, Metamorphoses Book Two. Apollo puts the 'tearing out' in Asclepius.)

But it goes further than even that because Ocyrhoe, Chiron's daughter, a prophetess who unduly gained the ability to directly proclaim the secrets of the Fates, upon seeing the baby Asclepius, immediately prophesies his glory, his inevitable death and then his fated ascension:

(Ovid. Metamorphoses, Book Two. Ocyrhoe's prophecy. trans Johnston)

Before she too succumbs to her hubris and is transformed by the Fates into a horse so she can no longer speak secrets that aren't hers to share.

These things ultimately are important because it establishes two very important things: 1) Apollo can't do anything in the face of the ultimate Fate of mortals, which is, of course, death and 2) even when Apollo is Actively Devastated, regretful, yearning, mournful, guilty or some unholy combination of all of the above, when someone is dead, he accepts that they are gone. Even if he is devastated by it, even if he'll cry all the rest of his days about it - if they're dead? Apollo lets them go. In Fasti, when Zeus brings Asclepius back, he does not say Apollo asked him to - Zeus, or well, in this case Jove, brings Asclepius back because he wants Apollo to stop being mad at him.

(Ovid, Fasti VI. Apollo please come home your father misses you. trans. A.S Kline)

Even Boyle's translation which you used above in your findings hints that Zeus made Asclepius a god because he wanted Apollo to stop grieving. (i.e 'smile at your father', 'for your sake [he] undoes his prohibitions')

And like, Apollo was deeply upset by Asclepius' death - apart from killing the Cyclops in anger, in book 4 of the Argonautica, Apollonius writes that the Celts believe the stream of Eridanus to be the tears Apollo shed over the death of Asclepius when he left for Hyperborea after being chastised by Zeus for killing his Cyclops:

But the Celts have attached this story to them, that these are the tears of Leto's son, Apollo, that are borne along by the eddies, the countless tears that he shed aforetime when he came to the sacred race of the Hyperboreans and left shining heaven at the chiding of his father, being in wrath concerning his son whom divine Coronis bare in bright Lacereia at the mouth of Amyrus.

It all paints a very clear picture to me. Apollo did not ask for either of them to be brought back. Though bringing them back certainly pleased and delighted him, they are actions of other gods who are moved by Apollo's grief and mourning and seek to mollify him. Him not asking doesn't mean he didn't want them back which I think is a very important distinction by the by, but it simply means that Apollo knows the natural order of things and, even if it hurts, he isn't going to press his luck about it.

Which, of course, brings us to Admetus. And I'm really not going to overcomplicate this, Admetus is different because, very vitally, Admetus is not dead. Apollo can't do a thing once Fate has been carried out and Death has claimed a mortal but you know what he absolutely can do? Bargain like hell with the Fates before that point of inevitability. And that's what he does, ultimately for Admetus and Alcestis. He sought to prolong Admetus' life, not revive him from death or absolve him from death altogether and even after getting the Fates drunk, he's still only able to organise a sacrifice - a life for a life - something completely contingent on whether some other mortal would be willing to die in Admetus' place and not at all controllable by Apollo's own power.

All of these things, I think come back to that point you made - that Apollo's place as a god of order is very important and therefore these people are very special to him if it means he's willing to go against that order but, I also wish to challenge that opinion if you'd let me. Apollo's place as a god of order is very important and therefore, I would argue, that it is even more important that it is shown that he does not break the divine order, especially for the people that mean the most to him. The original context of my comments which started this conversation were on this lovely, lovely post by @hyacinthusmemorial which contemplated upon Asclepius from the perspective of an Emergency Medical personnel and included, in their tags, the very poignant lines "there's something about Apollo letting go when Asclepius couldn't that eats my heart away" and "you do what you can, you do your best, but you don't ever reach too far" and I think that's perfectly embodied with the Apollo-Asclepius dichotomy. Apollo grieves. He wails, he cries, he does his best each and every time to save that which is precious to him but he does not curse their nature, he does not resent that they are human and ultimately, he accepts that that which is mortal must inevitably die. There is nothing that so saliently proves that those who uphold rules are also their most staunch followers - if Apollo wants to delight in his place as Fate's mouthpiece, he cannot undo Fate. And, if even the god of healing and order himself cannot undo death, what right does Asclepius, mortal as he is, talented as he is, have to disrespect it?

The beauty of these stories isn't that Apollo loved them enough to bring them back. The beauty is that Apollo loved them enough to let them go.

[punksalmon]

Tell us more about this Escape ending AU that you are completely normal about.

WELL, if you're asking

(i first received this ask in 28th of JUNE, but waited for my uni break so i could be as self-indulgent as possible)

the Escape AU is first and foremost my obsession with (1) epilogue-type stories as a way to deal with the conseguences of a plot (which is especially promising with funger's trauma bonanza) and (2) domestic gay people (which is ALSO especially promising with funger's trauma bonanza). i also like when the domestic couple are kind of freaks.

the background for the AU is mostly based with my number of playthroughs with the game, in particular that as soon as i had the girl and knew what exactly her ending was, i would go after literally any other ending just so she could live.

to say the summary of the dungeon-canon, ragnvaldr goes in the dungeon after le'garde to kill him and enki goes into the dungeon after the ritual of ascension, and they just join forces for survival; the girl only comes after, and because ragnvalr is partly in this whole quest because his child was murdered, he becomes somewhat protective of the girl, and then of enki, to the point of doubt about when does this affection and desire to protect is for them on their own, and when it's just comes as a second hand for the family ragnvaldr's lost. enki isn't arsed with any of it at first, but as a feral cat gaining the literal first modicum of care in its life, he starts to become less sure of how far he'd gone to obtain success when it puts this other people at risk, even without understanding (or accepting) any of it. and the girl is, verbatim, "unused to kindness of any kind" - she literally deserves the world.

the ending E, as exactly "underwhelming" as it is, is a reflection of this sense of care the characters develop: it doesn't matter what the dungeon does offer (and what really the characters do achieve in it; i personally like the idea of them facing Le'garde as the Yellow King in the dungeon, for the pathos of it all). the most important thing after the conga line of misery that funger is, is that for people that at that point had no reason to live, they suddenly get one. for it, they leave behind the dungeon and the promises within.

i still like to think that this sort of decision is not without unrest - i don't think enki would do well as a house wife, and this tension of "did i make a good choice? is this really what i want?" is interesting. i also thing ragvaldr has a little parasocial thing going because of his previous family, and i also think that idea is interesting.

as always, i like to see characters go through the ringer and then try to build a happy ending (or as happy as it can be) out of it. i feel that's a sort o theme anyone can find comfort in. and yes, i do like thinking of the funniest possible nuclear family unity Oldegård would ever see (pair of parents + one kid + a dog). (and i do like thinking about rag and enki doing it nasty. who said that.)

thank you for the ask and literally anyone who has the minimum interest about my brainworms… i loved thinking about them to write this. it also made me draw again (miraculous), so here's a little something.

first leaving the dungeons.

[yandereunsolved]

Imagine reader being a guide in Linked Maze. They are sort of the protector of people who end up in the maze. They're pretty shy and end up not showing themselves to most, who end up with such a terrible fate. They leave the Links little things to help along their journey, such as food, weapons, and medicine.

Only one of the Links has seen you before—Wind. It was only a brief interaction as well. You guided Wolfie to him using your abilities. Wind only saw you for a moment. You were gone in less than a blink of an eye. He still thinks he imagined it until he actually meets you for the first time. He was overwhelmed with so many emotions. He saw you as what you were for those stuck in the maze—a protector. 

He wanted to throw himself at you and cry on your shoulder. He wanted to demand answers. The first time he met the guide of this place, you didn't even exchange words. You disappeared after a few minutes. He was devastated after that. It was your first official meeting, and he didn't even get to say 'thank you' or ask any questions like, 'why did you help me?' That's when his obsession with you started. It was just an inkling of a need for safety that evolved into a desperate devotion to you.

Wolfie is your familiar at this point. He helps guide the Links through the maze and makes sure they don't end up gravely injured. He hasn't actually ever seen you. He just hears you and follows the scents that you waft into his nose. He's not suspicious of you. Your life force is positive. It reminds him of what he feels in the Triforce.

You guide the Links together and keep those awful monsters at bay. You wish you could warn them about what's to come, but you are unable to. You can only leave clues. You are the guide of the maze—the protector. Someone who was tricked into leaving the heavens by a deity who fell from them. You would tell them everything if you could, but if you did, then you'd reveal your location to the corrupted God. 

One word and it's all over. One word and the Links will fail their mission.

You wish you could tell them that something worse than Demise was plotting to take over the heavens and destroy the goddesses. Alas, you cannot. The evil deity injured you gravely. If you seek refuge in the heavens, then you leave a possible opening for the evil being to sneak in. You have learned from watching Time on his adventures.

So you watch from the shadows and guide them when you can. You don't realize how dependent they are becoming to your presence. You understand how far their yearning goes.

Four gently probes Wind for more information about your meeting with him. Wind shys away from telling him because he wants to keep you for himself. Warriors is a little jealous but keeps the two calm. 

Time knows more about you than the others. He met you once on his journey. So technically, he has met you before, but since you have been forced to take a mortal form. He hasn't seen you since you were injured and forced to look over them in the maze. Somehow, he knows you're out there. He still has that ritual for summoning you. You should've never given it to him. You don't understand how many times he has wanted to use it but ultimately decided against it. He's the Hero of Time! He's the Hero of Time... He's the Hero of Time? 

Why would someone so important, a god(dess), want him bothering them?

The rest of the Links are a bit confused about you. Your presence is enigmatic, to say the least. You are like an unspoken rule among them. All of them need to know more about you, but they refuse to cooperate with each other when they learn something new about your existence. 

The only question that really remains is: will they ever escape the maze? Or will you fail in your mission of protecting them?

Ignore the fact I went so off canon for this. comic & characters — @linked-maze

[scrubbinn]

Mimic HRT: month 23 “Alone with myself”

“This is a dumb idea. The day after Erian gives up with his mimic research, you decide to resort to the worst possible option. There's so many other options we could try.”

“Oh, so now you show up in my head. Of course you're only here to attack me. Why should I expect anything different? It's just magic. We're inexperienced but the book can guide us. If you want to help then you can stay, otherwise I don't want to hear a single thing out of you.”

“You can't call this magic. This is so much worse. Look, I'm here to make sure you're going to be ok, I'm here to talk when you need it.”

“Well I don't need to talk to anyone right now. So go away. I need to concentrate.”

“And what would she think?”

“Leave!”

“Ms.Mulberry, You’ve been in your office for a while now. Is everything alright? You seem to have locked the door, and barred it considering the master key is doing nothing. I understand if you’re having trouble with your panic attacks. It’s the only reason I gave you this place. I just need the recording on Mimic behavior. The full recording, not the edited draft this time.”

“Sorry Theo, I, uh, yeah I’m kind of busy at the moment. I left the recorder in your desk drawer, the one with all the candy. By the way, you know you’re not at that age where you can be so casual with your teeth, right? Maybe get that sweet tooth pulled instead? Anyway, I’ll be busy for a while so I could use some space.”

“Right… Well your unneeded chastising aside and your odd hiding of your recorders around my office, I’ll take a look. Please don’t take more than 15 minutes. We have several important clients coming in soon and I need you at the front desk on your best behavior.”

“What happened to Jacob?”

“He was fired after he screamed at a dragon walking into the clinic on three separate occasions. Look I would appreciate not having a conversation with a door, will you open up or not?”

“Busy right now, like I said. Just. Go away for now. Like an hour?”

“You have 10 minutes. Harumph. I will be in my own office with the door not barred and I will be listening to your findings, they better be worthwhile.”

* * *

“Mayday! Mayday!? You open this door this instant!!” Listen to me right now! I know you have that book from Thayer library in there! Do not use it! Mayday, you will not use that book or you’ll wish all that happened today is me breaking down this door!”

“Leave Theo, I’m not stopping now. There were no concrete answers anywhere until this book found its way to me. If science won’t show me my origins, then the only answer I have left is magic. Now be quiet. I need to make sure the ritual circle is perfect. I can’t afford to mess up a single line. You said you had some clients, right? Go tend to them, I’ll be fine.”

“You most certainly won’t be! This isn’t magic, Mayday! This is something far more dangerous! Not to mention it could cause the ethics board to take away my license if they found out something like this happened here! I'm calling the fire department, I'll be taking the damages out of your paycheck!”

“Of course that’s what you’re worried about. Now hush already… The protection circle goes here, I think there’s just enough salt to finish the rest of these sigils…”

“Why are you even doing this here of all places!? Do you seriously just want to get me in trouble when this childish impatience blows up in your face? 

Wait. Why are you doing this here? This is the only place where I could interfere with you… You’re worried what she’d say if she knew what you were doing. It’s easier for me to hate you, isn’t it.”

“...Don’t bring up Abigail. She wouldn't get it. Neither of you would. It's so clear you've hit a dead end. You just found some random substances in your office and decided that, in your oh so infinite wisdom, this, this right here. This is what should go in a person's medicine. I'd ask what you'd have done if it didn't kill me, but I've actually seen how many people have nearly choked on your experiments. It's your fault I'm a mimic, I never asked for this. I wanted to be a slime! I still do. Now I'm this thing that can only fake it. I was so close, I was so, so close. And now it's gone forever. I am the only mimic in existence. I am alone, and I can't convey to anyone how scared that makes me.”

“You're worried Ms.Abigail could talk you out of this, aren't you.”

“The ritual is nearly complete. Please leave the building, Theo. I can't call you a friend, but you're like the definition of Stockholm syndrome. I don't want to see you hurt.”

“You open this door this instant you little ungrateful stain of a-

“Theo?... He's… gone? Oh the summoning circle! Ok everything looks fine. Protection ring, spell ring, candles.. have blown out. It's pitch black outside. I think I should close the blinds. Though I doubt it'll stop whatever's out there from getting in. Ok, focus, you're in this deep, what's a few more miles. All you need to do is read the next part. Heh, hehehahaha! I… why can’t I read these words? It's my nerves, I’ll bet. I don’t want to think if it could be something else. Let’s just get this over with, read the passage, figure out the rest later. Iɟ I ʍɐᴉʇ ʇoo louƃ I pou,ʇ ʞuoʍ ʍɥɐʇ ʍᴉll ɥɐddǝu…

I think my reality is starting to break. Oʞ lǝʇ,s qǝƃᴉu.”

“HⱯⱯⱯꓵ ҼODOʁHꓕ IⱯ,Է BEҼ,Γ-EE,H HꓕOHꓕOƧ-ҼO⅄ 'HⱯҼИ,ҼИ,IⱯ,⅄!”

“Are you there?”

…

“Oh, oh stars it worked. Hello… I am Mayday Mulberry. I've summoned you to-

…

“Of course, how rude of me. Then does that mean you know? You know what I am, and where mimics come from?” I beg of you to impart this knowledge onto me. I must know my kind and their history. Are there others out there like me?”

…

“I… I'm sorry for summoning you, but I had no other choice. I- what do you mean I'm stagnant? No, I'm still changing, I’m a mimic! We’re the definition of changing.”

…

“I. I don't believe you! You're wrong! Just shut up! Just tell me what I want to know! I summoned you! I'm the one in control here!”

…You are an insect, a being, trying at something it is not. You who expect mere shapes to impress and salt to keep you safe. You fumble in ignorance. You crave the isolation that you fear so much. If you wish for knowledge, You will have knowledge. This stagnant thing before me. It pretends to change in vain displays of approval. Revolting.

… ..! …….!!

You will not speak. This ingredient you wish to know. This thing that makes you mimic. It is nothing. The entirety of nothing. The concept to not exist, so that you may be anything. You should not be physical, but only existing blissfully as the thoughts of others pass through you. And forget you. Mortals think, and you mimic. You are the accident of yourself. A concept that formed its own existence. The byproduct of which was found by a paradoxically curiously incurious mortal who knows its place in the cosmic scale. Unlike you, stagnant thing. I will teach you. You will mimic.

* * *

Where am I? I can’t speak. I can’t see. I can barely keep a single thought, it disappears

       the second I stop thinking about it. There’s no sensation. Am I dead? Could I even be considered dead? Self, think of a self and try to form an idea and then it will work. I need arms, I don’t have arms. Can I form an arms? Wait… what is an arms? I don’t remember. Legs? No, I've never heard of those. What’s a self? No, I know what a self is because I am a self. I think… hard to think.   How do you think again? Can you do that in this reality?

Mɥɐʇ ǝʌǝu ᴉs ɹǝɐlᴉʇʎ ɐuʎɯoɹǝ?

I I w I

t s i

l c

f t l a

e h n

e i I t

l s

s s r

l e e

s i e m

o v e

i t m

s n h b

t g e e

r ? m r

a

n a h

g g e

e a r

i

Ah n n

did I  a

just melt m

into myself? e

Do I still have a 

self? I can’t even 

remember anything 

about myself. I am a 

mimic. My name is. Oh, 

I don’t know it anymore… 

I think that would be scary, 

but I don’t know how to be 

scared anymore. Was this 

supposed to teach me? To 

be ever changing. Why did 

I do this again? To learn who 

I am? Did I not have a self 

before? Why did I need to 

know?... I was lonely. Right?

It was so lonely. 

I remember being 

so incredibly tired. 

Sometimes I would 

just cry from how 

bad it got. I had to 

be seen. To be 

known. I had to 

be. Or else I. Or 

else I… I don’t 

remember. 

What shape am I 

now? Something 

called a knife? 

What is that?

I was just something wasn’t I? I was a past memory. I don’t remember it anymore. It wasn’t a good one. Should I forget it? But if I do then I won't remember anything ever again. Eternity with a bad memory. It feels fitting for some reason. I should figure a way out. I want to leave.

Every thought takes so long to form.

If I stay here any longer I won’t be able to leave. I need to think. I was talking with someone before I came here. I know they’re here because they've always been here. Because where else could they be? Because… where are you?

There you are! Here I am. 

Who are you? I'm you!

Can you please explain? I’m someone to talk to.

I see. Like an imaginary friend? No, I’m very much real.

Could we talk normally? Yes we can, and it’s no problem.

I’m… Mayday, being able to talk with someone helps focus my mind. I feel like I can actually think straight. How long has it been since we came here?

I think it’s been about… 20 years? I have zero frame of reference. But at least we can finally communicate easily. Imagine if it took us 20 years in the real world. That would suck! But seriously, we really should talk now. I think it’ll be important. Oh right, where are my manners. My name is. Well. Mayday doesn’t really work for me. We can figure out a different one later. Let’s just pick something at random for now. Something like, how about laborer?

Are you sure you want to go with a name like that? Well I guess it’s temporary. So I have a lot of questions. How are you me? Are you the voice in my head? Were you always a part of me, or are you some mimic brain thing?

Woah, Woah, slow down. One thing at a time. How do I answer everything? No, I've been in here long before you. Yes I'm the one who's been able to talk to you, and before you ask, I'm not some ghost of Mayday's former self. I'm just… Someone who works here.

Cryptic. Maybe you should start from the beginning? I'd rather not test if Getting a headache without a head is possible.

Really? You want to start a self therapy session out here in the void? Alright. I’m game. Well you spent the last decade here feeling isolated. I’m sure it felt longer, that’s what happens when you get trapped in a place without time, I guess. Anyways, you don’t remember, but I used to be you. Before we even knew who we actually were, and that was the problem. We didn’t know what was wrong with us, but we knew we weren’t, ugh, normal. Normal in boring people’s eyes. But, it was isolating, we removed ourself from people who didn’t understand, and it isolated us even more.

So you’re saying I went crazy because we never connected to anyone? Why are you only showing up now anyways?

First of all, we’re not crazy. I’d bite anyone who’d call us crazy for that. Secondly, I've only been able to reach you since you started feeling like your true self.

Pretty sure I screwed that up becoming a mimic instead of a slime.

Oh, no, I wanted to be a slime, you were the one who wanted to be a mimic.

Huh? I guess I didn't hate being a mimic exactly. So all this happened because I, er, we felt isolated. Is that really true?

  Loneliness is more traumatic than you’d think. When it was just me, it got to the point that… I couldn’t think of anything else but… no, don't worry about it. Since you stopped me before I could do something stupid, you took over, and you started talking to people. It helped, it got us to where we met others like us.

But it didn’t help. I still feel lonely. I can feel it, you know. There’s other mimics around us here. They’re all here and I still feel lonely.

Yeah, dummy. We don’t know how to feel any other way. We need to unlearn it. Otherwise nothing is going to change.

… Hey um, laborer, ugh awful name. We'll pick something better, I wanted to say I'm sorry, for getting us stuck here for all eternity. I was supposed to be the one who stopped us from feeling this way and I ended up digging us into a deeper hole, at least we have each other, and the trillions of mimics that surround us.

You did your best. Hey, let's try doing something. Look down. You can see Erian right? This is him two years ago. We’re mimicking his thoughts right now. I think normally we would just munch on his stray thoughts. But being physical we could do something fun with what’s left of our body. Check it out.

What did you just do? Did you just. We're the one who left that ingredient for Erian to use. So we created ourself on accident. Oh stars, the ingredient was our own decayed body, I think I'm going to be sick. Wait, isn't this like a time paradox?

Paradoxes aren't real, humans just haven't figured out the physics of time yet. This is a teachable moment. We're going to get out of here. We're going to find a tear in the void and walk out of it. Since time doesn't exist, our perception of it becomes reality. A century becomes a blink, we just need to find the point where we escape to the correct time and go there.

I understood basically none of it but you’re saying we can go back, right? Then I’ll try whatever nonsense you tell me. Hey laborer, will we be able to talk when we get back? Laborer? Hey! Are you there?!

“Ms.Mulberry? Mayday! Mayday! Are you finally awake? Mayday, can you hear me?!”

Theo? H-how long was I gone?

“Mayday! You have so much to answer for! Pull yourself together already!”

Huh? Can he not hear me? Oh, right, I forgot how to make a mouth. No, that’s not a mouth, that's just teeth. Teeth and eyes. Is that all I can remember? No… Teeth, eyes, and knowing, I just know. I know what he’s saying, that he knows what I am, and he doesn’t understand. It felt like it was years. No wonder I can’t remember how to move a body.

All of my memories are flooding back… Except the old ones. I don’t remember my time there. Just that it was horrific, and that I’ll miss it. I was connected to my kind for just a brief moment of eternity. I think I met someone there, and I wanted to say goodbye to everyone before I disappeared. I don’t think I’ll ever get back now. What do I even do? Therapy I guess. Oh, Erian is still talking. Maybe it’s important.

“I swear, you just do things with no regard! You could have seriously endangered my life, and the livelihood of everyone who comes to this clinic! Do you ever think about others? You better have a good explanation, and more importantly answers to our research if you ever want the chance of me forgiving you. You arrogant, ignorant, self-obsessed, blah, blah blah blah…”

Yep. Nothing important. Whatever. Stars, I’m bored. I want to hang out with Aria again, I want to see how Sandy is doing, I want to make sure Alexis is ok, I want to be able to hold Abi again. Maybe I should host a party. It’d be nice to be around others.

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[batwingsandblackcats]

Been thinking a lot about Laudna, Imogen, Delilah and Ludinus today.

Particularly the fact that Dani pointed out that Delilah is the only one who has said that separating her from Laudna would kill Laudna.

I’m real tired and this is maybe a little half baked but if I’m remembering correctly, Delilah really only started saying this in the context of other people. As far as we know, Laudna never contemplated the possibility of getting rid of Delilah before meeting Imogen and then the Hells, so this conversation was a moot point until the last couple years in-game.

But the thing I find really interesting about all of this is that Delilah tends to bring up the “if I die, she dies” thing to Imogen specifically, or to Imogen and Laudna as a unit, or to one of them in the context of the other, and I feel like that says something very interesting about the way Delilah views/expresses love and agency.

I think Delilah fundamentally misunderstands two very important things:

1. Delilah fundamentally misunderstands how Imogen loves.

Delilah went to extreme lengths to bring Sylas back after he died, and while he was apparently fine with that, she didn’t actually ask him. Unless there’s some unreleased lore somewhere where she and Sylas discussed things before he died, she didn’t actually get consent from him.

I think Delilah is banking on Imogen behaving the way she did when she lost Sylas. I think she’s either expecting that Imogen would go to extreme lengths to bring Laudna back, by force if necessary, or she’s expecting Imogen to not want to risk it in the first place. At this point in time I think it’s the latter, considering the context of the upcoming ritual. I’m sure she knows by now that Imogen desperately wants Delilah and Laudna separated, but I think Delilah is banking on the possibility of losing Laudna being enough of a deterrent for Imogen to keep her from actually trying.

Delilah was only there for the part where Imogen said she would do anything to get Laudna back, she wasn’t there when Imogen gave Laudna the choice to stay dead if she really wanted to. Delilah doesn’t seem to understand that Imogen will do anything for Laudna, including let her go if that would truly bring Laudna peace, even if that would destroy Imogen.

2. Delilah fundamentally cannot fathom Laudna having agency.

Obviously, Delilah views herself as above Laudna, and better than Laudna in every way. Before Laudna died, Delilah more than likely viewed her as a poor, uneducated girl with very narrow options in life, and after Laudna died, as a dead woman trying to and often unable to make ends meet, make connections, or get ahead in life at all.

The events of Laudna's life have not afforded her much in the way of agency, even in the parts where Delilah wasn't present.

But, Laudna still had this spark of potential, so Delilah pounced.

The whole toxic/abusive relationship thing has been discussed in the context of these two before for obvious reasons. Delilah took advantage of a woman with few options in life and has spent the last 30 years keeping Laudna in a mindset of low self worth to make sure she stayed pliable and usable in that way.

One thing about all of this though, and I've seen one person mention this, but it's not that widely discussed, is that Delilah has also been alone with Laudna for 30 years. She has also been deeply isolated for 30 years. And I think that's warped her perspective a little.

I don't think Delilah has ever lost sight of the fact that Laudna has this untapped potential, she's said on multiple occasions that she wants to do terrible and beautiful things with Laudna. But on some level, I wonder if she, in her extreme, extended isolation and single-minded determination to come back via Laudna, has done the thing where the abuser inadvertently succeeds in gaslighting themselves into genuinely believing that the person they are abusing will be completely non-functional without them.

I wonder if Delilah is playing a game of chance here, trying to scare Laudna and her friends enough so they won't try to get rid of her, or if she genuinely believes that Laudna literally can't live without her.

Delilah hasn't seemed terribly threatened by that fact that Imogen and the Hells have repeatedly encouraged Laudna's agency and expressed to her over and over again that she is powerful on her own, that she doesn't need Delilah. Delilah has definitely reinforced the opposite, but that's more like...maintenance. Routine degradation to keep Laudna down.

Aside from the occasional poke after Laudna has a conversation about all of this with Imogen or one of the Hells, I don't think Delilah sees a need to really go all out in counteracting specific bits of growth on Laudna's part. I think that she believes that Laudna is too far gone for any encouragement to stick.

I think Delilah only brings up the "if I die, she dies" in the context of other people, because she thinks that's the only time it matters. To Delilah, Laudna doesn't have any agency, so why would she have any kind of opinion on this?

And here's where this intersects with Ludinus.

I couldn't figure out why I believed Ludinus when he said, rather dismissively, that he could totally separate Laudna and Delilah without killing Laudna, but it hit me when I was in the shower, of all places.

Ludinus spent that conversation switching between talking to the Hells, and talking to Delilah directly. He knows her, they were in the Assembly together, and they weren't exactly friends. Ludinus doesn't have friends.

Ludinus is smart. He knows he's smart. He also has an ego the size of Exandria and he is deeply invested in his own intelligence. The man is trying to kill the gods to make a point.

Ludinus might be totally fine with mass manipulation and subterfuge on a large scale (the various lies he sowed to get people to join the Vanguard, etc) but that is, in many ways, detached from him. It's a means to an end, it gets the job done. But in one on one conversations, when he talks to the Hells, he's very open, seemingly honest. This reminds me of something Brennan said in a Worlds Beyond Number talkback episode recently about the persuasiveness of openness, how honesty can make peoples' guards come down.

Genuinely, I don't think he sees any reason to lie to the Hells because he is so steadfastly sure that his view is The Correct View, and the sheep just need to be lead to pasture and then They'll See.

But also, Delilah was present when he said that it wouldn't be a problem to separate her from Laudna, so that Laudna could go on and live a life free of Delilah.

Ludinus is smart, and he needs everyone else to know he's smart, and he's not going to derive any satisfaction from getting in a dig at Delilah if he can't back it up.

let's hope I'm not super fucking wrong in a few hours, lmao.

[stackslip]

CAN YOU ELABORATE ON TLT BEING A HOMESTUCK FANFIC‽‽‽‽‽

i'm exaggerating a bit, but taz muir was a well known homestuck writer who wrote under the username urbanAnchorite. her fic the serendipity gospels is one of my fave fics ever, but was never finished and it's only by book 2 of tlt that i figured that the clear allusions to it in book 1 weren't just cute little nods but that she'd expanded on some of the ideas/concepts and worldbuilding of the serendipity gospels. to name a few:

the ninth house cult is heavily based on the juggalo church muir wrote/expanded upon in TSG, from face paint to the rituals and a lot of the accompanying prose

act 2 of TSG takes place mainly in a spaceship that serves as "cathedral" of the juggalo cult, and is described to be covered in bones that have been painted in many colors--which is close to the description of the mithraeum

act 2 also features the two main characters being much younger people mentored/manipulated into horrible acts by an old man who is thousands of years old and bickering with his other thousand year old friends/enemies, who seem to share knowledge and understanding that neither the two protagonists do but also deeply resent one another. hard to not read a parallel to john and the lyctors here!

to elaborate on this bc i just realized it: it is heavily implied in TSG that the dancestors (older people thousands of years old) went through a universe reset and built the empire in the image of their own trauma and anger, which would v much parallel what happens to john on earth and how he "reset" humanity

less of a homestuck thing and more of a taz muir thing: said old man is v much grooming the main female character and making her life miserable during the entirety of act 2

a lot of the story takes place in the background of the trolls' empire being a horrific imperialist force that the main characters were originally very excited to join and become a part of, with one of these characters in particular daydreaming about becoming ground troop for invasion while also holding a terrible secret that would have precluded him of doing so anyway. p neat parallel to gideon's own thing here

act 1 and act 2 of TSG are from two different pov characters, with a drastic shift in prose style and understanding of the situation/world when the pov shifts. which v much echoes how tlt has worked so far. part 3 was barely started before it went on hiatus, but it followed the same pattern.

speaking of, the prose of act 2 of TSG definitely feels very close to harrow the ninth's prose. you can just open the fic and check the first chapter of act 2 and how it's written, and you'll see what i mean. there are differences--the prose of TSG act 2 is more inflected with southern usamerican evangelical speak, i think? i'm not american so i can't quite 200% tell

there is an external armed resistance to the empire's violent imperialism and resistance that was supposed to be the focus in act 3 of TSG, which never happened. nona the ninth did, though, and it follows that structure.

there are also eldritch horrors that threaten the entire universe--homestuck's own horrorterrors--that are in the background of TSG and implied to be an important part of the future plot that we never saw. tlt has the ressurrection beasts

taz muir's worldbuilding around the blood castes in og homestuck that she elaborates on in TSG also somewhat parallels the way the houses function in tlt

iirc there's also worldbuilding around space travel in tlt (such as the obelisks? i think that's the name? and the use of necromancy to power them) that parallels taz muir's own take on how space travel works in the troll empire, using psionics and draining them dry in a similar way

i think the necro-cav relationship 'ideal' is based around how taz also interpreted moirallegiance in not just TSG but all her homestuck fics, down to how its legal implementation and the idealization of it vs its role in troll/houses imperialism and the reality of blurred lines in "expected" relationships. i'd love to hear taz's discourse on troll romance

i also think the necro-cav relationship parallels the other legal pairing explored in TSG--legislacerator and subjugglator.

there are probably more parallels i am missing--i need to reread TSG soon, as i haven't in a while. there are elements i'd say are more like, how taz herself elaborated on the bones of the worldbuilding of homestuck and then made it her own thing, which is rad as hell. other elements are more fun nods, such as gideon's aviator glasses being shamelessly stolen from dave homestuck, and a lot of gtn's prose feeling very homestuckey. it's def not like, just a little rewrite and boom, you get the locked tomb! imo it's more elements of plot and worldbuilding that were interesting enough to develop into something of its own and that taz made into something new, along with other elements of other stories (such as lolita and umineko) being woven into it. part of why i enjoy tlt so much is its "collage" aspect, taking elements taz thought interesting in other stories, or using these elements to purposefully evoke specific feelings/moods to construct or obsfucate certain ideas.

[periprose]

Something angsty with Tonowari, like an argument that later they solve and turns fluffy or smuty whatever you want! Lysm <3

I love you too anon <3 thank you for the request!

Iknimaya

You assume that Tonowari and Ronal have something going on, during the most important day of your life. Takes place far before ATWOW, as Tonowari, Reader, and Ronal are fairly young.

Word count: 2.3k

Genre: Angst, unrequited love (but not really), fluffy ending, no use of y/n

Your head hurts a lot.

Not just because no one is listening to you, and you’re getting increasingly stressed- but because the amount of flowers, beading, and seashells woven into your hair must weigh an extra ten pounds.

It’s ridiculous. It’s nothing like your usual headdress, which is usually just a clip fashioned out of coral, pulling your hair back, and you want to tell Tonowari that this is pointless.

But he’s not listening, either. Tonowari is off to the side, speaking to Ronal with those big, unblinking blue eyes, listening with a enraptured look that’s pissing you off.

You know she is the new, freshly made Tsahik- she gets the right to speak on spiritual manners before anyone else does. But you want Tonowari to come back to where you’re standing, all alone, waiting for comfort.

Why doesn’t he look at me? You wonder. Doesn’t he care? I’m going through this all alone.

It’s the final phase in your Iknimaya- the coming-of-age ritual- and Tonowari has been by your side for every part of it. You’re a bit late to join the clan as an adult- your peers had already done so about a year ago- but Tonowari had always supported you, even when you felt like you couldn’t do it.

When you first bonded with your skimwing, Tonowari was there, cheering in the water, saying that he knew you could do it. 

When you first met your Tulkun Sister, Tonowari was the one who calmly had his hand on your back, because you were nervous she was going to reject you.

Tonowari has always been the one to be there for you. His presence is a comforting one for you, but you know that this isn’t an exclusive feeling. Many people love Tonowari- they come to him for advice whenever it is possible. And you know that’s why he’s been chosen as a successor to the Olo’eytkan.

Still, it bothers you. You want to keep Tonowari all to yourself- even if you know that’s selfish. It’s not the way of the people, but still, you want him to be by your side.

Ronal says something that you can’t quite hear- and you watch as her piercing eyes glance and stare right into you- and you feel judged. You feel small, tiny, as Ronal sizes you up. She turns back to Tonowari and says something with a hint of a smile- and you feel utterly sick to see it.

What could be so funny about you? What is so amusing that Ronal and Tonowari would gossip like this? It’s especially unlike Tonowari to do so. He’s usually such a fair, happy person, one that actually cares about others’ wellbeings, and here he is, becoming closer and closer to Ronal. 

They both have some sort of understanding, you can see, by the way that they look at each other. Tonowari squeezes Ronal’s hand- and your face burns with jealousy.

It makes sense, you think. Ronal is a resilient, prickly person, she knows what she means and says it, too. Tonowari is kind of the opposite- as kind-hearted as he is, he also is incredibly strong, and always willing to do the right thing. They both are matched in their sense of justice- and you feel a lump swell in your throat as you think about it.

They’re meant to be. Surely they will be mated, working alongside each other to lead the clan, and you will simply be to the side. It’s so obvious.

Tonowari looks back to you. His eyes are bright, and he has a hint of a smile on his face. But he’s surprised to see your eyes glint with tears, and you look away from him, towards the ground. Icing him out.

He tries his best to get your attention again, eyes searching your face, but you’re still turned away. You refuse to meet his eyes, and Tonowari feels his heart sink, as he wonders what he’s done wrong.

/

The Cove of the Ancestors feels cold today. It’s not a great omen for your ritual, and Ronal tells you as much. 

You nod silently. You see her squint, and then look impressed, and you don’t know why. It’s not as if you’re purposefully being stoic, you just can’t find the words to say to her. 

You’re standing in the most shallow part of the water, and Ronal steps around you, as the clan watches on.

“Today, you have made yourself a part of the people, forever.” Ronal touches your arms, your collarbones, and finally, your face. She grasps your cheeks, staring deep into your eyes, and you stare back, numb, trying not to feel afraid.

“You are one of us. You will breathe, know, and believe the way of water for as long as you live.” Ronal murmurs, before wrapping the customary garment around you. It’s a special shawl, beaded with beads that have been painstakingly made by hand, by the women of the clan. Everyone has such a shawl.

You pull it around yourself, feeling warmer. There’s some embroidery on the shawl, and it’s intricate- you wonder who did such a thing.

Ronal places three beads in your palm. You close your fist around it, knowing that it is the beads for your songcord, and watch as the Metkayina begin to sing around you.

You listen, feeling pride despite everything, that you have come so far. Their hands all gather to meet around you- a sea of arms, making branches not unlike a tree- and you are at the centre of it all.

You look up, finally, and see Tonowari staring at you. He looks… pleased. Happy. Perhaps you can have that, at least. The contentment of a friend is better than nothing.

Ronal pulls out a small knife. You stiffen- but you’re not truly afraid. She dips it into a shallow well of ink, made from different animals in the sea, and begins the process of tattooing. The song heightens as she creates intricate swirling patterns on your chin, and you bear it, bear the pain as the blade pierces your skin.

Everyone gently pushes you, as they walk, past the shallow pools, and into the water. You sink under, and there are hands cradling you as you do. You see the bright light of the Spirit Tree- and think about how lucky you are to be here. The tattoo’s pain seems to fade away.

Finally, you are pulled back up, after being baptised. 

Ronal raises your arm to the clan, who cheer and raise you upwards.

/

After everyone has moved past this, you are exhausted. You want to go back to your home, and go to sleep, especially after knowing that Tonowari is not yours to have.

You don’t know why you ever let yourself think that in the first place.

It’s too bad, though. You’re about to go to sleep in your marui pod, and when you enter through the opening, who else is already there, sitting, waiting, as if he owns the place?

Tonowari.

“Hello.” Tonowari motions for you to come sit next to him, patting on a pillow, but you simply stand in place.

“Why are you here?” You mutter, pulling your shawl around yourself a little tighter.

“Why would I not be here?” Tonowari stands up, and comes towards you, but you take a step back. Hurt flashes across his face as you do.

You look up at him, trying your best to swallow your sadness, your fears and anger, trying to just be as supportive as he was for you. 

“I don’t know. Aren’t there other things you need to do?” You stare up at him, and Tonowari looks down at you in confusion. He’s quite a bit taller than you, but he’s never felt imposing, or scary.

He wonders if that’s why you’re pushing him away. 

“What could be more important than celebrating the best day of your life?” Tonowari responds softly, and you can’t look at him anymore. 

Not when you feel that this has been the complete opposite. It doesn’t feel very momentous when you know Tonowari doesn’t care for you like that, not the way you care for him.

“Seriously. You don’t need to be here. Everything special is over, anyways.” You retort, but Tonowari shakes his head at that. 

“I… I thought you would be more happy. That you have come so far.” He sounds serious, and you feel guilty for a moment, until remembering how he looked at Ronal.

“I am, I just… I need to be alone, Tonowari.” You try, but he shakes his head.

Outside, a thunder storm starts, and a downpour of rain begins. Water ripples in the distance, and a pleasant drumming has started over your marui pod.

���No.” Tonowari shakes his head, and you hate him for this, hate him for how perseverant he always has to be, always having to know what happens so he can fix it. 

This is the one time he can’t.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” He insists, and you find yourself wanting to run- you start to move backwards, out onto the bridge, rain droplets hitting your hair. Tonowari moves forward quickly, and grasps your arm, pulling you inside before you can resist.

“You’ll get drenched if you’re out there. You’ll catch a cold.” He’s holding both of your arms, and you have nowhere else to go. You stare up at him- and he doesn’t look angry, just concerned.

“Stop… just stop doing that.” You whisper, and he shakes his head.

“Doing what?”

“Pretending that you care, Tonowari.” You finally hiss out, and his eyes widen. “I know you’re my friend- but you don’t really care about me, not in the way that I want you to. I… I don’t think I can keep being friends with you since that’s how it has to be, and I’m sorry.”

He tries to cut you off, but you keep going. 

“I know it’s selfish. But it’s all I can really say.” You stare down at the ground, and Tonowari’s hands come up onto your shoulders, trying to comfort you. “I wish you and Ronal nothing but the best.”

Tonowari’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Ronal?”

“Yes.” You sigh with a deep sorrow that only makes him more upset that you didn’t bring this up sooner. “I know you like her. I saw how you two were looking at each other.”

Tonowari exhales, glad that this was all it was, an easily fixable misinterpretation of events that he could correct, and that he wasn’t really at risk of losing you- and he pulls you in for a tight, bone crushing hug. 

You gasp. “Tonowari- let me go-!”

“No, skxawng.” His chest rumbles with deep laughter as you try to fight him, and he picks you up easily. “You should have told me.”

Tonowari walks with you in his grasp, and sits down, where he was before. He wraps his arms around your waist, holding you close to him. He doesn’t care that you’re angry at him- he’s happy that he can finally tell you the truth.

“Why? So you could’ve rubbed it in my face, even harder?” You glare upwards at him.

“Do you really think I would be holding you like this if I was to mate with Ronal?” He comments, just casually enough, and you remember where you are, and how close you are to him. You turn a deep purple- and Tonowari cackles at your expression.

“So?”

“So.” He places his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry you spent however long feeling like this. That was not my intention- and I hope you can forgive me.”

You open your mouth to say something, but Tonowari shushes you. 

His hand comes upward to trace your jaw, mouth, and chin where your freshly made tattoo is still healing. 

“I asked Ronal if it seemed appropriate to ask you to… to mate with me, because it would be so soon after you finished your Iknimaya.” He admits, and you gaze softens. “She said yes, because you seem so sure of yourself already- except for just now, I suppose.”

You find yourself smiling a little. Even giggling. How could you be so silly?

Not that it matters now, anyways.

“Will you? Would you be okay with being my mate?” Tonowari asks, and you hug him especially close, your face nuzzling into his neck.

“Of course I would, are you crazy? That’s what I was upset about.” You beam at him. “I’m only sorry that I was being such a skxawng.” 

Tonowari grins. “So, did you like the shawl?”

“Huh?”

His hand traces the embroidery in your shawl. You feel your chest turn warm at his contact.

“I did this- not well, but I did this. My mother showed me how.” He tells you, and you are taken aback, that Tonowari did such a thing and you had been wearing it this whole time, not knowing how important it was. How special it is. 

How could you ever assume that he did not care?

“It’s perfect.” You say honestly, holding it close. “I’ll treasure it forever.”

Tonowari’s eyes suddenly turn a little darker- his lids are half closed- and he leans in, pulling you in for a kiss, except he first kisses your forehead, and then your cheeks, and then he kisses your chin, where your tattoo is still burning a little.

His kiss makes it feel better, though.

He leans in and kisses you for real this time, his lips being soft, chastely plying at your own, before you kiss him back, and lean into his touch. His arms embrace you firmly, not letting you move away from him, and you wrap your arms around his neck.

[lnkedmyheart]

can you name every time in which dazai has expressed care for chuuya?

Sure, I can try. Dazai has a unique brand of care and it shows less as the more obvious show of affection and more as an interest in people. Lets go chronologically

Dazai's irritation at the meeting with the sheep in 15. He has imo already started his own weird bonding ritual with Chuuya by that point and wants him as his personal friend, his dog in Dazai lingo cause he is a moron. He gets irked at the way Shirase, and by extension the sheep, make demands of Chuuya. That being said, this is still early and he more or less just uses this info to exploit for later.

Dazai's fascination from the GSS squad vs Chuuya fight develops into Dazai wanting to keep living. And I think that is some kind of care because Dazai legit is vibing with the guy by this point. Him wanting Chuuya to be assigned to him and not Koyou and printing out newsletters about him etc all seem to point towards some weird way of wanting to be on talking terms with him.

In stormbringer Dazai carrying Chuuya all the way across the city to the Old World so he can see Albatross and hear his final words is very important to me.

Dazai's growing agitation at them not getting to Chuuya in time during his capture. Its not as noticeable but he was uncharacteristically insistent.

Dazai's insistence on Chuuya's humanity in general.

Dazai's entire plan in sb was so he could get his hands on details about Chuuya. Like he flat out admits that Mori and the mafia dont really matter to him here and Chuuya even understands that.

That one scene when Guivre first appears and Dazai whispers to Chuuya to not look. An underrated scene imo.

The very well known scene where Dazai gives Chuuya a genuine choice and was willing to put the entire city at risk because he believes Chuuya has a right to his humanity and past. Also him explicitly laying out everything in front of Chuuya.

Obviously him catching him as he fell and holding him or whatever. But also another underrated scene where when Chuuya feels lost at the care shown to his person by Adam in the epilogue Dazai has the softest most fond reaction.

In the day I picked up Dazai he talks about Chuuya to Oda. I think its cute.

Onto dragon head now: Dazai completely flipping from completely unbothered about the war to deciding enough was enough when Chuuya calls him out with a punch and is genuinely mad at him. He is very subdued throughout the manga panels. He doesn't evem tease him. Him quietly accepting that Chuuya needs to use corruption and despite him telling Dazai not to stop him he nullifies corruption by touching his face and then letting him rest on his lap and even puts his hat on his head. Hell Dazai's entire perception of events changes because of Chuuya, from making light of the colonel's death to angrily telling Shibusawa that he had crossed a line with that act. Also Dazai's "get shot and die" line is explained to be a code warning Chuuya of an incoming grenade.

Onto the manga timeline: Dazai is generally far nicer and more civil with Chuuya than any of the mafia members post defection. He gives Chuuya a choice with Lovecraft again, he is very gentle with Chuuya when nullifying corruption, not letting go of him till he knows Chuuya would be able to handle his own weight unlike with say Atsushi. He folds his clothes and brings his hat back. Note that the hat is very important to Chuuya.

Dead apple has Dazai's face when he touches Chuuya to nullify him and then holding him down post corruption. And the sheer trust he has in a Chuuya to follow through on a plan that was never discussed. And Chuuya's hat magically appearing in his line of sight when he leaves. Also you can't tell me he doesnt care when he makes that face.

Dazai's anger at Fyodor bringing Chuuya to Meursault is self explanatory, his bond being questioned is too but particularly his whole speech in 101 where he starts thinking back on their moments is proof enough that he genuinely cares about Chuuya in some weird obsessive way.

[angeart]

hhau vex arc part I bonus: mating marks, vexes, and not being enough

a small ramble [860 words] about that one time kane talked to grian about mating marks. this is early on, once grian is growing more comfortable in the vex commune, enough to tentatively spend time with others, but far from him feeling understood or accepted. back when kane still doesn’t understand a thing about avians. (he’s trying. in his own ways.) 

the topic of mating marks comes up because, well, grian has one! he has a bite from scar, and now thanks to nico and kane (and them having matching marks from each other), he understands what it really is. and once they learn he has one too— well. that shows that scar really means it with his little avian! he's serious about him! but... it bothers kane.

and he speaks up about it, mostly just baffled. he's not trying to be mean or anything!

he makes a thoughtless comment to grian—when scar isn't around—about how he wouldn't want to not have a mating mark if his partner had one. he just finds it weird! placing a lot of importance on that level of trust that lets you bite and be bitten.

he continues digging the hole underneath grian's feet by asking, "is it unrequited or something?" he doesn't understand it at all, and in his confusion, struggling with the idea itself, he tacks on: "i'd think my mate doesn't love me if he didn't want to mark me."

because that's how it works with vexes! the bite marks are mutual, and intimate, and they play into their instincts, both ways! kane considers them integral for a mated vex pair, and some other vexes around echo this sentiment.

scar has a feather earring from grian, which is an avian mating ritual, but it's one that doesn't translate to other vexes. they have no idea about things like that! it doesn't make sense to them!

so when grian stammers that he gave scar a feather, nobody takes it seriously. kane doesn't get the gravity of that action at all, and anyway, scar isn't an avian!

kane insists that a feather isn't going to cut it with a vex. he tries to encourage grian to just bite, his advice coming from a place of good intentions. he's seen scar and grian interact plenty by now—including that one time grian jumped in harm's way to defend scar—and he really wants this to work out for them! he's well-meaning!

but grian can't do that. (regardless of some memories we're not going to mention here <3) he doesn't have fangs to smoothly pierce skin and leave a mark like that; doesn't even have the drive, doesn't want to hurt scar in any way.

he stresses about it plenty, though. it worms its way inside his head and now he's Worried about being a failure and a bad partner! because— well, he will always fail scar in this regard, won't he? (that's a thought that terrifies him to no end.)

he can't give him a mating mark. he'll never satisfy that instinct.

scar is honestly perfectly happy with how things are; he treasures the feather immensely and understands what it means. but grian's mind still spirals about this, nitpicks and pokes and prods until it feels wretched and awful.

because sure, scar is happy enough with the feather, but isn't that just a compromise? his vex instincts are a separate thing, and this doesn't touch them at all. it doesn't satisfy them.

and scar's doing so much for grian and his avian instincts! he tries to get high places for them, and helps making nests. he's careful around his wings, and on a rare occasion, preens them with so much gentle care. he tries to coo back when grian makes bird noises, even if it's a bit silly and awkward. basically, he caters to grian's instincts at every step, and... scar needs vex things, doesn't he?

he needs vex things, and grian can't bridge that gap and provide.

no matter how many avian things scar gives him, grian can't give anything back.

grian doesn't really know how to articulate all this. he just gets very upset and stressed, thinking he's doing things wrong, and scar will always be left with some innate longing for more.

but, even though scar spent time learning more deeply about his vex side at the commune, these things were never something he's needed. he went his whole life not knowing anything about vexes. now he knows, and he still wants to be just scar, first and foremost.

of course grian and scar settle this, eventually. they have a broken mess of a talk, and then a couple more, just to really drive the point home. scar understands the avian mating ritual for what it is, the way grian understands what the bite mark on his neck is. and it's enough! they don't need anything more! scar can't exactly give grian a feather either, so what?

as long as the two of them know what they have and are happy with it, who cares what the others think?

there’s one point in particular that scar makes, when grian expresses worrying about not being enough for scar’s vex instincts. softly, he reminds him that he gave grian that mark long before he had any idea it was a vex ritual. 

it was a them thing first and foremost, before it was anything else.

(and he’d like a bruised ring from a hickey just as much as a bite. he’s a smitten fool.)