#all from the confines of his paper realm.

[craig960114]

story by me (craig)

I are literature

In the quiet town of Doodleville, there lived a peculiar doodle named Craig. Craig was no ordinary sketch; he was a cat with a mission. Despite his simple appearance, Craig harbored ambitions far grander than his humble origins suggested.

From a young age, Craig possessed an insatiable curiosity and a keen intellect. While his peers contented themselves with idle doodling, Craig spent his days studying the world around him, absorbing knowledge like a sponge. He learned about history, politics, and the intricacies of human behavior, all from the confines of his paper realm.

As Craig grew older, his ambitions expanded. He yearned for something more than the confines of Doodleville. He dreamed of venturing beyond the borders of his sketchbook and making his mark on the wider world.

One fateful day, Craig's opportunity arrived in the form of a stray pencil left unattended on the edge of his page. With a mixture of determination and excitement, Craig seized the pencil and began to draw. He sketched a doorway leading out of Doodleville, and with a final flourish, he stepped through into the unknown.

The world outside was vast and full of wonders, but it was also fraught with danger. Undeterred, Craig embarked on a quest to carve out his own destiny. Along the way, he encountered a colorful cast of characters, from mischievous doodles to formidable adversaries.

Despite the challenges he faced, Craig never lost sight of his ultimate goal: to leave his mark on the world and reshape it according to his vision. With each obstacle overcome and each victory achieved, Craig grew stronger and more determined than ever before.

In the end, Craig's journey was not just about conquering the world, but about discovering his true self and realizing his full potential. As he stood atop the highest peak, surveying the realm he had conquered, Craig knew that his adventures were only just beginning. For Craig was not just a doodle; he was a legend in the making, destined for greatness beyond the confines of his paper kingdom.

[kaixserzz]

The Fox, the Crow, and the Bunny.

ੈ♡˳ Il Dottore and Gn!Child!Reader *ೃ༄

ੈ♡˳ 2.4k words ┊ Fluff *ೃ༄

ੈ♡˳ Masterlist | JLM Masterlist *ೃ༄

author's note ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

something sweet. dedicated to @idyllic-affections thanks for writing my kaveh rq n this series is inspired by ur acc.. realized i strayed from the real purpose of this fic and made it too long, so just think of it as a 2 in 1 special lol,, (also hi sorry for using dottore he's like my muse and i love writing him) also i hope yall get the meaning of this shit lmao (ref to the scara quest tale)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ cw: strictly platonic/familial, reader is 8 years old, basic dottore warnings, mentions of death, dissecting animals and injuries, implied dottolone (barely), a little ooc but it's canon to me

Dottore's office was once a sacred chamber inside the Fatui headquarters.

While not relatively as pristine as his laboratory, amidst the chaos, there was order. Everything was in its designated place, even though his desk was a nightmare to whoever laid eyes on it (spilled coffee too busy to clean, now dried onto the wood of his table, piles, and piles of documents and papers stacked haphazardly on one another, a disarray of pens and pencils occupying every available niche, and vials filled with who-knows-what dangerously teetering on the edge).

Hazards lurked at every turn within his office, presenting a far-from-presentable façade that seemingly clashed with his position as the 2nd of the 11th Fatui Harbingers. Yet, one might ponder, does the doctor truly concern himself with such matters?

No, not at all. He doesn't have the time to clean everything or keep them in such an organized state. He simply knows everything is in place, and the mess scarcely holds him back (he hires maids once in a while, when the mess gets too much, and in 1 out of 5 maids he hires only makes it out alive).

Yet, what truly imbued this room with a sense of sanctity? For within these walls, he unearthed his genuine solace and tranquility.

In this space, silence reigned supreme. Isolation was his companion, a cherished serenity he embraced. Here, his thoughts danced, inventions took form, and ideas flowed onto paper alongside intricate equations. Occasionally, he'd pass out on his desk and drool all over his papers. This room stood as a shelter inviolable, reserved solely for those few instances of urgency or the presence of a fellow Harbinger.

All other members of the Fatui instinctively bid their time, patiently awaiting his emergence from the sanctum of his office before venturing to approach him. For within its confines, the Doctor was impervious to disruption. No one disturbs the Doctor.

That was before you came along, of course.

The office, ill-suited for a child of your tender years, harbored a minefield of hazards. Within its walls lay various artifacts, concoctions, and intricate machinery, a perilous realm unfit for the innocent curiosity of youth. Regrettably, your presence inadvertently disrupted the serene harmony that had long enveloped this space, unsettling the Doctor who, by nature, dislikes abrupt shifts and deviations from what he was used to.

When you first arrived in his office (he didn't want you inside of it, after all, he wasn't exactly fond of children, but he had no choice) you were immediately injured after stepping onto a shard of glass that Dottore has completely ignored. You tried your very best not to cry for the sake of not irritating Dottore further, but he wasn't very gentle with your wound either.

He took note of keeping his vials away from the edge of his table.

Then a bunch of books topples over you. He puts them into the shelves now, and you helped him organize by using the Dewey Decimal System, to which you had read from a book.

Then, while he was explaining his recent idea (rather enthusiastically) to you, his hand accidentally slammed against his files and flew straight to your face. You also helped him organize his papers.

And then it was cleaning his desk, offering him DIY pencil holders you've made just for him. You've also invented a mug that prevents the liquid inside from spilling (he thinks it was a rather brilliant invention, he no longer has to worry about spilling on his desk).

And then it was putting his rather precarious possessions somewhere else, outside the vicinity of his office and far away from your grasp.

You were very eager to help him in any way possible, and for a child, you quite enjoyed receiving chores. Yet, your contentment was uncomplicated, drawn from the privilege of being granted entry to his treasure trove of knowledge, replete with a limitless collection of books, materials, and tools.

Dottore always thought that you'd be such a nuisance to him once you entered his office and sully the peace he has always known within his office's enclosed haven.

But he didn't expect to welcome your presence at all, on such short notice, too. (Deep inside, he felt a strange warmth in his chest whenever you'd tug on his coat, asking if he needed any assistance with organizing his office. He wonders what it was, though.)

So, here you were, amidst the symphony of pen strokes etching against paper, a solitary melody resonating within the confines of his office.

Contrary to his expectations, the calmness he believed would dissipate upon your arrival had, in fact, been amplified by leaps and bounds. As he observed from the corner of his eye, you reclined on your stomach, legs swinging idly behind you, immersed in a world of creativity. Strewn across the floor, an assortment of crayons bore testament to your artistic endeavors, while he diligently attended to the papers handed by the Fatui.

Then, as if hesitant to break the comfortable silence, you tried to catch his attention with a soft 'psst!', then covered your mouth with your tiny hand to suppress your childish giggles.

The corners of his lips twitch in irritance amusement as he turns his head toward you, his pen on the desk. You broke into a much bigger grin and held your drawing close to your chest, not wanting to expose it just yet. "Hey, Dotdot!" You whispered to him, and he can't help but roll his eyes smile at the nickname you've given him. "Can I show you what I drew?"

Dottore emitted a contemplative hum as if grappling with the decision of whether to engage or remain absorbed in his thoughts. Your evident impatience manifested in a pout, prompting his response. "Well, fine," He yielded, beckoning you forth. You beamed brightly as you swiftly rose to your feet and bounded toward him, your landing generating a muted grunt from him. A steadying hand rested on the desk, enabling him to regain his composure, after which he settled your giggling form comfortably within the space between his legs. "Now then," He put his hands on your shoulder, "What is it you wished to share?"

With another giggle from your ceaseless childish amusement, you gave him the piece of paper. Big, round eyes sparkling against the light of the room looked up at him expectantly. Dottore received the drawing from you, his gaze lingering over its details, drawn into a moment of shared curiosity and wonder.

It was him, and you, holding hands, depicted with earnest effort and the imaginative touch of your youthful artistry. Around you were a bunch of other versions of him, his segments, though you've only drawn five (since they were the only ones who have interacted with you so far). Each had their names labeled beneath them, but Dottore absolutely adores that you've labeled him as 'Dotdot' instead (you've also drawn Pantalone holding your other hand and labeled him as 'Pants', adorned both figures with encircling hearts).

"Truly remarkable artwork," He stated with a smile, his words accompanied by the sound of your jubilant cheers, "This masterpiece deserves a place of honor, a spot where all can admire it. I can already imagine the joy it will bring to the other segments once they lay eyes on it."

"Really!?"

"Of course, I do believe they enjoy your company, little bunny."

As he carefully set the drawing on his table, your inquisitive gaze caught his attention. With a tilt of your head, a gesture he knew all too well, you asked him a question, "Why do you call me that?"

"Hm? Call you what?" Dottore grabbed you gently and settled you onto his desk. Positioned face to face, at eye level, his intent was clear—to engage with you as both an adult and a child, a balance you seemed to relish.

"Bunny! You call me bunny lots,"

"Oh? Do you not like it?"

You vigorously shook your head, "No no, I love it! I get called nicknames, but they're all mean." You furrow your brow as you reminisced, pouting at the awful memories. But then you broke into a big smile again, "But yours is new and cute! So, why do you call me that?"

Dottore's grin widened, revealing his sharp teeth, a sight that enthralled you. Your hands instinctively moved to his cheeks, your eyes filled with wonder, and he welcomed the touch wholeheartedly. "Ahh, ever so curious, aren't you, little bun?" He teased playfully, giving your nose a gentle boop! with his finger, and your giggles were a delightful response. "You see, I call you bunny because you embody its spirit—small, swift, and an endless source of vibrant energy.

You also love to hop onto people a lot."

"I love giving surprise hugs! I'm too small, so a jump, so I can wrap my arms around them a bit higher!" You huffed as he chuckled at your explanation. "What are you, then? What animal?"

"Oh? I've never thought about what kind of animal I'd be... Hmmm..." Dottore mused for a while, his expression thoughtful. Eventually, he arrived at a decision. "A fox, I think. Crafty, shrewd, and sly. A creature that prowls with a purpose and possesses those distinct, sharp teeth." As he said that, he grins once more to show his sharp teeth, then lunges for your finger, mimicking a bite, prompting you to gasp and pull back with a joyful squeal.

"And speaking of bunnies..." His tone took on a mischievous edge, causing your eyes to widen in anticipation. Suddenly, he swooped in, grabbing your legs and lifting you high into the air. "I might just gobble you up!" Dottore's playful pretense of chomping down on you elicited a cascade of laughter from you. You pushed at his head, trying to escape his 'gobbling' jaws, your legs kicking playfully as you enjoyed the moment.

"I don't think you're a fox, Dotdot!" You quipped, retaking your seat on his desk. Playfully swinging your legs, you mused aloud, a soft humming accompanying your contemplation.

Dottore raised an intrigued eyebrow, "Oh? And what am I in the eyes of my little bunny? Perhaps something more fearsome?" He inquired, looming over you in an effort to intimidate you.

Instead, your eyes lit up brightly, and you joyfully clapped your hands together. "Oh, I've got it! A crow!" You exclaimed with a triumphant smile.

A bemused frown replaced his grin as he processed your unexpected response. "...A crow?" He echoed, clearly puzzled by your choice. "Of all animals?"

And you merely smile at him, giggling at his confused reaction, "Mhm! Yeah! A crow that talks on and on and on." Your hands followed your words, almost hitting him in the face, "A crow that is death and prey over rotting corpses, but a crow that saved me! I thought Dotdot was an angel, but angels don't have black feathers, scary smiles, or red eyes."

Your words painted a vivid picture of your perception, a whimsical and deeply personal perspective on his nature. Dottore nods along, intrigued, as you rambled your thoughts to him, not even chastising you for grabbing the beak of his mask and playing with it.

"You're a crow! You're very smart, and clever, and creative! You're scary to other people, but not to me! I love corvids, I used to feed them bits of animal after I dissect them, and they always bring me something shiny. They were my only friends, and now you're my friend too!"

He doesn't understand the gentle warmth that began to unfurl within his chest as he remained attentive to your words. While unfamiliar, this sensation wasn't entirely unwelcome... "I beg to differ, my dear bunny. I am unmistakably a fox,"

"Then you're a crow pretending to be a fox!" You pout, stubbornly crossing your arms. "I think crows are way cooler than foxes. They can fly! Plus, you can't call yourself a fox when you resemble a crow more than a fox!" You pointed out, a triumphant smirk on your lips.

Well, you do have a point. He does wear a beaked mask, coupled with a bird-like shoulder embellishment bedecked in exquisite black feathers.

"Should I then consider donning attire that better befits a fox?"

At the notion, you fixed him with a mock glare, your cheeks puffing out in an adorable display of discontent. "Nooooo! I prefer Mr. Crow!" you protested with a playful whine, punctuating your words by delivering gentle punches to his shoulders with your tiny hands.

He chuckles at your small tantrum, and he swiftly gathers you into his embrace. Your arms naturally encircled his neck as he rose from his seat, carrying you toward the door, your precious drawing clutched in your hands. "Very well, very well, my dear Mr. Crow it shall remain," He conceded with a playful tone, his steps filled with an easy camaraderie.

Victoriously, you shot him a smug grin, to which he rolled his eyes at.

"Do you wanna know something, Mr. Crow?" You mutter in his ear as he walks past one of his segments.

"Hm? What is it?"

You made sure to whisper it very quietly, hoping the other segments won't hear you. "Between you and me, I think that your younger segments are like rats!"

He didn't know what came over him, he released a hearty, resounding laugh, its volume surprising not just you but also the other segments who happened to be present, each momentarily taken aback by their own affairs. Such an outpouring of mirth was rare for him (only when he was inside his dark, cool lab, alone with experiments).

A sense of pride swelled in your chest as you grinned widely, his laughter infectious as you burst into a fit of giggles. It was a scary laugh, maybe it was just naturally like that, but to you, it sounded very happy. "They bit me once! I was just poking their face."

"Perhaps give them a treat before you approach them," He says, calming down as he continues his trek toward your room. "This gesture might just soften their demeanor."

"What, like cheese?"

"Oh, little bun, that'll drive them even more mad once they found out you called them rats."

You share another grin with him, finding a cozy spot to rest your chin upon his shoulder in contentment, "Good! I think they're funny when their faces turn red."

- ̥۪͙۪˚┊❛❛ If you like this a lot, consider reblogging! I’ll appreciate it very very much! Don’t repost and/or translate my work anywhere. ❜❜ ┊˚ ̥۪͙۪◌

[ddarker-dreams]

How They Flirt / Scarlet Ribbons.

(tl;dr most of them can’t . 🙏)

[Scarlet Ribbons Index]

Giorno

Giorno genuinely has no idea what he’s doing, although you’d never know on first glance. He studies you like he’s a sociologist conducting naturalistic observation. He subtly plays up the aspects of himself he thinks you’d be taken with, adjusting how much he talks or listens, how physically close he gets, etc. Is it a little weird? Yes. In his defense, he’s never cared for someone this deeply, so he doesn’t want to mess it up. Even if he’s making adjustments to how he acts around you, it’s still sincere. He wouldn’t want you falling for a false image of himself, after all. Giorno is easy to get along with due to his polite nature and quiet charm. He makes you feel as if you’ve known one another all your lives within a few weeks. As his confidence builds, he’ll get a little more playful, displaying a mischievousness few expect him to possess. He’ll whisper quips into your ear, lean in to wipe cream off the corner of your lips after you take a drink, and purposefully get ‘lost’ when walking you home so that you spend more time together. He learns fast. 

Bruno

Bruno’s flirting is old-fashioned and kinda stiff, but charming in its own way. He has the basics down from watching how his father interacted with his mother before she left. Despite being a prized bachelor, he has no experience in the romance department, he’d been too focused on his ambitions to dabble. Rather than embarrassing himself by trying something he’s unfamiliar with, he focuses on what comes naturally. When you both aren’t working, he’ll lighten up and show a more relaxed side of himself. He has to resist the temptation of spoiling you every waking second. He recalls how enthused his mom would become upon receiving gifts like pearl earrings from his father and takes a similar approach. The concept of there being a reminder of him on your person pleases him greatly, he especially loves giving you necklaces. Surprisingly, he does have something of a possessive streak. He’ll sometimes drape a coat/blazer over your shoulders if you’re wearing an outfit that earns stares, using the excuse that he doesn’t want you to be cold. 

Fugo

Lord please help him. Most of his flirting is confined to the realm of theory. He’ll lay awake at night staring at his ceiling, contemplating the most efficient method to get his feelings across. Many hours have been spent penning prose to paper, the parchment ultimately meeting the same fate. He rips it to pieces in fits of frustration so thoroughly, one might believe he used a paper shredder. Fugo already thinks you’re completely of his league and his inability to woo you without internally combusting makes him feel extra pathetic. So rather than go on the offensive, he’s on the defensive, doing what he can to obstruct the other “hormonal imbeciles” from making serious headway with you. For example, he’s always the first to sit next to you in restaurants or on car rides. He also feeds the others false information about you, by saying your least favorite food is your favorite, stuff to that effect. A professional saboteur. Poor guy doesn’t know you’d genuinely be flattered to receive one heartfelt compliment from him. 

Mista

He thinks he has mad game (he does not have mad game). Oddly enough, he has more confidence when the others are present? Maybe it’s some caveman instinct that makes him want to show off, but whatever the case, he gets in a decent flow of things. His arm is wrapped around your shoulders more often than not. Mista knows how to make you laugh and you both have innumerable inside jokes. When you’re caught between two dessert choices, he’ll get the one you didn’t pick, so that you’ll ask him for a bite. He then proceeds to feed you said bite while ignoring the death stares from the other gang members present. When it’s just the two of you though, it feels oddly intimate, and he starts losing his cool. He does get better about this over time. Drops some corny lines that you mistake for jokes and laugh at. Honestly, he’s a chill guy, so this outcome doesn’t even perturb him. There’s no better prize than making you laugh. 

Narancia

Narancia is the most overt out of all his rivals. He's willing to stab someone for so much as looking at you the wrong way, he really thinks you’re some higher being who has graced him with your presence. His flirting is mostly just him hanging out around you every second he can. It doesn’t matter if you’re doing something fun like going to the arcade or grocery shopping, he wants to be there, by your side, where he feels the most at peace in the world. He laughs at your jokes, smiles when you enter the room, and gets visibly dejected when you leave. Narancia is basically your cheerleader — he hypes you up when you wear a new outfit, offers to paint your nails, lets you test out new makeup ideas on him... he’s down for anything, so long as you’re involved. 

Abbacchio

Abbacchio erroneously assumes you’ll be able to piece together his intentions yourself if he drops enough hints. When this proves to be going over your head, he swears that you’re a lethal threat to his sanity. His style is similar to Narancia’s, loath as he is to admit it. He’ll invite you over for a nice vintage bottle he claimed to have happened upon (in reality, a great deal of care went into choosing it), so that you can spend a leisurely evening together. He tries curbing his sardonic comments in your presence, but you never make him feel like he needs to change his personality. You just naturally bring out this softer side to him he didn’t know existed. He is vigilant in looking out for your best interests from afar, helping you in ways you’ll never know about, as he doesn’t expect gratitude. What matters most to him is knowing you’re happy. 

[romcomeon]

𝟎𝟎𝟖. 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐔𝐒

✒ 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐋: it's not so impossible, nobody else but the two of us here / so you're saying it's possible, we can just watch the whole world disappear

✒ 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓: reader as "evan hansen", diavolo as "zoe murphy"

✒ 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: diavolo x gn! reader, obey me x dear evan hansen (canon-compliant), fluff, slight angst, mentions of diavolo's mother, talks of grief and uncovering the past

✒ 𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐒: wc: 3k+ | read on AO3 .ᐟ

✒ 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐒: @nick-writes-stuff / @eraofkalki

“Did she say anything else?”

You flinched, lifting your head from reading the old, worn out letter at his silken honey-like whisper. Your eyes were quick to focus on Diavolo’s form as he leaned on over to try and sneak a glimpse. You, however, placed the paper right on your chest, folding it right at the middle along the perfect crease from when you found it from the old brown envelope.

“About you?” you asked with a bit of a smirk. His booming excitement fades at your words, and instead was replaced with a more bashful expression. Diavolo’s face flushed crimson, cold, golden eyes away from the letter now held captive by your playful gaze. You’d wonder if you’ll joke about how the letters complained how Diavolo was quite playful inside the womb.

The prince stammered his words. “Oh no- Oh no-  nevermind I don’t want to—”

“No no no! She said— she said so many great things I’m just—” You took a deep breath, recomposing yourself. “I’m just trying to find the best ones.”

If you could tell him; tell him everything you see. If you could tell him how he’s everything to you. And you both were a million worlds apart, realms and dimensions scattered between individual galaxies. Infinite, and you were only two among billions.. If only he were given the chance to see himself in your eyes, to feel the warmth in your heart each time he passes by. 

But a star can't feel another's warmth if they are lightyears away, no?

You’ve already talked a lot, and you were just going through the final envelopes found in a time capsule buried six-feet deep beneath the glass gazebo. Of a figment of imagination, where you dream of the future you were waiting to come. But said dreams were vivid: picturing a hair adorning velvet like hearts, bearing the sight of hellfire like the king. Small jokes of how while genetics were strong, she believed her little boy would look much like her and less like his father. 

Late of  May or Early June, in this picture-perfect afternoon they’d share. Describing an open field that was framed with trees, humming songs composed for orchestras, telling wild stories no one understands—except for then.

As you’ve read:

“Oh the little one, I can’t wait for him to step foot into the world. Once his tiny feet are able to balance themselves, then I vow to take him here. There’s nothing we will never discuss, and I’ll teach him at that very patch away from the restricting confines of the castle. Here, in this garden we once shared, and where no one else would rather be. It’s where he’ll be able to witness the wonders I wished I had. I’ll give it all to him, to run freely beneath the moonlight’s gaze. Away from the servants, and especially away from the timekeeper. Where mom isn’t going anywhere, and mom will stay right here. The castle had felt so big, and I had felt so small. Where little you won’t be scared to go outside on February days. Away from a time where you’d ask, ‘Mama, will there be another carriage? Another one that will take mommy away?' I know there will be moments that I'll miss. And I know there will be spaces I can’t fill. And I know I'd come up short a billion different ways.”

You can go on for forever. All you’d see was light, for forever. It feels like it’ll keep going on for forever. 

And you don’t know where to even start.

Not until once cold eyes radiated the calming warmth, sparking a mixture of different emotions at once. To be excited yet terrified. Curiosity with an underlying sense of dread. A sort of childlike innocence drowned behind a more rigid adult mask. Even with the found old records of a time before the both of you, the distance of the past has grown too wide.

His room, dark and muddled with hues of gray and wine red. Unlike how the letters imagined his abode: plentiful, colorful, as bright and joyous as his imagination wished. It was an idealized way of thinking, not a blueprint or a guide to his way of living.

“He’ll live in a space of his own, and we’ll be there to give it to him. We’ll be there and watch him grow, and watch his little room rebranded and redecorated throughout centuries, marking new humble beginnings with our little one. In hopes that when the house feels so big, he won’t ever feel so small.” 

You could hear Diavolo sigh. “She just seems so far,” he said. “The carriage did take her away.” 

 Sitting on the lush bedsheets of his king-sized bed within the palace’s highest wing was more or less suffocating. He’s had a few of the first letters you read in his grapes, black-painted fingernails mildly digging into its contents. Words, anecdotes written in most delicate cursive, the royal family’s seal dented on the upper-right margin. Sentences and paragraphs flowing like a sped up dial rushing with the winds of the presence, poetic but with precise punctuation. Clear and snappy, direct, but also hidden layers of emotional longing. 

Diavolo chuckled, lifting a finger up to wipe a tear that was soon to be shed. 

“It’s like I don’t know anything.” 

Even when he assures you that all is fine, and everything is alright, as though he tries to assure you that the world will not tip off of its balance. And yet every gem that only seems to add to the weight of your already heavy crown adding up a thousand tons more. With every word you say comes a wandering eye, scanning every action for a fraction of a mistake. How he stands atop the highest pedestal, made of gold and reinforced with platinum, adorned with bright velvety silk and the wuthering screams of the souls trapped within its walls. 

Even as he wished for a life much simpler you couldn’t escape the grandeur setbacks of the forged crown. The throne traps itself as a symbol of reverend status, now corrupted to mean those who governed the land by blood, not by men. With every sliver of incompetence sliced heretics by the tongue. How they who wished to overthrow his excellency’s rule banished from even the more ruthless landscaped of hell, in accordance to which they don’t serve a face to the prince himself.

Even when he promised a wish against his own lineage’s morale. To live unbidden with the shackles of being another Deity, but to be treated with equal kindness and respect as a subordinate. To be equal however the scope of the world may change. To be free from a past that shall eternally haunt him, marking the eve of wavering spirits springing themselves from the grave and reunite with those of the living.

You fall back to the contents of the letter on your hand. “To my dearest little boy,”

“I would make sure his first words were one of love, not hatred. I’ll devote my time into giving him a life well-spent, shaping him into a hopeful ruler of these lands. I don’t wish to hear him just sing the praises of ‘Mama’, but heed the words I’ll forever sing to his little heart.” 

“Diavolo…”

The red-haired prince  perks up. “Yes?”

“Do you…”

You believed it to be an innocent enough question, but you couldn't help holding back. Would it be more comforting to take the road of subtlety, or would it be more less awkward to be straightforward? Quoting the words directly or be more subtle with your question. It was supposedly an innocent ponder of a mother long gone.

A kind woman’s final wish, written out like an unforeseen memoir instead of a letter sent to one of her friends from afar. Though, supposed the thought itself was innocent enough. Whichever the outcome, you hoped it wouldn't cause a terrible mess.

Clutching the paper in your hands, you inhale—though you take note of how Diavolo's features contort into that of confusion.

The exhale comes out as a faint, almost strained, laugh.

“Dia, how do you say ‘I love you’?” 

Diavolo raised a brow, cocking his head to the side. “I love you? Like, ‘I love you’ I love you?”

You nodded. 

Diavolo was quick to profess. “I love you.” Nothing too much; quick, direct, and not too overbearing.

You stifle a laugh, nudging his shoulder. “No! Sincerely! Like you mean it.”

Diavolo makes a small ‘oh’ with his lips. That stumped him.

You figured it was a stupid question to start, and the Queen just wished to teach her future son three little words of endearment. Stupid. You see everything you’ve wanted. You hesitantly shift your position away, your laughter turning strained with each second. The heavens forbid he sees your burning face. You, meanwhile, only see everything you had—and it’s right there.

Right there. 

You’ve learned to slam on the break, before you even turned the key. Before you made a mistake.

Or was it a mistake?

You watch as Diavolo leans dangerously close, eyes gentle with hints of restlessness. You hear him hum one of the melodies in the letters, his eyes gliding up and down before settling back up to you. The intensity of his gaze and the caught words in his throat spoke of hesitation, but there's certainty coursing towards his fingers. With each  shake of breath makes you believe he’s gasping for air, gulping his words down so as to not make the same mistake like you. For a moment, he seemed just as deep in thought as you were.

Careful, he closed his eyes, his body inching closer towards your frame leaving you cornered against the headboard. From your shoulder, his index finger traces upward along your neck, higher until he tilted your head upwards by the chin. An easier, much more intimate way of looking eye-to-eye.

His hand now rests under, Diavolo moves even closer. May it be the firm hold he had on your soul or how his figured towered over you, but his shoulders relaxed seeing the tiniest mist of roses blooming along your cheeks. Where only centimeters part your ways.

Your surroundings were deafening, the only sound ringing in your ears were both of you. Listening to each subtle movement, looking impulsive but feeling carefully calculated. Gone were the formalities of Lord Diavolo, the Prince with a roaring presence that caused peasants to tremble 

These were much simpler. Feeling more natural, and as shaken as you both were—he looked calm. 

“I love you,” he whispered. 

You feel the air escape your lungs, and your heart pumping blood faster throughout your system. Each syllable feeling slurred in your ears, muddled down to a sweeter timbre. You hear his voice and feel him near, within his words you find uncertainty. Being close to coughing on your own breath, but Diavolo's there to help siphon it by pressing on the bottom lip, gently gliding his thumb with precision. 

You weren’t so sure, but Diavolo had made up his mind before you were able to process your own words. Like some sort of mirage shattered beneath the shining star.

“I love you. Truly.”

The prince’s eyes were wide open, its glow being more radiant than the luminous lanterns. Those eyes of a frozen, harsh haze of gold, swirling within warm rays of honey and sunshine. It was enchanting, like a nebula pulling you closer to the pitch-black hole of his irises. A simple black dot for simply just a man.

“And thank… thank you,” Diavolo swooned. “Thank you oh so much. You’ve given me my mother back.” 

In perfect sync, the impulse of pressing his lips against yours timed perfectly with the lights flickering off. Only the ever spotting beam of moonlight glow cascaded over your figures, mingling and unraveling into a deep embrace of the night. How could something so sweet be so wrong? It never came to you how your body reacted quickly, raising your hand to nudge him off only for him to grab you by the wrist.

You pant from the rapid increase of your heartbeats, yet he’s there. You are in his hold, his frame looming over yours. Calmly. “Let me have this before it's taken away from me forever.” 

Even when the dark came crashing through, you only saw the tiny flickers of stars in his eyes. Like the sun came streaming in, beckoning you to reach out and rise again. To continue.

It felt like you were being watched in his quarters, and it felt wrong. Yet you were only further tempted into delving into this wrongness. 

Very wrong.

To think that these letters marked the annual celebration of the birth of the Devildom Prince. And bounded by your humanistic—realistic—ego in matters where mortals shan’t dwell into, you figured it made sense to foreground this legacy. To stretch this broken family and uncover the story yourself. Diavolo may have been selfish, though you…

You. 

Dear little lamb, there was a difference between reality and mere fantasious plays of vengeful adventures.

For a moment, selfishness was an understatement.

This indulgence didn't make you selfish anymore. 

It made you cruel.

Outside the grandiose decorations of orange hues and black against yellow light. Like always, his parties were large. Luxurious, pouring gold out of bejeweled pipes. You were outside, gently circling the cocktail in the glass, admiring how it catches the moonlit gaze. 

Today had been tiresome, but it made the effort all the more worth it. You feel yourself becoming closer to the royal family’s history, much more so with Diavolo himself.  Where you'd rather pretend to be something better than these broken parts. Pretend you’re something other than the mess that you are.

“And that’s what you call a party,” you chuckled, twirling it around a final time.

Diavolo followed back, “is it now?”

“Honestly, you seem slightly happier than before.”

The prince grinned at your words, before his eyes wandered back to barren fields docked to the brim with gothic decor. “The praise isn’t all that tiring?”

But he deserved it. Every word, every bit of affirmation was his to hold dearly forevermore. While the ceremony earlier this morning was sad, it felt necessary.

It felt wonderful; he got his usual celebration, got to rekindle with the past he’ll never return to, and now you take it back to much simpler times, as if no one else had mattered. 

“Though was it necessary?” Diavolo leaned against the railing, arms crossed, watching the festivities with a slight frown.

You pause.

“Hm?”

“You didn’t have to do all that.” He gestured toward the lavish decorations with a slight shake of his head. Plenty of white chrysanthemums littered the gardens, as it was hinted to be her favorite. Once devoid of any sign of life, turned to a shrine of woeful worshippers, an altar for the sons and daughters.  “The memorial to my mother. It was sweet, yes, however…”

The drink finds itself resting on the balcony. Your hands clasped together, gaze shifting to the ground.  “Oh… I understand if you don’t want—” 

“You don’t have to convince me.” Diavolo took a step closer, a hand hesitantly taking hold of your shoulder. The other hand froze in place before it came any less than an inch. Keeping his voice steady, he spoke breathlessly with a soft smile. “You don’t have to be scared you’re not enough.” 

For once, you could feel Diavolo's breathing slow down. Every gasp steadily grew more livid despite the sudden gush of wind. Heaven knows the world forced you two closer, fallen at your expense. You reciprocated his actions, your hand now also rests on the sturdy padding of his suit. The other slithered along his sides, pleading for a hug. One foot after another, gently pulling the other closer.

"I won't regret this," he said. He sounded terrified. He looked like it. You'd think it was out of character for the ever certain, clever persona he exudes. There he was, still as a statue. 

Shaking.

"Tell me I won't regret this."

The world wanted you to convince each other of the truth. Looking back, he must've really wanted it—so much with how he's grown impatient.  You grabbed his hand. Your soft cheek grazed against his rough palms. A burning sensation finds itself warming your flushed face as you could feel the heat swell out and course through his veins.

"Well," you looked down with a hum. This was it. A way for a happily ever after. Maybe this time, you'd find the one. You found someone who will care for you as much as how you used to care for… since then. That February day in those letters, promising a greater tomorrow amidst the consequences.

Once again, the promise of certainty seemed to wash over the pair of you like a gust of wind to a meadow of flowers. Except, this time, you are no longer plagued with the worry that all that you do was too much, or if a foolish question would elicit a less than stellar reaction from the prince before you.

Someone who can rival your unsuccessful efforts. This time, it was your turn to accept these graces wholeheartedly.  It was your turn to return the kind invitation. 

"What do you say?"

Perhaps this was the universe's way of telling you to take the plunge, of assuring you that Diavolo would make this leap of faith beside you. But maybe there was no intervention at all. Maybe this was a true display of two hearts coming to the all-encompassing decision of trusting one another, of a safety so secure the worries of the externals didn't bother you as much as they had before.

Diavolo softly laughs, raising a brow. “I’d love to hear it coming from you.”

Perhaps this was no divine intervention. Perhaps instead, the troubled heart of yours finally found the semblance of peace it had been looking for. A place where it belongs and no one else would ever conquer.

Even when gifted with bountiful riches. Even when resisting demonic temptations and natural urges for sin. Even when cursed to live long enough to foresee a rule of evil under the guise of a golden heart. Until he was the only one you still learned how to see — it was just you.

You.

Only the both of you.

Almost as a tiny "thank you", your gaze averts to the sky before it returns to the prince who has done nothing but give you grace.

"You won't. And you never will."

a/n: i will forever thank the anon who requested this because dear evan hansen holds a special place in my heart and "only us" is one of my favourite songs in the entire track. yes, much more than "if i could tell her". much thank you to @nanamiruse for beta-reading this one and for the ending <3 (luv you chup chup mwah mwah)! i was unsure with the whole thing and... yeahhh.

does this mean i am ending this anthology? no! of course not i worked too hard on my drafts to not post them >:0. stay tuned for the next one: "fight for me" (this is actually fr guys i'm posting the rest in reverse order).

and remember: even when the dark come's crashing through, when you need a friend to carry you, or when you're broken on the ground — you will be found.

event masterlist | main masterlist | divider by cafekitsune

[writing-for-life]

Dream’s Therapist

Nightmares

I peruse the client’s previous session notes to prepare as usual and decide to go over his journal entries together to find out what might cause his insomnia. It might also give clues as to why he believes he is a cosmic entity weaving stories, dreams and nightmares.

The client is punctual again (my receptionist informs me he was 20 minutes early). Upon entering my office, he hesitantly takes off his coat and lays it over his lap, neatly folded. I notice this is a deviation from his usual habit of keeping his coat on. I have once more made sure the room is only dimly lit to avoid discomfort, and I forego the apparently undesired small-talk.

DT: Last week, I asked you to journal about your daily routine and any thoughts that might come up. How did that go?

Dream: I did as requested. But unfortunately, nightmares refuse to be confined to paper.

DT (I notice he has apparently brought no journal or notes and rhymes things off from memory): So you did manage to sleep, but you had nightmares?

Dream (I notice the quirked eyebrow, but he seems to lift one corner of his mouth, too, which rather hints at amusement than annoyance): No to both. As I told you previously, I create them.

DT: Okay, tell me about them. What in particular made you journal about them?

Dream: Well, my nightmares are not unlike… unruly children (I notice a fleeting disengagement in his gaze before he quickly shakes his head and resumes). There is the Corinthian…

DT: Your nightmares have names and distinct personalities?

Dream (I notice he looks at me as if I’ve got two heads): Why yes, of course they do. They fulfil particular functions, and I gave them sentience. May I proceed?

DT (I notice prickliness due to my interruption, and I remind myself I really shouldn’t do that): Of course.

Dream: Thank you (He actually rolls his eyes at me at this stage). The Corinthian generally… misbehaves and tells me he wants to feel what it is like to be human. And thinks I only care about my realm and my rules.

DT (I notice a degree of displacement, projection and delusion all rolled into one and briefly contemplate my course of further questioning): And do you think he is right?

Dream (He voices something resembling a groan): Of course not.

DT: Well, last time, you told me you care about rules and responsibilities to a great degree. That you are the king of dreams and nightmares. That feelings are a quaint human invention. It sounds like he might have picked up on those… vibes? How does it make you feel if I suggest that might be a possibility?

Dream (I notice his fingers clutching the coat in his lap very tightly): It makes me feel annoyed that you are ignoring the fact that I don’t feel.

DT: You feel annoyed?

Dream (I notice his Adam’s apple moves up and down in quick succession, and his gaze briefly turns blank. He then blinks and looks straight at me again): The other nightmare is an endless staircase. I shall not tell you its name at this point as not to confuse you (He looks at me with an expression that hints at haughtiness. No, I think it’s pity). Each step leads to a different fear—abandonment, failure… (He stops himself and looks at me as if he expects an interruption.)

DT (I notice he has ignored my prodding for admitting that he does indeed feel. I, in turn, decide to play along): Interesting. And how do you relate to that particular nightmare?

Dream (I notice a somewhat annoyed sigh): I don’t. I am its creator.

DT: But isn’t that a relationship?

Dream (He looks out the window): Perhaps.

DT (I notice he seems somewhat zoned out): And did you ever think about bridging the gap between creator and creation?

Dream (I notice the eye-roll again before he looks at me): That is hardly necessary because they are me. After a fashion. As in: Not entirely. But also: Yes.

DT (I quickly hover on the thought whether this admission can be called progress or not): And how does that make you feel?

Dream: That they are… familiar, and comforting, even in their chaos (I notice he has forgotten to go into an immediate rant about not feeling and start to think we might be getting somewhere). But some of them are just extremely… disappointing.

DT: If they are disappointing, what would need to happen to make it less so? Could you… change these nightmares? Imagine them to be different?

Dream (I notice he uncomfortably straightens in his chair, and his jawline hardens): You are aware you, to a degree, want me to change myself by suggesting so?

DT: I don’t want anything.

Dream (I notice something that could almost be mistaken for a smile, and he blinks slowly): That is a lie.

DT (He is right of course, but I notice he is trying to turn the tables on me every time he wants to avoid a topic): What I was trying to imply is that we are not talking about my wants when we are on the topic of yours.

Dream: How unfortunate. In any case, do not trouble yourself, I know them anyway. (I notice he leans back in his chair and looks… smug?)

DT (I choose to ignore whatever this is): What about you then? What do you want?

Dream (I notice he looks at his boots. A few minutes of silence ensue. They don’t feel too uncomfortable): I want the endless staircase to lead to a cosmic bakery. I want each step to smell of freshly baked bread.

DT (He is clearly mocking me, he told me he hardly eats. I also notice it is past my usual lunchtime, I like bread and I’m hungry. But I decide to see where this is going. I stay silent. I stare at him. He still stares at his boots.)

Dream: There are also teacups in that bakery, and they gossip about the weather, debate existentialism, and occasionally sip Earl Grey. I think they are staging a revolution.

DT: A revolution?

Dream (He still stares at his boots): Yes, it is indeed absurd.

DT: Absurdity is our ally in here, nothing to get hung up on.

Dream (I notice his gaze finally disengaging from his boot and instead locking in on me. His mouth twitches. I am not sure if he smiles?): They demand equality. The cracked teacups want reparations for their shattered handles. The chipped ones insist on universal healthcare. And the most beautiful, rarest porcelain ones are terrified of being replaced.

DT (It gets harder not to laugh, but I just about manage since I can’t beat the feeling that this is just superficially funny but actually hinting at something deeper. It always does): And how do you feel about their demands?

Dream: I fear a teacup uprising (He flings his coat over the armrest of his chair). Can you imagine the horror of tiny porcelain picket lines?

DT (I am really grasping here): What if you gave them a common goal?

Dream (I notice he raises an eyebrow and cocks his head): What, like summoning the Teapot of Enlightenment? The one that brews wisdom instead of tea? Staining saucers in the process and leaving rings on tables?

DT: Gaining wisdom can be a messy affair I guess?

I notice the room seems to smell of tea and imaginary pastries and wonder what’s going on.

Dream (I notice he gauges my reaction for a good two minutes. I manage to hold his gaze. He holds mine. Until he doesn’t and looks at his boot again. The silence lasts for another three minutes): You are indulging my attempts at weaving absurd stories that are in no way related to your questions. Why?

DT: I am not indulging you. I’m letting you communicate whatever you wish to communicate. You might think it’s unrelated, but it tells me things, and that’s enough.

Dream (I notice he still doesn’t lift his chin, but he looks at me): And what does it tell you?

DT: Does it matter?

Dream: Perhaps.

DT: I don’t think it matters what I think about you, I am just here to ask questions that make you think. Maybe hold up a mirror on occasion.

Dream (I notice that his eyes disengage again, and his voice turns very quiet): What if I don’t like mirrors?

DT: I guess that’s okay, you don’t have to like the mirror. But if you don’t like what it reflects at you, you could change either what stands in front of it or how you relate to that reflection. Like you just changed the way you relate to your nightmares.

Dream (I notice he looks at me again): And what makes you think I changed the way I relate to my nightmares?

DT: Because you just told me a story about cosmic bakeries and teapots that weaved quite a bit of light into the darkness?

Dream (I notice he sighs and looks out the window): Like ink and stardust.

DT (I don’t follow): Pardon?

Dream (I notice he grabs his coat): I trust our time is up?

DT: Almost, but not quite. You can make use of the remainder if you want.

Dream (He gets up and puts on his coat): I do not. However, I shall… think. And write. In the journal.

DT: Same time next week then? Can I use ink to put your appointment in my diary?

Dream (I think he smiles, but it is hard to tell for certain): You may. I am sure you will also provide the stardust…

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[doahaesunshine]

Chapter 13

Chapter WC: 3576

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eh, I can't think of anything -Tristen

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There are some nights The scary ones Where I feel as though my heart will burst I hear it Pounding against my chest It fills me with anxiety I know I won’t die But my thoughts keep me awake And I’m left staring at the dark ceiling

Half of a year.

That’s how long you have been in the magical world of the Seventeenth Realm.

And it wasn’t any closer to feeling like home…

Of course there were people that you considered friends. For example, Vernon, Jihoon and Soonyoung, your dorm mates, were all very good friends. You ate delicious meals that Mingyu cooked for everyone like a little family. Dino still checked on you and performed routine examinations every other week. It was hard to ignore the Alchemist, especially when his familiar had taken a liking to you.

Archivist Jeon was still keeping his space but you no longer felt awkward around the older Arcanist. Whenever you had a hard question about magic or needed to find a specific book, he was always there to help. Seungkwan was also always willing to lend a hand when finding informational books on language and incantations. You were still yet to meet his mentor, Joshua, but that didn’t necessarily bother you. Apparently, the young Ward was very busy.

Lessons with Jeonghan halted during your short healing period. The raven haired man himself never entered the dorm, but his black ball python familiar, Obsidian, would visit from time to time. The slithering creature was able to climb up to your window and when you let him enter, he would always curl around your forearm. You felt bad, spending all this time away from Jeonghan without telling him what had happened, but through Obsidian you were able to send small messages. 

You found yourself telling the sleek snake about your day and what you’ve been learning while away from his Arcanist. The creature obviously was unable to respond since he wasn’t your familiar, but he understood your words and you were certain he relayed them to Jeonghan. 

There was one evening, during the beginning of summer, where Obsidian tapped on your window expectantly. When you welcomed him into your room, you saw a small note attached to his body. You let Obsidian crawl up your arm and gently untied the note from his lithe form to open the slip of paper. It was in Jeonghan’s handwriting.

Come to the balcony.

With the black scaled snake still wrapped around your arm, you opened your door and peeked out, looking both ways before exiting the confines of your room. Even though it had been three months since your last episode, you knew that if Jihoon or Soonyoung saw you out of your room they would escort you back. Shadow was also a possibility, his sense of smell was good and Tigris had very alert ears, but you saw neither the familiars or their Arcanists. Gingerly, you stepped through the hall to reach the balcony, thankfully no one was there.

The evening air was warm and slightly humid, clouds formed, shielding the orange sky from showing itself. Despite the desire to see the sky you scanned the area, looking for Jeonghan. Obsidian crawled from your arm to the balcony railing, wrapping himself around the structure to climb downward. You watched as he reached the ground and slithered out toward a figure in the grass. 

Jeonghan stood in the small field below you, gazing up at you with his sleepy eyes. His lips tugged into a lazy smile and he beckoned you forward. 

“Come down.” He projected his voice while trying to remain somewhat quiet.

“I can’t- Jihoon will beat my ass if he sees me walking around the halls.”

You couldn’t hear it, but Jeonghan was definitely laughing.

“Jump-”

“What?!”

Jeonghan sighed. “Jump- I’ll catch you.”

Flabbergasted, you rolled your eyes as you processed Jeonghan’s words. He wanted you to jump off of the balcony so he could catch you? That sounded like a sure fire way to break your ankle. 

“Fuck it-”

You leapt over the railing and felt a short breeze blow past you. Instead of Jeonghan’s arms catching you, the wind had guided your fall, the soft grass beneath your feet. 

“See? I would never let you fall~” He said in a playful tone.

“Ha. Ha.” You said in a sarcastic tone, rolling your eyes again.

Jeonghan threw his arm over your shoulder to pull you in for a hug. “I missed you.”

You reciprocated the embrace with a soft smile. “Awh. I missed you too.” The words were less than kind when you spoke them.

As you stayed close to Jeonghan, Obsidian slithered his way back to you, hanging himself around your neck. You stroked the smooth scales and smiled as the python fashioned himself into a scarf, a snake scarf. Jeonghan released his hold on your shoulders and slid his hand down your arm to grab hold of your hand. 

“Do you want to go to the glade or the lake?” He asked as he led you along the stream.

You pondered the options. “Hm… Can we go somewhere new?”

Jeonghan thought to himself as the two of you continued down the path, but paused as something popped into his mind. “Oh! I can take you to see my friend.”

“Friend?”

“Shua! He’s a ward here.” Jeonghan said with a bright smile. “We hang out occasionally.”

“Shua? Like Joshua? Seungkwan’s mentor?”

Jeonghan nodded as he pulled you in the opposite direction, moving toward the woods away from the main path. You were afraid you would get lost, but your company appeared to be well acquainted with the less traveled paths.

The black brick cottage was bigger than Dino’s but much smaller than the Evoker Dorms. Everything was so tidy, the potted plants on the porch were well taken care of and the shrubs around the house were expertly pruned. Jeonghan, still leading you by the hand, knocked on the door and waited patiently.

Without a single creak, the door swung open and you were met with warm, chestnut hair and a fawn-like face, his overall appearance was charming and friendly. He greeted you with a smile but as he turned to Jeonghan his lips flattened.

“Wow- You used the door.” His dark brown eyes peered down to where you and Jeonghan’s were linked.

Blushing, you unlatched yourself from Jeonghan and rubbed the back of your neck while avoiding eye contact. 

“I thought I should be polite since I brought Sage with me.” Jeonghan said with a forced smile.

“Nice to meet you. You must be Joshua.” You muttered in a small voice.

“That is correct! It’s nice to finally meet you, Sage.” Joshua held the door open for both you and Jeonghan, welcoming you into the home with an outstretched arm.

The three of you spoke over tea and biscuits. You learned that Joshua was originally from California, but his parents sent him to the Seventeenth Realm for protection. He also spoke on how even though he is technically younger than Seungkwan, he is still a mentor and is proficient in Abjuration magic.

You briefly read about the Abjuration School, it's a class of magic that is centered around defense, counter spells, and ward casting. Seungkwan spoke highly of Joshua, he often praised his mentor on how skilled he was in casting protection spells as well as enchanting items to create magical charms. 

“Speaking of magical charms, Joshuji here said he had something for you…” Jeonghan leaned on Joshua as he spoke, a playful smile on his features.

Joshua shot a confused look at Jeonghan. “I- Yeah, that’s right. I’ll go get it- one moment-” 

You and Jeonghan were left alone in the living room, sitting across from each other. He continued to sip his tea while you studied your surroundings. The interior of the house was just as neat as its exterior, overall it had a rustic feel with a lot of crystals and minerals decorating the shelves. Even the mantle of the fireplace had plenty of trinkets and geodes that came in different shapes, colors, and sizes. Jeonghan veered into your line of sight with a knowing expression.

“Joshua and Seungkwan like to collect things. They’re like little crows.” He chuckled to himself. “I’m sure half of the things Seungkwan has laying around are from that human boy he’s sweet on…”

“Vernon?”

“That’s his name?” Jeonghan perked up. “He’s one of the Evokers- a roommate?”

You nodded your head. “Yeah- and sweet on each other is an understatement. They need to get on with it and start dating…”

“They aren’t dating?”

Joshua returned from upstairs and reclaimed his spot on the couch. In his hand he held a long chained necklace with a chunk of dark metal attached to it. In spite of the piece of jewelry looking a bit rough, it was still pretty.

“It’s a charm I had been working on for the past three months. The metal has strong properties. For example, the enchantment is-”

“Balance based.” Jeonghan interrupted Joshua’s explanation. “Shua told me a lot about it. Seungkwan informed him you’ve been filling your weeks with studying and so he wanted to give you something that would keep your energy in balance.”

The thoughtfulness made you smile. “Thank you, Joshua. It’s super cool-looking too, I like the long chain style.” You thanked him as you held the necklace in your hands.

Wearing the chain, you looked down and admired the shiny rock. It went down to your sternum so it could easily be tucked into your shirt.

“The enchantment will take effect slowly, gradually repairing your psyche and replenishing your mana.” Joshua explained. “Jeonghan helped me with it, so it should be extra potent.”

You flashed a warm smile to Jeonghan. “So I should be thanking you as well.”

“I’m glad you like it! It suits you.”

A light blush heated your cheeks due to Jeonghan’s compliment. You peered down to fidget with the necklace. but you could feel that Jeonghan’s gaze was piercing through you.

“Alright-” Joshua started as he rose from his seat. “As much as I would love for you to stay, I have some work.” He walked the two of you to the front door. “Get the hell out, Jeonghan- Sage you can visit anytime, I’m sure Seungkwan would love it.”

The door was shut, and with a click you and Jeonghan were locked out of the home. 

“Damn- I was going to ask some more questions about the charm…”

Jeonghan returned his arm to your shoulders and draped himself over you. “I helped with it, I can try and answer any lingering questions.”

Your raven-haired friend was successful in answering most of your questions, the simple ones. He told you that the hunk of metal was Magnetite and that its properties were best suited for balancing energy, emotions and focus. The two of you continued to chat as you walked along the pristine cobbled road. Here the pathways were better kept and fresher, they must have been paved recently.

The trees were a bit more sparse in this area, instead of evergreens they were birch trees with white bark and light green leaves. You saw the evening sky easily through the canopy, the clouds cleared and the deep purple of dusk was clear and visible. 

“Oh?” Jeonghan whispered in a low voice as he focused his attention forward.

You followed his eyeline and saw another man walking down the path. His head was faced downward, reading a book that he held with bandaged forearms. You saw a head of dusty orange hair and tanned skin, his eyes were trained on his book. The outfit he wore was simple, a loose fitting white button up, equally flowy navy trousers, and laced boots that disappeared past his pant legs.

“Ah- Dokyeom! Long time no see!” Jeonghan called out with a lazy yet boisterous smile.

The other man, Dokyeom, tore his eyes from his book to look for the source of the voice. When he saw you and Jeonghan, he froze for a moment and bowed his head as a greeting. The orange haired man began to turn.

“What have you been up to, Kyeomie?” Jeonghan called out while dragging you with him to approach the other.

Dokyeom stopped in his tracks and turned to address Jeonghan. “I’ve just been experimenting with spells. Exploring my potential and such…” His voice was sweet and polite as he spoke, dark, nearly black eyes studied you as he spoke. 

His eyes glued onto where Jeonghan had his arm wrapped around you. There was a subtle bunch of nerves that filled your chest, it wasn’t a comfortable feeling. 

“Oh- How fun! Are you using the tome I lent you?”

Dokyeom returned his gaze to Jeonghan. “Yes. It’s been very helpful with Sanguis Magica .”

“You study blood magic?”

The orange-haired man was about to speak, but Jeonghan leaned in close to your ear.

“Mhm- Dokyeom here is a Vitae and a damn good one…” He chuckled darkly. “He’s learned how to enhance his healing magic by using his own blood. Kyeomie has always been a bit of a martyr .” Jeonghan sighed another laugh as he fixed his posture.

“This is great actually!” He continued to talk. “You can thank Dokyeom in person now, Sage!”

You raised an eyebrow at Jeonghan’s statement but returned your attention to Dokyeom as a wave of panic crashed into you.

“He’s the one who saved you and brought you to Dino- He practically drained himself dry healing you…”

The words hit you like a truck as you realized this man, Dokyeom, had saved you more than once. He retrieved you from the lake, healed you, and then the time your head almost burst, he saved you again.

“Ah- I- Thank you!” You stuttered. “I honestly don’t know if I can thank you enough. You saved me twice and I’m thanking you six months later- Wow- I am awful.”

The concern and anxiety that was radiating off of Dokyeom started to fade away as you spoke to him. A bright smile plastered on his face and your heart skipped a beat at the sight.

“It’s my duty to help people if I can. Even if it means sacrificing my own strength.”

You heard Jeonghan snicker next to you and whisper a soft, ‘Martyr’ You nudged him with your elbow, softly but enough to get him to behave.

“Were you heading somewhere before we interrupted your path, Kyeomie?” Jeonghan asked playfully.

Dokyeom shook his head. “Just returning to the Springs…”

“Oh- Then we’ll be on our way, I’m sure you need to recharge-” Jeonghan began to walk away, dragging you with him.

“It was nice to finally meet you!” You said in a raised tone as you looked back.

Dokyeom was still standing still in the middle of the road as he watched you and Jeonghan walk away. 

For once, Jeonghan walked you to your dorm. Twilight was in full effect with indigo skies and a rising moon. The late evening air was refreshing compared to the warm midday weather. Jeonghan had resorted to holding your hand instead of smothering you with his arm. He stopped at the opening in the treeline, the dorm only yards away.

There was a moment of pause as the hold Jeonghan had on your hand anchored you in place. Instead of his usual lazy expression he looked nervous as you turned back and approached him.

“Thank you for seeing me today, Sage.” He said, keeping an even tone.

A smile creeped its way up to your cheeks. “You know it’s no problem and thank you for the gift.”

“Why are you thanking me for that, it’s from Josh-”

“I knew that was a lie.” You snickered. “You were too eager and he was too confused.”

“You got me there…” Jeonghan trailed off with a dry chuckle.

Another pause.

Smiling at each other, the two of you shared a look.

Jeonghan raised his hand to your face, brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. The proximity made you hold your breath instinctively and you closed your eyes as Jeonghan leaned in slowly.

The feeling of soft lips gently pressed against your skin as Jeonghan placed a delicate kiss on your forehead. Heat immediately filled your face, making the chilled touch of Jeonghan’s hand more prevalent. Your eyes fluttered open and you saw Jeonghan staring down at you, eyes soft and full of adoration. 

“Goodnight, Sage.” He said as he released you.

Too stunned or flustered to speak, you nodded your head to show that you understood his words. With another quiet laugh, Jeonghan turned and made his way into the tree line.

“Ah- Goodnight!” You called out before he fully disappeared.

With a spin, Jeonghan looked back at you and waved goodbye with a two finger salute.

What had just happened finally caught up to you, and you blushed once more, a surge of energy threatening to burst forth. The feeling in your chest was warm and light, and it lingered as you entered the dorm.

A resounding chorus of chirps welcomed you at the door as you saw a gaggle of familiars in the entrance. 

“Oh- Hello, Ruby, Shadow, Tigris, oh- Yucca is here too… Kelpy? Is that a rabbit?”

Without another sound, Ruby chirped an order and led the rest of the familiars into the house. Sheepishly, you followed behind, hoping that everyone would just ignore you as you passed by the dining room. Before you could even think of executing your plan, you were stopped by a very agitated Mingyu leaning against the archway.

“Sage- Where were you all evening? We’ve been searching for-” Mingyu checked his pocket watch. “A whole two hours…”

“Uh- I went for a walk, got a little lost…”

“Two. Whole. Hours?” 

“Jeez, sorry mom I’ll be home on time next time…” You rolled your eyes at Mingyu.

The taller man crossed his arms and leaned his weight on one hip. “Seriously, Sage?”

“Y’know what? Dinner sounds great right now.” You walked past him, ignoring the flames in his eyes.

Just as you suspected, the whole gang was here. Vernon sat side by side with Seungkwan, Jihoon and Soonyoung ceased all conversation as they watched you enter, and a troubled Dino sat across from them. Sauntering to the counter, you fixed yourself a plate of food and sat next to Dino.

“Where-” Dino started to ask a question.

“I went out for a walk to get some fresh air and I ended up getting lost. I found where Joshua lives- You were right Boo, he’s very nice.”

Mingyu took a seat at the table as Dino rose from his chair to refill his plate.

“Oh and I met this nice guy named Dokyeom-” 

The sound of a plate shattering against the hardwood floor had you whipping your head up in surprise.

Everyone paused and stared after you spoke. The atmosphere was… weird and the feeling in your chest was even weirder.

“Did I say something wrong?” You asked with an innocent expression.

Dino crouched down and began cleaning up the plate he dropped. Vernon and Seungkwan noticed the tension, standing from their place at the table and leaving with their familiars. Mingyu patted his hand on the table to grab your attention.

His puppy-like eyes filled with worry. “Are you feeling alright?”

“What? Yeah-” You thought for a moment. “Is he, like, not cool or something?”

“No- No! He’s fine, he’s cool.” Soonyoung stuttered, the tone sounding a little forced.

Jihoon lightly smacked Soonyoung’s shoulder and muttered a low “Shut the fuck up.”

Dino returned the table empty handed and sat right beside you. “Did he say anything to you?”

“I mean- now I know who saved my life.” The table went still as everyone held their breath. “And I thanked him… Why are you guys acting so weird?”

“We’re just worried that because he was present when you entered this realm that it would tie in with your memory loss.” Jihoon spoke with an analytical tone. “Dino told us he could have triggered the near-hemorrhage you had. We just want you to be careful…”

As Jihoon spoke, a bad taste covered your tongue. Jihoon himself was feeling uncomfortable, you could sense it. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to focus on your friends at this moment…

Dino was the easiest to read, you didn’t need to dig deep, his concern was evident from his appearance alone. Mingyu was indifferent, more worried about where you were than who you were with. Soonyoung seemed a little lost, like he was missing a piece of the conversation, but the others' uneasiness must have bled onto him.

“Guys- I’m fine- No headaches or nose bleeds while I was out. It was actually really refreshing because, y’know, I’ve been cooped up in my room for three months…”

“No- That’s fair.” Mingyu spoke and all heads turned to him. ‘What? The balcony can only provide so much, it’s only fair that Sage gets to take a walk.”

“Thank you, Mingyu-”

“But-” He interrupted. “It would also be nice if you let someone know and took a buddy with you…”

“Okay- I can do that. Jihoon, wanna go on a walk with me tomorrow?” You spoke as you dramatically turned your head to the man in question. 

He sighed deeply. “Yeah- Sure…”

“Don’t sound too excited…”

To join a tag list, please comment on the Fallin' Flower Master List!

@reiofsuns2001 @shinwonderful @starstrawb

[senka-mesecine]

A sexy night in Hill Country, perhaps? You know, rainstorms, a fire in the wood stove, the whole shebang? Thank you for your beautiful work.

- (Hill Country, to be read here).

-

-"The woods are really dark out there."-

You remark, staring out the window and into the pitch blackness on the other side occasionally brightened by the sudden flash of lighting illuminating the thick vista of windswept pines and the rain curtain diagonally beating against the old glass in a cacophony of loud, booming thuds threatening to bring down the whole house along with its roof; what you never really considered moving all the way out here is just how dark it could truly get. It was like a whole different realm of inky coal nightfall that only the far out mountainside away from civilization could validly produce, especially during a ravaging downpour like this. The thoughts of how easily someone could get lost in that wild nothingness almost makes you shudder, in equal measure causing you to lose your breath. You click your tongue, throwing a glance across your shoulder and towards the lulling warmth behind you crackling in the furnace, imbued with a luminous orange hue. Your home as a front against the chaos outside. Safe, tucked away, out of sight.

-"Not a speck of light anywhere."- You add, maybe only slightly worried.

Perhaps partially fascinated.

Robert gives you a stare, seated on a stool by the fire, his knife carving something out of the remaining wood he threw into the stove, the outline of his forehead, nose and chin drawn out in the shiny golden hue reflected from the flames. -"Ain' no tellin' what's wonderin' out there, girl."- Cockily, he teases and you recognize that instantly even though though nothing really indicated he was joking except his tilted head and his shifting eyebrows, leaving you pleased by the fact that tonight of all nights he seemed to be in a weirdly good mood, because of course he would be during a time when it seemed like the sky itself would crash down to the earth and he was totally unfettered about it all. In fact, he seemed in his element in his own particularly silent way, standing up from his stool slowly discarding whatever he was working on the side just as you climbed down from the windowsill and your subject of interest; the midnight storm beating down on the hills. Couldn't be safe, sitting there too long in the close proximity of all this roaring thunder.

Yeah, it was bedtime.

-"But, I'm thinkin' ---"-

He approaches slowly, the light from the crackling stove behind him like an aura, only making his body appear darker in the dim lit confines of the room, like a looming shadow casting its own silhouette on the surrounding walls, as tall as the ceiling. It's pushed against your lower lip. The knife he was carving with earlier. The one you could've swore he left next to the fireplace. All you saw was a swift movement of hand and there it is, steel against flesh. Thunder strikes outside and instinctively, you shiver, breathing hitching, processing what just happened and how on earth it happened as fast as it did, to the degree you couldn't even anticipate it, least of all dodge it or move your head. As if that would ever help. Bob's face is momentarily as white and as a sheet of paper and then pitch black again once the reflection of the lighting's sheen disperses. The sensation of his drawn steel is cold. Immediate. He doesn't push you, but his body advancing forward is enough to have you practically stumble into a sitting position on the edge of the bed behind you, blade still on your parted mouth; you watch your own hot breath fogging up the surface.

He speaks.

-"The most dangerous thing from outta those woods there is n'here with'ya."-

You believed him. Oh, did you ever.

What's worse, you didn't mind.

[iceiclehorned]

Starter for @crimsononiarataki

The sun was shining valiantly outside, gracing the neighbourhood of tall, elegant houses, each clearly maintained to a standard above what would be considered normal. The streets were immaculate, with gold-plated doorknobs sparkling within view, regardless of the direction turned in. It would be the chirping of the birds that would stir a young woman awake, a slight headache blossoming into the circle of her awareness, enticing a groan to rumble in the confinements of her throat.

What time was it?

It was the morning after Kamisato Ayaka spent the entirety of the night attempting to get a few of her business papers completed, opting to get an advance on her schedule to indulge in some much needed time off, only to spend it obsessing over a celebrity she had accidentally stumbled across. Opting to turn the radio on for some musical encouragement, only to be enthralled with the sound of an angel. The irony striking that the voice was behind a rock band. Still, her curiosity had been piqued, with an eager, thudding heart staring at her ratio expectantly, awaiting the name to grace her ears.

Menace.

Crawling into bed, forgetting the work laid out on her desk, she finds herself lightly researching the band, coming to find that the lead singer referred to himself as Itto, and how on earth is it possible for somebody to look so damned refined? Long, white hair, facial markings that seemed to enhance every feature, and those muscles? In one night, the businesswoman had managed to find her type (a single man) and fall into a rabbit hole of his music. Spending half of the night memorising as many songs as possible, finding an enjoyment in something so broadly different to the tastes she had been introduced to since birth. After listening to countless songs across several albums, her fingers would be searching for his personal social media platform, basking in the glory of discovering it within a few struggled searches.

Somehow, within the realm of the night, when her mind was switching between shutting off and remaining determined in her searches of the band itself, Ayaka had sent Itto a few texts via the social media platform she mamaged to find him on. Even as the Kamisato lazily drags herself out of bed -- which was unlike her, even with the zombie status -- there would be no remembrance of it.

The texts would read:

'I love you so much feuwkdtgh'

'I'm so sorry, i'msoskeepy but you do madke some good music'

'ignoreme'

By this point, she would realise her phone is dead, placing it on charge before going about her shower, opting to pretend as if she had been awake all morning whenever she would bump into Ayato. Times like these almost required an ignorance, because the moment she learns that she texted Itto, much less with spelling mistakes from her half-asleep state, there would be a flood of humiliation hitting her full force.

[glowinggreeneyes-e]

Threads, 4.2k Capvers

Can be read as stand-alone but it's a chapter from There's a War Going On, AO3. I type like I'm a Victorian writer being paid by the word (derogatory).

papvers?? capventing??... capvers parenting but they're looking after an injured girl from West Horsley who wandered onto the Button House grounds. it's cute af. capvers also have Issues(tm), an 'It's Complicated' relationship status on 2008 Facebook, work-related tension bc of said angsty Issues, and yet still have penchant for fluff because gay love pierces through the veil.

May, 1940

The cloud-blocked sun still cast long shadows across the Captain’s dim study, bringing to prominence the weariness etched into the lines of his face and the aged floorboards grains. As he occupied himself with his duties, he became wreathed in wisps of smoke spiralling from the end of his pipe. Dust still kicked up with the gusts of the summer-soon reaching through the open window, capturing the Captain’s attention in moments of contemplation; he enjoyed watching it dance in the air, swirling in the rays of light, while his mind buzzed.

His gaze had been fixed on a document casing spread out before him - everything Operation Solder - it mocked him with its official title. Weeks had slipped through his fingers since he last penned a meaningful entry into the file, a truth that caused a pang of embarrassment to twist within him. However, he was quick to point out, that the fault wasn't solely his own: blame could also be apportioned upon Havers' shoulders.

Beyond the confines of their shared operations, distractions seeped into his consciousness. New training regulations fluttered in, War strategies billowed through the House, and novel projects beckoned him. Research and travel conspired to steal his hours, leaving him feeling as if he were forever chasing the hands of the clock. 

The camaraderie that once bound his unit had frayed from the incessant work, its once vibrant tapestry unravelling into isolated threads. A mere quartet, the remnants of his unit, were left finding solace in the pub's shady embrace: MacKenny, Jones, Thomas, and Johnstone, naturally. Card games and convivial offers came his way, but he abandoned those evenings once filled with social escapism. It was all melting into a mere memory. His realm of productivity demanded a vast expanse of solitude, the sanctuary of his own space, while he smothered himself in his charge.

It was a delicate orchestration of self-discipline; he navigated its intricate bars with an external resolute grace, but in his mind, he couldn’t be screaming louder.

It felt like he always ended up back here.

The tip of his index finger traced the inked signatures of his and Havers’ names adorning the bottom of the Operation’s title page. He then leafed through its neglected pages, though the Captain barely registered the innumerable notes or sketches or references. Instead, his mind only provided flashes of Havers’ research into silencers, Havers’ letters, Havers’ persistent obscurity.

At times, the Captain watched over the Lieutenant in the drawing room, capturing fleeting glimpses of Havers tutoring Roberts or pondering the world's weight with the end of a pen clamped between his teeth, or engrossed in the tomes that lined their shelves. Of course, the Lieutenant kept close attention to all communication: he’d be the first to ask Jones for the morning briefings from HQ, the earliest when sorting through paper correspondence, and the last to check MacKenny for news at night. 

The Captain witnessed Havers' self-imposed isolation, his entire hurt marked by being tight-lipped. While the two of them still found themselves captured in a web of tension, the library had provided a fragile interlude before trust dissipated into an elusive spectre. And with each stolen glance, each hesitant touch, the Captain recognized the preciousness of time slipping away, the dwindling opportunities to bridge the divide that had entrenched itself between them. 

Beneath the layers of frustration and reticence lingered a deeper truth - the profound and complicated truth that bound him to Havers. There, tightening like a torturous device around his heart, defeating his commitment to finding a way back to what they had once been, was a conviction that overrode everything else. Toxic in its intensity, consuming all reason, and yet refusing to be extinguished…

He couldn’t let it be the undoing of him: love. Especially when it was built on one man's lies.

Mid-afternoon had indolently rolled around with high clouds that cloaked the countryside. When duty had momentarily relinquished its grip, the Captain had, for the first instance that day, ventured to the kitchen for fresh water. He had dodged his unit on the way down, nipping behind walls and doors as if traversing through enemy lines, but instead, he was desperately hoping to be left in solitude.

This morning’s reports had drained his well of cordiality. An assault on the Low Countries was not just a whisper or hypothesis anymore, but a reality that gripped the world. One by one the states of Western Europe fell into occupation and War. In the trenches of his soul, Clarke sifted through the debris of disheartening news and searched for remnants of British optimism, to keep his capacity to carry on, keep to his duties, keep everyone in line.

It was after he had descended onto the ground floor landing, where silence gripped the empty space, that he was confronted by the existence of other people in the downstairs of Button House. Only this instance was entirely extraordinary: tucked neatly against the skirting in the House’s entryway, he spotted a pair of tiny red shoes covered in dried mud and oak leaves. He squinted down at them, the muscles around his eyes reflexively scrunching with his brief inspection.

He drew his hands together, clasping them resolutely behind his back and assumed a rearing posture, preparing to raise his chin with insolence: he just didn’t have time for this. 

Entering into the kitchen, he let a wave of exasperation sweep over him - the state of the cooking area was the last thing he wanted to concern himself with today.

But there, before him, was his Lieutenant and a shoeless little girl murmuring softly, engaged in quiet banter. Havers was down on one knee, first aid kit within reach. With steady precision, he gently cleaned the girl’s split skin across her shin bone with one hand and let her squeeze his other.

The scene struck the Captain twice, for the questions it raised and its palpable tenderness. A fuzziness as wonderful as the softest breeze wrapped around his ribcage as he observed. Never could he anticipate, let alone imagine, have he could have been moved by his second-in-command - he felt the strain between them go slack.

The girl was perched on one of the unused kitchen chairs, watching the Lieutenant’s actions intently. She couldn’t have been older than eight if the Captain dared hazard a guess (not that he had any authority on the ages of youth… did they have all their teeth? Did they know how to talk?). She was gowned in a blue gingham dress that complimented her freckled skin and ginger-blonde hair, rebelliously having escaped its plaits. Her long, white socks were pulled down, revealing the extent of her gashes. At her hanging feet, Havers had discarded several pieces of bloodied cloth and wipes in his endeavour to begin her healing. It appeared to be anything but superficial, but the girl’s clenched fists betrayed her stoicism. Such a sight plucked at the strings of the Captain’s heart, reverberating with echoes of sentimentality. Oh, God.

Eventually, he relented to the fact that he hadn’t been noticed. “Havers?” he asked, his voice breaking the spell of their hushed discussion.

Startled, Havers turned his head, his visage a canvas painted with a mix of guilt and mellowness, as though he had been caught in the act of thievery - stealing time from the call of duty, giving it to the girl. “Oh, sir, sorry - I have a bit of a war-wound situation that needs attending to.”

“Ah, I see,” the Captain reassured.

Infrequent interactions with children had left him unsure of how to reach across the chasm of age with the proper course of conversation. Yet, the innocence in the girl's gaze impelled him to transcend his uncertainty, not to scuttle back to his dulling work. His lips curled into a smile, etching lines of fondness around his eyes, and he approached the pair.

“And what might be the name of this young lady?” he gently inquired.

“I should have introduced you: this is Mrs Bell’s daughter, Matilda-”

“Tilly!” she corrected, her interjection imbued with spirited determination. “And I’m six and a half and a bit more, sir.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” was all the Captain could muster, overtly formal in his reply. Any further response remained suspended, momentarily caught in the deep embarrassment of not conjuring anything else. She smiled back at him all the same.

“By Jove, you must have nearly finished primary school by now,” Havers quipped, his tone soft and dulcet, laced in charm, all the while skillfully tending to a profound wound.

“No, sir, I'm not that old.” Tilly’s melodious giggles filled the air. Her hands hurried to cover her mouth, finally letting Havers free to bandage her up with full dexterity and concentration. “I’ve only been at school for two years. But I am really good at reading and writing. My teacher, Miss Durrant, tells me I have the neatest handwriting in all the school.”

As an observer, the Captain wrestled with a sense of inadequacy, in his own territory, too. He yearned to contribute - to coax a laugh from Tilly's stomach, to ease Havers' task with a jest - but his mind remained a barren landscape, void of inspiration yet littered with mines and gunfire. So he busied himself with discarding the stained and spent medical supplies into the bin.

Only the gentleness of Havers’ eyes punctured through the noise. And his gaze wasn’t even directed at him.

Havers acknowledged Tilly's testament with an enthusiastic nod, before continuing in such a genuine and calming fashion that the Captain was stunned at his sensitivity. “Gosh, how remarkable - you should take great pride in your accomplishments. You know, I struggle at times to decipher certain Officers' handwriting. But perhaps that's more my fault than theirs.”

“I bet I could read it! I can read almost anything.”

“I’d let you, were they not classified documents… unless, of course, you’re secretly an Officer? And you’ve been undercover this whole time?” the Lieutenant playfully quizzed, tilting his head. She nodded ‘no’, cheeks rosy from blushing. “Now,” Havers continued, distracting her from his wipes of antiseptic, “for someone as eloquent and intelligent as yourself, I imagine the rest of your schooling will be a breeze. What do you want to do when you leave education?”

“Well, I wanted to be an actress but Mummy says I can’t so I’ll just work at the factory like her,” Tilly said. A hint of disappointment tinged her reply as innocence wrestled with the stark realities that framed her life. All the brazen honesty and innocence a child should possess was already being eroded.

“I think the girl who can read almost anything can do anything, Tilly,” the Captain found himself saying, a surge of warmth emanating from his heart to his words. “Your life should not be bound by anyone else's expectations. With your killer smile and delight, the world is your stage. That, I promise you.” 

As he spoke, the Captain noticed a subtle shift in Havers’ demeanour, a flicker of intrigue followed by a raised eyebrow. Yet, Havers continued his ministrations, his focus unwavering. 

The Captain and the girl exchanged a smile, content to let the moment linger, to weave his rhetoric into the fabric of Tilly's memory and impressionable heart.

“Oh, I- Thank you, sir.”

As he reached to put the first aid box away, his knuckles brushed Havers, who was reaching down to store away a pair of scissors. He quickly stood up and put distance between them, terrified that such contact would be reported to her family, even if Tilly was oblivious. “My, uh, my mother was an actress,” he added to fill the ensuing lull, an equal distraction for Tilly and himself.

“Oh, woah, what was she in?! Was she in the opera? Or-Or did she act in the pictures?” the young girl exclaimed, her green eyes - fixed on him - were wide with contagious enthusiasm, her candour a mirror of her age.

Havers also asked that question, only his was unspoken and shrouded in a veil of something indecipherable to the Captain.

It didn’t occur to him that he’d have further inquiries, nor the flood of pain and images it would unleash. Memories, long dormant, surfaced in a haze. His mother was long fated to be contained to tattered photographs and stories told by strangers. Caught in this inner reverie, the Captain bit his cheek, the taste of nostalgia mingling with his thoughts. His hands, now free of tasks, found solace at his side as he stood to attention; he looked at Tilly, though his thoughts were darting elsewhere. It was only after Havers shot him another glance of concern that he realised he should respond. “Oh, uh, well… she was on the West End in several productions; she worked under Ibsen for Hedda Gabler and Ghosts ; I was told she socialised with Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw; she-she even performed in New York for a short period. If she could forge such a path half a century ago, one can only imagine what you can achieve.”

“Can she make me famous?”

He hesitated, a moment of introspection that hung heavy in the air. He hadn’t the heart to tell her that his mother had long since passed, but he also hadn’t the aforethought to lie. “Come now, you can do that all by yourself, Miss Tilly.”

At that point, the final bandage had been securely set in place, and Havers rose, his gaze hovering on his handiwork. “There you go,” he proclaimed, a note of quiet satisfaction permeating his words. 

Having inspected the Lieutenant’s meticulous efforts, the Captain made a commendatory sound and bounced on the balls of his feet approvingly. “And how’s our bravest Officer feeling?” he said to Tilly, infused with newfound confidence. Conversing with her felt more natural than anticipated, less daunting than he’d initially assumed. His heart no longer felt like it was going to explode for the wrong reasons. He’d just had to - uncomfortably at first - relinquish the mantle of ‘the Captain’.

She pulled her socks over her wound dressings. “I’m ready to get back to the frontlines, sir!”

“Jolly good. Hasn’t our Lieutenant Havers done an outstanding job?”

“He has indeed, sir… Captain, sir.” Tilly responded with a touch of formality, her voice a blend of admiration and respect. She looked up at Havers, beaming at him. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“You’re welcome. You displayed incredible courage, Tilly,” Havers accredited, unrolling the cuffs of his sleeves. “I commend your bravery.”

“You’re braver.”

“Uh,” he breathed, “well, I wouldn't-“

Her reply, brimming with childlike virtue, cut through the air. “And the loveliest man in the whole wide world.”

A flush of humility tinted Havers' cheeks, his attempt at modesty stumbling in the face of her unguarded sincerity. His gaze averted as if unable to bear the weight of her praise. He stumbled to find his footing. “I-I’m not sure-”

The Captain's intervention was swift, his own brand of reassurance layered with a dash of jest. “I should fancy you are spot on with that assessment, soldier. I quite agree.” 

He then found himself peering at his second-in-command, filled with pride himself; his heart was messily aflutter, stuck in conflict, as he reigned in his fleeting moments of turbulent infatuation. Havers’ reticent smile and compassion with the young girl, his intellect and service, how had he the heart to deceive him? The Captain's face fell, realising he once looked at Havers with much the same innocence as Tilly.

“He is! I got lost and he saved me from the dirt and sharp stones and stinging nettles like I was one of your soldiers. And he made my leg feel better.” Tilly's enthusiasm bubbled forth, her recounting of the events a vivid testament to Havers' gallantry.

“Oh, but you are one of our soldiers,” Havers countered, deflecting from the compliment. “You so fiercely traversed the wilderness and sought refuge with your allies when you needed help. And now - although I’m not exactly qualified - you have just been nursed back to health in this battlefield triage. That certainly makes you a real soldier.”

“I am?!” Her small hands tucked her hair behind her ears and she swung her feet. Her leg, still tender, responded to her exuberance with a cautionary protest - she winced at the sudden movement and settled for kicking the uninjured one in her excitement.

A spark of inspiration suddenly crossed the Captain’s mind, illuminating his eyes. He turned around to confirm it. In the corner of the kitchen, a coat stand stood adorned with the winter apparel of others - Last's coat, Miller’s scarf, and an old standard-issue cap that had remained untouched for months. The Captain deduced it was likely Bosanko's, left abandoned in his snappy departure. “Here, Matil- Tilly, try this on,” the Captain suggested, his voice infused with childlike anticipation as he retrieved the cap from its resting place. He swiped it and handed it over to her.

Tilly stood up, unintentionally scraping the chair back with a brief screech. As the hat was extended out to her, she glanced between the two men; though her eyes twinkled with eagerness, her eyebrows folded together. It was as if she was preparing to accept the weight of the responsibility that came with the uniform. Resolutely, determinedly, she took it and placed it like a crown. The cap, much too large for her head, remained perched with a playful tilt.

“There,” Clarke’s simper was barely masked beneath his moustache as he reflected her infectious joy. “Suits you splendidly; now you’re fully qualified and ready for whatever comes your way.”

“At your service!” A salute, both a gesture of gratitude and a pledge of allegiance, punctuated their interaction.

The Captain returned Tilly’s salute, a buoyant sensation coursing through him. He was sure he hadn’t felt this light in months, the moment lifting a weight he hadn't fully acknowledged existed. The world around them seemed to blur, fading to insignificance as he basked in the fulfilling simplicity of brightening a child’s day during a War.

Yet, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the subtle signs that aired Havers' unease. Ever the composed and capable man, he bore an unfamiliar veneer of trepidation. A deep inhale, tense shoulders - the Captain supposed Havers was enduring his own hurricane of emotions.

“We should be taking our leave,” the Lieutenant promptly suggested, directing his passive instruction towards the young girl.

However, the Captain chimed in, carrying a sense of authority again. “No need; I’ll call her mother to pick her up.”

“That will take too long, sir. I’ll walk her back. Make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble.”

“R-Right, very well; as you were, Lieutenant.”

Havers' gaze shifted to Tilly, his eyes meeting hers with gentle instruction. “Why don’t you put your shoes on?”

“Yes, sir!” she replied. She grabbed the cap’s visor and gathered the fabric of her dress, then scurried to the entryway where her shoes awaited.

As Tilly, absorbed in her task, prepared herself for the walk home, the Captain and Havers moved further into the kitchen, their actions a conscious retreat from the young girl's view. The Captain wasn’t sure why they were gravitating back there, moving in unspoken accord, but he let it happen.

In this sanctuary of muted privacy, their proximity stirred images of a time when the distance between them was calculated and terrifying. The Captain's heartbeat quickened, and for a fleeting moment, he was transported back to those clandestine days where their glances held a world of longing, where they couldn’t even meet each other’s eye without blushing, when he could only dream of what it would be like to kiss Havers. 

His chest leapt and suddenly it was like nothing was ever wrong. It was just him and Havers against the world once more.

If there were another force of nature left undiscovered, the Captain could feel it in his heart as it pulled him closer to the Lieutenant. The frustration he had harboured for so long washed off his soul as their knuckles brushed once more, igniting a connection that transcended speech, though not quite replacing it.

“You’re having quite the adventure today, Lieutenant. Although dealing with lost and injured children isn’t typically within the scope of our duties, I’m hesitant to pull you up for it,” the Captain spoke softly, offering warmth under his subtle teasing.

“Sir,” Havers warned in a whisper, doing nothing to pull away. A further response seemed poised on his lips, but the words never came, leaving them suspended in a painfully awkward moment.

“I had no idea you were so good with children. You treated her as if she was your own.” The Captain shifted their discourse to a more palatable subject than War or the threads between them, steering a diverting course around difficult conversation for as long as he could.

Alone and emboldened, he reached out, and held Havers’ hand by their sides: a touch, gentle yet laden with significance, meant to bridge every distance between them. Havers briefly met their intertwined hands like it was burning him, then squeezed the Captain's hand as though it was a soothing remedy.

“She will surely remember your kindness for the rest of her life. You’re exceptional with her,” the Captain continued, his words infused with affection, his grasp on Havers' hand tightening slightly.

“It’s my duty to be so. She is everything we are fighting for, everything we need to protect, everything I should be-” Havers stopped himself. His breath hitched which he bit down with a solemn smile. “I am only doing what is right.”

“Yet I do not hear of Lieutenant’s walking injured little girls home to make sure they are safe and do not get into any trouble with their mothers.”

“Well, I couldn't send her off into the village by herself. Look where she ended up last time. ”

“There are worse fates than ending up being cared for by you.”

The atmosphere between them grew warmer, filled with coy smiles and bashful glances, a glimpse of the raw infatuation they once wholly felt. An incandescent hope jumped inside the Captain, a possibility that perhaps they weren't as strained as he had feared, they weren’t as doomed as he’d embraced.

Their eyes locked, two souls laid bare, until the Captain felt compelled to break the loaded silence. “You haven't quite been yourself as of late.”

Havers huffed an aggrieved laugh through his nose. “I could say the same for you. It’s been rather a dreadful few weeks for us, though, hasn’t it?”

“I suppose so. But it wouldn’t be so terrible if we talked.”

“We tried,” Havers said, appearing a fusion of heartache and longing only documented by romantics.

Not hard enough, the Captain bitterly thought. He held this truth close, unwilling to risk regression in the delicate balance he had struggled to achieve. He still sought a way to reconcile Havers’ life with his own, with the War, with them. But Havers had made it his mission to not talk any further about himself - when everything was so intertwined, the Captain wondered if Havers ever intended on fixing the tension between them. No, he’d sooner run away, like he is now.

The goodwill that had once filled him now receded, replaced by the familiar undercurrent of paranoia. “I'm ready for you to try again.” His comment tumbled out with an unintended edge of anger. 

Then he saw a glint of tears forming in the wells of Havers’ brown eyes, and the thread of trust frayed to its thinnest strand.

“Good God. You’re impossible,” Havers breathed, almost pleading.

“What?”

“You know- Why are you-?”

“I’m ready!” Tilly called from the other side of the wall.

Tilly's shout shattered the moment, her voice a reminder of their reality beyond this brief interlude. Havers moved away with a hurried pace without another glance, his attention purposefully drawn to the young girl. 

Empty-handed, the Captain trailed behind, his own sense of yearning now mingling with the cold air that now seemed to envelop the ground floor. The space between them exploded with its expansion, threatening to swallow what was left of their fragile entanglement.

“We’ll get you home and clean those fantastic shoes up. They’ll be back to a bright red in no time,” Havers declared to Tilly with a gentle celebration. He offered his hand and she reached up, locking their palms together. Havers held all the weight of her arm with one hand and opened Button Houses’ front door with the other. “Onwards, soldier. I don’t suppose you know any marches or songs?”

As the Lieutenant guided Tilly outside, the Captain remained, watching from the window, an observer of this scene that both resonated with familiarity and echoed with the chilling void.

The Captain knew things had turned sour. Play fighting was merely fighting. From the fringes of War, they absorbed every harrowing development while they were working themselves sick. And amidst it all, a sinking feeling, a premonition, gnawed at the Captain's gut: an intuition that the worst news was yet to come.

When it did come, it would devastate him. And it will be Havers’ fault, he vehemently tried to convince himself once again.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Love, Creation - Angbang

Ah, another golden exchange!

A bit of sadness (which is immediately alleviated by the replies!)

A hooded figure slips into the temple, startling the acolytes and making the candles flicker as if in strange recognition of an old friend.

Extending a long-fingered hand, they hold a folded sheet of paper to a fat white taper, watch the flames consume it, and disappear into the night again.

Master,

Is there a fire in the Void to keep you company and warm your weary essence? If so, I hope that this hastily scribbled missive reaches you through the hissing confession of that bright blaze.

Though you’ve been removed beyond the confines of the known world and the vast sphere of my ever-growing might, neither your name nor your purpose is forgotten.

Not once has my love or devotion faltered, and so I’ve toiled indefatigably in the service of your glorious vision since the devastating loss of your cherished presence which only fuels the fire of my wrath.

I also still remember your incandescent words of praise and encouragement, and so I selfishly wish that you could admire the marvellous ring I’ve forged in the churning innards of Mount Doom—you’ve ever been so inexplicably fond of radiant jewellery, especially if it was imbued with lethal intent and inescapable malediction.

Oh, my beloved, if only you could have seen the flayed flesh of the last pure-blooded Fëanorian—spread out as if to petition an indifferent, blind, and purposefully deaf Power—as I paraded him through the streets like the lowly traitor he was.

In my mind and heart, I can hear you chuckle even now; you’d call me industrious, your voice heavy and sweet with pride and amusement, and I’d glow like an ember under your electrifying regard.

Reinventing myself by fashioning a thousand seductive masks to wear and discard at will, I have been all the while more faithful and determined than any of these pathetic incarnates could even begin to fathom.

Indeed, in my every word, gesture, and smile, I’ve avidly served you.

Has your brother, feathered fool that he is, truly believed that he’d condemn the seeds of your brilliant strategies to decay and destruction by mercilessly wrenching you from the face of this marred realm? Does he not know that I’ll tend to every seedling with meticulous, jealous care until you can return to perfect what we’ve worked on so diligently throughout the ages?

He and his cronies might deem me duplicitous and evil for now encouraging the deplorably self-enamoured King of Men to believe that I’m his subdued servant and demure councillor, but, surely, they ultimately must understand that—after the drastic measures they saw fit to enact—I was left but very little choice in the matter.

I’d find their inability to anticipate the desperate, vicious struggle for survival of those they drive into cruel corners quite droll if my skin was not crawling with reluctance and disgust at the mere thought of Ar-Pharazôn’s imminent nightly visit.

The role of the sensual slave is, nonetheless, but another example of my boundless creativity, and I dare say you’d have immensely enjoyed the silken skin of the wide-eyed wretch I wear night after night like an ill-fitting suit.

That thought heartens me and consolidates my resolve in the face of seemingly unvanquishable adversity.

In hopes that you’ll receive this,

Yours, forever, in love,

Mairon

Link on Ao3

[dailyanarchistposts]

J.5.14 What is Libertarian Municipalism?

As we noted in section J.2, most anarchists reject participating in electoral politics. A notable exception was Murray Bookchin who not only proposed voting but also a non-parliamentary electoral strategy for anarchists. He repeated this proposal in many of his later works, such as From Urbanisation to Cities, and has made it — at least in the USA — one of the many alternatives anarchists are involved in.

According to Bookchin, “the proletariat, as do all oppressed sectors of society, comes to life when it sheds its industrial habits in the free and spontaneous activity of communising, or taking part in the political life of the community.” In other words, Bookchin thought that democratisation of local communities may be as strategically important, or perhaps more important, to anarchists than workplace struggles. Since local politics is humanly scaled, Bookchin argued that it can be participatory rather than parliamentary. Or, as he put it, the “anarchic ideal of decentralised, stateless, collectively managed, and directly democratic communities — of confederated municipalities or ‘communes’ — speaks almost intuitively, and in the best works of Proudhon and Kropotkin, consciously, to the transforming role of libertarian municipalism as the framework of a liberatory society.” “Theses on Libertarian Municipalism”, pp. 9–22, The Anarchist Papers, Dimitrios I. Roussopoulos (ed.),p. 10] He also pointed out that, historically, the city has been the principle countervailing force to imperial and national states, haunting them as a potential challenge to centralised power and continuing to do so today, as can be seen in the conflicts between national government and municipalities in many countries.

Despite the libertarian potential of urban politics, “urbanisation” — the growth of the modern megalopolis as a vast wasteland of suburbs, shopping malls, industrial parks, and slums that foster political apathy and isolation in realms of alienated production and private consumption — is antithetical to the continued existence of those aspects of the city that might serve as the framework for a libertarian municipalism: “When urbanisation will have effaced city life so completely that the city no longer has its own identity, culture, and spaces for consociation, the bases for democracy — in whatever way the word in defined — will have disappeared and the question of revolutionary forms will be a shadow game of abstractions.” Despite this danger Bookchin argued that a libertarian politics of local government is still possible, provided anarchists get our act together: “The Commune still lies buried in the city council; the sections still lie buried in the neighbourhood; the town meeting still lies buried in the township; confederal forms of municipal association still lie buried in regional networks of towns and cities.” [Op. Cit., p. 16 and p. 21]

What would anarchists do electorally at the local level? Bookchin proposed that libertarians stand in local elections in order to change city and town charters to make them participatory: “An organic politics based on such radical participatory forms of civic association does not exclude the right of anarchists to alter city and town charters such that they validate the existence of directly democratic institutions. And if this kind of activity brings anarchists into city councils, there is no reason why such a politics should be construed as parliamentary, particularly if it is confined to the civic level and is consciously posed against the state.” [Op. Cit., p. 21]

In short, Libertarian Muncipalism “depends upon libertarian leftists running candidates at the local level, calling for the division of municipalities into wards, where popular assemblies can be created that bring people into full and direct participation in political life … municipalities would [then] confederate into a dual power to oppose the nation-state and ultimately dispense with it and with the economic forces that underpin statism as such.” [Democracy and Nature no. 9, p. 158] This would be part of a social wide transformation, whose ”[m]inimal steps … include initiating Left Green municipalist movements that propose neighbourhood and town assemblies — even if they have only moral functions at first — and electing town and city councillors that advance the cause of these assemblies and other popular institutions. These minimal steps can lead step-by-step to the formation of confederal bodies … Civic banks to fund municipal enterprises and land purchases; the fostering of new ecologically-orientated enterprises that are owned by the community.” Thus Bookchin saw Libertarian Muncipalism as a process by which the state can be undermined by using elections as the means of creating popular assemblies. Part of this would be the “municipalisation of property” which would “bring the economy as a whole into the orbit of the public sphere, where economic policy could be formulated by the entire community.” [From Urbanisation to Cities, p. 266 and p. 235]

In evaluating Bookchin’s proposal, several points come to mind.

Firstly, it is clear that Libertarian Muncipalism’s arguments in favour of community assemblies is important and cannot be ignored. Bookchin was right to note that, in the past, many anarchists placed far too much stress on workplace struggles and workers’ councils as the framework of a free society. Many of the really important issues that affect us cannot be reduced to workplace organisations, which by their very nature disenfranchise those who do not work in industry (such as housewives, the old, and so on). And, of course, there is far more to life than work and so any future society organised purely around workplace organisations is reproducing capitalism’s insane glorification of economic activity, at least to some degree. So, in this sense, Libertarian Muncipalism has a very valid point — a free society will be created and maintained within the community as well as in the workplace. However, this perspective was hardly alien to such anarchist thinkers as Proudhon, Bakunin and Kropotkin who all placed communes at the centre of their vision of a free society.

Secondly, Bookchin and other Libertarian Muncipalists are correct to argue that anarchists should work in their local communities. Many anarchists are doing just that and are being very successful as well. However, most anarchists reject the idea of a “confederal muncipalist movement run[ning] candidates for municipal councils with demands for the institution of public assemblies” as viable means of “struggle toward creating new civic institutions out of old ones (or replacing the old ones altogether).” [Bookchin, Op. Cit., p. 229 and p. 267]

The most serious objection to this has to do with whether politics in most cities has already become too centralised, bureaucratic, inhumanly scaled, and dominated by capitalist interests to have any possibility of being taken over by anarchists running on platforms of participatory democratisation. Merely to pose the question seems enough to answer it. There is no such possibility in the vast majority of cities, and hence it would be a waste of time and energy for anarchists to support libertarian municipalist candidates in local elections — time and energy that could be more profitably spent in direct action. If the central governments are too bureaucratic and unresponsive to be used by Libertarian Municipalists, the same can be said of local ones too — particularly as the local state has become increasingly controlled by the central authorities (in the UK, for example, the Conservative government of the 1980s successfully centralised power away from local councils to undercut their ability to resist the imposition of its neo-liberal policies).

The counter-argument to this is that even if there is no chance of such candidates being elected, their standing for elections would serve a valuable educational function. The answer to this is: perhaps, but would it be more valuable than direct action? Would its educational value, if any, outweigh the disadvantages of electioneering discussed in section J.2? Given the ability of major media to marginalise alternative candidates, we doubt that such campaigns would have enough educational value to outweigh these disadvantages. Moreover, being an anarchist does not make one immune to the corrupting effects of electioneering. History is littered with radical, politically aware movements using elections and ending up becoming part of the system they aimed to transform. Most anarchists doubt that Libertarian Muncipalism will be any different — after all, it is the circumstances the parties find themselves in which are decisive, not the theory they hold. Why would libertarians be immune to this but not Marxists or Greens?

Lastly, most anarchists question the whole process on which Libertarian Muncipalism bases itself on. The idea of communes is a key one of anarchism and so strategies to create them in the here and now are important. However, to think that using alienated, representative institutions to abolish these institutions is wrong. As Italian activists who organised a neighbourhood assembly by non-electoral means argue ”[t]o accept power and to say that the others were acting in bad faith and that we would be better, would force non-anarchists towards direct democracy. We reject this logic and believe that organisations must come from the grassroots.” [“Community Organising in Southern Italy”, pp. 16–19, Black Flag no. 210, p. 18]

Thus Libertarian Municipalism reverses the process by which community assemblies will be created. Instead of anarchists using elections to build such bodies, they must work in their communities directly to create them (see section J.5.1 for more details). Using the catalyst of specific issues of local interest, anarchists could propose the creation of a community assembly to discuss the issues in question and organise action to solve them. Rather than stand in local elections, anarchists should encourage people to create these institutions themselves and empower themselves by collective self-activity. As Kropotkin argued, “Laws can only follow the accomplished facts; and even if they do honestly follow them — which is usually not the case — a law remains a dead letter so long as there are not on the spot the living forces required for making the tendencies expressed in the law an accomplished fact.” [Anarchism, p. 171] Most anarchists, therefore, think it is far more important to create the “living forces” within our communities directly than waste energy in electioneering and the passing of laws creating or “legalising” community assemblies. In other words, community assemblies can only be created from the bottom up, by non-electoral means, a process which Libertarian Muncipalism confuses with electioneering.

So, while Libertarian Muncipalism does raise many important issues and correctly stresses the importance of community activity and self-management, its emphasis on electoral activity undercuts its liberatory promise. For most anarchists, community assemblies can only be created from below, by direct action, and (because of its electoral strategy) a Libertarian Municipalist movement will end up being transformed into a copy of the system it aims to abolish.

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (19)

Will drew in a sharp breath and took a determined step forward, moving toward the next memory. He cast a fleeting glance up at Miu before extending his hand to commence the scene.

With no alternative left, Will found himself ensconced within the confines of Lecter's office, a realm dominated by towering bookshelves that had undoubtedly been intended as Graham's vantage point, while Lecter paced gracefully below. It was a frail attempt to create a physical chasm, a desperate bid to regain his footing after the doctor's earlier psychological conquest in Jack's office. The library's volumes provided a semblance of sanctuary, a refuge behind which he could momentarily obscure himself from the looming presence of the psychiatrist. But even when he hid at the farthest corner in the room, the highest point up, Hannibal was coming towards him. In the backdrop, his doppelgängers engaged in whispered discourse, compelling Will to sweep his gaze across the room in search of Miu's elusive presence. Yet, it remained cunningly concealed until his scrutiny fell upon the audacious choice of 'candy cane' curtains adorning Hannibal's office. From within the garish drapery, Miu seemed to materialize, draped in a matching red and gray color that sent an unsettling chill down Will's spine. A candy cane demon, what a delight. It was a vision that promised to infiltrate his nightmares, as if the peculiar choice of curtains hadn't already achieved its disquieting effect. The ability to change color, Will mused. Great. That was a notable addition to the burgeoning list of observations he had been mentally compiling about the entity. It was clearly a breed apart from the other spectral manifestations he had encountered. Not undead—yet, since he hadn't succeeded in dispatching it. The fact that it appeared to possess a mind of its own was the most disconcerting aspect of all. This creature was proving to be vastly more intricate and multifaceted than any of his prior encounters. It was as if his demons were undergoing an evolution of sorts, or perhaps, his own psyche had finally snapped entirely.

He half-heartedly clapped his hands together, pivoting his body towards the unfolding scene, his demeanor exuding the enthusiasm of someone who yearned desperately to be anywhere else. Grudgingly, he allowed himself to observe.

"What’s that?" He could hear his own voice calling from above, while Hannibal slid a paper onto the table.

"Your psychological evaluation," he spoke softly, but loudly enough for Will to hear, while his gaze ascended to him, before it descended upon the paper, reading his own writing. "You are totally functional and more or less sane." Then he paused, his gaze smugly ascending. "Well done." The doctor’s gaze lowered to the paper, and he carefully placed it back onto the small glass table with precision. Displeased, Will tilted his head in a disapproving manner, his steps measured and deliberate as he moved towards Hannibal from above, his penetrating gaze fixed firmly upon the man below.

"Did you just rubber-stamp me?"

"Yes. Jack Crawford may lay his weary head to rest knowing he didn’t break you and our conversation can proceed unobstructed by paperwork," Hannibal replied, his voice devoid of notable inflection. However, his hand, in an intriguing display, initially retreated into his pocket, as if harboring a secret, only to be abruptly revealed as it casually hung at his side. All the while, his gaze followed Will.

Hannibal’s keen interest lay in the prospect of further dissecting Will's psyche. At that moment, the state of Will's mind held little actual importance for him. Once more, Will could feel a bubble of anger pop, oozing like pus from an infected wound. "Jack thinks that I need therapy," Will enunciated each word deliberately, his measured steps guiding him with caution around the folded ladder obstructing his path to the enigmatic black books adorned with colored dots, nestled toward the room's center. Unquestionably, these volumes contained Hannibal's notes on his patients, all meticulously handwritten, impeccably organized, categorized, and cataloged. "What you need is a way out of dark places when Jack sends you there," Hannibal remarked, and at those words, Will abruptly turned to fixate his gaze on Miu. It was almost as if his expression silently conveyed, ‘Did you catch that?’ His eyes widened, a sarcastic smile tugging at his lips.

"Last time he sent me into a dark place, I brought something back," Will's voice filtered into the scene from above, and once more, Graham shot another glance at Miu. Yep, he could definitely check that off his list.

"A surrogate daughter?" Hannibal's gaze descended, measured and deliberate, as if he were dissecting Will's emotional landscape. His choice of words were highly peculiar. The psychiatrist approached the desk with an unhurried grace, his fingers adjusting a slender tome while he seemed poised for Will's inevitable response. However, no response was given.

"You saved Abigail Hobbs' life. You also orphaned her. That comes with certain emotional obligations, regardless of empathy disorders." The implications were clear, heavy with gravity. And there he stood, prodding at Will's vulnerabilities with the finesse of a seasoned manipulator.

Will's eyes narrowed. 'You also orphaned her,' he mentally repeated, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. How cunning, he mused, the art of psychological manipulation displayed before him in all its glory.

"You were there," Will’s shadow replied, his voice steady, his stance stalwart. His eyes shifted from the books to Hannibal's face, a challenge gleaming within their depths. "You saved her life too. Do you feel obligated?" 

Hannibal, in response, straightened his posture. The stack of papers on the desk ceased to hold his interest. His wide, penetrating gaze locked onto Will's, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

"Yes," Lecter replied, his voice a soft, measured cadence that hung in the air like a weighty secret. He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to settle before he continued, his words quickening once more. "I feel a staggering amount of obligation." Another pause, his gaze unblinking, yet subtly shifting away from Will, as if seeking refuge in the shadows of the room. "I feel responsibility." There was a tremor in the word 'responsibility,' a fracture in his composure, a discordance that betrayed his inner turmoil. "I've fantasized about scenarios where my actions may have allowed a different fate for Abigail Hobbs." Oh, this line from Hannibal had just been gifted with a new layer of meaning. Will's lips curled into a smile, though it bore no resemblance to mirth; it was the expression of simmering fury.

Perhaps, if he hadn't placed that accursed call—

"Jack thinks Abigail Hobbs helped her dad kill those girls," his previous self persisted, and Will's gaze abruptly swiveled, colliding with the unassailable truth that Jack had been correct all along, right from the very start, and how resolutely he had shielded his eyes from that reality.

Hannibal regarded Will with a curious intensity. His countenance remained enigmatic, but it was the subtle, inquisitive flicker in his ever-moving eyes that spoke volumes.

"How does that make you feel?" The psychiatrist probed, swift but composed in his utterance.

"How does it make you feel?" Will deflected, his eyebrows arching, his eyes widening in an exaggerated display of curiosity. With a defiant flair, he couldn't resist the opportunity to be sassy, sending the message right back to its sender.

And then it dawned on him, that Hannibal must have taken a liking to him. Otherwise, his sass would have likely earned him an immediate spot on the menu, a culinary retribution for his audacious behavior, a punishment inflicted for little more than his disdain for therapy, his resentment toward Jack for sending him here, and his utter abhorrence for Dr. Lecter, that insufferably pretentious, know-it-all, infuriating doctor. Such insolence couldn't have been aimed at just any therapist trying to make a modest living. No, it was aimed squarely at Lecter, who had irked him from the very beginning, and he was hurling his spiteful disdain right into the face of the man like a brazen cat marking territory by peeing on a carpet.

It struck him with a pang of remorse, making him acutely conscious of the unkindness he had exhibited. He realized the pain he must have inflicted, dismissing Lecter as uninteresting when, in truth, all Lecter desired was Will's attention, to be truly seen by someone capable of comprehending the depths of his being. The sting of that realization cut deep.

How many lives might have been spared had he refrained from incessantly provoking Lecter?

If only he could turn back the hands of time, begin anew from that very first encounter, and mold their relationship in a different way. In an alternate universe, perhaps, he had been gentler, more considerate, and far kinder to Hannibal.

Miu observed with a sharp curiosity, its eyes tracing the subtle shifts in Graham's expression. It then made a slight adjustment in its gaze, maintaining an attentive watch as the scene unfolded before it.

"I find it vulgar," Hannibal replied, averting his gaze, his fingers lightly twitching with faint agitation. It wasn't the response he had anticipated. He resembled a perplexed cat, earning little more than indifference from its owner after recklessly knocking a vase from the edge of the table.

"Me too," Will agreed absentmindedly, his sense of indignation solidifying, and with it, a sense of security that unwittingly paved the way for Hannibal's next subtle strike. "And entirely possible," Lecter added suddenly. Oh, there was a sharp curve right there, and it appeared that everyone else had seen it coming, except for Will.

"It's not what happened." Will nearly snapped, the words tinged with frustration. It was precisely what he fervently wished had never occurred. He averted his gaze from Hannibal, hands thrust into his pockets, his entire being recoiling from the painful reality of that possibility.

"Jack will ask her when she wakes up, or he’ll have one of us ask her," Hannibal added with a seemingly innocuous statement, deftly redirecting Will's emotions toward Jack and compelling Will to deflect yet another emotional strike.

"Is this therapy, or a support group?" Graham's tone betrayed a trace of defensiveness, and Hannibal continued to observe him with the same enchanted curiosity one might have while watching the moon's orbit. Will's defense amused him; it was a shrewd maneuver. It prompted Hannibal to once again adapt his approach.

“It's whatever you need it to be," Lecter responded, caught in a delicate dance between awe, amusement, and a trace of melancholy. His lips curved into a subtle smile, and his eyes bore witness to something he found beautiful. Fixated upon Will Graham, utterly entranced.

Will had almost found solace in the unexpected silence, anticipating the session's conclusion. However, Hannibal, ever the maestro of parting words, refused to yield the final act.

"And, Will," Hannibal commenced, capturing Graham's attention once more. "... the mirrors in your mind can reflect the best of yourself," Lecter paused for emphasis. "Not the worst of someone else."

In fact, this realization prompted a momentary mental pause as the scene froze in place. The mirrors in his mind could reflect the best of him, not the worst of someone else. His gaze instinctively shifted to Miu. Was that the ‘best of him’? The entity possessed a formidable presence, akin to the cosmic terrors like Cthulhu and other eldritch monstrosities. It left scant room for hope that anything a human could muster would inflict harm upon it. However, from whatever abyss it had emerged, it did not appear to showcase his ‘best.’

Guarding his crotch with a makeshift shield formed by his hands, he ventured forth with an elongated, near-parodic stride toward the feline. Every nuance of his body language was exaggerated, as if he were a performer on a surreal stage. This bewildering display momentarily disarmed the creature, rendering it temporarily transfixed. Its gaze narrowed ever so slightly, a subtle ripple of curiosity and wariness coursing through its visage. Seeking refuge in sarcasm, a well-worn armor of denial and evasion—yes, this was a tactic the cat recognized all too well. It suggested that Will was in a battle with his own emotions, most likely grappling with his guilt. He wielded every defense in his arsenal to deflect the assault on his composure. As he adorned the mask of nonchalance, humor, and brusqueness, Miu responded with a subtle yet telling exhale, a sound that seemed to escape the confines of its chest, causing its once expansive demeanor to subtly deflate, much like the sagging of weary shoulders. It could discern the vulnerability that Will was concealing.

Its lower lids quivered in contemplative scrutiny, observing Will with a measured and attentive gaze.

This time, the scene refused to dissolve, and Miu's gaze ensnared Hannibal with a stern intensity. Then, it gifted Will with the smallest inclination of its head, an ephemeral gesture that carried a fleeting touch of solace.

Will's gaze ascended with a deliberate slowness, capturing the feline in his scrutiny. It was as though he sought to penetrate the obscure depths of its intent, grappling with the question of whether it was toying with his vulnerability or genuinely extending a hand of comfort. Suspicion hung in the air like an ominous storm cloud.

His eyes, dark pools of contemplation, darted from the icy visage of Hannibal Lecter to Miu, the provocateur who wielded its inquisitive gaze like a weapon. Will felt the currents of his turbulent emotions ebb and flow, a tempestuous sea churning within him. The icy veneer of his composure began to crack, revealing the smoldering fury lurking beneath.

He approached the chillingly lively image of Hannibal, that fiendish cannibal who had danced on the precipice of his sanity for far too long. Did he desire to strike down this grotesque phantom of his past, or was there an inexplicable yearning, a perverse craving, to embrace it all once more?

A sardonic smirk slithered onto his lips, a wry manifestation of the tumultuous battle raging within his psyche. Miu, the astute puppeteer of his innermost conflicts, seemed to take pleasure in the discord it had meticulously sown, didn't it? It had sensed his momentary lapse, that fleeting instant of vulnerability when he almost succumbed to the lure of his own demons. As his gaze shifted towards the cat, his countenance bore a smugness that suggested he had detected the trap long before it was sprung, an expression of one who believed himself to be one step ahead. However, that self-satisfied look was abruptly erased when he met the gentle gaze in Miu's eyes. It was a gaze that possessed a softness that completely disarmed Will, as though it had reached right into his core and slapped the defensiveness out of him. In that instant, he felt a pang of remorse, a bitter acknowledgment of his own unwarranted skepticism. Congratulations to Miu for achieving that remarkable feat.

He swiftly averted his gaze, fixing his blank stare upon Hannibal.

Will drew his cheeks inward, a subtle contraction of his countenance, as he pursed his lips. Was the feline truly toying with him, or was his own paranoia weaving illusions of deceit?

Goddammit.

At this point, he just wanted to lay face-first on the floor and scream. With one hand raised, his lips forming a taut, inscrutable line, the outcome of the internal struggle within his mind remained shrouded in ambiguity. He slapped his palm upon Hannibal's chest, a hesitant gesture caught in the midst of conflicting emotions. But as he made contact with the living warmth beneath his hand, he felt his fingers curling into Lecter's shirt, an instinctual response that betrayed him. Will was acutely aware that he was losing the battle on both fronts.

His fingers encountered the tie, and for a fleeting moment, he entertained the thought of yanking it with enough force to choke the life out of the image of Hannibal before him, as if punishing this spectral apparition could somehow alleviate his inner turmoil. Even though this frozen visage felt astonishingly lifelike, he understood that it was merely a vestige of his memory, not a tangible reality. Nevertheless, it exerted the same eerie magnetic pull that gradually drew him nearer.

Will couldn't ignore the fatigue that had enveloped his defenses, how they yearned to crumble under the weight of his emotional exhaustion. He sensed an irresistible tug, an unrelenting force pulling him toward Hannibal's image. He felt it, the overwhelming desire to surrender, to melt into the phantom’s embrace and be held tightly, if only for a fleeting moment of solace.

Even the act of breathing had become arduous, and the longer his gaze remained fixed upon the haunting image of Lecter, the more he sensed himself succumbing to its allure. He was acutely aware of the peril that lurked within this enchanting illusion, yet despite his better judgment, he found himself inching closer, drawn in by the seductive danger it represented.

He relented partially, finding a precarious balance by leaning against Hannibal's side rather than fully embracing him. However, even this limited contact delivered a devastating blow to his fragile defenses. As he caught a waft of the psychiatrist’s distinctive scent and basked in the comforting warmth it exuded, Will's resolve wavered, and he began to sway, teetering on the edge of losing his footing in the whirlwind of emotions that had engulfed him. He yearned for it to be real with an intensity that bordered on desperation, and it was precisely that perilous notion, akin to a tiny droplet of water hitting the taut surface of a barrel poised to burst and overflow, which delivered the fatal blow to his tenuous resistance.

His fingers curled, almost claw-like, as they clung to Hannibal's form, and his once-resolute expression fractured, trembling like fragile glass, as tears welled up and streamed down his face, marking the dissolution of his crumbling composure.

He had half-anticipated Miu to swiftly seize the advantage, extracting his emotions with merciless efficiency. Yet, to his surprise, the feline simply observed, a faint crease between its eyes conveying the message that it, too, was silently sharing in his suffering.

Its eyes gleamed with an uncanny brilliance, yet they remained dry, steadfastly unyielding as Will's own tears flowed freely, and he succumbed to further emotional fracture. Miu retained its unwavering facade, a stoic mask that betrayed no hint of vulnerability. Monsters, by their nature, don't shed tears; they mete out suffering.

However, Will wasn't deceived. Beneath that enigmatic countenance, he sensed the palpable anguish that Miu concealed. It didn't appear to thrive on pain in its raw form. Instead, it drew sustenance from the wellsprings of anger and hatred, but sorrow seemed to leave it untouched.

Extracting himself from Hannibal's warmth was an agony in itself, but the force compelling him toward the feline eclipsed the pain. So he took those steps toward Miu, a decision that left the creature visibly bewildered, its typical inscrutability momentarily shattered. The confusion deepened as it felt Will's arms enveloping its tall form, marking the first overt sign of perplexity he had ever witnessed in Miu. It was a victory, though not one he intended to flaunt before the entity.

Overwhelmed by the unexpected turn of events, Miu tensed, its gaze darting frantically as it searched for an escape route or a suitable response. Just as Will had suspected, it seemed entirely unaccustomed to the idea of positive emotions or receiving comfort. After all, who would embrace their demons with a hug? Its eyes, the largest Will had ever witnessed, seemed to undergo several transformations. The pupils oscillated, alternately constricting into slits and then expanding, as if its entire consciousness were caught in a glitching loop of confusion.

Its twitching visage struggled to reconcile the myriad emotions and thoughts swirling within its mind, unable to find a common denominator. Affection, it appeared, was akin to a virulent contagion, and Miu found itself progressively succumbing to its grip, much like falling prey to a cold, gradually withering under Will's tender touch.

Its design was a testament to its intent: to annihilate and remain impervious. With raw intellect to command the battlefield and emotional acumen to manipulate, it was a formidable adversary. Yet, in its creation, a chink in its armor had been left unattended—its vulnerability to positive emotions, a weakness ripe for exploitation.

To master manipulation, it delved deep into emotions, immersing itself intensely. However, this very immersion left the door ajar for external influence to seep through.

All of its formidable might, all its malevolence, would be nullified when poisoned with the elixir of love.

There was something vaguely amusing about the situation, but Will chose to savor the moment in silence, his hold around Miu growing firmer. Over time, the creature abandoned its futile search for an escape and begrudgingly surrendered to its fate. It tentatively lifted its arms, allowing them to encircle Will in return, forming an unexpected and cautious embrace.

It marked the first tender contact he had experienced in an eternity, and despite its origin in a possible adversary, it stirred an unfamiliar yet comforting sensation within him.

Indeed, this whole situation was undeniably strange. Nevertheless, the entity decided against vocalizing any complaints and instead opted to endure the unusual gesture, tolerating this newfound intimacy.

The scene underwent a transition, transporting them back to the confines of the memory palace. Miu glanced down at Will, half-expecting that the moment called for them to part ways. However, as Will's grip remained unyielding, it found itself once more ensnared by confusion. If he persisted in embracing it so tightly, he might just catch a cold from its frigid skin. It observed him shiver, yet he refused to release his grip. In an attempt to convey the notion that Graham should release his grip, the entity made a subtle attempt to wriggle free, but this only seemed to spur him to tighten his embrace further. Miu's ears perked forward, and from its elevated vantage point, it observed the situation with a curious fascination. Will held it with a force that could have easily crushed mortal bones, a fact that didn't perturb Miu in the least; rather, it found this display of strength to be utterly interesting.

One of its colossal hands slowly ascended, its elongated claws quivering, and Will observed it from the corner of his eye, stalwart in his determination to hold on, even if the entity chose to lash out. Yet, when he sensed the gentle caress of its palm, he released a trembling breath, his apprehensions momentarily quelled. With a gentle head pat, it resigned itself to its current predicament once more. As its gaze wandered over Will's abundant locks, it couldn't help but feel a sense of curiosity. Its fingers carefully combed through the curly strands, savoring the surprisingly soft texture and finding a strange delight in the experience. It endeavored to reciprocate the gesture. Awkwardly.

This, he realized, would be his strategic opening.

Will followed his instincts, mirroring the way cats enjoyed being scratched at the base of their tails. Although the great feline lacked a tail, he knew precisely where to find that spot – the one where nerves were especially sensitive – and he gently lowered his hand to scratch it. In an unguarded moment, a soft purr slipped from Miu's throat, causing its entire body to vibrate momentarily. However, just as swiftly as the sound had escaped, it retracted, sucked back in, as if the purr had never occurred, leaving behind a facade of composure. He could sense the many claws on his head, acutely aware of their tension, as if they were poised on the brink of embedding themselves deep into his skull at the slightest hint of a too-loud breath. Graham found himself momentarily frozen in that charged silence. Though he yearned to say something, he sensed the piercing intensity of the gaze from above, a gaze that seared into his neck, and he wisely refrained from provoking it further or daring to glance upward. 

Naturally, there remained but one unequivocal course of action.

In an audaciously defiant moment, verging on reckless, he resolutely scratched the sensitive spot once more, provoking a sharp tremor that rippled up the cat's spine. He could almost perceive the internal turmoil wracking Miu's form, as its body writhed in a desperate struggle to smother the urge to vocalize, waging a seemingly futile war against its own impulses. He could also discern the reflexive contractions in its throat, as if it were striving to stifle both the sound and its very self before anything could slip free. Preferring self-imposed strangulation over surrendering to the temptation to purr. How quintessentially and diabolically demonic of it.

At least, that would offer a revealing test of its lung capacity, Will mused inwardly, his lips curving into a sly smile that he struggled to contain. With great effort, he refrained from succumbing to outright giggles of his own. He continued to lavish more scratches upon Miu, who writhed and contorted as if in the throes of electrical shock.

Finally, after an excruciatingly long stretch, Miu summoned the concentration necessary to teleport to safety. It reappeared several meters away, well out of Will's scratching reach, its feline features etched with an unmistakable blend of righteous indignation and offense. Yet, it was precisely that expression that pushed Will past the brink, and his laughter spluttered forth uncontrollably. His frame leaned over, consumed by the sheer hilarity of the moment. He had valiantly endeavored to stifle it, but that amusement had erupted reflexively, leaving him gasping for breath and tears streaming down his face from the sheer intensity of his mirth.

The demon was ticklish. HAH!

Miu, in the midst of its silent contemplation of a myriad of methods for murder and the art of human flesh preparation, couldn't help but feel certain that if Will persisted in his current fit of wheezing, he might just manage to do himself in.

Yet, it marked the first time in a long while that he had genuinely laughed. Even though it came at the expense of the demon, despite the outward display of offense and aggression it projected, deep down, there was a sense of satisfaction in witnessing him finally find some laughter. The casually tilted head and the slight slouch of his shoulders gave it away, and for a fleeting moment, he could have sworn he detected the faintest hint of a smile, almost imperceptible.

Nonetheless, Miu was still a cat at heart. It indignantly turned its back to him, pouting as it settled into a seated position. Although it lacked a physical tail, there was an unmistakable sense of an invisible appendage impatiently tapping against the ground.

Will approached cautiously, his gaze sweeping up and down its form, a faint quiver of amusement playing upon his lips.

"Will you enlighten me, Miu, as to why you've chosen to reveal my memories?" he inquired, earning a sharp, sidelong glance from the feline before it averted its gaze.

In that case, he concluded, he would need to apply a touch more torment. Instead of offering an apology, Graham opted for a swift jackknife dive toward Miu's rear, promptly resuming his teasing scratches. But when the feline reacted, it was akin to a nuclear explosion in both speed and intensity. The man instinctively ducked, his hair nearly grazing the force that surged past him. A moment later, he heard a distant rumble, akin to a colossal structure collapsing somewhere far off. Both Miu and Will found themselves staring at each other in mutual astonishment, the cat’s outstretched palm suspended midair. It became abundantly clear that backhands from Miu were nothing short of lethal and possessed the power to topple entire buildings. A valuable lesson, indeed. Will rolled onto his back, his hands raised in surrender, as though held at gunpoint.

"I yield," he declared.

[infinitycutter]

Mémoire de la Mode - Yohji Yamamoto

by François Baudot (1997)

Those who wear my clothes try to assert a single opinion,” says Yohji Yamamoto. This essential way of thinking about fashion, which he has succinctly expressed for more than 20 years, sums up his own creative activity. In contrast to the extremely rich era of haute couture, the glorious side of prêt-à-porter, and the futurism of the avant-garde, Yamamoto, a Japanese man, asserts the strength and difference of Yamamoto's style in a small but decisive way by returning to clothing archetypes, choosing neutral expression, and employing a simplified palette and register. The return to traditional Japanese patterns and the use of a more neutral expression, a simplified palette and registers (designs), all of which gradually but definitively assert the strength and difference of the Japanese style. Examining the couture of Paris as well as the traditional Japanese garments, the silhouette of his work explores a whole new realm of fashion appearance and behavior. In this turbulent century, more has emerged than has been raised in a thousand vears of fashion issues.

The couturiers who had been at the height of their powers in the 1950s were forced to admit that in the decade that followed, the power of the designers was slowly being established. These designers contributed to the growth of the big brand manufacturers,

The first generation of "young creatives" was born. The style of the young creators, a necessity for the majority of Parisians, would later suffer from a regimentation of Italians who were transformed into better and better supporters.

Thus, from 1965 to 1985, many of the directions of couturiers and fashion creators in the bretaille were developed, loved, and organized. The focus, the baroque, the traditional exuberance, etc., were all confined to their own creations, which in the early 80's were documented by those who would be defined as "conceptualists". This expression of premillennialism is a new trend that emerged in the plastic arts between 1950 and 1970, in which ideas, qualities, and analysis of concepts and results took the place of the body of work through the artist's creative activity.

This is precisely the "opinion" that Yamamoto presents. The public art of dreaming is considered elusive, but it wants to approach the public from the outset, while focusing on the real.

Today's fashion follows artists whose work has not been consumed by the market economy for the last ten years or so, and minimalist artists are proud of their fame as somewhat distant successors to Marcel Duchamp. The monochrome paintings of Ad Reinhardt, the charcoal forms of Donald Judd, Sol LeWitt and Karl Andre, the ergonomics of everyday materials, the theatrical art of Janis Knellis, Mario Merz and Giulio Paolini, the so-called Arte Portuguera, are just a few of the artists who are represented. These variations of modern art are the most important examples of the modern art of the past. These variations of modern art tend to be all about integrating the everyday into the everyday life, to bring the short image back into its original role and to capture it from a new perspective, whether it is a block of paper, a torn poster or the neon lights of a metropolis.

Even if Yamamoto does not seek the status of a so-called artist, his later works show an unusual sensitivity to the currents of the times by not using an original approach to the body of art. It is the same as what the couturiers of the previous era showed against cubism, Russian ballet, or pop art. For example, Andy Warhol, in his hot tea in the 70's, uses the verbal expression "a department store is like a museum" and turns the expression upside down to "I like Rome, because it is a museum after all, like the department store in Bloomingdale’s".

Pulte Pozzella goes even further and uses the same primitive elements of this addition, such as scraps, shavings, starch, coal, etc., as the main ingredients of the original product. In the same way, amoto is one of the few who, in the turbulent thirties, reads a rupture with the traditional idea of "entertainment". Likewise, Yamamoto is one of the few who, in the turbulent thirties, reads of a disconnection from the traditional ideas of "entertainment". He is one of the few who reads a break with the traditional idea of "kogei", which until then had been considered fascinating!

In order to accept the bags, he redefined his own relationship with the male (or female) body, redefined the relationship between beauty and certainty, antiquity and the future, and memory and modernity in a way that has become a tradition in a context where most people have no separate understanding of the relationship between these things.

Black, "the silhouette of all silhouettes in the shadow of the ultimate plate," is the best weapon for questioning what we wear, as was the case with Chanel in the early part of this century. The collection is a true dress for shadows, encompassing the silhouettes of mystery, without house-cloths, anchors, or detailing. In the midst of a glorious body of beauty and a civilization that is unspoiled by any day, Yamamoto invented a new discipline: summiting. His originality has no national origins, no beginnings, and even the slightest pretension has been removed. In other words, "back to the core". This is his philosophy of hair persuasion.

His creations, which are the source of his ideas for means and costumes, represent the national trend toward the impractical idea of 1. In response to the definitive selection of the eponymous quality of "elegance," he transposed it into an environment that is recognized as beautiful and vernacular in our time. In its ascetic variations, Hara Shu's archaeological₴, or Sugata's style, continually reexamines itself, blurring the line between the ephemeral and the immutable. Thus, like all important events in the fashion world in the past, the "classic" is born.

The modern form of the dress is a secret, enduring elegance with contemporary significance.

The wealth of the world is maximized by the power of the mind.

His surname means "at the foot of the mountain". In 1943, he was born in Tokyo and grew up in a small town called Kogei.

He grew up in Japan, where his parents, both war widows, were the elders of the Imperial Japanese Navy. He grew up in Japan under the guidance of his father, a war widower, who was the head of the Northeast Asian Women's Association (NWA).

Without any certainty, he attempted to enter the elite society of Japan with the given discipline and purpose. However, he surprised his parents by finally deciding to return to their place. As a condition of working in the store, his parents wanted him to attend the famous cultural and artistic exhibitions. Although this was to help him learn the basics of the trade, it was a problematic, emotional, and busy few years for him. The only male student was Yamamoto, the highest paid student in the school.

The reason is that he was a student. The only thing that the remaining customers later asked for was a copy of Bali's latest model. But the hardest part of the evening was that whatever little money was made from it could be used for one's own production.

In 1UGU, Yamamoto enters a competition and receives a bariatric travel grant. He spent eight months in the heart of fashion without a single centimeter and without money. It was enougn to find work as a designer. He spoke no French, hardly spoke a word of the language, and made all kinds of tea instead. He was particularly interested in the bret-a-porter that was then emerging in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. He felt that he had become fascinated by this kind of artlessness.

After returning to Tokyo in 1972, he established the Y’s Company, which presented its first collection in Tokyo in 1977.

In 1981, he participated in a fashion show in Paris with Kawakubo. Later, in 1981, he and Kawakubo participated in a fashion show in Paris, which caused a sensation in Paris. At this time, the world's press was forced to decide where to go. The question was whether or not they would accept the change in fashion and fashion show format that had been working so well. While there was a lot of criticism about the show, there were also voices from the side of the fashion industry that were opposed to the show. The unknown artists were now in the limelight amongst the solder community.

The Liberation newspaper on the day of the show was titled "A leading role for Japanese in the French fashion world". Michel Claesol wrote: "The original surfaces that we will dye in 1982 will be worn for the next 20 years -

What Courrèges and Cartan proposed around 1200 as being applicable until the year 2000 AD is now as old as a Soviet science fiction movie. For a long time, French couturiers thought that couture, like science, was a way to right the wrongs of the past. But Japanese designers foreshadowed something when they wrote, "Japanese designers are preparing to make it possible for real families to quickly decide what clothes and accessories to wear when they have only 30 minutes before going out • • • •

This premonition was confirmed 15 years later when Yamamoto became a businessman as well as a creator. In 1981, he began to work on costumes, the cornerstone of conservatism, although he himself pronounced that he was not interested in money and had little of it. He was the first to take up the position of vice president of the company, and he was the first to be promoted to the position of president.

To accompany him, he thought he had to break the heavy connotation of the three-piece costume. As a result, he came up with a costume that was soft and dusky without escalating the extremes. The White shirts are an expression of neoclassicism without being harsh or authoritative.

Low folds, narrow shoulders, three-button jackets, pants that bend at the hem and narrow at the knee over well-polished shoes - all have had a decisive influence on the male silhouette for more than a decade. But he has the skill to weave in the constancy of the waterway, to put many men at ease who do not want to feel like victims of the mode. In a recent film set in Germany during the period between the two world wars, a dressmaker is accused of artificiality and of being "a man of the world".

The actors are dressed in Yamamoto style without making anyone feel "retro".

If fashion is about clothing, it is not essential. But if fashion is to feel our daily life, it is not indispensable. Painting, crimping, and other art forms,

There are very few things that can directly influence people, such as fashion and music, which are inexpensive. Fashion is the essential and only communication about the sensations of a generation of people who wear what they want to wear.

Yamamoto is the most philosophical of fashion creators. The wildest of the wild rivers. But perhaps he is the most disillusioned of all.

Making clothes is about people. I always want to meet and talk with people. That's what interests me the most. What do they do? What do they think about? What kind of life do they lead? After thinking about these things, I get to work. I start with the fabric, the material, and the "touch" of the fabric, then the form. Touch is the most important place for me. Once I get into the material, I am obsessed with the material becoming form," he functions. All of Yohji Yamamoto's garments start from two points on the chain. From there, the fabric flows down in the best possible way and the material remains alive.

When he quietly entered the over-accessorized, organized, and glitzy world of Parisian prêt-à-porter in the 1980s, Yamamoto's designs were plump. At the time, Yamamoto's designs were plump as he quietly entered the world of Parisian prêt-à-porter in the 1980s. The fabrics he incorporated into his details were so close to the body that they never touched it. His clothes were generally thick, translucent, and dark in color, sometimes without embellishment.

The medieval simplicity is accompanied by an "old-fashioned" effect. The simplicity of the Middle Ages is accompanied by a "worn-out" effect, which some have labeled "afterpunk" (grunge did not exist then). The passing of time is etched and the matted accessories are familiar.

This aversion to novelty can already be seen in the British dandies. They would intentionally make their boots look old, or allow their servants to wear their "camel's fur" for a year or two before wearing it themselves.

The extremely large capes, misshapen cloaks, and unrealistic symmetrical jackets are all the result of the creator Yamamoto's dream: "My dream is to design time. Symmetry, the symbol of perfection, lacks something human.

He confides in Wim Wenders, who entrusted him with a feature film. The scissors and the fabric reverse man prefers to base his work on something truly human. Therein lies his point of departure. For example, the authorship of the clothes worn by hundreds of unknown models.

During both World Wars, he was the model for the photographer August Sander, a worker of the most German men and women. The bungalows, the salovettes, the fishermen workers. The world of the photographer's own world is also engraved in the crosswalker's layered attire all the way down to the soles of his shoes.

The clothes that suit the person wearing them disappear before the personality of the person who chose them. Yamamoto is : "Whether a season's fashions are White or White

White is not the responsibility of the creators, but the responsibility of those who see and buy them. Where is the Japanese touch? World citizen Yamamoto admits to having discovered his own style by examining the history of fashion, especially couture. As for his appearance as a native of Japan, he says, "Japanese influence? I don't care a bit about that. The creator, one of the country's most talented people, criticizes his own country as well as a systemic fixation that is sometimes unappealingly heavy-handed: "I happen to be a Japanese student. I happen to be born in Japan," he says. I was born in Japan by chance, but I have never felt that I have taken advantage of that label. But it is hard not to see the influence of tradition in the subtlety of the fabrics that Yamamoto wears on his body, in the timelessness or vulgarity of his style, and in the shamefulness of his models. Imagination, stillness, and even abstraction become the web of the kimono and the wool of the fur, the fabric of Yamamoto's weave. The imbalance between the wild and the refined, between natural materials and technological products, between the land of the senses and the land of the emotions, is astonishingly calculated. This is why the world is attracted to the Far East. All of these refined values can be found, without the slightest pretension, in the work of Yamamoto himself and in his daily work as a consummate designer.

He is the longest-serving designer of men's and women's looks at the end of the century, expressing the uncertainties, anguish, contradictions, and passions of the time. The same goes for the value of maturity. It is a somewhat forgotten value of the glorious thirties, but one that will endure long into the future.

for pictures, see @archive-pdf’s scan of the book.

[bluemoonfantasiesiii]

Frozen in a Moment (AeScara)

Aether’s journey had somehow brought him back to the Eternal Oasis that lay beneath the massive whirling sandstorm in the northern canyons of the desert. Ever since he had helped Jeht find the place where her parents were finally laid to rest, he returned on occasion when he needed to get away from everything. The utter stillness of the oasis brought a sense of peace he’d rarely felt since waking up in Teyvat without his sister.

As he treaded the surface of the water, passing schools of fish frozen mid-jump, fleeing from birds suspended motionless in the air, he felt himself inexplicably drawn to one of the unmoving waterfalls. With a leisurely stride, he approached the nearby purple flower, willing it to alter the waterfall’s time until the curtain of solid water dried up and vanished. Golden eyes widened when he saw another figure lying prone inside the little cavern behind the waterfall.

Mustering an iota of worry amidst the soothing atmosphere of the oasis, the outlander moved toward the figure. Once he was past the mouth of the cave, he recognized the mysterious person instantly.

Dressed in flowing blues, whites, and blacks, his hat placed carefully on the ground next to him, using a small bed of leaves to rest his head of indigo hair, was none other than Scaramouche. No, the Wanderer. He was not Scaramouche, not in this reality. Aether cautiously drew nearer and saw that Wanderer’s eyes were closed, expression calm. He was lying on his back, hands folded over his midsection. Aether also took note of the distinct lack of movement in Wanderer’s chest.

He wasn’t breathing.

Before the panic could fully set in, the outlander saw a folded up piece of paper beneath the hand on his stomach and snatched it. He unfolded the paper and scanned over the surprisingly elegant handwriting.

“To the foolish Traveler who finds this note:

If you’re reading this, don’t panic. I know I’m not moving. I’m probably not even breathing. But I assure you, I’m not dead. Just in a deep, deep sleep.

Given my new life as a vagrant, I wanted to break out of the confines of the rainforest. My curiosity brought me toward a massive sandstorm, and I happened upon this place resting beneath it by chance. I’m not sure when this place was put into stasis, but that might be why I’m being pulled back into the slumber my creator left me in 500 years ago.

I feel completely at peace here, as if all of my past sins and burdens mean nothing. It’s luring me like a lotus eater back into that realm of dreams. As I write this, I can feel my energy waning. My eyelids are drooping, and my whole body feels relaxed and heavy.

Last time, I woke up on my own, but since this place is frozen in time, I fear I may not be able to this time around. So if you find me in such a state, do try to speed up the process. At the very least, to prevent Lesser Lord Kusanali from nagging me for disappearing.

Wanderer”

Aether could see a clear degradation in Wanderer’s penmanship halfway into the note as he had begun to drift off. So he had written this letter in the hopes that Aether would find him and rouse him from his potentially eternal slumber. Against his better judgement, the outlander committed to do just that. The problem was figuring out how. If the frozen clock of the oasis was the cause of Wanderer’s slumber, would Aether even be able to wake him up before removing him from the area?

He looked down at the sleeping puppet again. Aether had always thought he was ethereally beautiful. It made sense; he was essentially a living doll, so of course he would be unrealistically pretty. But Aether had never had a chance to really take in his features, the majority of their interactions having been less than friendly. Now, he quite literally had all the time in the world, and what he saw had his heart skipping a beat.

A slender figure dressed in flowing Inazuman robes that fanned out around him, deep blues accented with shimmering golds that made him look like he was resting in a puddle of lapis lazuli. His hands, which rested daintily on his middle, were softer to the touch than anything not made of flesh had any right to be. His fingers were slim and elegant, his nails perfectly trimmed. Or perhaps they simply never grew at all.

His youthful face concealed his centuries of life and his sour personality, the color of ivory and free of any blemishes, not even a single scar from his many battles. Long, dark eyelashes gave way to vibrant red laid perfectly on his upper eyelids and curved sharply around the corners of his eyes. Aether had been plagued by the question of whether it was makeup or permanent markings on his face. A small, round nose and soft cheekbones that gave him an almost feminine profile. Finally, Aether’s eyes fell to Wanderer’s lips.

Compared to his pale skin, his lips may as well have been stained with all the blood he’d spilled. They were slightly parted, practically begging for someone to fit their own against them. Aether would later blame it on the air of the oasis stripping away his inhibitions, but he gave into his desires and did exactly that. Wanderer’s lips were soft, almost comparable to rose petals. Everything about Wanderer was soft, as if to balance out his hardened attitude.

Soon after golden eyes slipped closed, violet eyes fluttered open, mind bleary as he attempted to register what was happening. He felt the warmth of a human body hovering over him, pressing against his lips—

Pressing against his lips.

Someone was kissing him. Without his permission.

He moved to shove them off, but the person snatched his wrists and pinned them to the ground on either side of his head, continuing to kiss him. A tiny bit of panic bubbling up through his still sleep-addled brain, Wanderer ran through a mental list of people who were strong enough to pin him down like this, as even in his current state, there were very few capable of such a feat.

He highly doubted his own mother would be kissing him, so Beelzebul was immediately out. Same with the other Archons. They would have no reason to be in the oasis in the first place. The pink-haired kitsune who lied to his face 400 years ago was also unlikely. Besides, he was fairly certain she was only interested in women. That left only one other possibility: Aether had actually found him like he’d hoped.

The violator finally pulled away, and relief washed over Wanderer when he saw that it was indeed the outlander. Wait, relief? Why was he relieved?! Damn this oasis!

Feeling his face heat up, Wanderer glared up at the blond. “When I asked you wake me up, I didn’t mean for you to assault me, you freak,” he bit out, hoping his tone was convincing enough to counteract his reddening cheeks.

Aether gave him a cheeky smile. “It worked, didn’t it?” he teased. “Just like a princess in a fairy tale~”

Wanderer thrashed beneath the outlander, a new wave of excitement shooting down his spine when he realized he was well and truly trapped, unable to break out of Aether’s grip. “I am not a damn princess!” he shouted indignantly. As he started to calm down, he could feel himself being drawn back to sleep again. “And it…was only a temporary fix…”

Aether didn’t need to ask what he meant by that. He could see and feel the tension leaving Wanderer’s body, his eyelids beginning to droop as the oasis attempted to pull him back into his slumber.

“You may not be a princess,” Aether said, “but it seems I’m going to have to carry you out of here like one.” Before Wanderer could protest, Aether scooped him up into his arms and kissed him again, drawing a quiet moan from the puppet. When he pulled away, he brought his lips to Wanderer’s ear, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “And once you’re fully awake again, we can…explore a few things. Don’t think I didn’t notice how quickly you stopped trying to get away from me when I was holding you down.”

Wanderer shuddered but made no objections as Aether headed out of the cavern and out of the oasis.

[virgo-dream]

Freely Given

Dreamling /whump fic/ 4k words. Read here or on AO3.

TW: brief mentions of hospitals and amputation. nightmare dream sequence.

Immortals can't die, right? That's the whole premise of the condition. Immortals can't die.

"But you can be hurt, or captured." Hob remembered Dream saying in their meeting way back in 1789. He'd been captured before, sometime around 1640, drowned as a witch. He'd been hurt plenty, now that he thought about it. Apart from that, Hob had been more or less lucky and tried his best to remain out of harm's way. One thing Dream had failed to mention was that human mortals could very much get sick.

The first time Hob caught a really bad flu since having become immortal, he was panicked for the whole duration of it. While his body did heal fast, he did remember how bodies dropped during the Bubonic plague; It wasn't a nice sight at all, and seeing people drop dead around him when the Great Plague of London swept the city in between 1665 and 1666 was awfully reminiscent of how he watched his entire village fall. When the Spanish Flu came around in 1918, Hob had spent enough time feverish and miserable that he vowed to do anything he could to never get sick again. Things did change with time, and medicine took big, long strides that made things significantly easier, but still, Robert Gadling had no intention of ever dying (and also no intention of being confined to his bed for inordinate amounts of time).

The thing is, you can't exactly predict just how and when you'll get sick. You take precautions, you try to stay protected (all the Zoom classes he'd taught between 2020 and 2022 sure made him wish he'd never have to look at a flat screen again), but when it happens, it happens. He was lucky enough to know he'd never die from it, but it still made him uneasy and anxious. It still brought him back to seeing his family die. Trauma was a sticky thing to get rid of.

Autumn in October was usually very lovely. London was mostly grey, but Hob had learned to find colour and vibrancy in unexpected places, and he liked seeing how time affected each and every little thing, even himself. Still, the newfound chilliness in the air did not agree with the rising temperature of his body or the soreness of his throat, nor with the amount of time it would take him to actually walk to the kitchen to grab something to eat and back to the comfort of his warm, soft blankets. He'd just rather stay holed up in bed and wait it out, however long it took. Hob would sleep, wake up, get up to blow his nose and throw the crumpled pieces of toilet paper out of sight, then repeat the cycle indefinitely.

He had no idea what it would invite.

"Hob?"

Hearing Dream's voice out of nowhere startled him. Hob thought he might be hallucinating, but he'd learned to know that even when he questioned what was real or not, when Dream wanted to be present, be it in the Waking or the Dreaming, he was. Hob popped his head and a hand from under the mass of blankets he'd cocooned himself into, waving at Dream. "...oh, hey there, duck. Wasn't… wasn't expecting you here."

"You have spent an unusual amount of time in my realm as of late, Hob." Dream approached the bed, brows furrowed in what Hob now knew to read as worry. He placed an ice cold hand on Hob's forehead, and the sad look on his face seemed to twist into a thousand little different forms of worry and anxiety. Still, his voice was steady and low as ever, only softer than usual. "I became worried for your well being. I apologise for not being able to come to your aid sooner."

Dramatic as ever, wasn't he? Hob chuckled, lips curling into a smile as he made the effort to tilt his head up to lean into Dream's touch. "Ah, don't worry. I'm sure the Dreaming is way over capacity at the moment. Bunch of kids at the uni called in sick this week, it was only a matter of time before I–"

A coughing fit interrupted Hob's spiel, the worry in Dream's face spilling over to the rest of his body as he quickly reached for Hob's back, rubbing circles gently as his overheating body spasmed. While the coldness of Dream's hands (and other parts of him) never bothered Hob, his touch almost felt alien in his current state. "Save your strenght, Hob. I shall tend to your needs for now."

Hob couldn't help but feel smitten. He had no idea how Dream intended to help him, but for someone that had access to every piece of information ever thought by every brain ever (whew!) he trusted Dream to have some insight. "..trust your… capable hands."

"Sleep for now, my love."

Hob felt Dream's lips on his forehead, and was tempted to try and bring him closer. He fell asleep with the blink of an eye.

˜˜˜

Dream had no idea how he intended to help Hob.

It was the right thing to do. He had stumbled into enough of Hob Gadling's nightmares to know for a fact that disease wasn't something he took lightly. And Dream knew every piece of information ever thought by every brain ever (whew!) Still, it didn't mean he knew the order of which the information ought to be applied. It also didn't mean Dream wasn't going to at least try to give his lover a bit of the gentle care he was so often on the receiving end of.

Dream paced around the room for a bit, unsure of just where to begin. Did Hob have a physician he could consult? Hob had mentioned his avoidance in having his information be kept in any sort of database, which Dream understood to be paramount to ensure his safety. Taking him back to the Dreaming might also not be a good idea; he had no idea how Hob's body would take to the journey, or even if the needs of a human body (albeit immortal) could be met there. The more he thought about it, the more he felt helpless, and that was a feeling he did not welcome.

Hob had taught him to ask for help when needed. Which was why Dream now waited by the small window at the kitchen, waiting for Matthew. He hoped, for all of their sakes, that he wouldn't regret it.

"Hey there boss! Whatcha need?" Matthew landed on the windowsill, bowing down his head to greet his master.

"I require your assistance." Was all Dream managed to say. He was still unsure of whether that was the best thing to do or not. He felt… embarrassed to need to ask. "Hob Gadling has fallen ill."

"Aw man, that sucks. Definitely don't miss that feat of being human. That's why he kept showing up at the Dreaming all the time, right?"

"...I need insight on how to better tend to his health."

Matthew seemed to perk up, which Dream interpreted as surprise. Was it really that odd that he would want to take care of Hob? "Did he tell ya what he's got? Flu, a bug, somethin' else?"

"...no. He is asleep."

"...did you ask?"

"He is weakened, I sent his mind to the Dreaming for the time being."

Matthew tilted his head to the side for a moment, and let out a sound Dream could only describe as a sigh, but uttered by a bird. "...so you were worried he kept showing up at the Dreaming. You came here to help and… sent him back there?"

(…well, when you put it like that—)

"A well rested mind gives way to a well healed body."

Dream was beginning to see that he was going about things wrong, and he didn't like the feeling. "Look, boss… I think he might need some medication, if it's that bad. Just wake him up and ask him. If you don't wanna wake him, you can just get into his little sleepy brain and ask."

"I should not have to ask."

"Well, we can't all know how to–"

"–Hob never asks. He always knows."

There it was. The discomfort, the anxiety of not knowing, of feeling less than. In the Dreaming, it manifested as rain and thunder, as violent crashing waves in the shores of creation, reshaping his newest creatures in all sorts of twisted forms. The flowers withered, the night was starless. In the Waking World, where he was confined to a physical appearance, it was a tightness on his chest, a constant insecurity, fear of not being quite enough. It brought out the worst in him: the rudeness, a short temper and a disregard for the feelings of others. He should be better than that. Luckily, Matthew already knew him well enough to see right through it. "...boss, I'm sure he does. He asks you stuff all the time, that's how he knows."

"He doesn't contain the entirety of the human intellect and beyond within himself, Matthew."

"And you still come to him for insight, dontcha? You don't gotta know everything. Just have to ask the right questions." Matthew shifts between his tiny feet, before taking flight to land on Morpheus' shoulder. "Go on. I won't tell."

It was admirable how patient his subjects were with him. In all truth, the most admirable patience he was offered was Hob's own, freely given and seemingly never-ending. Lucienne and Matthew came in at a close second. Morpheus allowed himself to show his loyal raven a slight smile, enough to leave Matthew feeling very proud about himself. He certainly would not shut up about it in the days to come, Morpheus was sure of it. "...very well. I thank you for your help, Matthew. You may return to the Dreaming. Tell Lucienne to watch over the realm in my absence."

"You sure you don't need my help with anything else? How long will you be gone?"

"Go on, Matthew. You will know when you’re needed.”

“Jeez, fine. I’m leaving. Tell Hob I said hi!”

A slightly worried, slightly proud Matthew bowed down his tiny head to his master once more, before flying out and disappearing into the night. He'd done the right thing in asking for help, and he was sure Hob would be proud too when he told him of it. Still, Dream didn't have much time to congratulate himself; when finally returned to the bedroom, he found Hob thrashing on the bed.

˜˜˜

Hob walked down a long, darkened hallway. He wasn't sure where he was, or how long he'd been there for. He paced slowly, carefully, fluorescent lights flickering against the washed out aquamarine walls and linoleum floor. Elevator doors at the end of the hallway opened, and he walked in.

The doors opened again. Same place, different year. He saw nurses rushing by, heard people crying in the distance, paramedics pushing gurneys with collapsing patients. A hospital, it seemed. Someone approached him and checked his temperature. His head was pressed against a pillow, and his body was littered by wires, surrounded by machines beeping out of sync.

He blinked and the machines disappeared. Same place, different year. The staff wore cloth masks, he could hear someone cry out for their mother in the distance. Someone walks past holding a severed limb. His arms are tied to a bed, feet too. Another hand checks for his temperature.

Different place, different year. His mother looked over him as he laid down in bed. Everything was burning, so so hot. He was so tired, so scared. It got him. And it will get us all.

He's pulled out of it, and the next thing he knows, it's his bed he's laying in, and Dream's arms are around him, holding him close.

˜˜˜

Dream had sent Hob straight into the hands of his nightmares. How he could have not predicted it was beyond him, another failure to add to the long list of things that made him unworthy of Hob's affection. He held onto him tightly, with a hand on the back of his head, propping him up to sit on the bed. Untangling Hob's mind from the dream should've been easy, but when the body needs rest so desperately, sometimes it can push back. When he felt Hob's arms curl around him, ever so weak, he let out a sigh of relief.

"I am sorry, Hob– I thought you would be safer in the Dreaming, it was foolish of me to assume no nightmares would find you without me there. I am sorry, I am–"

"Dream. I'm okay. I'm okay."

Dream had no idea how Hob found it in him to be so forgiving. He knew he didn't have it in himself, which made him feel all the more undeserving. He reached for one of Hob's many pillows, quickly placing it behind his back. He had no need to reach for anything. He could just make the pillow's appear in whatever way he pleased. He could do anything he wanted if he could just.

"...duck?"

"I–"

"Are you okay?"

"...yes." Dream didn't need to breathe. He could use a deep breath at that moment, though. "Are you?"

Hob shrugged, smiling gently before pressing a chaste kiss to Dream's lips. "...been better, am better. In your arms and all."

There he was, his Hob. Smiling at him even though Dream did nothing to earn it. Showing kindness even in distress. Dream buried his face in Hob's unusually warm neck, taking in his scent. He wished he had the power to just… make him healthy. "Hob."

"Yeah?"

Hob held onto Dream with what little strength he had at that moment, pressing a kiss to his temple. His love almost hurt to receive at times. It was so bright, so… full. "...how can I… better help you? I am unused to illness. It is not a matter of concern to my kind. I wish to aid you, my love. But I find myself resourceless."

"Oh, duck…" Hob had the kindest eyes Dream had ever seen. He'd existed since time was time and night was night. Nothing bore resemblance to those eyes. "I… I'm just… glad you're here with me.."

Dream was getting impatient, but for Hob’s sake, he would endure his own uneasiness. "There must be something I can do, Hob.”

Hob was always quick to notice the changes in Dream’s moods. In the beginning, it was terrifying to have someone that could see right through him so clearly. It made him feel vulnerable and exposed. Now, he knew it to be a blessing. “…It wouldn’t have got this bad if I’d just…” Hob sniffed, stopping for a moment to cough a few times. “…been more careful.”

“Tell me what you need, my love.” Dream spoke gently, as gently as he moved to finally place the pillows behind Hob, then reaching for the almost finished roll of toilet paper so that his lover could grab another handful to blow his nose. “I am but your servant for as long as you’ll require my care.”

Hob raised his brows, unable to hold back a chuckle. “Don’t talk like that when I’m like this. It’s a big waste.” He took a moment to get adjusted to leaning on the pillows behind him. Even sick, he looked so, so beautiful. “I think I… could do with a shower. Maybe some food?”

“That can be arranged. Anything else, lover mine?”

“I think there’s aspirin somewhere in the cabinet over the sink in the bathroom.”

As quickly as Hob had told Dream of the location, he was able to conjure it to appear on the bedside table, along with a glass of water, room temperature. He was getting less anxious, and it made things much clearer to act on.“Oh, that’s fancy. Thank you, duck.”

Hob reached for the box, but Dream was quick to take it from his hands, grabbing the aluminium blister inside and tearing it with a long, black nail (a claw, really), then handing the pill over to Hob. Before the other could think of wasting his strength on anything else, Dream grabbed the glass of water for him, holding it up to his lips for Hob to drink. Once again, he smiled that beautiful, gentle smile. “If you keep treating me like that, I’m gonna get spoiled.”

Dream felt like he was doing much less than the bare minimum, but Hob had told him, more than once, that he had the terrible habit of being hard on himself. “I shall do it more often, if you so desire. Now, your bath.”

~~~

It felt like a dream (ha!) really. Seeing his friend, his lover, his Dream fussing over him like that. The King of Dreams and Nightmares, Lord of the Dreaming, Prince of Stories… Hob Gadling’s personal caretaker now had been added to his long list of titles. He didn’t mean to be surprised, really, but Dream always managed to show him some new, unexpected part of himself. This time, it was in the form of the gentle kisses to his temple whenever he helped Hob shift on the bed, in the strength of his arms when he insisted to carry Hob to the bathroom, the water that seemed to be perfect temperature for the whole duration of the bath Dream had prepared for him. The water smelled softly of lavender and lemongrass, and Hob had a feeling he’d be very, very sleepy by the end of it. The way Dream massaged the shampoo into his scalp, how gently he combed through his damp hair with his fingers… Hob would beg to catch a cold every single day if this is what it got him.

But then again, Hob shouldn’t have been surprised at all; Dream had warned him extensively about how brightly the flame of love burned within him. Of how he still carried the fire of his previous lovers, of how every feeling of longing and want was the material of his sweetest dreams, while heartbreak and jealousy could foster the worst nightmares. He’d warned Hob that being loved by endlessness was the same as trading his soul away; he’d never be alone, even in the deepest of deserts. He’d never be only for himself, but partly Dream’s, for all eternity. Hob couldn’t think of a fate better than that.

After being pampered like a king (Dream would know how to), he was blessed with another one of Dream’s otherworldly talents: he could find food from his memories. Fish them out of time, bring them to the present. With his permission, Dream scoured his brain for the most nutritional meals he’d ever had, and the ones with the most sentimental value, too. He was able to taste a soup his mother used to make him when he was little, the tea his dear Eleanor would brew whenever he was feeling indisposed. He wondered what food made by Dream’s own hands in the Waking World would taste like, and like the master eavesdropper his lover was, Dream hurried to the stove, borrowing the culinary talents of Hob’s neighbour, who happened to be a professional chef, that slept on the flat next to his. Now, his list of favourite dishes had just been updated: Dreamstuff Spaghetti had quickly risen to the top.

Dream insisted on carrying him around, and Hob was not complaining. He’d hold Hob while he was sleeping, always waking him up to take his meds on time, and he was almost sure he caught Dream grading essays for him at one point. It was funny, seeing a creature that knew all and had full domain over every language ever spoken be confused when students were not able to form fully comprehensible sentences. Those were the moments Hob would remember and cherish most, he was certain of it. He caught the hang of it pretty quickly, and soon was discussing the multiple interpretations an answer could have with Hob, who was too amused to tell his menace of a lover that multiple choice questions were called that because you could pick one answer out of many, and not all of them.

By the time Hob was feeling like himself again, a week had gone by with Dream by his side. Still, his dedication to Hob’s well-being was unwavering, and a part of Hob, deep deep down, didn’t want for it to be over. He wished, more than ever, that they could just… be together. All the time.

Hob woke up to Dream’s cold palm to his forehead, smiling at him when his eyes blinked open, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips. They were curled up together, protected by the sheets Dream had changed himself the night before. A gift from the Dreaming, woven from the softest fabric Hob had ever touched. Almost as soft as Dream’s own skin.

“Good morning, Hob. I take it you had pleasant dreams?”

Smug bastard. As if he hadn’t crafted those dreams himself. “…none as nice as this, no offence. Morning, duck.”

Dream smiled. He’d seen so many of these in the past week Hob was begging to think he had in fact died and this was heaven. “Then I shall work harder to keep their quality to your liking.”

Another kiss, now gently placed on Hob’s forehead. He didn’t want Dream to go. He knew Dream had to, knew he was keeping the anthropomorphic personification of the entire collective unconsciousness of this universe (and he suspected all others) stuck in his untidy flat cooking him pasta for over a week. He was quite sure there would be a cosmic scale paycheck waiting for him at some point. So he let out a sigh, taking the gentleness of those blue eyes, to remind himself just why he couldn’t be selfish about this. “You’ve already done so much. Really. I… I’m starting to feel a little guilty, duck.”

Dream seemed surprised, and maybe even a little offended, which just added to how adorable he looked as he tilted his head in confusion, “Whatever for? I am only repaying your unwavering kindness with my own.”

“Well… I’d love to keep you here forever, but… you know, balance of the entire universe and all that. And you don’t have to repay me for anything. Freely given, as you like to say.”

“So is mine.”

Dream was silent for a moment, seeming to contemplate an impossible puzzle. How odd it was, to be able to surprise an all-knowing entity. He sat up on the bed cross legged, looking jovial and restless all at once. Hob sat up too, feeling healthier than he had in years. “I have not ignored my duties while caring for you, Hob Gadling. If anything, I had more time to tend to the ones more dear to me.”

He really had a way with words that made Hob want to ignore responsibility altogether. “…isn’t it easier for you to do that from the Dreaming? I’m not saying I don’t want you here… is just…”

“Robert.” Dream placed a hand on Hob’s cheek, running his thumb over Hob’s lower lip. “I have visited the Dreaming every night while I was here with you. Lucienne has been overseeing the realm during the day, I have full confidence in her capability to maintain order in my absence. For that reason, I have allowed myself to take time away from my duties to be here with you. You must not feel as if my time was ill spent. I don’t regret a moment of it.”

Hob blinked, letting the full weight of Dream’s words wash over him like a tidal wave during a storm. He let it drown him for a moment, re-emerging shaken, almost teary eyed. “…you sap. Come here.”

Yes, he was going to get at least one cold every two weeks from now on. Give Dream a week with him and one at the Dreaming. Hob pulled Dream into his arms, showering his face with kisses. How precious the King of Dreams was, with his hair even more of a bed head than usual, from sleeping on Hob’s pillows, on Hob’s bed. Dream held onto Hob tightly, letting out a content hum.

Now that he thought about it, Dream could use a break from work every once in a while.

[scorchieart]

Hello for the writer ask game please can I have 31 23 21 8 7 Thank you Have a nice day :D

Julie! Good to see you, hope you're having a nice day too! Thank you for the ask! 💝

31. Do you take liberties with canon or are you very strict about your fic being canon compliant?

I'm a bit too much of a stickler when it comes to canon. It's why I don't have many works for Rio, Gilbert, Silvio and Keith. Basically, what I'm saying is I'm not very good at filling in character blanks on my own. I need a pre-established narrative to go off of.

23. If you were to revise one of your older fics from start to finish, which would it be and why?

I answered this one here 😉

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

I won't say who these two are because of route spoilers, but I like how this brief spurt of convo flowed without dialogue tags in this fic:

“So, that was the third prince? He’s as wild as you say.” “Yeah.” “Do you think Sariel will catch him?” “Yeah.” “What time is it?” “Yeah.” “You’re pretty calm for someone who just found out his brothers could use magic.” “I’m tired.” 

9. Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

This is probably the deepest I've ever written, and it helped that this fic is in first person, so I was really able to get into Clavis's head and use his voice. I wouldn't go as far as to call it philosophical, but I reread this section whenever I fall in a writing slump:

I sometimes wonder, if I wasn’t Chevalier’s shadow, could my letters top his piles? My skin prickles with envy. He isn’t even the king, so why must everything be under his thumb? The land, the people, and now the words. Why not let these papers be picked up by autumn winds, like the golden leaves of the oak, with no drive or direction other than away from here? Embarking on a journey unknown, a glorious adventure beyond the confines of their pages, full of twists and turns and loop de loops never before scrivened by man. In the infinite realms of possibility, there exists a universe where they all land exactly where intended. But equally likely, they also may end up at the most inopportune destination. I spread the envelopes like a hand of cards toward the Obsidianite border, a gentle wind growing from behind.

Got a fic-y inquiry?