#and on the other hand you have people for whom it's simply never occurred to them that writing an entire species

[mantisgodsdomain]

Okay we're done getting really mad about bug game worldbuilding. If you are interested in seeing us get extremely mad about Bug Fables' consistently shoddy worldbuilding, then it is below the cut. We'll tag this properly in like a week so it doesn't haunt the main tag for everyone who might not want to read 1.8k words of a random author getting really fucking mad about shoddy worldbuilding.

We've done a lot of stuff with worldbuilding for Bug Fables. Our handling of Bugaria itself is, we will admit, not quite canon-typical. There's a lot going on, and not all is easy to work with. We know from the game itself that Bugaria is surrounded by hostile deadlands, making outside trade difficult and often-lethal - we also know, from being able to observe the in-game map as a human with outside perspective, that Bugaria is contained within a single backyard.

For the game proper, this is fine. It lends itself well to the "borrower" type aesthetic that the devs appear to prefer, limits the scope of the in-game map, and allows for them to do significantly less legwork trying to figure out how to design things. We, however, are a man obsessed with semantics, and we know too much about the amount of food and territory generally required for one hive of wasps or bees to buy into one suburban backyard that's... what, 60 square meters of backyard?

IRL honeybees alone will forage up to, on average, 1-6 km away from their hives, potentially going up to 13 km, and though there's been less research done into the habits of other colony bugs, it's fairly safe to assume they'd need similar range - more likely greater range, actually, as any form of what we humans call "higher intelligence" is incredibly demanding, resource-wise. Bugaria has four different kingdoms of social bugs, many of which would have overlapping needs for resources, combined with a whole load of other miscellanous solitary bugs. loaded into the space of a single backyard that likely wouldn't account for the range of a single hive of honeybees, let alone four hives of miscellaneous bugs and venus-knows-how-many solitaries.

In order to survive in any place, you need to fulfil the requirements of life. Food, water, and shelter are basic needs for a reason, and without access to all three, settlements are likely to quickly peter out. In order for The Hive to process nectar into honey, they first need nectar, which would have to come from flowers, which would be the exact same food source that wasps, butterflies, and moths would need, which clearly aren't growing in the needed

Put quite simply, it would be really fucking difficult for a space of this size to support the presented numbers of bugs. Plants are not an infinite resource, and even assuming that there's a density of flowers far beyond what's shown in-game, there's still predatory bugs to consider. Wasps and ants need protein to feed their grubs, dragonflies and damselflies need protein to feed themselves, mantises and mantidflies are obligate carnivores that cannot survive without a steady supply of prey- you can't survive if you never eat, and Bug Fables is incredibly low on lesser bugs that could potentially serve as food for the more predatory bugs.

Canon offers only aphids and cochineals as cattle, and those still wouldn't really serve to feed larger predatory bugs - and that's even without noting the ecological desert that results from only ever having a handful of enemies. We know that there are limits to what you can do in a game, but the second you want to expand on life beyond what's shown, you run straight into the lack of known prey and wildlife like smacking right into a brick wall. Roaches raise scorpions in a wasteland that seems to have only Mystery Berries for food unless they're trying to hunt Deadlanders, which we doubt are particularly edible. The Royal Blade of the Ant kingdom is an obligate carnivore, and there's nowhere he can go if he wants to buy lunch.

Realistically, we know that the answer is "the devs didn't really think about it". This game is built on the work of devs who persistently place "because it looks cool" over doing any of the worldbuilding work to integrate their existing story elements into the world. You only have to look to Yin to see just how many parts of the game are riddled with things added purely because Someone Thought It Might Be Cool, and no one did any further legwork to make it WORK. The Termacade is a living monument to the philosophy, being added A WEEK before release without anyone so much as communicating it was going to happen before it was in active development. 

Unfortunately, we are permanently obsessed with semantics, we can't stand "because magic" as an answer to important worldbuilding questions, and every time we have to do all the legwork to fill massive holes in the setting where no one ever thought that the answers to questions like "how the fuck do these people feed themselves" is relevant, we will be sadly prone to falling into madness.

There is no canon answer to how these bugs feed themselves. There is no indication as to how things that should be basic parts of the setting WORK. The bugs, in the first place, are written persistently as more People With Hats than actual BUGS - there are nods made to biology, sure, but the difference between a wasp and a bee is little more than a set of aesthetics and a silly hat. There are enough elements in the game that are simply thrown in without care of how they interlock that it sometimes becomes genuinely maddening.

Some people, sure, are satisfied with this - there is a madness that we have that we lack, a need for SUBSTANCE that is prone to driving us to inadvisable lengths hunting for a hint - any hint - that there was care put into this detail, rather than a single flippant comment. We have no complaint with things left vague, but we VERY MUCH have a problem when the setting is consigned to being little more than a backdrop decorated with random glittery ideas to act out anime tropes on, rather than something that should be paid attention to all its own.

We've said this before, and we'll say it many times again, but worldbuilding is important for a REASON. Your setting will affect your characters just as strongly as it will affect your story - your plot, your setting, and your characters are fundamentally inertwined, and to affect ANY part of the story will have rippling impacts on the rest of it. Your characters are not created in a void! Whatever structures created one person MUST still be present to shape others! You cannot throw shiny ideas on a canvas slapdash and expect it to turn out well! It's a miracle that the character writing in this game turned out as well as it did, considering that massive swathes of the setting are loosely assembled from anime without even taking the time to learn how certain aspects WORK in their home media!

We enjoy writing. We enjoy crafting plots, doing worldbuilding, tinkering with the little pieces of setting that we feel might create something interesting. We wouldn't be writing at all if we didn't enjoy it on some level, though we sometimes wonder if it's more masochism than care for some aspects. This is the trade that we have chosen to work towards working. Perhaps it is this that makes it so violently infuriating when we run into people who don't seem to care for that which we pay attention to.

There are a handful of aspects in this game that are well done. There are far more aspects in this game that are half-baked at best and actively difficult to work into the rest of the world at worst. There is a particular handful of aspects that are so poorly done that they could pass as active malice, towards one group or another. Unfortunately, as with many things, to assume ill will often overlooks the far more pervasive, far more common culprit of simple negligence.

Bug Fables, at its core, is a game made by devs with chronic shiny-object syndrome. There is little care spared to its worldbuilding, to the implications of its setting, to the implications of character actions, because the devs have never cared to think on it. It takes tropes from a hundred and one different animes without caring to learn what makes them work in their home context - just that they're cool, and that the authors want them in their own work.

It's something that we've been guilty of ourself, in previous works, but that only makes it easier for us to spot it here. There is an mirror of mistakes we have made ourself written on the walls, and it echoes with every step. We are the sort of author who learned to build worlds by stealing shards from different worlds and patching them into a new quilt. This is a work that takes does much the same, taking pieces from other works to make a new whole, but it makes the mistake of not spending the time to make sure those pieces FIT.

The mosaic on the floor is made of broken, disparate parts that are only partially fit together. The world falls apart more and more the closer you look at its shards. There are pieces of harm in this painting, pictures of pain, things put together and only barely examined. There is prejudice that could pass for malice woven into the threads of even the more comedic writing, an undercurrent commonly present in society and rarely examined. They've made an entire species of bugs into an incomprehensibly racist trope. Perhaps it's foolish of us to spend so much time and energy on a world that does not love us back, but we care for this setting, and we care for the potential of what it could have been.

The prejudice and shoddiness and pieces of poorly-thought-out and tropey writing in this work are not an act of malice. They are an act of ignorance, left over from a development team that wanted to add the latest shiny thing without stopping to think that their favorite anime tropes might have roots in something rotten.

Anyways, the reason that we wind up putting so many fucking footnotes on our fics is that every time we have to answer basic questions like "how does the wasp kingdom fucking feed itself" we have to rewrite, like, half a dozen tropes ripped off from shitty isekai anime, come up with an entire power structure and system of government that could potentially exist in this universe, write 2000 words of geopolitical bullshit minimum, reinvent animal agriculture, create at least one brand new species of bug, and then battle our conviction to avoid cushioning or avoiding the implied Fucked Up Elements that are Very Much Present In The Base Work if chronically ill-addressed vs the question of if we Want to include this particular brand of Fucked Up Bullshit or if we'd actually rather avoid having to reckon with the aftermath of yet another poorly-thought-out trope ripped from Trapped In Another World With My Smartphone.

[antebunny]

Witchers v administration

NOW

It’s a series of coincidences which finally tips Eskel off to the silent administrative war being waged on Kaer Morhen. 

Jaskier bursts into his office one long afternoon when Eskel is slumped over his desk, wishing that every other Witcher didn’t run away gleefully whenever he approached them about taking his job or even sharing his duties. To date they have not recruited a human with the necessary skills or trust to take a shot at stewardship for all of Kaer Morhen. Eskel supposes it would be immoral to ask about kidnapping someone else’s steward, but they’ve done worse for less.

“Hello Eskel! Do you know where Letho is?”

Eskel jerks off the desk and makes eye contact with Jaskier, who brings a bright splotch of baby blue to his drab brown and gray office. The bard beams with that typical vaguely affable air of his, expecting a response.

“Egremont,” Eskel recalls, after a moment of hard thinking. “I think. Or maybe Flotsam. With…Aubrey. Maybe.” He drops his head into his hands. “Fuck. I don’t remember. Ask Dragonfly.”

“Already tried, she’s out,” Jaskier chirps. He waves a hand around the stacks of scrolls and documents piled around Eskel’s office. “Don’t you have it written down somewhere?”

The whole idea of having joint patrols was to protect Witchers. No one can simply ambush a lone Witcher anymore. No Witcher can simply disappear for months with no one the wiser. It turns out this good idea is a bit more difficult in practice. Witchers don’t coordinate very well, you see. There’s no written record of who is on a patrol to where with whom. 

“No,” Eskel summarizes.

“Oh. Rats.” Jaskier frowns and lingers in the doorway, puzzling through other potential people to ask for whatever it is he wants to bother Letho about.

Eskel makes a mental note to see about putting together actual patrol schedules, even as he mentally cries tears of blood over the idea of coordinating hundreds of Witchers and getting all of them to follow the damn schedule. He really needs an assistant. Or a new job.

Then the patrol schedule promptly gets forgotten as Eskel gains several new crises all at once.

“Eskel! They found out about the black dye!” Cenna, their head laundress (seamstress? It’s unclear what her official job title is, everything about Kaer Morhen’s organization is unorthodox) sneaks under Jaskier’s arm and plants her hands on Eskel’s desk.

“Who found out about what?” Jaskier calls from behind them.

Cenna sweeps her honey brown hair behind her neck, picks a path to pace around the office, and explains: “The black cloth dye. There was some sort of monster that had, erm, black innards and we could never get the stains out of the clothing. Then we started dyeing cloth with it deliberately, and Vasilisa sells it in Novigrad. Ever since she quit one of your Witchers has been dropping it off with her. She sells it all in about a week. Makes a killing in the market. No one else has black dye that strong. I suppose no one else ever thought of using monster guts.”

Jaskier processes this infodump, and the implications of Cenna’s original statement, only slightly faster than Eskel. “So someone found out that it comes from Kaer Morhen?”

Instinctively, Eskel’s mind comes up with best and worst case scenarios, and whether they threaten the safety of Kaer Morhen. Best case is that someone caught a glimpse of the Witcher leaving Vasilisa with bolts of black cloth, and spreads the news. Worst case scenario is that someone’s traced the line of production all the way back to Kaer Morhen, in which case they don’t know where the leak occurred. 

“Yes! We don’t know how,” Cenna reports, confirming Eskel’s worst fears. “Vasilisa says that all of a sudden there were whispers that the black cloth came from Kaer Morhen, and it was made with the blood of virgins or other some such nonsense. Vasilisa gave everything she earned from it to us, so she is not losing a source of income, and she says that in Novigrad it is easy to stay anonymous. So she is fine. Only I worry, how did someone find out?”

That’s Eskel’s worry as well. It seems too much of a coincidence to believe that out of all the new, exotic products popping up in a huge costal city like Novigrad, the only one subject to Witcher rumors is the only product that’s actually being made in Kaer Morhen. 

“That’s not good,” Jaskier notes, a damper on his usual cheer. “Can’t you sell it somewhere else? Cidaris or Vengerberg?”

“Yes,” Eskel answers slowly, but their original problem remains unsolved. 

Somehow, somewhere, someone discovered that the black cloth sold in Novigrad’s markets is made in the home of the Witchers. Eskel can’t even begin to fathom how that can be used against them. Jaskier is a perfect example of how the humans’ blind fear and desperation to get one of their own inside Kaer Morhen makes them stupid. 

Quietly, Eskel sets aside the matter of the patrol schedules. He’ll have to focus on this black cloth dye issue until–

“Eskel, a problem!” 

For the third time that afternoon, someone barges into Eskel’s office with a problem. It’s Triss, her curly red locks framing a lovely face and a concerned frown. She knocks twice on the doorframe, even though she can clearly see that Jaskier and Cenna have already come in and left the door wide open.

“Not a very troublesome problem,” Triss elaborates as she steps into the office, catching the worried faces of her friends. “But you know how I had to find a suitable soap scent from Kovir?”

Jaskier had complained long and loud about the lack of soaps in Kaer Morhen’s hot springs. What’s the point, he’d said to anyone who would listen, of having these lovely hot springs, if one isn’t even allowed to clean oneself? Finally, Geralt explained that the enhanced senses of Witchers also led them to dislike most soaps, as they all were meant to smell of something to humans, be it rose, bergamot, or jasmine. 

Only, Witchers weren’t supposed to have preferences when it came to something as silly as soaps, or weaknesses, and certainly not sensitivities. So it was a very long time before Jaskier was told, and a fair bit of time afterwards before Triss discovered a way to capture what she calls “blue smells” in a soap. Eskel doesn’t know the details, other than she found something suitable in Lan Exeter and has been bringing it back to Kaer Morhen ever since. 

“They must’ve taken it elsewhere,” Triss continues, miffed. “I thought we brought plenty of customers, but apparently they can find more elsewhere? I’m sure I’ll find something new, but I thought I should warn you that until then, we’ll be bathing without soaps.”

On a regular afternoon, Eskel would accept this unquestioningly. So some vendor decided to move from Lan Exeter to another location. There’s nothing noteworthy about that, especially considering that the subject matter is soap scents. 

But today, missing soap scents after losing the black cloth dye trade seems a bit too perfectly aligned. Geralt, self-hating pessimist that he is (he’s getting better about it though), would probably still think it’s just the natural bad luck of the Witchers. Eskel, on the other hand, is more inclined to think–

“ESKEL!” 

The last person to muscle into Eskel’s tiny office is a Witcher, Bojmir of the Crane School. The sheer size of him forces everyone else out of the doorway and properly into the office. Eskel observes their little group with an outsider’s eye and privately finds amusement in their arrangement. 

Cenna, an ordinary, almost middle-aged woman from Aedd Gynvael, with an eye for fine fabrics and a talent for bending them to her will. Triss, a sorceress who despite her trade is the only one trusted to heal Witchers. Jaskier, a Redanian nobleman by birth and bard by passion, who somewhat recently gained the unique and unconventional title of White Wolf’s Consort (also by passion). Finally, Bojmir the Serin, looming over the rest at almost seven feet tall, scratches three fingers through his braided beard. He started growing it out after moving to Kaer Morhen, and someone, probably one of the seamstresses, taught him the value of braiding hair. 

Bojmir eyes the rest of the people in the room. It’s an unusually suspicious move, and Eskel makes a mental note to bring it up later. For now, he just gestures for Bojmir to spit it out.

“Elante’s been found out,” Bojmir says.

Elante, the White Ibis, also of the Crane School, is one of the few Witchers to quit the Path entirely after the schools joined together. He always had a penchant for playing around with potions and elixirs and a love of liquor. Moving to Kaer Morhen facilitated his interest like nothing else, but Elante still joined his brothers on the Path. It was duty, and it was the only life he knew.

Then one of the cooks introduced Elante to brewing, and someone in Jaskier’s extended family was looking to get rid of an unwanted vineyard, and before Eskel knew it, Yennefer enchanted a ring for Elante to hide his mutations from humans, and he was out of Kaer Morhen. Elante set up shop in Jamurlak, on the White Wolf’s side of the Buina river, and opened the White Ibis Brewery & Pub, because all Witchers have a terrible sense of humor.

Last Eskel heard, Elante had invented some kind of fermented lemonade which nearly everyone in Kaer Morhen was going crazy for. All of Elante’s first customers were Witchers, before he gained popularity with the people of Jamurlak. They still stop by and visit him from time to time, mostly in disguise. Just because Elante walked away from the Path doesn’t mean he walked away from his brothers.

“How so?” Jaskier prods.

Bojmir shrugs his massive shoulders. “He said there were rumors of a monster near Jamurlak and he went to take care of it in secret, ‘n ever since then people’ve been eyeing him sideways. Then some woman started asking questions and she hasn’t done anything but she smells like she’s hiding something.”

And they all have a good (or bad) idea of how badly people would like to get their hands on a Witcher. 

“Fuck,” Eskel summarizes. 

First the mysterious discoverer of their black cloth dye trade, then their supplier for soap scents disappearing, then this debacle with Elante. Speaking of schedules–though Eskel has totally forgotten about making patrol schedules–they don’t know how long Elante has been on someone’s radar for, only when he decided to tell the next Witcher that stopped by.

So much for a lazy afternoon. 

“Someone’s waging war on us,” Jaskier concludes, concerned in that devil-may-care way of his. “Politely. But still.”

A polite war. Targeting the one glaring weakness of the Witchers: administration. 

THEN

No one has ever managed to spy on the Witchers. Ever since it became known that the White Wolf and his army of mutant monsters had taken up residence in Kaer Morhen, that old stone castle hidden high up in the mountains, in between their conquests, countless kings, sorcerors, spymasters and the like have tried to get a person on the inside. Not one of them has succeeded. Every disguised “washerwoman” seeking refuse, every trained courtesan, every “traitor” hoping to join the Witchers, every single mage-spy has been turned away at the door.

Their survival is perhaps more embarrassing, to the warlords and spymasters to whom these spies tell their stories. The Witchers do not kill these attempted spies any more than they let them in the doors. Somehow, every single one of them is simply turned away at the door, while others are allowed in, never to return. 

Because it is not secret that some people are allowed in. An old stonemason, who harbored Witcher sympathies long before the White Wolf started his bloody campaign, disappears with the pair of Witchers who came through his town. A local laundress, seeking out the trio of Witchers who came trudging through the town’s tavern, leaves with them all too happily. Somehow the impenetrable walls of Kaer Morhen open for these ordinary people, and not for the spies of Redania, Poviss, or Kovir. 

It is Malia’s job to somehow do the impossible and get a spy into Kaer Morhen. 

Which is not to say that she will be venturing up the mountain, or attempting to get a spy of her own into Kaer Morhen. That demonstrably doesn’t work. Instead, Malia will be attempting to get to one of the ordinary people who leave. 

[ego-meliorem-esse]

#7/11/44 for Alfred?

7. Does your character have recurring themes in their nightmares?

He doesn't really understand but his most occurring dreams are quite vague. It starts with just smells in a dark forest. The smell of burning wood and cold rain filling nis nostrils. The smell of rain fading while the burning wood smell intensifying. He hears muffled sounds and then a rope suddenly stretching and breaking. He starts running towards the sound. He wakes up then.

Another dream is of playing in the tall grass with Davie. This is a short dream. And every time he dreams, Davies face is more and more blurry. This dream ends with Al holding a small white bunny.

One that is the most terrifying is when he is exhausted with work. If he's over exhausted the theme of destruction pops up. It's a dream where he is standing somewhere far away watching everything burn. People without faces pass him by and he cannot move. In the distance a bright light is getting dimmer. He always stays to see what caused the bright light but it never gets dim enough to see. He always wakes up before the light fades. He never gets an answer.

11. In what situation was your character the most afraid they've ever been?

Not a single moment but I think the one he remembers the most is during the start of the revolution, standing on top of the hill having shot his rifle. He knows exactly whom he shot and where. He sees the small and distant outline of his father stand still for a second then fall to the ground. His father fell just like any soldier made out of flesh and blood. He even fell to the ground like any man shot. In that single moment Alfred knew he should have felt pride or a sense of victory. Instead he is terrified. This isn't how his father "behaves", he doesn't just die. He cannot simply fall. This terrifies Alfred and he is frozen in place. He is in simple terms, scared. The man who seemed like a mighty obelisk crumbling at Alfreds hands like he was the mighty force of time bowing before no one. To Alfreds young mind it was incomprehensible, ineffable and undefinable.

44. How easy or difficult is it for your character to say "I love you?" Can they say it without meaning it?

He doesn't say it when he means it. Simple as that. He can say it all day everyday but it just doesn't hold water. The only person who will hear it in a genuine manner is Matt. And that's after his brother has been through hell and back and then again.

He can charm people, he will even come close to saying those words if he thinks they will get him the desired outcome, but almost never to people that matter. Matt has to die and come back and die to hear Alfred thank him and show affection in a genuinely way. No one else though. Arthur isn't hearing a filial "i love you" and if he did he'd be extremely concerned. Jack and Zee certainly aren't getting those words.

So in conclusion, if your name is Matthew and you're the French-Canadian representation of Canada, you probably have some idea what an Alfred "I love you" sounds like, but for the other peasants, we are absolutely not getting that.

[wiserebeltiger]

One thing Tim Dillon does not appreciate is that the psychology of the zoomer is fundamentally different from the psychology of the boomer. Tim always says “the zoomers will sell out like the boomers did in the 80s.” But he fails to understand that, while it is possible the zoomers may do something morally insane at some point, it will not take the form of simply selling out. Rather, it would come with the embrace of a demented Stalinism or such like psychosis. Zoomers have been “managed” by the boomers all their lives; they want power, not an electric guitar. They have been abused at a time when they are acutely aware that they are being abused; which creates anger and in some a desire for revenge. The boomers were crazy, like any generation; but their craziness was fundamentally a weak one; weakness for simple materialism, narcissism, etc. On the other hand, the generation that grew up not only being molested by priests but also groomed online and cyber bullied, had their body deformed because they weren’t allowed to transition, is mired (this is big) in 20k of student debt, pays ridiculously for rent, and has for company only other people who are similarly cracked and depraved—no; this generation will do very strange things. They will not merely lose touch with reality and let bad things happen. They will get what they want, what they deeply know they have been deprived of, or they will die profoundly and absurdly in the most unforeseen fit of mental illness.

Perhaps, as we get older, the mental illness in our generation will become less pronounced; or perhaps it will get worse. There seems to be a division, a significant historical divergence, that is now occurring between those who are mentally sorting themselves out, and those who fail to do so, and who seem bound to go off the deep end. These are the two tendencies in the zoomers—not so much left vs. right, though that is another division, but sane vs. insane; time will tell which will prevail.

We will see too, if we manage to make something new, or merely become the conduit for our parent’s rage and abuse, taken out on society, as the generation of the 30s and 40s took their parents’ WWI bitterness out on “enemies.” A deranged rage, really at the dead king, that they failed to move on from and instead became consumed by… from which detachment from reality followed.

The professional managerial class seems to be losing influence on the left; at least in public discourse and public sentiment. But in the organizations themselves, the DSA, the unions? I am not so sure. These people are really the worst gen z has to offer. They perfectly encapsulate this failed rebellion against the parent that winds up only fulfilling the parent’s vision (because the child never really wanted to rebel to begin with, because they have been so heavily managed that they do not know how).

The parents, managers, wanted to manage a neoliberal society; their children, whom they groomed to carry on in their footsteps, may wind up managing a democratic socialist society—the state agencies, the beaurocracies, are likely to be full of these people.

People say it’s ok to be rich and leftist. “You shouldn’t shit on someone who is rich and leftist.” But they bury the real fact: that you and working people should be very suspicious of anyone who is rich, and wants to take control of a worker’s organization. What do they want but control and a job; a little bit of power; a little bit of familiarity. The communist part of old, after all, ran internally like any corporation: you interviewed for an entry-level position, then worked your way up through the ranks, maybe to reach a post on the board of directors—sorry, the politburo. Beware the organizational forms that arise from failing to unlearn the ones you already exist in; otherwise you will never escape. [the second half of this paragraph is mostly wrong but I am too tired to edit it.]

[bleachbleachbleach]

Hello there! Idk have you ever talk about this or not, but I just found out a translation of an interview with Kubo called 'Bleach Jet' from local Bleach fanbase. One of the question said 'are the captains married? Since the only confirmed married one is Byakuya and he's actually younger than other captains'. Then Kubo answered 'well, tbh I never thought about it. But when I think it over, it would be sad if somebody as old as Yamajii is not married. So let's assume that they could be married, but it's just not necessary to be included in the story so I never write about it'. You know, I was so excited when I read it lok. In your opinion, which captains are apparently married? I only could imagine Ukitake since he's a perfect husband/daddy material (well I also want to know who's that lucky woman). But the others, seems kinda impossible lol. I'll be happy if you responded to my question. Thanks!

OH MAN. I’m interested in this in a couple of ways. The first way I am interested in this question is that neither of us had ever once wondered this. It did not even occur to us to wonder this, LOL. Too busy fixating on WHEELS, apparently. 

Because of this, it feels like a magic trick, where the source material has asked you to look in a particular direction at a particular thing and sleight of hand (spouses) might occur before your eyes without you ever seeing it. I truly just took for granted that everyone would be single unless explicitly noted otherwise--Byakuya continues to be married to Hisana in his heart as the only married captain, until eventually Rukia joins him.

But it’s exciting to me that there could already be secret spouses who never came up simply because the narrative was never pointed in their direction. I’ve experienced this with people IRL before, and I think there’s plenty of precedent for this in Bleach itself, given that there are a fair number of shinigami with relatives whom we know to be alive and well and never meet.

For instance, Yoruichi’s brother seems really young, which suggests that their married parents might…? still be alive?? Unless they died tragically in the decades immediately preceding TBTP when Yuushirou was a baby, which I guess is equally possible and probably further justifies Soi Fon’s distaste for Urahara/her being high-strung about the kind of company Yoruichi keeps/depends on. Maybe the Shihouin Parents died when all of Soi Fon’s brothers did. 😬 (Speaking of family members it never occurred to me would have existed until we were told they existed…)

As for our currently or were-recently serving Gotei officers: In my mind, Yamamoto and Sasakibe were together. Not romantically—in a different universe, maybe, but in theirs the fact that Yamamoto is Captain Commander and Sasakibe is his VC precludes all else. Because this relationship exists, it forecloses all notion of other romantic partners, even as they themselves are not romantic partners.

I’ve always imagined Kyouraku and Ukitake having a different but kinda similar thing going on, though I’d be more willing to imagine that Ukitake also has a spouse out there somewhere than Yamamoto having one, re: your suggestion in the original ask. It makes me think about all of Ukitake’s siblings. I assume they’re all well into adulthood at this point but… how much do they know? About how Ukitake died? How much were they depending on his care (financially, family leadership-wise, family mediation-wise, etc.)? :(

One other person I could imagine having a spouse is Rose. Specifically, I could imagine him having had a spouse, past tense—pre-exile. If he were Seireitei-born to some middling noble house. Imagine with me a wife, and a noble marriage put together on the expectation that the line should continue by the birthing of children. It was arranged; they’re well-matched and get on quite famously. They have similar interests and pedigrees and if their marriage is not driven by fiery all-consuming PASSION, well, many marriages aren’t and they always have music to turn to if they’re in need of that kind of enchantment. When Rose was sentenced to death/exiled, his marriage was annulled and his wife was re-married to a different Outoribashi or related clan. I don’t think Rose would have wanted otherwise—it’s been 100 years now, and she and her new husband are quite happy; heirs were produced, etc.—but it’s still sad. The Vizard exile had more consequences than many in the Gotei will ever know, and more still that will never be written.

—

The second way I am interested in this question is that I actually really enjoy Soul Society as a place where social roles—specifically as they relate to romance, marriage, and children, in any case—are a lot less circumscribed than they are often understood to be in the mainstream of the Living World. If the prototypical narrative in the Living World is, say, "by age 20 you will be married to a spouse of the opposite sex and children will follow thereafter," that doesn’t seem like the case within the Gotei, at least from what we see, and I love thinking through potential factors.

Some baseline examples:

A billionty of the people in Soul Society weren’t born in the first place, and instead arrived. 

Shinigami lifespans differ from humans and life milestones may not function in the same way (even as it seems like shinigami spend a LOT of time in what are optimal child-bearing years for us). 

Shinigami biology also differs from ours, potentially in ways that matter--who knows what fertility is like for them.

It seems like shinigami are dying just like, all the time, which I can imagine genuinely altering baseline assumptions around what interpersonal relationships are like and what they mean. 

I feel like there’s a lot of opportunity here for a lot of different types of relationships being much more normalized and understood alongside the marriage/children route. (And, additionally, the marriage/children route being more naturally understood as itself quite individual and rife with complexities that the boilerplate version of the Living World’s Notion of Marriage tends to leave out.) So that’s all very exciting to me.

What is the prototypical sexuality in Soul Society? Idk, all of them? What is the prototypical formal relationship arrangement? Idk, all of them? With probably more heterosexual coupling (or at least heterosexual-reading coupling), and more monogamy/marriage in noble circles, proportionally-speaking. I mean, I don’t think people getting married and having kids would be exceedingly rare, in the sense that Renji and Rukia probably weren’t making scandalous tabloid splash pages (though maybe on slow news days Hisagi has threatened this—idk I’ve never read WDKALY); but it feels like it would be one option among many, rather than the norm to which all other potentials are compared. I’m very enamored by the idea that D. All of the Above is Soul Society’s default in this one regard. 

They might live under ridiculous authoritarian hierarchical military whatnot, but AT LEAST LOVE IS FREE.

[deathly-nymph]

Star Plains (076 Tale)

Star Plains (076 Tale)

Abel has always been here, sitting in the plains made of stars, greeting everyone that arrives and listening to their tales till they move on.It was confusing at first, the concussion (as one of the robed men called it) only made figuring things out harder.

But Abel persevered and figured out how the place worked, the places that acted more sentient than others, the places that should be avoided. Abel knew everything by the time the Puppet showed up.

The Puppet was remarkably similar to him, it sharing the same long black hair and strange marks along its skin, although it was certainly older and more scared.

Abel simply thought of it as like a scared kitten or sheep, simply needing time.

Abel managed to convince it, in time, to tell him some tales of life outside of the Plain.

And Abel heard about the Scarlet King, the Angel at the Gate, and the strange Howling from the Moon some people would report.

Then the Puppet disappeared into thin air, as if never truly being present in the plains at all.

The next visitors were a group of people, dressed in strange clothes and speaking a foreign language (Greek, they called it), they told Abel of tales they had collected themselves.

Of how Aphrodite incited a war, of how Medusa was slain by Perseus, of how Persephone caused Winter.

They all scattered around eventually, before fading away just like the Puppet had. (Although, this time it felt far more permanent).

The next group of people wore even more strange attire, and carried an image of a serpent.

Those people told Abel of the Serpent in the Library, guarding knowledge and learning. They also told of a new fledgling organisation called "The Foundation". The second half interested Abel, although the people were gone before he could ask more.

The next time the Puppet showed up, it seemed happier, and spoke more clearly.It told Abel of the mythos of Egypt, of the Serpent that tried to eat the sun each night, of the goddess who took the power of a Name from the Sun, of the revived underworld god.

The Puppet stayed for longer this time, teaching Abel how to read most of the languages the people would bring with them, before fading back away.

The next person to show up was a Ginger Haired man, terrified and scared, Abel sat by him till he calmed, and listened to his tale.

Apparently this man (Jack Bright) worked for the Foundation the people had spoken of (Serpent's Hand, Bright had called them) and had been transporting something called 'scp-963' before a 'containment breach' occurred ("It's when an entity, an Anomaly or scp manages to get out of their containment, it's pretty dangerous") that lead to him being sent here by an entity called '076-2' .("The Guy's name is Abel, looks just like you, he's extremely violent, but the Foundation thinks that they've figured out a way to calm him")Abel nodded, taking in the information given, so the Puppet was a physical construct that looked like him?

Before Abel could ask anything else however, a strange amulet shape appeared around Jack's neck; it was ornate, a gold or silver base with ruby's laid into it.Jack's expression changed to one of shock, before he faded away.

Abel couldn't understand what had fully happened, so he simply moved back to where he was originally and continued waiting.

The next time people showed, it was Several women, all of whom looked strange, human but just barely so. They introduced themselves as the 'Seven Brides' and said they were waiting for some people.

And one by one, people showed up and one of the seven would hold them close and comfort them ("Don't worry dear, it's over now, you'll be safe here"-"Shh, they cannot get you here"-"Look at me, we are sisters in suffering and we don't have to suffer any longer, alright?") before walking with them as they Faded.

Eventually only the Seventh remained, Abel once asked her who she was waiting for, but was only told that "we won't be meeting her for a very, very long while dearie. And anyways, it's not something you should worry too much about." So he chose to avoid the subject in any other conversations.

The Seventh told him tales of Metal Gods, of Living Flesh and of Serpents in the ocean that abhorred consciousness ("Its name is Antesha, it doesn't mean to destroy what prevents its enjoyment, however twisted, that's just an unfortunate side effect.").

She ("Oh! Just call me Abby dearie.") was the one to figure out how to manipulate the stars around them into becoming things, creating a small grassy plain with trees and flowers before falling asleep, waking once every few months to check if her person had arrived yet.

Abel used it to create living things, like doves and finches, to fill the plains with the echoes of chirping birds, along with small waterfalls and forests, the echoes of running water and rustling leaves joining the chirps of birds.

The next person to show up was a man, he had no name nor face, or if he did Abel couldn't see it. (He also felt that this person didn't belong here. Like they were an intruder.) His form seemed to flicker, taking on the appearance of a male with either black horns or large wings.

("These? Oh, those have been here forever, I'm 001, that's what the Foundation calls me.""Being called a number doesn't sound nice.""I'll call you Alexander.""Alright then, my name is Alexander, yours?")

Alexander stuck around, never really seeming to fade, when Abel asked why he simply responded "They can't fully decide on what I am, either I'm the Monarch in Scarlet or I'm the Angel at the Gate. When they finally do, I'll be able to go onwards, but that's not something you should worry about, ok kid?"

Before smiling and turning back to continue reading. Able wanted to ask more, but knew that answers wouldn't be given, so he went back to where he previously was.

Jack Bright showed back up again next, hair messy and the tale he told Abel, was one of immortality achieved by accident and unknowingly, when Abel asked about the Puppet he told them as much as the Foundation had figured out.

("So far, they've been calming him down by letting him spend nights in the forests nearby and it seems the Stars have a calming effect on him, I wouldn't be surprised if it's because of this place.")

Bright disappeared a while later, and Abel was left with many more questions than answers, but decided no, he wouldn't ask.

The next few people to show up wore white coats emblazoned with the Foundation's symbol, their faces looked strange, almost barely human.

Abel disliked them immediately, something told him they shouldn't have been there, that they don't belong here. And just as the thought of "you don't belong here, you've not died yet" raced through his head, they suddenly disappeared.

The next time the Puppet showed up, it seemed far happier, yet it didn't spin tales nor melodies to him, rather it offered a hand.

Abel simply took it's hand, and walked with it to a doorway that had appeared, bright lights slightly blinding him, before his vision adjusted.

When it did he noticed that he wasn't in the Plains anymore, but rather on a cliff-top, overlooking the ocean, a group of people in a strange uniform (Foundation symbol stamped on) crowded around the edge.It felt different, but Abel simply walked behind the Puppet, as he heard it speak;

"I'm back, and I brought him here too."

(AN; I've always enjoyed the concept of 076 being two fundamentally different anomalies, one being Able and the other Not!Abel. It's something nobody has explored (to my knowledge) so I'm taking it into my own hands and shoving the words onto here. I hope you all enjoy!!

Order of Arrivals; !!

First; Abel obviously, he arrives almost immediately after his death!

Secondly; "Puppet" or 076-2! He's described a few times with different behaviours, I imagine as he slowly becomes acclimated to people he becomes a lot calmer! He's also Made to BE Pandora from the mythos! Although that's not mentioned I believe!

Thirdly; A group of OC's from Ancient Greek! They're how Abel knows that others beside the Puppet can access the realm and tell him about Greek mythos when he asks for a story!

Fourthly; Serpent's Hand members! All are OCs and are the reason Abel becomes curious of the Foundation

Fifthly; Dr Bright!! He's scared due to both the feeling of dying AND how similar Abel and Puppet both look (as Puppet was made in Abel's image to BE Pandora!) Eventually though he does realise the difference and tells Abel some things before the Amulet sucks him into a new body!

Sixthly; The Seven Brides Of The Scarlet King, although I may dislike their origins, I still included them. They fade away with their irl counters and the Seventh remains because hers hasn't shown up yet!S

eventhly; My personal 001 Interpretation, and entity who's appearance is based on how people INTERPRET it, it's either the Angel or King at any time (although they both exist as SEPARATE entities from it), Abel calls him Alexander after the historical Alexander the Great!

Eigthly; Foundation workers who AREN'T DEAD!! They've stumbled upon the place while alive and Abel doesn't take well to this due to his connection with it and the fact they're being very obnoxious, hence them getting kicked out!

And FINALLY;

He meets the rest of Omega-7 after Puppet brings him out of the Realm to meet them, they were the ones who asked if Puppet could bring him through there after Bright described him! ))

[yurayuramiharin]

KIMDITI FOR NUMBER FUCKING 9 PLS

Ship + kiss writing challenge

9: A kiss in public

Ahhhhhhhh I got way too invested in this one...

Aditi was nervously pacing back and forth in her bedroom clad in the warmth of orange lanterns which always came to life during the night. The Sunfire Queen was angry, furious even, at the narrow-mindedness of the members of her court who had irritated her at today's afternoon assembly. She knew that her nation was very particular in terms of worshiping traditions established by their ancestors, but for the love of the Sun, some laws and rules simply ceased to make sense over time! 

This morning, she had been excited to inform her court about her plans for the proposal. She'd found a perfect candidate for her spouse: a brave, intelligent elf, skilled both in magic and combat, one with whom Aditi shared her desires to make Xadia a better and safer place. That woman understood her like no one else, she was her inspiration, her joy and her most precious companion. Her only fault was being born a Moonshadow elf. 

"Such absurdity has never occurred in the history of Lux Aurea!" 

"Why don't you choose a more suitable consort? We can present you the candidates once again, Your Brightness," 

"The Archdragons will not approve of such matrimony!"

The voices of priests, seneschals and generals overlapped inside Aditi's head and fueled the fire of her anger. She picked up a goblet filled with fruits from the small table and tossed it fiercely to the ground, unintentionally heating the metal item in the process. She breathed heavily while observing the reddened goblet cooling down on the marble floor. 

She refused to acknowledge a soft knock on her door coming from afar. However, whoever wanted to get inside her chambers was quite persistent. The queen scoffed when she heard the knocking again.

"It's me," said a rough voice on the other side. The voice of her beloved.

"Come in," Aditi sighed and watched the door creak open before her eyes as Kim'dael entered the room. Her eyes instantly fell on the goblet and fruits spilled on the floor, then back to Aditi who was still wearing a frown on her regal face.

"You didn't come to dinn– Firefly, what's wrong?" Kim'dael asked, quickly crossing the room to be by her lover's side and wrapping her in her arms. She could still feel the warmth of Aditi's skin, which told her everything she needed to know. Something, or rather someone had upset Aditi again.

"My court is driving me insane," Aditi confessed, leaning into the comforting touch of Kim'dael's cool, pale skin. "They're trying to explain their bigotry with 'respect for tradition' and it feels like no matter what I say or do, they will always prove me wrong!" 

"Then maybe it's time you prove them wrong?"

Aditi gasped upon hearing her words, which suddenly made it all so simple. She was the queen of Sunfire elves, after all, and no one would dare to question her unless they were ready for a duel with the invincible warrior that she was. She was about to announce her devotion to the woman she loved and be done with anyone who would rather see her refrain from that.

"Kim, you're absolutely brilliant, have I ever told you that?" Aditi exclaimed before pressing a kiss to the Moonshadow elf's forehead before she pulled her towards the door and out of the room. Too stunned to speak, Kim'dael rushed behind her, barely keeping up with the fierce queen who dashed through the halls of Lux Aurea, her auburn locks flowing behind her like flames in the wind. Running along with her, Kim'dael couldn't help thinking how much she loved her, her Firefly, for whom she would run to the Moon and back.

Aditi burst the grand door open and entered the dining hall hand in hand with Kim'dael. The chatter of people and clattering of tableware had died down immediately, all eyes glued to the queen and her foreign lover. Smiling, Aditi glanced at the Moonshadow elf before returning her attention to the crowd. 

She cleared her throat before she spoke: "I have made my choice regarding the future of Lux Aurea," Aditi announced. Members of the court, who sat at the biggest table, rose from their chairs and carefully listened to their queen. 

Aditi looked at Kim'dael again and went down on her knees before her. A distant yet agitated murmur washed over the crowd around them.

"Kim'dael of Silvergrove, will you remain by my side as my best friend, my wife and the queen of Lux Aurea?" She asked with the softest smile that was Kim'dael's greatest weakness. The other elf was too stunned to breathe, let alone say anything.

"Your Brightness, this is a heresy–" 

"Yes, I will," Kim'dael cut in, her voice trembling with emotions. The court member ceased their further attempts in interrupting them when the whole room applauded the newly betrothed. 

Aditi got up and pulled Kim'dael in her arms, as she couldn't wait any longer to kiss her quivering mouth that felt warmer than the Sun. Right there and then, in front of nobles and courtiers of Lux Aurea who couldn't stand in the way of their love any longer. Lingering between their lips, a new chapter was about to begin.

[datasoulglitch]

[Soulmate Demons AU old arts / part 3-final]

I think it's time to end this already. ..I didn't found the point where they started using alternate names, but since they only use them for each other, I will continue to call them by their original names.

I was sharp-set for almost any idea that my friend gave me, so I often had ideas for art. It’s not so easy to imagine Soul in such a role.. so it was only once and was not repeated. Corrupt was shocked, however…. although even so, he was still ready to endure anything for Soul. We RP it for a couple times and just made a small “dark AU” type spin-off out of it, and then never return to it anymore, because most likely he had already acquired a new idea. Maybe it's for the better..

Sometimes I wonder if their relationship is supposed to be so.. weird? Or was it just my friend who had such an unusual influence on what we did because of our common interests.. It belies their name, after all. I think originally their relationship was never forced.. not taking into account what happened BEFORE the AU, because it was not yet what it has become now. There was a different idea, inspired by the creativity of other people, mostly.. now it's supposed to be something more innocent and naive, focused on feelings rather than something darker. Yet still dark sometimes maybe..

Just a gift for a friend. I still complain that he kept changing his appearance and adding details without always explaining it.. but I still enjoyed drawing him. Now I'm thinking about what kind of appearance I should keep for Soul, if I don't come up with something new…. it will be difficult..

Just a bunch of drawings that I don't have much to say about. and on some I saved the backgroundless versions… let them be here too then.. I just liked the idea that Corrupt shows his emotions quite clearly.. Art with a blood warning ahead.. It’s a pity that I can’t blur out just a single picture in the entire post. and I'm putting them in almost chronological order and then the more normal pictures come again, and it would be hard for me to just put this one at the end just because of the warning.

Despite the description of the drawing and its origin, we came to that Corrupt sacrificed himself so that Soul could escape from the darkness, but Corrupt himself was caught in it with his own kind. According to the AU lore, Corrupt is despised by the rest of the corrupted because he became close to their common enemy and stopped doing what they usually did. And having a traitor in their hands, such an outcome was quite expected. Corrupt did not fight because he was again consumed by the feelings that he was simply a threat to those who were dear to him, especially for Soul.. Of course, Soul did not accept this outcome and returned for him.

..I don't really like this part of the story… I don't like the death of characters for the most idiotic reason, just for the sake of emotion, but that's exactly what I had to go through. Do you know how terrible it is when someone for whom you live dies, and you are ready to die after them if they are gone? This is exactly the level of love Corrupt feels for Soul. He will not let him die, or he will die with him. As a result, it came to the point that the spirit of Soul became one with Corrupt's mind and body, and a this fusion occurred. I guess you could say that this is a form of how close they are to each other... They remained in this state for some time, before Soul could come back to life. It's good for them that they're not human, right? I can’t convey with any drawings or words what it was like for Corrupt..

This is mostly a random idea, because Soul always has longer hair, so I thought what if Corrupt had long hair too? I tried to add more highlight on hair, and now sometimes I think that it looks good in general.. It was the time when we began to distant from each other.. when I disappeared for a long time, after my return I no longer felt like a part of something than I was before… I don’t know why that is.

And one more random thing that does not relate to the main story, but simply exists. There was some kind of idea for this initially, but I don't remember it, I don't think it was anything important. That's all… almost. I have nothing more to add here, next one there will be post with hidden arts, and after that, most likely, there will be new art and information on this AU, probably much later because I still have things that I need to sort.. I'm also thinking about creating a separate blog dedicated to other characters, art and stories that don't relate to this AU enough to post them here. I don't want to lump everything into one blog, which is dedicated specifically to this couple.

[fanfixes]

In the Council of Elrond

The breeze flew in quite nicely from the west and whistled through the branches of the trees towering over Rivendell. The day had just begun its preparation and light was pleasant to the dark eyes of Arwen, who had no rest the day before after her adventure with friends. Still a child, and very much, the apple of her father’s eye, her despondency was noted immediately when he spotted her under the gazebo, book in hand but not reading it.

“Is something dear on your mind darling?”

“I was wondering,” she said while peering through the golden and green leaves of the trees “whether I had spoken out of turn with some friends.”

“Has this notion been wearing heavy on your mind?”

“Quiet, more recently so, and it’s filling me with dread.”

“It pains me to see you like this. Tell me my child, what burdens you?”

“The younger elf children and I had wondered into the Abbey where we met a young boy, whom we believe is from the South, or so they claim. It was fun to play with him. He has a wild, vivid imagination which is always great when playing pretend and I quiet like that. However, the other children stopped playing with him because in a fit of anger over some argument that occurred before I arrived last evening, he had hit one of us and immediately all ties were cut without recourse or reexamination of what led to him striking a companion. As such, my suggestion to look for him and hear his side of the story was opposed crudely as if I was bearing his guilt. Then, Lilibeth snarkingly commented that it was custom for me to side with him for he was my kin.”

Tears welled in eyes and turning to him, she fell on her father’s chest saying “it is not that I am offended of that insinuation - that I have human blood, it is just that I feel sorely misunderstood and quickly penalised or labelled simply because of what I saw was an opportunity to understand someone else’s story? Rather than blindly following applications of favour or disfavour that were issued without my knowledge of the matter at hand. Is it so wrong to question motives?”

“Of course not. Everything must be viewed as a whole. As the world ages, knowledge will inherently grow. Things we learn about different races and peoples through history will increase and we must expect that not everyone will be able to share in our deductions of knowledge that come from a point of understanding. It is easy to categorise, harder to distinguish. The ways of many, elves, dwarves and men, are not always black or white - characters are often grey but it is not for us to judge their spirits, but to give consideration to all. For we, in our own truths would judge differently and consider things rightly or wrongly following our own wisdom gained through individual, personal experiences. You were not wrong to inquire, one never is though often they are treated that way. Continue to hold strong to your own principles and though you are affected by the decisions of the majority, let that not wane your foundation. Coming from a point of understanding is what differentiates the wise from the prudent, those who have greater destiny from those who refuse to see beyond what is given.”

Her countenance lifted. She jumped on his lap and reached up to peck his cheek. Then, she leaps off the bench, nearly sprinting off before her father was able to ask her where she was going.

“TO GIVE TARCIL A PROPER CHANCE!”

[transmutationisms]

btw, if you read my initial ask clearly, i explicitly stated that technology doesn't constitute any sort of "sole causal force." in fact, nearly half of the ask is clarifying that, so i find it a little annoying that you chose to read that claim into it and accuse me of "crude techno-determinism" easier than taking me in good faith though i guess. we agree more than you think

ok let me try to address all of your points in one answer. i agree that you and i are not wholly in disagreement here, and i apologise for the points in the initial post that lacked clarity. where i do still disagree with you, though, is on the suggestion that "relations of production had to shift to accomodate the new technology". the history of technology is littered with examples of technologies that were never adopted widely, or were adopted and then phased out, for numerous reasons that sometimes include but are not at all limited to 'were replaced with something more complex or efficient'. it was very much not inevitable that new technologies are adopted; people have to actively push them into use and choose to change working conditions and so forth in order to make use of them. the IR was not pre-determined; it was very much a contingent event, and this sort of thing is partly what's meant by the criticism that history is contingent and non-teleological. additionally, you and i certainly agree that industrialisation has occurred since the late 18th century. however, a persistent problem in the historiographical literature has been the attempt to apply the specific model of industrialisation derived from the north british textile industry in the late 18th century to local and temporal contexts where conditions simply were not the same, and industrialisation occurred differently and looked different. this is another issue at stake in the use of the phrase "industrial revolution" and a reason that people who do still use it tend to heavily footnote or caveat it. in regards to the development of technologies: no, i don't deny that some technologies are more complex, efficient, &c than others. however, a larger historical narrative doesn't follow directly from the comparison of a handful of specific tools/technologies. for one thing, techniques and technologies are lost all the time; also, industries and economic sectors may rely on a certain technology for a long time, even if better ones come to exist. for example, you can see this happening with a phenomenon like planned obsolescence, though it also happens for reasons less obviously driven by blatant profit-seeking and waste generation (eg, technologies may be lost in linguistic or cultural translation, or after political upheaval/regime changes; or, because a part or material becomes hard to source, or simply because people may not know or agree that a certain technology could be more effective for their purposes, or may not be able or willing to make painful short-term changes to their established mode of business/production). also, fundamentally, you and i absolutely agree that the technologies constituting the means of production are, to use marx's terms, the material base. but i think you and i also agree that you can't extrapolate directly from the existence of a technology to the social relations, conditions of labour, &c in existence. you have to be attentive to questions like: is the technology actually in use, where/by whom, who owns and operates it, what sorts of social and economic conditions allowed it to be theorised/developed/widely produced in the first place, &c.

[howredemptionwaswon]

“How am I supposed to tell Arthur, Abigail? I can’t be pregnant. Not like this. I’m going to be thirty-five before the year ends. That doctor can’t be right. Arthur don’t want an old maid for his child. It has to be a mistake.”

Abigail could barely believe her ears. How could Mary think for one single second that Arthur would be anything but HAPPY about the news they just learned? She could understand this kind of reaction if they had been talking about someone like John ─ well at least the way he used to be when the gang was still together.

She had been preparing for this conversation ever since Mary asked her to take a trip into Blackwater with her to see the doctor. At first, she thought something was wrong with Mary, but soon enough she let her in on the secret. Honestly, Abigail was over the moon happy about the news. There was NOTHING in the world quite like motherhood.

“ That ain’t even true. I don’t see a man who carried your pictures around for years bein’ anythin’ but happy. That man loves you with everything he is. “ She tried to reassure Mary. “ And I don’t think three different tests are all gonna be wrong. “ She couldn’t help but smirk a little about how Mary had insisted they redo the test so many times. “ Listen, you’re gonna be a great mother, and Arthur, well he’s gonna be a great father. I couldn’t tell you how many times he went out of his way to do things with Jack when John wouldn’t. I think it’s just a case of nerves makin’ you overreact. “

Abigail could understand though. While most women like herself gave birth at an earlier age that didn’t shake the UNEASY feeling she had. John was still young and unsure of what he wanted at the time. She knew for a fact that Arthur wouldn’t take off as John had. Plus Abigail would be there every step of the way to help Mary through it all.

Mary could only nod along to what Abigail said. It all made sense. Arthur would never leave her. After all, Mary left him. They’d been young and in love, and Mary didn’t believe they could co-exist with such different lives. He proved her wrong, and in the end, they found their way back together, and it was like they never stopped loving each other. The pieces were picked back up, and they eventually became husband and wife. They couldn’t be any happier, but neither expected anything like this to occur. Arthur’s only child was killed long before they met, and Mary’s baby brother was practically her son whom she raised since their mother died when their father became a drunken gambler who cared more for himself than his own family. They doted on Jack like any uncle and aunt would, but to have their own child was simply remarkable and unbelievable. It was like a dream. In fact, Mary fainted in the clinic upon hearing the news. Poor Abigail had her hands full of her that day.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Abigail,” Mary told her as she took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Out of everyone in Dutch’s gang, she always liked Abigail the best. At first, she was taken aback by her role as the gang’s former prostitute, but she found the woman to be quick-witted, smart, and friendly to talk to. She didn’t make Mary feel like an outcast like the other girls had. And ever since then, she felt closest to Abigail, the one she could confide in most, so it was no surprise that she asked her to accompany her to Blackwater.

As they made their way to the carriage, with her arm linked with Abigail’s, she said, “I’m nervous and happy. I shouldn’t care what other people are gonna think about me being a mother so late in life. I should only care about what Arthur thinks.”

But how to break the news to him? Over a nice dinner? Or just bluntly? Too bad she couldn’t ask Abigail’s advice on that, seeing as how Jack’s conception and birth was a messy situation. Poor Arthur having to be present for all that drama must’ve been a headache.

“Should we buy anything else from the general store besides what the doctor gave me?” Mary asked. “Or you think we’re good for now?”

Abigail guessed running around with a bunch of outlaws helped her develop a thicker skin. It wasn’t easy hearing all the little whispers that would float around about who Jack’s daddy was. Everyone had a part to play and she guessed being a prostitute was the hand she had been DEALT. Long before she even got pregnant with Jack those days had ended for her. Despite the whispers, she knew who Jack’s daddy was. One thing she learned being in that gang was either you learned how to stick up for yourself and not take anyone’s shit or you ended up the ass of everyone’s JOKES and WHISPERS. She stuck up for what she believed in and no one could fault her for that.

From the start Abigail always liked Mary. While she wasn’t like herself or any of the other ladies in the gang there was something about her that changed Arthur. Arthur wasn’t the same RUTHLESS CARELESS man when Mary had been part of his life. She made Arthur a better person and she wasn’t the only one who noticed that. She once overheard Dutch talking to Hosea about how he needed to talk with Mary’s father. Surprisingly it wasn’t long after that when Mary and Arthur started having troubles in their relationship. She knew it had been Dutch’s doing.

” What are friends for? “ Abigail smiled reaching over to place her other hand over Mary’s. ” I think I’m as excited about this as you are. “ She would laugh because it was well past time for Arthur and Mary to have a family of their own.

” See there, you’re learning already. Arthur and that baby are the only things you should be worried about. If someone’s got a problem with you having a baby then that’s on them. They ain’t the one having it so it’s no business of theirs. “ Oh, Abigail would LOVE to hear someone say something ill about it in her presence. She would bet they wouldn’t be doing it a second time.

Once they reached the carriage she helped Mary step up and then she followed suit behind her. ” I think we’re good for now. He gave you what he believes you need. If he wants to add anything to it he will on our next visit to him. “ Abigail knew a few TRIPS and TRICKS of her own since she had gone through this with Jack. She knew all the best tea blends for cramping and cravings. ” That reminds me, have you had any weird cravings yet? “

Abigail took the reins and gave them a crack setting the horses to take them home. ” Have you thought about how you’re gonna tell him? “ She asked once they made it out of Blackwater and were on the trail headed to their ranch. ” I used the straightforward method with John and we know how that turned out but John was a different person back then. I won’t lie, a part of me would like to be there to see Arthur’s reaction but I’ll just have to wait for you to give me the details in full. “

Mary carefully set the rifle across her lap as they rode along the trail home. Arthur taught her how to shoot, and while she wasn’t fond of using firearms, she knew it was important to protect herself and her loved ones. Fortunately, they didn’t live too far from Blackwater.

“Straight-forward will be best,” Mary decided. “I don’t like keeping secrets from Arthur. Seeing as how things didn’t turn out well with Dutch and all of them, with those secrets being kept, I don’t want to let this news linger for long. As soon as I see him, even if he’s busy, I wanna tell him.”

The more she thought about it, the more excited she became. Even when she remembered the doctor telling her of the high risks of being an older mother, it didn’t matter. Arthur had been a young father and lost Isaac and his son’s mother, Eliza. Given the circumstances, it was tough. The only worries Mary had were her age and her body. She had to do everything she could not to stress out so much. She had to be strong, for her sake and most importantly for the baby.

“I want all of you to be present if possible,” Mary informed Abigail. “Even if it’s just Arthur and you, I couldn’t be happier.”

Then she remembered Abigail’s earlier question about the strange cravings. “Hmmm… so far, I’ve been wanting chocolates, boiled eggs, and tuna fish. Just out of the blue. Does that sound strange…?”

Beecher’s Hope stirred with activity. John Marston was loading the last of the milk jugs onto the wagon. Jack was in his room reading “The Wonderful Wizard of OZ” by L. Frank Baum. Rufus ran up behind John and barked up a storm.

“What is it, boy?” John asked the family hound.

Gazing into the distance, another wagon rolled onto the property, being driven by a familiar blonde rancher.

“Miss MacFarlane,” John greeted the young woman who lived on her family’s ranch in Hennigan’s Stead. Once she was close enough, he asked her, “What do I owe the pleasure?”

“And how many times do I gotta tell you to call me ‘Bonnie?’” she scowled teasingly, a bright smile visible on her face every time she saw John. It was no secret that while she pretended to chastise him here and there, she had a bit of a crush on him.

Pulling up alongside his wagon, she parked next to him and hopped down from her seat. “We have extra grains and decided to donate some to you and your family. Old Farmer’s Almanac said it’ll be a brutal winter this year, so you might as well stock up while the weather’s still in our favor.”

John couldn’t believe it. He was quite grateful for this donation, and while his family wasn’t struggling, they could always save provisions. “Miss MacFarlane, I can’t thank you enough. Lemme get some extra hands to help us unload. Uncle! Hey, Uncle!”

He went in search of the old man, and it didn’t take him long to find the old bastard drunk and passed out under a tree.

“That son of a bitch,” John muttered under his breath. “No good and useless as always. What else should I have expected.”

While Abigail wasn’t actively holding a gun in hand, she had a revolver at her side. She HATED that thing and knew how much trouble the guys got into swinging those things around. John however insisted she carry the DREADED THING with her anytime she was away from the ranch. He even took her out several times teaching her how to aim it behind the ranch. Admittedly, she got pretty good at popping cans off the fence line.

“ I know that business with Dutch wasn’t easy for Arthur or John. He was like a father to them. Much like how Hosea was like mine. But you’re right, keeping secrets ain’t a good thing ─ even if it’s a good kind of secret. ” This was the kind of news she knew Arthur would have wanted to share with Dutch and Hosea but that simply couldn’t happen now. God rest his soul, Abigail missed Hosea something terrible.

“ Not far now. ” Abigail nodded in front of them, knowing they only had a few more turns before heading down the stretch of road leading down to the farm. Reaching up with one hand she wrapped her scarf a little more around her neck. Seemed like each day was getting a little colder than the last. She’s heard the talk about how this winter wasn’t supposed to be good. She believed it because she could feel it in the air.

Abigail couldn’t stop smiling. She was FLATTERED that Mary would want her and John to be present when she delivered this news to Arthur. “ Alright. Shouldn’t be too hard getting them together. If you wanna do it soon you see him then get ready cause we’re making the turn now. ” They were making the turn under the fenced archway. “ Those boys are always out and about doing something. ”

Abigail laughed. “ Doesn’t sound strange at all. When I was pregnant with Jack all I wanted to eat was chocolate and peaches. I got some good tea recipes to help calm the craving so they ain’t so bad. ”

Up in the distance, she could see a strange wagon pulled up to the farm. “ Wonder who that is? ” Abigail remarked giving the horse another crack from the reins.

Arthur was busing himself with cleaning the horse barn when he heard Rufus barking. The familiar sound of wagon wheels beating against the ground made him believe the ladies had made it back from their trip into town. Despite the slight chill in the air, he was dirty and sweaty from the work he had been doing. Shoveling horse shit wasn’t the GREATEST chore but it had to be done.

Pushing the wheel barrel out of the way and then placing the pitchfork up against the wall he stepped outside the bar and down toward the house. His eyes would narrow a bit not recognizing the wagon. He did however recognize the BLONDE who stepped away from it. Bonnie MacFarlane, boy was this going to be interesting if Abigail made it back soon.

Arthur only shook his head when John began bellowing for Uncle. That boy was never gonna learn that the old man was never going to be found when there was work to be done.

After everything that happened back with the gang Arthur would be the first person to come down hard on anyone not pulling their weight but for some ungodly known reason, he always seemed to let it slip with Uncle. Perhaps it was because of his age. Or maybe it was because SOMETIMES the old man did come in handy.

“ Marston, stop bitchin’ at him. You know it ain’t gonna change nothin’. What are you bellowin’ about anyway? ” Arthur asked as he began heading back down to where Bonnie was waiting for them. The close they seemed to get the bigger Bonnie’s smile seemed to grow.

Boy oh boy, Arthur thought as he shook his head. “ Good day to ya, Miss MacFarlane. How’s the Ranch been treatin’ ya? ” Arthur glanced over at the wagon seeing the bags of grain loaded in the back.

“Howdy, Mr. Marston!” Bonnie greeted. “Daddy gives his regards for not stopping by, but he says he looks forward to seeing you again at the ranch for another round or two of poker. He says he’s developed a new strategy to clean your pockets good this time.”

Around the same time, Abigail and Mary’s wagon arrived from the opposing end of the ranch. Rufus barked and ran over to greet them. Uncle grumbled and rolled onto his side just as they passed the tree he was beneath.

“Ladies, ladies,” he complained as he finally came about to consciousness. “Was tryin’ to sleep.”

John went over and kicked his shins. He didn’t care what Arthur said. “Get up!” he snapped. “Quit lyin’ around and be of use for once.”

Mary narrowed her eyes as she realized who the new arrival was. “It’s Miss Bonnie MacFarlane.”

Bonnie, taking note of Abigail being the driver of the other wagon, offered her a polite nod, and one to Mary as well. “Hello, ladies! Just here to give your families some extra supplies our ranch had on stock. Can’t be selfish, especially with winter lookin’ to be real nasty and all. Us neighbors gotta look out for one another and all.”

Jack emerged from the house, having heard all the commotion, and approached everyone. “Hi, Ma! Hi, Aunt Mary! Welcome back! Hey, Uncle Arthur! … Oh! Hi, Miss MacFarlane!”

John came back with Uncle and was relieved to see his son. The last thing he wanted was both Arthur and Abigail getting on his case about Miss MacFarlane. Time for a distraction. “Son, go help Uncle and Miss MacFarlane put the new supplies in the barn.”

Uncle groaned. “But I’m feelin’ my lumbago kickin’ up a fuss again, John.”

Jack happily offered, “Uncle, we can make a game out of this!”

“Ohhh, the only game I play is the one involving money,” was Uncle’s huffed and annoyed response.

Bonnie tried to hide her disappointment, as she ducked her head and headed back to her wagon. She climbed back onto it, where she assisted Jack to the seat next to her, while Uncle reluctantly led the way to the barn.

“Well,” Mary replied awkwardly once their wagon stopped, and she carefully climbed down from her seat. “That was… interesting… Now’s as good a time as any to tell Arthur, don’t you think, Abigail?”

Arthur wanted to crack a joke about what Bonnie said about her father but he thought better of it since all the ladies were present. He could already tell by the look on Abigail’s face that she was none too happy to see Bonnie.

As POLITELY as she could Abigail returned the nod. “ That’s mighty kind of you. Not many people are that generous without having other motives in mind. ” And for Abigail, that was being EXTREMELY polite. She had seen the way Bonnie just lit up like a bulb whenever she was around John.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust John because she did. It was the blonde female she didn’t EXACTLY trust. What decent woman doted over a married man? It just wasn’t right in Abigail’s book. “ I’d say looking out for one another is a good idea. ” She quickly added. The whole bit of her Daddy wanting to play poker with John made her feel like John was spending ENTIRELY too much time at that Ranch.

“ Old man all you do is sleep. ” Her head turned when she heard Jack calling out to them. “ Your FATHER is right Jack honey. See if you can’t help get those supplies into the barn. ” All the while Abigail didn’t look at John. She was fuming and knew John and everyone else could see it. Her attention now turns to Uncle. “ Old man you better help or so help me you won’t be eating tonight and you’ll be sharing the barn. ”

She watched as Bonnie climbed on her wagon looking so UPSET that John wasn’t coming along with them. Lord god if there was one up above she prayed he gave her STRENGTH to bite her tongue and not ruin this moment for Arthur and Mary.

Abigail removed herself from the wagon after Mary. instead of walking over to where John was standing, she stood closer to Mary and near the back of the wagon. “ I think it’s a good time. Needs something to brighten the mood around here. ”

If looks could kill both Bonnie and John would fall over dead. Abigail was blazing mad. He’s seen that look in her eye numerous times before. Arthur also knew when she had that look to steer clear of her. He felt a little bad for John but at the same time, he could only IMAGINE the rage he’d feel if he saw someone opening crushing on Mary. He’d lose his damn mind.

Making his way around to where the ladies stood Arthur crossed his arms looking a little confused. “ Tell Arthur what exactly? ” A brow lifted now wondering what those two had gotten into while they were in town.

John realized that Bonnie was looking at Arthur and probably meant to say “Howdy, Mr. Morgan,” she instead said “Mr. Marston.” Christ help him. He needed to talk to her and be blunt about where their relationship stood. He was lovingly and happily married to Abigail. The two of them went through so much together that there couldn’t be, and wouldn’t be, anybody else he’d rather be with than her. Bonnie was a hardworking girl who’d find a decent man one day, but it wouldn’t be him. Never in a million years. He’d have to make it up to Abigail. While he loved her spitfire, he didn’t want her fuming for days on end. While she was in this mood, he wouldn’t put it past her to really put rat poison in his dinner.

Mary bit her lower lip, and offered Abigail one last look, before approaching Arthur. He smelled of sweat and barn animals, but she didn’t mind. It was all part of the job. Hard work suited him. Living on a ranch wasn’t easy, but she enjoyed every moment of it. She loved it, as she loved this man before her. She wouldn’t trade any of this for the world.

Standing in front of him, she placed her hands over his. Her nerves were shot, but she somehow maintained some composure. She peered into his eyes and stated, “Went to the doctor’s today because I hadn’t been feeling well. Turns out…”

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

“I’m with child, Arthur. We’re going to have a baby!”

She smiled and even squeezed his hands with emphasis. To think she was terrified in the beginning, but the more she talked about it, the more thrilled she was to become a mother.

Despite being called Mr. Marston Arthur knew Bonnie was talking to him. He was the one who had been playing poker with her father. Arthur had been in the process of talking to him about finding a good place where he could buy or rustle up some chickens for their own Ranch. He should probably tell Abigail that it wasn’t John that was hanging out at the MacFarlane Ranch but he’d let John SWEAT a little before he offered up that information. Hell, after that slip of the tongue from Bonnie he wasn’t even sure his fessing up that information would even HELP matters. Arthur was pretty sure that one way or another John would find a way to make it all up to Abigail.

Abigail gave Mary a smile when she looked at her and nodded her head. She PROMISED she would be there and she wasn’t moving until the news was delivered and received. Under better circumstances, she would be at John’s side right now with her arm wrapped around his ready to celebrate this news.

Arthur’s head would slightly tilt to the side when Mary took his hand into hers. What had gotten into her? She was acting a little STRANGE and it was starting to worry him, even more so when she said she had gone to the doctor because she wasn’t feeling well.

He let out a deep breath, one that expelled his ENTIRE lung capacity in one breath. He didn’t move a muscle because he was replaying those words in the back of his head. It almost felt like the wind had been knocked right out of him but not exactly in a bad way. The news had taken him by surprise. It wasn’t like the two of them hadn’t been together before and both of them were younger back then and nothing ever came from it. Maybe he had thought after Isaac’s death that he wouldn’t be blessed with another because he had failed his son.

He took a step back, speechless as he looked Mary in the eyes. She was the prettiest thing he had ever laid eyes on from the day they first met and from that day forward. Their relationship blossomed faster than a field of wildflowers. They had their bumps in the road but they found each other despite the odds against them and made things work this time. He truly loved this woman, and something about this news made his heart SOAR.

He wouldn’t admit it but he was sure she could see his eyes getting a little glossy. “ A baby ─ are you sure? ” He found himself having to ask once more to make sure he had heard her right.

After giving her hands a squeeze he pulled her in close to him. His lips found hers in a way to reassure her that this was the happiest news he had heard in some time. He was going to be a father and he couldn’t be happier about that. This is how their life should have been all along.

Once he broke away from the kiss he looked to Abigail and then to John and shouted as loud as he could, so loud he was sure Uncle, Jack, and Bonnie could hear in the barn. “ I’M GOING TO BE A DAD! ”

Mary wasn’t sure if she could contain her delight. Her spirits soared high. “Doctor performed three tests to be sure, Arthur. It’s true.”

She was then pulled against her husband’s broad chest, and they shared a kiss. She hugged him tight as joy engulfed her. This was a dream come true for them both. Yes, they were up there in age, but they didn’t care. They shouldn’t. This was what they wanted, and so what if this milestone came later in life? They had no more worries, no more dangers. They had a home, they had family and friends. Likewise, they were settled and safe. For them, this was the best time to start a family. If not now, it would be never.

When Arthur broke the kiss, Mary couldn’t help but cover her mouth with her hands and laugh with joy. His reaction was priceless. She loved every moment of this. She wished there was one of those fancy motion picture men around to capture this on film.

Not wanting to test his luck with Abigail just yet (but absolutely wanting to make things up to her as soon as possible), John decided to give his support to Arthur and Mary. First, to his brother from another mother, he threw his arms around Arthur and gave him a hearty hug.

“Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy,” he told him, meaning every word. “You and Mary will make a fine family, and we’re gonna help you every step of the way.”

After patting him on his back, he went over to Mary and hugged her as well, along with a polite kiss on the cheek.

“Congratulations, and don’t you worry about nothin’,” he promised her. “We’ll take real good care of you and the baby, Mary. Real happy for you.”

Over by the barn, Jack stood up when he heard Arthur yell. He dropped the sack he’d been carrying and turned to Bonnie. “Did you hear that, Miss MacFarlane?”

Bonnie nodded as she stepped down from the wagon. “Sure as the sun would rise in the morning, Jack. Looks like you’re gonna be a cousin in nine months! Let’s go congratulate the happy couple!”

“Least we’ll know who the papa is,” Uncle commented, remembering the mess that came out of Abigail’s pregnancy. Then, remembering Jack was present, he shooed the boy out of the barn ahead of him before he could ask questions. Bonnie just gave the old man a strange look, shrugged her shoulders, and followed the boy out.

So many thoughts were swimming through the back of Arthur’s mind. For a moment he thought he might have to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t DREAMING all of this. For years he wallowed in his misery thinking Mary had left him for good and that he’d NEVER find that kind of happiness again, not like he had with her. Now here they were about to bring a new life into the world. Life was good.

Mary always had this radiant glow to her but right now she GLOWED in a way he had never seen before. He just wanted to wrap his arms around her, spin her around and then just dance all around the ranch with her. How he would love to freeze this moment in time with another one of those pictures so he would NEVER forget the look on her face right now.

Before he could even think about his next act John was embracing him in a hug. Arthur pat him on the back and gave him a nod when he pulled away. “ Thank you, brother. Gonna need all the help I can’t get. This is going to be all new to me. ” Arthur wasn’t there when Isaac was born. Yet another thing he could THANK Dutch for.

When John went to hug Arthur Abigail seized her moment. She put her arm around Mary and pulled her close against her arm. “ I know I done told ya all this before but I’m so happy for the two of you. Just like I told ya you had nothing to worry about. ” Abigail grinned.

When John started heading Mary’s way Abigail pulled away and made her way over to Arthur where she gave him a tight hug and kissed him against his cheek. “ Always told ya you were a good and deserving man, Arthur Morgan. You keep her happy, ya hear me? ”

“ Got no worries there, Abigail. Gonna do my damnedest in that department. ” Arthur commented back.

Just for a moment, Abigail forgot about their visitor. She was so happy that she just wanted to hug her husband. With her head slightly dipped she started making her way over to John.

“ Aunt Mary, Miss MacFarlane wants to congratulate you and Uncle Arthur! ” Jack could be heard shouting in the distance.

Suddenly Abigail was reminded and her face soured once more, just short of reaching John. She couldn’t handle SEEING that woman again and not going off the handle on her. “ Excuse me, I’m going to go start dinner and hunt down the rat poison. ” Abigail brushed past John and headed straight up to the house where she slammed the door closed behind her.

John’s shoulders slumped and he sighed. “Goddammit to hell,” he uttered. He couldn’t let this fester for long, and he was instantly on Abigail’s trail, following her into the house.

Before Bonnie could even call out to John, yet another wagon pulled up to the house at an alarming speed. Amos, one of Drew’s ranchers, was driving the wagon. “Miss MacFarlane!” he shouted. “We need you back on the farm! Got problems with the horses and the corral!”

Bonnie scowled. “Not again! I swear, nothing can get down when I’m not there!”

The blonde made her apologies before she told Amos she’d meet him back at the ranch. After bidding everyone goodbye and even thanking the Morgans once more, she quickly helped unload the rest of the grains, climbed back on her wagon, then made haste back to the MacFarlane homestead.

Once the dust settled, Mary couldn’t help but rub her temple. “That was… chaotic,” she couldn’t help but admit, and it was followed by a quiet laugh. “I suppose it added to the excitement of our baby announcement. I do feel a little tired, though, Arthur. I’m going to need to sit down for a bit.”

Inside the house, John caught up with Abigail. He stood before her and cut her off in her path.

“Stop, will ya? Why you gotta let Bonnie get to you like that, huh? Every time she comes around, you get riled up. What do you want me to do? Cuss her out? Shoot her?!”

Bringing a hand up, he caressed the side of her face. “Darlin’, there ain’t no other woman who could make me happy like you, and you know that. I love you.”

Awkward indeed but Arthur was more than used to John and Abigail having moments like these. He was sure that somehow John would make it up to her. That boy always seemed to find a way to get himself out of the DOG HOUSE with Abigail.

Arthur was sure to make sure Mary was clear out of the way when another wagon came barreling into the farm, kicking dust in its wake. In a way a made him feel a bit UNCOMFORTABLE. Normally when folks drove like that someone was hot on their tail and not in a good way. A hand rose to block the sun from his eyes and that’s when the man became recognized by him. Amos, he had seen him on the MacFarlane ranch many times.

Side by side with Mary he listened as the exchange was made. Taking about an evening filled with the unexpected. After Bonnie gave her apologies he nodded his head. “ No need for that. You got a ranch to tend to. Thanks again for the supplies, hope everything works out for you. ”

“ Can’t say that I miss that kind of chaos. ” Arthur was quick to agree with his wife. “ Have to disagree on that one. Don’t think anythin’ could be more excitin’ than that news. ” He would grin but would become a little more serious when she made mention of needing to sit down. “ Say no more. ” And with that Arthur placed an arm against her back and used the other to scoop up her legs to carry her bridal style. Up to the house he carried her until they were at the front deck where he sat her down in one of the chairs. Thankfully the houses were far enough apart that they couldn’t hear the yelling coming from John and Abigail.

“ Mrs. Mary Morgan I didn’t think you could find a way to make me anymore happier than I already am. ”

" Get outta my way, John. ” Abigail stopped in her tracks when John quickly cut her off.

“ Of course, I get riled up. I won’t stand for some woman comin’ to our home crushin’ all over my husband, John Marston. ” Her arms quickly snapped up to fold against her chest. “ You’re a married man and she knows it and it doesn’t stop her from tryin’ to flaunt around here tryin’ to get your attention and in front of your wife of all people. She doesn’t even try to hide it. Women like that ain’t decent, John. ” Reaching out she slugged John in the shoulder. “ Of course, I don’t want you to shoot her you big silly man. What you can do is set her straight John. Tell her can’t be no more of that behavior around here or anywhere else. If you don’t it’s only gonna encourage her. ”

She took a deep breath and exhaled after he said he loved her. It was UNFAIR when he used that method to try and make her less angry. “ Love you too John but it doesn’t change my mind none. Cause next time I’ll tell her myself. ” Stepping forward she rested her head up against John’s shoulder.

Mary held onto her husband tight as she was swept off her feet and carried back home. It brought back wonderful memories of her wedding day with Arthur. Best day of her life, really. It was everything she could ever dream about. The only person missing on the day was her mother, and as she sat on the chair beside her husband, and recovered from her dizzy spell, the harsh reality set in once more. Reaching for Arthur’s hand, she gave it a firm squeeze and didn’t let go.

“I’m so happy too, Arthur,” she told him, but her smile faltered just a bit. “I only wish Mama was here. I wished she was here for our wedding day, and I wish she was here for our baby.”

There was no shortage of support when it came to love, no question about it, but she had to take her mother’s place when it came to taking care of Jamie. She filled the void by raising the household while her daddy wasted away doing whatever he wanted, not caring about anyone but himself. She didn’t have that many years to have that motherly figure for herself. When Jamie was little, she more or less had to figure it out on her own.

“I’m fine,” she told him. “Thank you, Arthur. You know, you’re going to be the best father to our child. From what I heard from Abigail about how you took care of Jack, I already know how you’ll treat our baby.”

Her line of sight fell to their hands, and she couldn’t help but have her thumb rub small circles upon the surface of his skin. “After all, we have been quite… busy at night lately… I didn’t think… that is… I wasn’t thinking this… would happen…”

Her face grew warm as she vividly recalled how wild their bedroom activities had become. The things Arthur did to her - she was surprised the whole countryside hadn���t heard her scream!

John chuckled over Abigail’s statement. He knew she’d go through with it, too. There was no stopping her once she set her mind to something. His arms now wrapped around her slender frame, and he held her against him in a warm embrace.

“Sorry for makin’ you mad,” he murmured into her ear. “An’ I’m sorry for not bein’ there for you when you needed me the most.”

He thought back to those years when he ran away from his responsibilities of being a father to Jack. He’d been in deep denial, and he didn’t care what anybody said about him. The look of sheer anger and disappointment in Arthur’s eyes haunted him, yet he didn’t stop. He simply took off and didn’t look back. For an entire year, he went no contact and abandoned the gang. It was a miracle he was accepted back when he returned, and even then, he didn’t exactly accept his role as a father with open arms. No matter what he’d been doing for Dutch, Abigail remained with Jack: caring for him, raising him, as any loving parent should. There was a lot of growing up on his part, and a lot of questions when it came to Dutch. Thanks to Arthur, John’s eyes were opened, and he was able to become more of a more decent man.

John pulled back just far enough to rest his forehead against Abigail’s, where he peered into her eyes. “Thanks for givin’ this stupid cowpoke another chance for bein’ decent. I promise you, that you can go wild on anyone who tries to make passes at me in front of you, deal?”

Arthur leaned forward in his chair and held to her hand. He knew his wife well enough to know when something was TROUBLING her and this was one of those moments. He didn’t always have the right answers but he always tried his DAMNEDEST to ease any troubles she had in whatever way he could.

It wasn’t until she mentioned her mother that Arthur stopped to think of his mother and father along with Dutch. He could understand that kind of emotion even though he didn’t quite have the same relationship with his mother and father as Mary had with hers. “ I know you do. ”

At a very early age, he watched his mother die of sickness. It’s a memory that would FOREVER be branded into the back of his mind. Child or not, something like that NEVER goes away. Then at the age of eleven, he witnessed the hanging of his father who had been arrested for larceny. For three long years, he roamed the streets alone until Dutch and Hosea found him. Both men were father figures to him. He watched one gunned down in Valentine in cold blood and the other… he couldn’t even bring himself to think about how Dutch had betrayed him.

“ I know things haven’t always worked out the best for us, but I promise that baby, boy or girl is gonna have both a mother and father. I can also promise that I’m not goin’ to make the same mistakes they did. We’ve faced the odds and beat them. ” Arthur was sure Mary knew that if it was within his power to have her mother here she would be.

But the SERIOUS moment seemed to break when she brought up their late-night activities in the bedroom. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought. Being back with the woman that stole his heart after so long, well he just couldn’t help but get a little wild with her. “ Got to admit at the time of those activities a baby was the last thing on my mind. ” His eyes couldn’t help but dart over her form remembering how downright SEXY she looked each time she come undone for him. A cough would escape him as he tried to clear his mind of those thoughts for now.

“ How about we get you inside so you can rest a bit? I’m sure I could handle dinner tonight. ”

If there was one thing everyone knew about Abigail it was that once her mind was made up about something there was no telling her no. Through hell or high water, she would do WHATEVER she put her mind to. That was even more so the case when it came to John and Jack. She was FIERCELY PROTECTIVE of them both. Through blood sweat and tears she made her family work and she would be damned if some little daydreamer thought she was going to take that away from her.

“ John, it wasn’t you who made me mad. Okay, maybe a little because you should have said something to her but it was mostly her. ” Abigail admitted. Yeah, she started taking that anger out on him but that’s only because she LOVED the fool. Then she shook her head in a fashion as if she didn’t want him speaking of those times. “ That’s in the past. We promised to leave it there. ”

John didn’t have to say a word for her to know how much he beat himself up over his past actions. They were both younger back then and either one of them was planning on Jack but it had happened. Much like the news had just come for Mary and Arthur. John had to fight through his DEMONS and as painful as it had been at the time for Abigail she understood he needed that time. Things weren’t great when he finally came but the thing was he did come back and that meant something. Everything that happened was just another stepping stone that got them to the place they were standing now. It’s not something she would trade for anything. As silly and foolish as he could be at times he was her silly fool and she loved him with all her heart.

As their heads rested together she reached up and placed her palm against the side of his face. “ Thank you for comin’ back to us. But just so you know, I don’t need your permission for that. That Bonnie MacFarlane would have felt my full wrath had I not wanted to ruin Arthur and Mary’s moment. ” Her eyes caught with his almost DARINGLY before she leaned forward and kissed his lips. The kiss was soft and gentle. She could taste the mixture of whiskey and coffee on his lips and it made her long for more but she had to be mindful of Jack and remember that he could come barging through the doors at any time.

[goatva]

DDP

This entire week has shown me how you are so far engraved into my soul and existence that no one could ever truly understand me without the very least, hearing your name come out of my mouth. It’s as if my heart is so full of you, I can hardly call it my own.

I know I have become a burden at times, to you, because of all that has occurred between us; and I have learned that I wont always have the words to pull you back from the dark. But one thing is for sure, that I will always be here, to sit with you in the same darkness, to take your hand or wrap my arms around you until the darkness is consumed by the brightness of the sun. Because although every day that the sun shines over us, there will be darkness eventually—but I want to spend both of them with you.

I know you asked me to withhold from reaching out to you, but how can I keep that promise if I knew I was in trouble from the very moment your name became more of a feeling, rather than just words rolling out of the tip of my tongue?

I’m here to write these words that will someday make their way to you, and with that, I hope they let you know that I did not come into your life for the short term. I’m not here to waste your time. I hope you know that I’m not going anywhere without my best friend by my side.

Why? Because I have found someone who I feel safe being a burden to…not that im going to intentionally be a burden, but sometimes we just suck, sometimes we are a burden, especially me, but I’ve come to understand that when you are at your suckiest, lowest and most difficult self, and you have to withheld things from your partner because you don’t think they can accept you, then you’re never gonna feel safe around them, it will always be just two people dividing and conquering all their problems; rather than taking on the world together.

But that’s never been our case, when you’re young you believe that there will be many people with whom you’ll connect deeply only to later in life you come to realize that it only happens but a few times if any at all. But when it does, those few moments, frozen in genuine beauty, where you look at someone and you know, from a deep place deep within yourself, that they are going to mean something to you, that they are rare.

When it comes to this kind of connection, is important to understand that energy causing this connection; cannot be created or destroyed — that is a scientific fact. If the depth is there, it cannot be denied, cannot slip through your fingers, cannot be something you successfully just up and run away from due to fear of exposure to previous battle wounds. Now however, you MAY try to dismiss it, can try to protect against it, and hide from its warmth, but it always always always feels like a kick to the chest, when this person comes in near sight of you, it always catches you by surprise. Even after a million outings..

That is why, when a connection is not created like this, no matter how much you try to make it fit, how much you try to anchor it to your heart, there is simply no bargain that will make it work. That is the beauty of discovering things that stay, the things that fall into place. In a world full of billions, in a world where we are all seeking connection but avoiding eye contact, there are remarkable points of impact where you manage to crash yourself into someone who ends up breaking through the exterior. Someone who makes contact with your heart, who grows roots within it. Together, you beat the odds.

They say when you find humans beings like this, we hope to protect them. Hope to risk your heart for what you feel. Hope to believe that you are worthy of something full, and pointed and real. Hope to never settle for less, because certain people are truly just rare, beautiful drops of borrowed light from God that find their way to you. You don’t feel alien with them. The otherness never arrives. There isn’t a version of yourself that you have to shed in order to feel connected to them. They see you clearly. They hold you there. You are chosen there. Love becomes a safe place to rest your head. A place without artifice, or armor. There are no hiding spots. Everything is unguarded, and unvarnished, and there is freedom in that kind of openness, in that kind of vulnerability.

You are that human being. And I promise, you are worth fighting for.

-Freddy

[rahuratna]

Hi Courtney! 🧡🧡

I'm finally here and have started reading this. And boy, this is one to savour and take the time to read.

Firstly, I absolutely love the world building you've done at the outset to create this rich and lush setting of heaven and hell. The descriptions are so vivid, it's as if I can see each stage of her journey unfold. Here is your talent for describing things really doing overtime, as Nanami would put it, lol.

In terms of character building, the fact that the Reader angel is known for her boundless curiosity and temptation into KNOWLEDGE is such a great way to introduce the themes of this story. Forbidden knowledge, and all of its complexities, the idea that she is supposed to possess black and white morality as an angel, but what she feels, even at the outset, does fall into the character of 'grey'. To seek knowledge, regardless of its nature, simply for the sake of knowing more, HAS to fall into this category.

The descriptions of the relic and its location within a 'tree' of knowledge is so beautiful. The symbolism is incredible and haunting. Especially your choice of hemlock as the plant that lines her path.

"In times like these, you find yourself turning to the one manifestation that has never answered you, but exists in your very being." These lines resonate so hard with me. The fact that she prays so fervently and acknowledges that she is damned by the thirst for knowledge is like acknowledging a part of yourself that you've always wished was different, but you recognise that it is the core of you, and shouldn't be changed if you want to be true to yourself. 

OH GOD. OKAY. The way you've written Demon Nanami *chef's kiss*. I strongly believe that this is the best way he could have been written. He is beautiful, bewitching, elegant and seductive beyond measure. God, I'm shivering. There is the mystery of who he is in her memories, but the section where she describes having memories of him in the human world, with the glasses and tan suit as his chosen appearance, and the way he occurs amongst this universe's version of cursed spirits is just INSPIRED. I LOVE, LOVE when writers find ways to pay homage to the source material in such inventive ways and this is one of them.

Also, Heaven? What the fuck? Wow. She's a sacrifice. Wonderful. But this turn of the narrative is so appropriate and also, sort of a commentary on human religious faith being judgemental of those who seek to question the world around them, who don't accept the rules, regulations and status quo with blind faith. The way those people then become outcasts.

"Your eyes bubble with tears. It’s an unfortunate hand that you have been dealt. A hand always opened to you in promise even as the other held a dagger behind the back of divinity." I wasn't expecting this story to take me down a philosophical path, but that's the beauty of your writing. This line encompasses what so many people actually experience in their faith. You are rewarded for compliance, but damned the moment you place a foot out of line, the moment you act with individuality and purpose. This is what occurs when faith is dealt through the hands of those who are decidely NOT divine, but have appointed themselves as such. So accurately depicted here through the microcosm of Heaven in your story.

WOW. Right. I love this so much. Here is that element of 'grey morality', in its truest sense. An action deemed by society as 'wrong' has been committed, in these souls that the demon has saved, and yet, wrong to whom? What was the intention of the act? If the mother saved her child and was still condemned by human laws, then shouldn't she be on the receiving end of mercy from Heaven? A stunning parallel drawn here.

“It is true that I gain my strength through corruption. But it is corruption through intellectual rebellion and questioning minds. I am strong because no matter how many years may pass, there will always be a soul that questions.” UGH, I APPRECIATE THIS SO MUCH. This is a theme I love seeing explored in media (explains my love for Assassin's Creed) and this is such a close parallel to those themes. Intellectual rebellion, the seeking of knowledge, possessing that knowledge which is your right, and then having the freedom to decide what you will do with it ... isn't this the essence of being human?

"Each stroke of him feels like corruption, like freedom, like finally coming home and you arch into him for more." I love how even here, Nanami embodies the role you've given him. The idea of freedom of choice and the fact that what he offers, sexual, or otherwise, is not inherently evil, but we have been conditioned to see it as so ... it's masterfully done.

Also, during the sex scene, your descriptions are so tasteful and beautiful. The imagery you create, of the sensuality they engender, of the CONTRAST between them, the purity of the angel and the magnificent hedonism of Nanami's form ... I'm just here. Absorbing this. Mesmerized.

"Your wings stretch and flap behind you, sparse feathers wafting in their air to fall around you both in white, grey, and black." The symbolism of this line is wonderful. Also, the subsequent completion of her corruption, the way he supplants her Supreme Being with himself, the way the monolith also echoes their union, is so amazingly depicted through your imagery.

"Worshipped by his hands. Worshipped on this altar in front of a monolith that watches over you both." THIS. THIS. I cannot stress enough how important this line is. There's now a subversion of the distant and selfish faith she's always known. This is the altar on which HE worships HER and one can't help but feel that this is the way it should be. Even though she was intended as an offering, he gave her choices and freedom, and seduced her with those very things. She is no instrument to him, as she was to the Heavens. He truly sees her as a desirable being with agency.

"When he dips your head beneath the surface, it feels like baptism in reverse—washing away heaven’s hold rather than blessing you with it."

OH MY GOD. You were inspired when you wrote this one. BAPTISM IN REVERSE. The imagery is killing me and making me scream for MORE LOLLLLLL. Demon Nanami is surely the one true lord and saviour of aftercare 😌.

Once again, the contrast you've painted between her pained longing for acceptance, her loneliness, the way she has been repressed and controlled by Heaven, and the way Nanami treats her, with reverence, passion and respect for who she is, just stands out so proudly. It's such a stunning allegory for the way we can make choices that free us from the bondage of conditioning and society's expectations of us.

Yes, I have been treated to the most amazing depiction of monster sex, but also, this story speaks to me on so many levels as a woman. I loved every heady, dreamy, philosophical moment of it. Your writing, in a sense, is like demon Nanami, luring me down a fragrant path to the beauty and complexity of your ideas.

Thank you, thank you, Courtney. This is going down as one of my favourite Nanami fics ever.

Pairing: Demon! Nanami Kento x Angel Black!Fem Reader

Rating/CW: grey morality, religious undertones, corruption kink, worship, power dynamics (subtle fem submission), monsterfucking, smut, tongue fingering, pronged tongue, vaginal sex, oral (f! receiving), mild blood/biting. MDNI!

Summary: The thick muscle of your wings press against cold ancient stone as he circles you with wicked, stone-faced intent. Glimmering obsidian fingers trace along your feathers until they quiver--fluttering with touch-starved bliss no angel should ever feel. It's forbidden--this sensation in your belly, this humiliating slick between your legs that be can smell, this overwhelming desire that you've spent eons trying to quell.

But now, trapped before a demon so captivating that you can't help but feel equally terrified and dreadfully aroused, reality burns your skin like the holy water that bubbles whenever it's within your reach.

You're not here to serve a divine purpose--you're an offering. And only Heaven knows if you'll fall to your knees before him, begging for corruption.

Author Notes: Here it is! My submission for @tsukimefuku 's Spookinky event! I had so much fun writing this. Thank you, Fuku, for hosting such an awesome event, and I truly apologize for the filth (I do not apologize). Thank you all for your support, and thank you, @aliasnnmknt, for letting me use your art for my banner and helping me create it. Your art really inspired most of this fic!

Header: art by @aliasnnmknt | Divider: @arcielee @enchanthings | network tag: @pixelcafe-network

JJK Masterlist | Twitter | Ao3

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

You’ve never set foot in a demon’s realm.

You’ve heard the stories—flames that burn flesh from bone, screams that echo for eternity, demons that feast on corrupted souls. For the many eons that you have been in existence, the pristine light you thrive in tells enough horrid stories to keep you away.

You do what you can to show you are pure in your thoughts and heart and that you will walk the line given to make the one above you proud in His selection of you. You’ve done well. It’s why you’ve been given this task—a pilgrimage to a sacred altar within this dark realm, to find the relic it holds and be promised enlightenment and a deeper connection to your spiritual life. For once, you feel special. You are special.

The relic you search for holds ancient divine text that the Heaves would like to make sure does not fall into the wrong hands. Your ability to decipher that text and other old tongues made you the perfect choice—though you try not to question why that ability exists at all. This mission feels important and they insisted you were the perfect choice. Your gifts would serve the greater good. Serve Him.

Maybe that’s why they sent you alone. A single angel, moving quietly through dark territory, would draw less attention than an entire group.

Finally, after so many years of wary glances and hushed concerns. Your many ‘gifts’ that have set you apart—the way ancient texts rearrange themselves under your touch, how you see patterns in chaos that other angels cringe from, your thirst for knowledge that shouldn’t be explored. Finally, it’s all paid off.

Or…at least that’s what they told you. Even as something in your grace whispers warnings you choose to ignore.

Angels bask in absolutes, in the pure warmth of divine light and the straightforward clarity of purpose. There is certainty in right and wrong, never a grey in between. Your wings should bask in holy breeze, not in this thick air that tastes of dreadful sin.

You expected the realm to smell of death and destruction, to look as if every natural disaster had run through the land so the shadows could roam freely to commit sin. It’s what you’ve been taught at least. This Realm specifically is forbidden and faith has been used as a boundary to keep other angels in line.

The outskirts of this realm is covered in a haze, a thick russet fog that smells of ozone and decaying flowers. It settles on your skin like an uncomfortable garment, scratching the surface and burning your dermis. Your wings curdle in pain, burning to ash and regrowing through your bleeding muscles. Gnarled, skeletal trees reach up like claws, the birds that sit on their branches malnourished and dying. Distantly, you hear the constant drip of water from a faucet, yet there is no water in sight. Whispers of sin and moans of agony carry on the wind.

Your white dress flows like liquid moonlight, now stained with ash and ember burns. The neckline dips lower than most angels would prefer.

“To be comfortable in the vessel He gave you is to honor His creation.”

Is what they had said, their justification now seems like a cruel irony as the fog caresses your exposed cleavage with burning fingers. The bottom of your dress trails on the ground as you walk, the dirt burning with red soil that seeps through the toes of your bare feet. It feels as if you’re walking on hot coals, the heat burning the fabric of your hem in tendrils of smoke.

You knew to expect this pain, but it’s different. There is a calculated precision to it, intentional in how it burns you as if testing if your form is solid, if your soul is worthy of corruption. The bell sleeves of your gown flutter in a nonexistent wind, ash and soot collecting in the folds of fabric that they once praised as divine elegance.

Your eyes burn, tears streaking melanin-soaked skin that cannot absorb the shrouded sun up above. As you navigate blindly through the oppressive haze, the shadows around you morph with the darkness and skitter past you on multiple hands and contorted feet.

An infinitesimal part of your grace shivers in fear. It’s small yes, pushed away and ignored like you have been taught, but it’s there in the quickening of your pulse and the break of sweat on your neck, it’s there as you walk further through the vicious landscape of horror and pain, as you try to ignore the gurgling of what you do not know from all around you.

Your wings curl around your body, a small gesture of protection that you fall into when the fog gets thicker. It slides languidly up your nostrils and down your throat, catching along the corners. You cough, sputtering wildly through ash and decay, your eyes bubbling with more burning tears. That fear flickers again in your chest and wiggles like a worm in search of moist dirt in your rib cage.

You can do this. You have been chosen. Your lips curl and part as you recite your prayer in silence, asking for strength even as your fear climbs higher to the surface of divine worship.

Then—through burning tears, you see it. A path of pure obsidian that cuts through the horror, its surface covered in a thin layer of water that reflects starlight not in the skies above. Your feet pick up in pace, moving before conscious thought, drawn to its dark beauty and vast difference of the world around. The moment your toes dip into the water-slicked stone, the moisture sliding off your skin without wetting it, everything changes.

The burning on your skin and feathers stops. The pungent fog parts like a curtain and dissipates into the air. You pull in a deep breath, savoring the thickness that is no longer there, your throat coated in clean oxygen. Your dress, moments ago stained with ash and fiery burns, returns to its pristine white. Once the tears in your eyes clear, you take in the changed landscape.

Perhaps the realm only transforms if one gets this far, because now there is no destruction but a defiance of what you see. The sky is tinged a permanent grey, overcast even though there’s a warmth to the low hang of the clouds. There are no lakes of fire, and the ground beneath your feet is no longer hot with clay-colored dirt that seeps between your toes. The obsidian path winds before you through tall garden walls of pearly white flowers, the leaves pitch black instead of earthly green.

Above the dark canopy of the garden walls, a monolith looms tall, piercing the grey sky as if demanding to be let into the heavens. It’s built to resemble a vast tree, its surface rippling with starlight, the bright core pulsing like a heartbeat, beckoning you deeper into this realm of misconstrued beauty. The garden path must lead to it. Even the pearly white flowers weaved into the walls all point forward, ushering you on.

Your wings furl closer to your spine as you shuffle to one of the garden walls, hesitantly reaching for the flowers twined in the vines and leaves. It’s a beautiful white, with small petals that curl toward a sage core. They’re littered along the walls, a beautiful landscape against darkness but the closer you get, the more you realize—

Hemlock

A poisonous flower, the symbol of death, betrayal, and sacrifice. It sits in it’s refined beautify, enhancing the black leaves around you, but they are just as dangerous.

You snatch your hands away as if stung, clutching the fabric of your dress like a lifeline. You try not to think about how the hemlock watches you with pale eyes. You try not to think about what they represent. You try not to question why these flowers would point and line a path to the divine relic you seek.

With every step you take, the pulsing from the monolith in the distance vibrates through the ground, the water rippling currents with each beat. The obsidian path narrows, forcing your wings closer to your body, your arms so close to the deadly blooms. The garden walls rise higher, leaves trembling in that same empty breeze.

While the air no longer feels thick, it is heavy with a taste both nonexistent and flavorful. Flavored with the knowledge you seek when others do not look and secrets that make your eyes linger even as your grace warns you against it. The questioning urges of your nature that Heaven always tries to quell stir awake like a beast being poked after centuries of rest.

You should ignore it. You should ask for forgiveness and count the blessings you have been given in this long existence. But your heart leaps at the chance you have also been given, right now.

The monolith’s base reveals itself slowly, the garden walls parting gradually with dark promise. Your breath catches at the sight—this is no crude demon architecture. The structure rises before you like an otherworldly giant, jet black vines weaving within its bright innards.

You’re struck by the beauty of it all, a resplendent sight that you never imagined would bless your eyes. And as you draw closer, the glass obsidian floors open up before you. From the open floor, a column of marble rises, its surface bleached bone and covered in aging vines and greenery.

On that altar, rests the relic you seek. It is no crystal that contains energy to create vasts universes. It is no seed that once planted will wreak destruction with its pollination. It is no emulate capable of manipulating time.

It is a book.

A single book that is thick with words of forbidden knowledge, its cover worn and weathered from eons of hiding in the shadows, its pages yellowing along the edges.

Such a simple relic, but you feel it’s dark power from your spot at the altar.

You’ve been tasked to tuck it away and sneak back to Heaven, to deliver it to your superiors and be given your eternal reward. While simple in theory, your hands hover over it, hesitating with shaky fingers.

Do not open it.

Do not look at it for longer than necessary.

Do not look inside.

These are your rules—your absolutes. And yet…

Your fingers twitch, reaching and pulling back at the elusive call of the tome, your feathers trembling with a desire you shouldn’t feel. Your eyes burn with tears of veneration as the symbols on the worn leather illuminate and rearrange before your eyes like dancing embers, the translated text reading in your mind like an endless scroll.

Do not look at it for longer than necessary.

You snatch it up, pressing it to your chest as a means to stop your racing heart. Your soul palpitates with want, a baseless need to curl your fingers under the lips of the book and tilt it open.

It’s temptation, that festering desire that always seems to coil in your belly when the explanations you are given never feel right, when the world around you seems too pristine and you want to know more, when you linger in the mortal realm, watching the humans with a curious eye that is more than what is required of you.

It’s quick and on a whim, you pulling the book from your chest to look down at it, as if by looking it will answer the questions you seek. You trail your fingers along it’s ancient skin, soft and unmarred fingertips feeling along ridges and scars along the cover. It looks as if the relic has gone through it’s own personal Hell, no doubt jerked around from realm to realm over the centuries, pried open and its secrets stolen. There’s a faint beat of sadness that you feel in your chest at the thought of what it must have gone through.

But your fingers still finger beneath the lid, the worn pages jagged on your tips as you worry it up with a slow movement.

Do not open it.

You squeeze the tome, pressing the pages inside more into each other in a silent attempt to seal it and your temptation away forever. Your toes curl into the water beneath you, cold on your skin but still passing over you dry and without moisture.

But once again you catch yourself loosening your grip, your fingers adventurous, your mind begging for more and it’s right here.

In times like these, you find yourself turning to the one manifestation that has never answered you, but exists in your very being.

“Father,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Give me the strength against temptation.” Your wings draw tight, your spine aching from the sudden action, before they expand in a glorious span, feathers opening like extended fingers before they curl around you to shield you from your own curiosity. “Guide me from this darkness, keep my thoughts pure…”

But even as you pray, your body rebels—your fingers part a page and slide along the rough texture of papyrus. There’s a power to the book now, a deep pulse that seems to be in rhythm with the monolith, beckoning you further. The ancient text burns brighter, the translated words whispering in your ears to give in just this once—look inside, soak in your knowledge, seek what others deny.

Your lips quiver, eyes burning with unshed tears at the way your body betrays you. You’re no better than a fallen angel, than a demon or a human who walks the path of darkness—easily tempted and consumed.

You’re not damned, you’re not, you’re not—

“What do we have here?”

The voice slides through your tumultuous thoughts like silk, rich with bored amusement and something darker. Your prayers die in your throat, catching along the edges of your esophagus, your body icing over with a chill of what you try to rebuke as fear.

You’re not alone and you knew the dangers of wandering this realm so freely. You call upon your grace, manifesting a celestial dagger of light and purity, before you whirl around to face the demon who pursues you.

But you’re met with nothing—just the empty garden path you came from.

When you turn back to the altar, your scream catches in your throat.

He stands with casual power and predatory grace. His skin is a pitch lighter than the obsidian paths, but still scattered with constellations. His hair falls in golden-blonde waves, the ends touched with flame that frames sharp features and elegant black horns that curl from the top of his head. His eyes are a burning yellow, studying you with a calculating hunger that makes you shiver.

He stands tall, an inhuman height that makes you feel incredibly small, his wings the color of dark flames spread lazily behind him, their edges flickering with crimson light.

The armor that adorns his upper body is otherworldly and crafted not by divine or mortal hands—navy as dark as night, trimmed with gold that wraps around his shoulders and sides, his chest bare. His hip rests against the altar as if he owns it, expectant like he’s been waiting for you.

He’s beautiful, a manifestation of dark and light, a being that walks his own line not predetermined. As you study him, something tugs at your memory—flashes of encounters that have grown fuzzy over time. In the mortal realm, when you linger in the shadows to observe the humans, a tall figure in navy and tan, warm eyes hidden behind glasses with no arms, hair not tipped with flame but parted clean and tucked behind his ears.

He lingers in the darkness, in damp alleys and abandoned buildings where misery and pain give birth to grotesque figures that terrorize the mortals. You’ve seen him—or you think you have—convinced it was a coincidence and ignored the way your wings would shiver at his distant presence, tilting toward him as if searching for someone lost.

And in your dreams too—dreams of large hands filled with experiences of the world, of whispers in your ear of eternal knowledge. You’d wake with your grace trembling, convinced it was just your mind playing tricks even as the apex of your thighs trembled with the sheen of your sweat and forbidden essence.

Perhaps that’s why your superiors ask for you after these dreams. Perhaps that’s why they press their fingers to your temples and bury the memories deep. So you do not have to worry. So that you can resist temptation. Right?

Yes. All of it is a temptation to test your faith.

But now he stands before you, solid and real, and those ‘coincidences’ suddenly feel intentional. Had he been watching? Waiting for this very moment?

You adjust your grip on your dagger, forcing away those thoughts that never seem to go away. You stagger backwards, your celestial dagger shaking in your hands, your prayer wielded before you like a shield.

“Our Father who art in Heaven,” you whisper, desperate words that feel as if they fall on closed ears, your fear radiating from your bare toes, through the strong muscles of your white wings, and up to the top of your skull. “Hallowed be thy—”

The demon moves towards you now, each step gobbling the distance between your retreating form until your back hits the garden wall, a gasp dying in your throat.

“That name,” he murmurs, sultry low as he cages you with muscular arms, “holds no power here.” His eyes drag down your form, cataloging you bit by bit, lingering on the sight of a shaking chest that is pressed to the tome you clutch.

He leans in close, too close, until you feel the burning heat from his skin. You press your back harder against the garden wall, dark leaves and hemlock brushing along your cheeks and neck as he inhales deeply along the column of your throat.

He smells like the archives you lose yourself in, like the green tea you love to drink in the mortal realm, like a dark concoction of burning honey that would make the noses of other angels crinkle but your nostrils open to inhale more. Your divine senses blur.

This is temptation, you tell yourself as your wings putter against the wall behind you. You’ve practiced for this, you know what you should do. But your body betrays you, your head tilting slightly before you can think about it, offering more of your neck for his inspection.

Horror at your sin, ice cold as it washes over you, makes you act. You press your celestial dagger upward, against his bare chest where one particular constellation burns brighter than the rest.

But the blade dissolves like sugar in the rain the moment it touches him, holy light scattering for a home as it shimmers across his skin to form new constellations.

“How interesting…” The deep voice inquires, hot as it puffs on your neck. “An angel, stealing what does not belong to them. Surely there’s a rule about that, is there not?”

You clutch the tome tighter to your chest, your mouth opening to snap that this is your mission, your divine purpose. But the book vanishes from your grip in black tendrils of smoke, your hand smacking into your breasts from the gap created.

“Give it back!” Panic rises in your throat as you try to meld with the leaves behind you, your fingers wrapping around vines and leaves like a vice.

A sigh, long and drawn out as if mentally exhausted, as if this isn’t the first this has happened, leaves his giant form and travels over your body.

“No, I don’t think I will,” he drawls, pushing off the wall and walking away as if your presence means nothing. He turns to face you at the altar, eyes half-lidded as he rests his forearms on the marble surface and opens the tome that is now manifested in his hands. He’s giving off every impression that the relic you seek will not be going home with you, and he is more than prepared to read it all until you go away.

“W-well, you…” you trail off, your eyes flickering to the open book in his hands. You can’t see the words inside, but you can practically smell the papyrus, a smell that warms you when you trail your fingers along the archives in Heaven. You tighten your grip on the leaves, flexing your wings to extend in a display of dominance, even though it feels as if this demon has read you the moment you stepped into this realm.

The tome sits like an infant in his hands, small and precious as he turns a page, long galaxy shimmered fingers gliding along the text as he reads. That curiosity beckons, a familiar pulse of sin that fires along the nerves in your legs to take a step toward him, to peak over the edge of the book and look inside.

“Demon,” you press, swallowing a lump of your frayed nerves.

His eyes flicker up at you, burning gold irises mildly offended.

“That is not my name.” He turns another page, pulling his gaze away from you, dismissive. “Though, I suspect you already know what it is.”

Why would you know his name? While the sight of him invokes some distant memories, you both have never spoken. The confusion mixes with your flood of panic, your eyes locked on the ancient text in his hands.

“I don’t—I’m here on divine purpose. The Heavens sent me to deliver this relic.”

“They sent you to steal this relic,” he corrects. He slams the tome closed, the sound making you flinch before he walks back to you in casual strides, his form almost gliding on the obsidian floors.

“I would not steal.”

“Coming to a place without invitation and taking the items inside is, indeed, stealing.”

You sink back into the flowers as he draws closer, your heart pumping erratically in your chest, your limbs filling with shame at the logic he draws. But still, you resist.

“I was invited.”

You’ve always been around to see the return of angels from long missions where they are surrounded by darkness and pain. They seem so strong, their chests puffed in pride, their wings shining brighter as a badge of honor. There’s a bravery that you wish you could have right now. But you’re afraid—whether that fear is pure or mixed with something sensual and dangerous—you still don’t know.

“I-I was chosen,” you insist, despite what you feel.

“Oh, I’m sure you were.” His head tilts as he regards you.

The book disappears from his hands before materializing in your own, warm smoke wrapping around your wrists before dissipating. “Take it. Return to your divine purpose.”

You clutch the tome, hoping for relief to fill your wings, but you can only feel disappointment instead. You hesitate, flickering your gaze up to the demon who stands expectantly with arms crossed, like he knows what the outcome will be. Like he knows you will be back.

You turn around and flea down the obsidian path. The garden walls adorned with pearl flowers blur past you until—

The walls part again, the altar and demon coming into view.

“That’s not—” you spin, turning back toward the path and running faster this time, your relic pressed to your body, your lungs burning with the truth that you’re trying to deny.

The hemlock flowers seem to laugh as you pass, their white petals pointing the way with mocking fingers until—

The altar. The demon, an eyebrow raised. Again.

“Stop this!” Your voice breaks as you turn around to try again, sprinting so hard that your wings flap against the wind, your toes touching the top of the thin layer of water below you. You come to the altar a third time, then a fourth, each leading back to his knowing and patient form.

“I’m not doing anything.” His voice holds a gentle pity that pricks at your skin. “But why? Why would they send their most curious angel into a demon’s realm? Why alone? Why you?”

Something in his tone, in the endearment wrapped around seduction makes your grace shiver. You long to have an answer ready on your tongue, and you do, but it’s more practiced, copied, and spit out and resonates in your bones incorrectly.

“The relic requires eyes that can transcribe so I select the right one. My abilities—”

“Your abilities,” he interrupts softly, materializing behind you, “the ones that they’ve tried to suppress. The ones that they’ve feared. Yet suddenly, all of it is for naught, and you’ve been given this divine purpose?”

The towering demon circles you slowly, analyzing you like a predator waiting for his wounded prey to finally submit. You swallow hard, fingers digging into the leather of the book, eyes downcast.

“They finally saw my worth,” you insist, but the words sound hollow even to your ears. “I am pure. Free of sin. I do not stray.”

Warmth by the shell of your ear, the rich smell of him forbidden, an erotic melody that makes your blood long to sing.

“Lies.”

Your wings slash through the air in deep powerful strokes, twitching in their plumage. “I would not lie!”

“Neither would I, little angel. But it seems you have been led here under false pretenses.”

“No.”

“There is no relic.” The tome in your hands disappears, it’s solid form no longer tethered to existence.

“Give it—”

“There is no mission,” he presses on. “There is no divine purpose. There is only you. Cast down here and given to me.”

“To you…”

“An offering, little angel.”

The word makes you chill over in disgust, the very thought of being a sacrificial lamb enough to make you sick to your stomach. You shake your head vehemently, insistently denying as best as you can even though your grace radiates with the truth.

“No. They would never sacrifice someone. They—they wouldn’t—they wouldn’t do that to me.”

The demon clicks his tongue, pity filling his otherworldly features with a slight pout of his lips as he studies you. Before you can take another breath, the realm shifts, reality bending in a plume of smoke. The monolith and altar disappear, the darkness of the garden walls fading to give way to the eternal light you recognize as your home.

The tall pearly gates that surround your kingdom smile down at you, pearlescent clouds that seeps beneath the doors kissing your bare toes. Your wings waft in the air with ease, pumping euphoria through your veins as you smile up at your home. The tome is back now, cradled safely in your arms, reminding you of your mission. With a hope bright in your chest, you rapt your fingers on the doors.

“Father! I’ve retrieved the relic! I’m home!”

But the doors do not open. There is no sound of movement on the other side, no shift in the white clouds around you. It doesn’t even feel as if someone is not home. You can feel your siblings, you’ve always been able to sense them in your grace, but this sensation is reluctant. As if they peak through closed curtains on the other side, watching through a window with their hand on the door to prevent you from coming in.

“H-hello?” you try again, voice shaking as you knock with more fervor, denial warring with growing dread. “I-I said I’ve brought the relic.” Silence. “Hello?!” You smack on the doors now, the holy wood splitting at your skin and healing over again. Surely someone must be home. Maybe they are away? Maybe they are busy and do not hear?

You press your forehead against the door, wings drooping. Through your grace, you feel them there, still watching. Waiting for you to leave. But not to welcome you home.

“Please,” you whisper, eyes stinging. “Will someone—”

“They will not open the doors, little angel,” the demon speaks from behind you.

You jump from his sudden appearance, your body drained of all blood at the sordid thought of what is happening right now. Reality shifts again, the divine light of your home sucking back into darkness, the monolith and marble altar and obsidian floors coming back into view.

Your legs threaten to give as realization washes over you. You shake your head, lip quivering as tears blur the edges of your vision, your fingers curling on the altar. How could they do this to you? You have always struggled in this life, always been so ashamed that you do not think like the others. But to cast you out? To give you these wings and then make you feel as if you are beyond saving?

“Perhaps it is a mistake,” you whisper, your hope crumbling with every word. You feel his large form next to you before you hear any steps. “Why would they do this to me?”

You have no choice but to look up at him, to seek some form of answer in his burning yellow eyes. There’s a flicker of something that crosses his face—amusement? Maybe pity?

“They have offered you to me. A sacrifice to take the darkness from their pristine walls and feed it to the realm it belongs to.”

The words hang in the air, the horrifying truth once again presented to you. Your heart lurches in your chest. You recoil, your wings drooping to brush along the water covered floor.

“They fear you, little angel,” he continues, voice softening. “Your potential, your curiosity, your unwillingness to follow their absolutes.”

You slap your hands on the altar, the sound reverberating through the emptiness around you. “I will not.”

The demon chuckles, a low, sardonic noise that crawls up your dress and wraps around your throat. “Such defiance,” he purrs. “It’s quite…alluring.”

You can’t help the noise of shock and anger that crawls up your throat, shooting him a dark look. “I will not be corrupted by the likes of a demon like you.”

“Like me? So you imply that another demon may have a chance?” His jests fall on rageful ears, your wings flapping in defiance as you gape at him. He leans in close, his breath warm against your lips as he whispers. “You deny it all little angel. But you already are corrupt.”

You try to pull away from him, but a large hand falls to the small of your back, his fingers weaving through your wings in a caress that makes you choke on a whine.

“Come now, my dear.” The tip of his nose trails along your cheek, the touch sending flames of desire down your neck. You curl your fingers into a fist on the altar, your body ramrod straight.

“I can smell it on you,” he continues, his voice a silken caress. “The insatiable curiosity, the yearning for more, the essence that pools between your thighs every night before you sleep.”

The fingers in your plumage massage your skin, your shoulders relaxing into a traitorous sigh before with a swift motion, he plucks a feather from its root. You wince, your hand flying back to bat him away before he holds the feather in front of you, its tip stained a deep, inky black.

“Do you not try to hide it? You sneak to the archives. You let them smother your dreams. You do not tell them that you sneak away to the mortal realm to watch them eat, and bathe, and sin.”

He turns your wing to expose the underside where the feather was plucked, your eyes widening as if you’ve been caught. The skin is marred with a dark scar, the muscle underneath dried with blood and presenting as damning evidence of you plucking those feathers over and over, your cheeks covered in tears as you did your best to hide them away.

“You pluck your true self,” he whispers, voice laced with dry amusement. “But they only grow back stronger, don’t they?”

A breath catches in your throat, his words piercing through your defenses that you have built with weak mortar and brick for eons. Your eyes catch his, your desire reflected in burning gold.

“Even so…I cannot leave?”

He hums in reverence, a pointy finger trailing along your collarbone to brush a lock of hair from your shoulders, exposing more of your scent for him to breathe in.

“You have tried to leave already and you cannot. There is nowhere for you to go. I can let you roam to any realm you choose, but the doors of Heaven will be locked for you forever.”

Your eyes bubble with tears. It’s an unfortunate hand that you have been dealt. A hand always opened to you in promise even as the other held a dagger behind the back of divinity. There’s a deep part of you that would try to find some sort of silver lining in moments of darkness, a silver lining that only benefits you.

“If I stay…what will you give me?” you ask, your voice small and defeated.

The demon sinks to one knee in front of you, his eye level now only a little taller than you, but still more humane than his hovering from before. He offers a slow, predatory smile, his lips parting to reveal sharp pearly white fangs.

“You already think in ways that will benefit yourself, don’t you? Whatever you desire, little angel, I will give it.” The sharp point of his nail trails down your cheek, casting a wave of arousal down your body, your stomach tightening. “Anything at all.”

You cannot deny the promise of whatever you want does not make you perk mildly with curiosity, the same curiosity that was always quelled.

You lick your lips in thought, a nervous habit that your siblings have always discouraged. It’s unbecoming of an angel, they’d say, a physical manifestation of want. But you’ve always like the way your tongue feels against the plump flesh of your lips.

“Anything?”

He inclines his head to you, eyes answering without having to say. You hesitate, your mind racing with possibilities, unleashed with nothing to hold them back.

“I want…” you begin, stopping short at the coil of desire that burns in your body. You’ve never given it a true voice, and now that you’ve been presented with the opportunity, you are unsure of how to proceed.

The demon’s eyes roam over your form before they brighten with understanding. “You wish to read the tome.”

You nod, unable to speak past the dry lump in your throat. He summons it quickly, the worn leather materializing in his enormous hands as he hands it to you like an offering of forbidden fruit.

“Take it,” he urges in a seductive whisper. “It is yours.”

You reach out with trembling fingers, your grace pulsing with desire, it’s feel growing bolder as you snatch it up into your hands and let it flow through you. The leather is cool beneath your fingertips, worn with the promise of centuries of words you’ve always wanted.

When you open the book and let your eyes fall on the faded script, they rearrange themselves like before, translating to you in a seductive dance that makes your toes curl. The knowledge overwhelms you, flooding your senses in a wave of information about this realm—its history and inhabitants and magic. You feel a thrill of excitement, a suppressed sense of liberation as you turn page after page.

From your peripheral, you see the demon offer that same predatory smile. With a snap of his fingers, the world shifts around you again. You are further from the monolith but instead of the altar, you are surrounded by looming bookshelves, all filled to the brim. Ancient tomes and scrolls, dusty relics that have been neglected over the years but kept in condition by this demon who rules this realm.

“This is a taste of what I can offer you. All of it is yours.” He steps closer, the energy that he radiates filling your space with darkness and seduction that terrifies and excites you. “There is so much more I can show you,” he whispers in your ear again. “Would you like that?”

Even though your body and soul buzz with satisfaction from the books around you, the shame is still there, still bubbling beneath the surface next to your dejection.

Sensing your unease, he places tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, a gesture that you long to fall into before the world morphs again.

He takes you back to where you began, the realm’s outskirts. However there is no russet fog that is thick and smells of decay and misery, this time your vision is clear. The shadows that once hovered around you in your quest to the monolith now reveal themselves as souls—humans that you recognize from your years of observation.

“Do you remember her?” the demon asks, pointing to a small woman tending to a bush of flowers. “The woman from years ago who stole medicine for her dying child because she had no money.”

You do remember watching with tear filled eyes. It was an ancient time where death was a sentence given freely, and this mother had been called to the land of the dead for stealing bread.

“You watched her pray for forgiveness even as she did what was necessary.” His hand rests on your lower back, reassuring in its pressure. “Heaven would have condemned her. I gave her purpose.”

“How do you give purpose if you are a demon?”

The demon huffs, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “It is true that I gain my strength through corruption. But it is corruption through intellectual rebellion and questioning minds. I am strong because no matter how many years may pass, there will always be a soul that questions.”

Each soul that you pass triggers a memory—struggles you watched but could never reach out and help. And in each memory, you gain more clarity—he was always there in the mortal realm, appearing in navy and tan just like you thought.

“You’ve been watching me then,” you inquire, tucking your tome closer to your chest as you cast a sidelong glance to him.

“It is my nature,” he rumbles from next to you. “You understand the beauty in grey areas. The necessity of balance.” His fingers glide along the empty space where you plucked your blackened wings. “Here, you could judge with mercy and justice. Rule in the knowledge they feared.”

Power.

A destructive thing that has elevated so many and torn them down. But the call of it has always been sweet, and now you are the subject of it. The very thought of it makes your knees weaken, your grace fluttering like a leave in the wind. This could be something more honest, not Heaven’s sterile authority.

The soil that is no longer red vibrates beneath you, pulsing up your ankles and calves, around your waist and torso in thick vines that pull you to the monolith miles away.

“Easy, my dear,” he murmurs, a muscular arm sliding around your waist to prevent you from swaying further. “The first taste of true power always overwhelms.” Your grace flickers between divine light and seductive shadow, somehow grounded by his hold.

Every soul’s story calls to you now, complex choices and grey morality making your divine nature pulse with stomped out recognition. You lean into him, falling more into his scent, your wings brushing his back to seek balance.

“I…” you trail off, clutching the relic in your arms, using it to ground you through your thoughts that fight between light and dark.

“What else would you like?” he purrs in your ear, his hand reaching out to the realm beyond that begins to shift again. A vast kitchen filled with warmth and enticing scents. “Earthly pleasures are denied amongst angels.” The pristine counter tops are soon overflown with rich goods and goblets of wine. “Even something as simple as this.”

You’ve never had wine—it’s forbidden—at least for you. But the way it catches the warm fireplace behind it, deep and rich…your mouth waters.

“Freedom to roam where you wish.”

Glimpses of different realms flash by—clouds of different shapes and sizes, landscapes of mountains and water as clear as crystal, beings that take on their own forms as they wander the lands—places you’ve only dreamt of exploring, of asking to see and always been denied.

His voice drops lower, more intimate and hot on your cheek. “Or perhaps…” Another shift. A dark room you remember faintly—through gauzy curtains, you see two figures entwined in candlelight. The brown skin of limbs and curves wrapped around tan that shimmers faintly. You recognize the hips of the woman, the collarbone and hair, and you realize it’s you. You wrapped around this very demon next to you who appears in the mortal realm as a human with carefully parted locks and a height fit for yourself.

Your blood boils beneath your skin as you try to look away. But like every forbidden thing that’s ever called to you, your eyes are drawn back to the scene—to the way your dream-self arches into his touch, the way your neck cranes, the sight of his tongue sliding along the sweat of your brown breast.

He hums from behind you, his demonic form pressing closer as you watch his human glamour worship your other self. That familiar wave of shame wars with the desire in your body, trying its best to smother the arousal that tightens your nipples beneath your white dress. All of it you suffer night after night—your grace singing, skin hot and sweaty—essence coating your thighs.

“I—” you stutter for words, eyes locked on the human form that rolls his hips and swallows a moan that shakes from your other-self. “This is wrong…”

His starlight fingers trace your collarbone, mimicking the tongue of his human form. “Your body remembers what they tried to smother away. How many nights did you wake burning for this? For me?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

The realm shifts one final time, the familiar garden walls and monolith appearing before you, the altar pressing into your back. The demon circles you, giving you no time to recover as his prying eyes pick you apart feather by feather.

“Even your grace recognizes where you truly belong.” He reaches out, trailing pointy nails down your spine, your body arching of its own volition. “Here. With me.”

His hands engulf your entire waist, his touch making you gasp as he lifts you up to sit on the altar before him.

“Every dream they tried to bury,” his hands trail up your thighs, “every desire they made you forget…” he steps closer, taking the oxygen from your lungs that you expel, his naked chest a hairsbreadth from your searching fingers. “All of it has lead to this moment. To me.”

“I—” you try to protest, but it dies in your throat as he tilts your chin to face him.

“You were meant for this realm,” he leans in, trailing his nose along your shaking lips. “I will make you mine. As my queen, my consort, my equal.” You press the tome further into your chest like a lifeline as his hand rests on the side of your neck, his nails grazing the lobe of your ear. “You’ve always known it. Even in those dreams where you surrendered to me so sweetly.”

His lips are close enough to kiss you, but they brush your jaw instead, trailing electricity down your throat. “Anything you want,” he breathes against your pulse, smiling at the sight of it’s rapid flutter, “you will have, little angel.” His mouth moves to that sensitive spot behind your ear that you discovered one night centuries ago. “But you must surrender to me. You have been offered and now you must be consumed.”

You clutch the tome tighter, using it as a tether even as your head tilts to give him better access. “I should not…”

“Surrender,” he whispers, lips ghosting your shoulder now, each kiss punctuated with promises that you should deny. “Let me worship you.” A kiss to your collarbone. “You will never be denied again.” His mouth traces back to hover over your lips. “Submit to what you have always wanted.”

The burn in your body makes your skin tingle, your core pulse with forbidden need, your nipples tighten in pleasure. Everything you’ve always wanted, could be given to you right now.

All of your dedication to faith has only led to tears and shame and disappointment. But here, you could be rewarded for your curiosity, exalted for your power to see what others do not, consumed in pleasure without the eyes of disdain looking down on you.

Here, with this beautiful demon, you can have it all.

For as powerful and as dark as he is, despite the patient hunger in his golden eyes, you realize he’s waiting. You must give the final say. A final say to do away with eons of denying, of plucking dark feathers, of letting them bury your dreams…

“Please,” the words shake from your lips before you can stop it, the tome slipping from your defeated grasp.

His eyes flash with satisfaction, mouth twitching with the urge to smile, but he relents. “Say it properly, little angel.” His mouth brushes the corner of your lips in not quite a kiss. “Tell me.”

Your wings spread wider of their own accord, trembling and stretching past invisible threads that have always held them down. “I want…I will to surrender.”

You hardly finish your words before you feel the press of his lips against yours, gentle and almost reverent. It’s the first time you’ve ever kissed, and it’s as euphoric as you’ve always thought. Your toes curl in satisfaction, your body hums with arousal, low and beneath the surface but quickly growing.

The hand on your neck tilts you up so he can feast further, a wet tongue sliding along the seam of your lips in a quiet ask for permission. You let your body guide you, opening your mouth to welcome him with a groan.

He tastes like he smells—green tea and honey, a hint of rich bread that you occasionally try in the mortal realm. It’s intoxicating, dark mingled with your fading sweetness. One that speaks of corruption and surrender.

What started as gentle quickly turns hungry and consuming. Your grace shivers as you catalogue every shift in your body, learning from the lessons of his tongue. Each stroke of him feels like corruption, like freedom, like finally coming home and you arch into him for more.

Your white dress slowly disappears before you, your body revealing to him naked and shivering. You try to cover yourself, an urge ingrained in you since your coming of existence, but the demon’s large hand stops you, gathering both hands in his strong grip and placing them at your sides.

He does not wait a second longer, his mouth trailing in worship down your neck and across your collarbone to pepper the swell of your breasts, your core pounding incessantly as he gets closer to one nipple before he wraps it in his hot mouth.

A moan shakes from your mouth, unexpected and loud into the quiet air of this monolith room. Your hands reach up to card in his golden locks, they’re warm and impossibly silky, the flame colored ends burning more than the rest. You let the pain of it singe your fingertips, basking in the euphoric pleasure pain of your skin growing back and burning all over again.

His hand envelops your other breasts, his sharp nails teasing your nipple before he drags it slowly across your areola. Your fingers tighten in his hair from the pain, your core dripping on the marble altar you sit on.

“You taste wonderful, little angel,” he purrs into the wet skin of your breast, pulling away before he gently nudges you onto your back. Your wings stretch languidly to make you more comfortable against the flat surface. The urge to cover yourself is not as insistent as before, the desire eating you up without reservation. “But I must taste more.”

He leans over the altar you lay on, kissing your lips gently before his tongue slides along the skin of your neck and down your body. It’s longer than a mortal tongue, and when they circle your nipples again, you shake at the pronged tip that flicks your bud.

He worships down your torso to dip in your navel, over the dip in your hips before his hands push your legs up onto his shoulders and he licks your sopping core from bottom to top.

You arch sharply, teeth digging into your bottom lip in a futile attempt to stop the moan from shooting from your throat.

You’ve watched the humans many times in the shadows, transfixed when their mouths worship these parts of their partner, but to experience it yourself? To feel the demons tongue part your folds and circle the bud at the top that makes you cry into your pillows at night. Heaven has hidden away beautiful pleasure.

“Look at how much you give me,” he whispers, kissing the inside of your thigh before you feel his tongue on you again, prodding your entrance that you’ve sunken your fingers into at night.

You bite down on your lip, shivering in pleasure as he prods further and further, your legs widening with each current of pleasure until he sinks his wide tongue inside of you. You taste copper from your bleeding lip that heals over quickly, your bare feet digging into the demon’s broad shoulders as he feasts on your essence.

With every gasp, your wings quiver in anticipation, curling into your body to protect yourself from a euphoria that is growing so quickly in your stomach.

“Please,” you whisper in disbelief, hands twisting his hair with your divine strength. He hums in satisfaction, satisfied with what you give and digging for more.

His tongue strokes inside of you with purpose, caressing something along the roof of your hot walls, his nose brushing your bundle of nerves once, twice, the pleasure enough to make your jaw drop, to make you pant feverishly into the air, to make your back arch until the base of your spine hurts as you come apart by the seams.

Your release makes you cry out into the air, the sound brushing along the monolith, the constant pulsing stopping to take in your pleasure before it resumes its steady pulse.

He rises slowly as you struggle to catch your breath, his golden eyes tracing over your shivering form from head to toe. His grey obsidian hands slide up your trembling thighs as he leans over you.

“Beautiful,” he purrs before he kisses your lips. You swallow your taste—tangy and rich like the divinity that courses through your veins. “But I must have all of you to make this complete.”

All of you?

You look down to find that his pants are gone, starlight shining bright on his hips that seem to point down to the member that hangs between his thighs. Your eyes widen—he’s definitely bigger than mortals, purplish veins that trail along the sides, a tip that is darker than his grey, the skin flickering with those shimmering stars you are growing to love.

He’s beautiful, and without thinking you reach out to touch. He’s impossibly hard but also incredibly soft, and you watch in fascination as his dark flame-colored wings expand and shake in supplication.

He leans his head back to the grey skies, swallowing deeply at your touch and there’s a sense of power you feel. To know that with a single touch you can make this powerful demon fracture just a little.

He wraps his hand around yours to stop you, pulling you up so that he can sit on the altar instead. Even though he’s tall, you’re able to reach up and wrap your arms around his neck.

Your wings stretch and flap behind you, sparse feathers wafting in their air to fall around you both in white, grey, and black. Even though you feel loose from your first release, there is a subtle power that thrums with every flap of your wings.

You look at the monolith again. The pulse has picked up steadily, seeming to match your own heartbeat. Maybe there is a connection to the power inside of it and what might be coursing through you now.

As you tail up the length of it until it disappears into the grey clouds, you think faintly of those who cast you out. The pleasure fractures a little with pain, your eyebrows furrowing in disappointment.

“My angel,” he calls to you, softly, turning your gaze back to him. His golden and flame locks are messy, his horns pulsing with shimmering light, the navy and gold armor gone so that he is as naked as you are. “That pain that you feel will go away with time. I will make sure you will never know it again.”

The promise fills you with hope, and the press of his lips to yours makes the sordid thoughts fall to the wayside, your pleasure humming to life at the base of your spine.

The touch of his fingers to your core makes you whine into his mouth, pulling away with only a gossamer of saliva connecting you both. He strokes your bud, drinking your sighs and moans as your thighs and stomach tighten, your fingers digging into his soft shoulders.

He pulls you up onto your knees, your wet entrance brushing the thick tip of him before he guides you onto him slowly. It’s a stretch, far thicker than your fingers and foreign inside of you.

The initial pain makes you gasp, tears pricking your eyes. It feels as if you’re being split in two from your hips, torn apart with a strength that only makes you shiver and moan.

One hand slides along one wing to soothe you, his lips pressing to your neck. Eventually, the pain gradually melts into pleasure, his hands possessive on your hips as he guides you with careful restraint. You quake at the feel of him inside of you, stretching and molding your muscles in each euphoric stroke.

“Perfect,” he breathes against your shoulder. “Look how well you take me.” His voice resonates deep in your core, a sound that both terrifies and entices you, a forbidden melody that you are slowly learning the notes to.

You whimper in response, relishing in his praise as you begin to move faster on top of him, bouncing with a newfound sense of purpose. Your wings flap with more insistence, stretching and bending with the power that begins to seep out of your skin, white feathers less in abundance with each flap.

The demon’s nails dig into your waist and you sigh into the pain, picking up the pace until you’re not sure where he stops and you begin.

The power takes you higher and higher, your skin breaking into a sheen of sweat, your gasps dying in the air as you pant and moan above him. The pleasure at the base of your spine heats quickly, bubbling with sticky satisfaction as it slides down your vertebrae and into your core.

“That’s it,” he growls, nails digging into the flesh of your cheeks, canting your hips toward him so the tip of his member brushes that spot on your upper walls once again.

You choke on a moan, head thrown back in bliss, nails dragging down the solid muscle of his chest. Your wings curl around you, dark feathers replacing white with each thrust.

“Transform for me completely. Embrace what you truly are.”

“Yes,” you hiss, your mouth falling open as you struggle for breath. Your core tightens around him, the bundle of nerves shaking even untouched, and you’re falling, you’re falling, you’re—

The demon shifts again, his member leaving your hot core and denying you of release, your hands now pressed to the altar as you’re bent over. You whine in annoyance, looking over your darkening wings at his large form as he heaves with breath.

He regards you with a dark look, one that shows just how capable he is of picking you apart, and your mouth fills with saliva at the thought.

He draws one leg up onto the altar before sliding into you once more without pretense. You groan around the stretch of him, marveling at the pinch of pain that bleeds into overwhelming pleasure as he picks up his pace inside of you.

What starts out as reverent and gentle soon turns feverish. His strokes are deeper, his hips snapping against your open legs, a haze of pleasure clouding every crevice of your mind as he kisses spots inside of you that makes you groan, hiss, and whine.

The monolith picks up in speed, pulse matching your heartbeat as you climb higher and higher up a ladder of darkness that has always been denied.

You don’t know why, you don’t know where it comes from, but the last slivers of your salvation slide to the surface, tickling your throat one last time before they leave your soul forever.

“Please, please, Father,” you moan, eyes filling with tears of satisfaction as your body jerks with every harsh thrust of the demon behind you. One of his hands weaves into your locks, curling tight before yanking you back to him, arching until our stomach presses into the altar. “Forgive me.”

“We will have none of that,” he warns, out of breath. “You seek forgiveness to someone who is not listening. You pray to someone who has cast you out. And here you are. Under me. Calling for him as you weep on my cock in pleasure.”

His sharp fingers slide down your hip to circle over your bud of nerves and you cry out, tears streaming down your face, power radiating up your limbs. “Keep moaning, little angel. Keep begging.” He leans over you, pressing his hot chest into your wings, his breath hot on your ear as the tips of his pronged tongue slide along your lobe. “In your eyes you are soiled. Filthy. And my sweet goddess loves it, doesn’t she?”

You shake your head to deny, deny, deny. But a hard thrust, a stroke of his thick cock that kisses your cervix, and you sob in the pain that molds into pleasure. Your nipples brush against the cold marble, each icy touch shockwaves down your spine.

“I’ve watched you, my dove. When you study the humans in their pleasure. I’ve seen the way your pupils dilate. I’ve smelt the essence between your thighs. You dream of this don’t you?”

You try to whisper your Father’s name one last time, to show with your last breath of divinity that you were an angel who worked hard.

“You won’t say his name here anymore. Not in my realm—in our realm. Not in my arms while you cum on my cock. The only name you will moan and beg and plead is mine.”

Your wings flap in reverence, responding to his demands as they stretch around you. No longer are your feathers white, now they are inky black, as dark as midnight, as mysterious as the darkness you peer into.

The monolith quickens, a hummingbird’s wings, the bright core sliding up and down the tree-like structure and bleeding with vibration through the ground and up the altar.

Even as your mind tries to deny what you are becoming, your soul speaks otherwise, your core clenches around him unwilling to let go. The demon behind you grunts with each thrust, low and seductive on the back of your neck, his nose smelling the skin.

“I can’t—” you choke, fingers sliding on the altar from your sweat. “Please.”

“Please what?” he groans.

“More, please more, more, more,” you beg, words and resolve splintering in your throat as he rewards you with deeper thrusts, each one making you see the stars that shimmer along his skin.

“Say my name,” he demands, one hand sliding up your throat. You gasp at the subtle pressure on each side, not enough to do anything, but enough to make a dark current of pleasure pulse inside of you. “Let the skies above hear who you belong to now.”

You don’t know where the name comes from. He’s never given it to you. You’ve never asked. But somewhere, deep down in some ancient place in your soul, you’ve always known all along. Known him.

“Nanami,” it falls from your lips like a broken prayer. “Nanami, please—”

His teeth graze your pulse, sharp fangs dragging along your skin as pleasure builds in your body beyond reason. Your wings spread impossibly wide, your skin hums in arousal, hot and stinging.

The monolith’s pulse quickens with you, its light growing brighter as the power in your body travels through your veins to complete a transformation you can feel in your fallen grace. Even with every harsh pump of his hips, you feel worshiped. Worshipped by his hands. Worshipped on this altar in front of a monolith that watches over you both.

“You were an offering—a gift to me. Molded by the heavens. And now you’re mine. And your Father sent you to me,” he growls against your throat. “My dark goddess.”

His thrusts grow harder, more desperate, each one a brand searing its mark into your very soul. A mix of your essence and his precum pools on the altar where you are joined. The last embers of your angelic resistance crumble completely, replaced by an insatiable hunger that mirrors his own.

“Let go. Surrender to me completely.”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

That hot lava at the base of your spine explodes like a volcano of unholy fire as his teeth sink into your neck, marking you as his. Your release bursts from you, your core squeezing his thick member, your muscles seizing as your mouth falls open and your cries echo through the realm as divine light fractures into starry darkness.

All of your abilities that have been repressed swirl within the darkness and mix with the forbidden powers awakening within you. It feels like the very essence of your being is changing, transforming into something wild, a reflection of the demon who guided you with a sultry voice down this path.

You feel a rivulet of your blood trail down the side of your neck from his puncture, blazing with the essence of darkness that now pumps through your veins. He releases his teeth from your neck and turns your head to him with more force than necessary, sliding his tongue into your mouth as he kisses you senseless.

You can’t breathe, your body is loose, your grip on the edge of the altar slipping with each relentless thrust but you love it. Every smack of heavy balls against your clit, every slide of sweaty muscles of his chest against your wings and back, every pulse of your cunt around his cock.

Nanami pulls away breathless, the hand around your throat tightening imperceptibly, the sharp tips of his fingernails breaking skin. His pronged tongue slides along your cheeks to collect your fallen tears.

Every noise that leaves your mouth is against everything you hold dear, a sound of sin, debauchery and lust.

“I’m yours,” you whisper against his lips, your breath punching out of you with each desperate thrust. Nanami’s eyebrows furrow and his nose crinkles with a snarl, his wings pulsing with flame as his release climbs up his body as well. “I’m yours, Nanami.”

“Take my essence, little angel,” he demands, biting your lip until you draw blood. You lick up the coppery tang, falling into the prickly grip on your neck as he takes what he needs from you. “One day, when you have ruled with me for centuries to come, when you are one in your skin, perhaps my essence will take root.”

Your eyes widen at the implication, your soul no longer quivering in blasphemy but in satisfaction. How you would love that. One day. With him.

“Yes, Nanami,” you whisper into him, accepting one more kiss as he strokes once, twice, and a final time before he shivers from head to toe and groans with deep pleasure into your mouth.

His darkness seeps into the remnants of your light, a forbidden dance of shadow and flame now made true. He pumps hot semen into you, far too much for comfort and your essence combines with his demonic energy, feeding the power that still ebbs in your veins.

He falls into you, his hold on your throat vanishing to slide down to your naked stomach, pressing to the spot where he is still lodged inside. You reach back, carding your hands through his burning hair, reveling in the shiver he gives you.

He pulls out of you slowly and your cunt clenches around nothing, legs shaking at the feel of his semen dripping from you. He does not entertain the mess but gathers you in his arms, carrying you past the defiled altar and monolith that has fallen into a gentle ebb once more. The obsidian floors open up again, the thin layer of water rising within a large tub of water that steams with inviting heat.

He sinks you both into the steaming water, your new darkened wings flapping at the moisture that touches your plumage. When he dips your head beneath the surface, it feels like baptism in reverse—washing away heaven’s hold rather than blessing you with it. When you emerge, you feel reborn, your shame and disappointment for your former family now washed away.

You sigh at the effect hot water on your muscles, melting into the large expanse of his chest. He does not speak and you do not ask questions, content to watch him manifest a tray of oils and soaps that smell of green tea and burning honey.

He plucks a marble comb from the tray and drags it gently through your curls, each stroke bending with the texture of your hair to guide without tangle, each pass worship and calming.

Once your hair is untangled and silky, he washes your skin with the soap and oils that smell of him. You study him openly now—the way constellations shift across his skin, how his golden eyes hold both demonic power and intelligent precision, the careful way he maintains order even in darkness.

He dresses you in black fabric that flows like liquid shadow, clinging to your curves like his possessive touch. Instead of the starry sky, the black material is adorned by golden accents that match his eyes and armor.

The altar recedes into the floor and in its place, two large thrones emerge. Carved from pure white marble shot through with veins of gold, they’re identical in height and grandeur—a statement of what he promised you—equal rule.

Dark vines curl around their bases, blooming with black roses, while plush velvet cushions in deep navy make them as comfortable as they are magnificent.

He throws you an inquisitive rise of his brow, what was once used to pick you apart upon first meeting him, now make your lips curl in a smile. You pretend to ponder which you will choose, humming noncommittally before you sink into one chair, sighing into the softness around your body and wings.

Nanami bends down, taking a hand in both of his before he kisses your palm. “You look magnificent,” he purrs, your hand still in his while he sits on his throne.

With a snap of his fingers, the garden walls disappear, revealing the vast landscape that was once shrouded in horror and fear when you first arrived.

Now it appears without malice, without misery or shame, but of exotic greenery and souls who have been neglected for only choosing a path that feels wrong even though it is right.

The heavens is but a distant memory now, infinitesimal in the many years you will continue to exist. Now, you bask in the new power in your bones, in the brush of Nanami’s lips to your palm once more.

As the stars on his skin ebb and fade with light, you take in the muscles of his torso, the strength in his movements as he worships you without speaking.

It has taken eons to get to this moment, but some part of you preens with the satisfaction that Nanami has always been watching, waiting for you to come to him.

Thanks for reading and Happy Halloween!

[cosmicangel888]

The past is closed.

There will never be a re-hashing, nor forming, nor anything but finalizing of the divorce; and lawyers, authorities are working on every aspect of who has been the stalking, blocking, and deceivers of information - for a few more than a few were involved in the constant relentless harvesting, withholding, stealing;

I will not re=open any level of anything - what is in my name is my name, and none will be kept from what is meant to be - for those that have earned it;

False people will be shown, seen, and vibrations - all will be known for the karma and the choices - you don't think that spirit doesn't see when changed documents occur, falsified documents, money that was slight of hand, the pay off under the table to keep quiet and not say or falsify what is simply not true; there are those are simply false; and all that you do for the money - and yet - know none will escape such shady actions;

Spirit knows all intention, the things put in food, drinks, the manipulation, the deceit, withholding of right information and truth; all have a choice - and whatever shady activity will equal a time in which you need it now, later, or next life; all have a choice = all have to sort out - was the money really worth selling your soul -

Rather than doing the right thing; all have to account for every choice harm, stealing, damaging was done to every soul

All have to face their own deeds - believe in God or not; karma is karma and every soul is a soul ; the debts and the basic human right to treat others as you would like to be treated ~

It is a choice - all will face every choice -

How is revenge when you simply live your life and express truth, and simply standing up for what has occurred and what is being withheld and mistreated; how is that something that is 'not right' that is justified of targeting? Simply because one speaks truth where justice has not been had?

Choose truth or continue to live in the money that is not your's and that you did not earn, and that the fooling, the schemes, scams are not working - that is true and noble and honest way of earning what is not necessary - truly - how about going within and healing?

Who are you? The most focus outer - will only lead in less than

Clear your karma by choosing to make right, or not - your life is your proof - sleeping well at night or not -

I knew a person, whom died of a disease, directly related to a suppression

I have the right to walk offer may genius and be left alone, as all others, not stalked, studied, spied on -simply because the level of non-understanding and no consciousness of the heart - simply read the text already there on self-actualization - ancient papers of alchemy and hermitics - my goodness; all have rights, and spiritual ranking; some come with it from other timelines, lifetimes; masters are this - and none will force another to be with them, none will force someone to live in low vibrational corrupt lifestyles -

Truth is truth, I have my right to live this.

I know who I am and all that was taken, withheld, the past is closed and all I asked for was a divorce; a legal human right that turned into hell;

I will stand and I know who I am - secret meetings all the time; or you could simply choose the upright way and email -

Joanna

#ascension #enlightenment #5Dearth #5Dliving

[prodbyblush]

Chishiya trying to confess to the reader, can this be in modern time like maybe a high school version?

sour grapes - shuntaro chishiya

ｎｏｗ ｌｏａｄｉｎｇ …

▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ 100%

ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟᴇᴛᴇ!

・❥・ requested

an: part 2 is already posted!

→ gn!reader (you/your)

For one, Valentines day can be seen into two ways - a day of hearts or a day of horror. If you're going to ask Chishiya how he sees this day, he would simply say

"It's just a single day where people celebrate capitalism to the full extent with their money-making scheme. It pushes people to purchase anything for their loved ones just so they could show their love for them. A bouquet of flowers alone costs thirty thousand yen." He once reasoned with Kuina, a fellow classmate of his whom is also the only one he considers as a friend.

Kuina, sitting on top of a table, takes the lollipop out of her lips, the ball of sweet making a pop sound. "Maybe if you get a girlfriend, you'd stop sounding salty or bitter. It's okay if you get a boyfriend too!"

Chishiya rolls his eyes as he hears her response. Of course Kuina wouldn't understand, she adores Arisu's and Usagi's love story too much that she got swayed by their love to the point that she declared herself to be their number one ship.

"Honestly, if those two break up, I'll intervene and say did you think of me while you two were breaking up? Think of my mental health too!" She once told Chishiya when they were heading home after classes.

But all the bitterness in his body left when you, the new student, was introduced to the whole class as a new addition to their class. Chishiya liked to believe that love at first sight is something made up by a bunch of idiots in the past. And he'd be a modern idiot for actually falling in love at first sight with you.

And now on Valentines Day, he found himself purchasing a bouquet of your favorite flowers wrapped neatly in your favorite color.

"What happened to Valentines Day being a day of capitalism with companies and their money making scams?" Kuina questions him after seeing what he is holding in his hands.

"I lied." Chishiya deadpans. "Where is she?"

Craning her neck up and turning her head left to right, Kuina uses her tall stature in advantage to look for you. "Over there!" She responded, using her head to point where you're going.

"Thanks" Is all Chishiya says before picking up his pace, following you in whatever direction you're going to.

Ever since your arrival in their school, you were a buzz among the male students - younger or older. He's heard of stories from Kuina how you'd get pulled into an empty classroom just so these male students would confess to you. And when he'd ask her what did you say, Kuina would always say

"Rejected. What else did you expect?"

But it never occurred to him that maybe...you were into girls. Sure he's seen you hang out with a group of girls, always gossiping about something or someone, doing each other's hair and eating together. It all looked so innocent and no feeling underlying to it.

So when he followed you to the school's rooftop, he was pretty much surprised to see a girl waiting for you there.

"Y/N, I like you!" A girl confesses, extending both of her hands out in giving you a love letter in her hands. "Please be mine!"

And that's what stumped Chishiya. Would you say yes or would you say yes? With his back pressed against the wall, he hung his head low, all the while his ears are perked up eavesdropping into the conversation, curiosity piquing him.

"Thank you for liking me" He heard you begin to say, followed by a pause before speaking again, "But I...I actually like someone else already."

Someone else? There is someone else already? How could he have not noticed that? As someone who he gets to see for seven hours in a day and five times a week, how could he not know that you were liking someone else?

Was it a boy or a girl? What did they do to steal your heart? Chishiya wanted to know the secret behind to it. So maybe, just maybe, he'd do it to you too.

"I-It's alright!" The girl responded, her voice slightly quivering upon facing rejection. "It's Chishiya isn't it?"

Hearing his name made his heart beat crazy and his eyes widening in surprise.

"You always turn your head whenever he'd pass you buy and sometimes your eyes just turn into little hearts whenever you'd stare at his back profile." The girl continues. "That's...the reason why you were so busy yesterday too, right? You were busy composing a love letter for him too, right?"

And that made Chishiya's heart swell. He had a chance at love with you.

TAGS: @retrospacealien @chishiya-of-diamonds

[vonneschlecht]

First, I want to admit that I was wrong. I thought the ICJ judgment that I linked was about Israel's current occupation and actions, specifically in Gaza, not their ongoing policies for decades. However, I really want to narrow this discussion to what is currently happening. I've had history quoted at me too many times by people with your political stance, and it just comes down to whether or not we believe Israel is righteous. We will never agree there. I want to engage with you on your terms, but my terms are that we stick to Gaza.

I also say that I was wrong to set a foundation of respect. I believe that you can be reasoned with, and so can I.

In that judgment, ICJ argues that Israel is not waging a war, but acquiring territory by force from an occupied territory of which it has a duty to respect the rights. In short, that Gazans are Israel's own people, by their occupation's own making, whose rights they are violating. Specifically, their right to self-determination. That seems to be an important right to the Israeli people. This is a fairly direct judgment, and if we can't agree here, I am writing this argument for someone else. I researched the documentation in order to respond to your perspective specifically.

In the more popularized public court case, which was never making a judgment on the serious claim of genocide, they still did lean in favor of South Africa. "Plausibility of the right to be protected from genocide" is still deciding that the case has merit, however hesitantly and restrainedly. They won't decide further until the case is complete.

They have since judged Israel's actions unlawful. Do you think that the United Nations, whom a close ally of Israel, the US, holds veto power over, might have a reason for calling it unlawful actions instead of evaluating its relationship to genocide? Israel has ignored and rejected the orders of the ICJ on three separate provisional measures. Do you support these rejections? The next hearing won't complete until after July 2025. Isn't this too long to wait for common people to name a crime?

I don't see any reason why we should wait for the United Nations' decision before discussing what is clearly occuring. They are simply one authority of many, and the ICY (Yugoslavia) was the court that decided the most recent Bosnian genocide. We aren't deciding international culpability, just whether normal people are allowed to call this a genocide. So, let's make our own judgments based on the legal definition, which is two parts: destruction and intent.

Destruction includes a couple direct clauses. Let's use Gazans as the "group" here, separated from others by their ethnicity, religion, and occupied national group. The ICJ has previously ruled on racial discrimination, that Palestinians are targeted for belonging to a specific group. So. Israel has certainly "killed members of this group." They have certainly "caused serious bodily and mental harm to members of this group." They have certainly "deliberately inflicted on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part." Whether or not these actions were justified, instigated, whether history proves them righteous, these facts are undeniable.

Intent is harder to prove, but let's keep it simple.

The reason the ICJ deemed the fragmentary last actions of the Bosnian genocide not genocidal is because they were intended to displace the citizenry, not destroy them. Is Israel trying to displace Gazans, as they have for decades? Or are they trying to destroy them? The borders are closed.

Israel's goal is not to win a war or resolve a hostage crisis, but to wipe out the Gazan people. In self-defense. They have waited for their actions to be defensible to the global community, and to the Jewish community. What could Israel do that would not be justified to you? On the other hand, what could they do that would kill as many Gazans as possible, while still being defensible to you? Does it look like what's happening now?

40,000 Gazan deaths. Since they stopped being able to record and report the numbers months ago. 300 Israeli deaths after the initial attack, some killed by Israeli soldiers themselves. 40,000 : 300.

This is not a war. It is a slaughter, occurring in an enclosed space, against civilians, not incidentally, but intentionally. It is accompanied by torture and rape, unmitigated famine, and the deliberate murder of children, not through bombs but through sniper bullets. If you want to pick one authority that hasn't declared it a genocide, in order to protect your morality, you are allowed to. The rest of us will keep speaking the truth: That Israel's actions are unlawful, that they are for territory acquisition, that they are destruction with intent of the Palestinian people, that this is a genocide.

I know you believe this, too. I know that on some level you acknowledge these things, based on the fact that you can't defend the West Bank settlers. Your blog is honestly wonderful, you seem like a good person, and I really don't want to bother you. I can tell you see the inhumanity in Israel's current actions. We shouldn't wait for the ICJ to rule it a genocide to call it one.

There have been so many genocides that we could not stop, that didn't receive widespread attention, and that the United States was not directly funding. If you did not have a personal connection to Israel, would you speak out?

I cannot believe I have to say things like this but here goes:

Not every tragedy is The Holocaust

Not every war is Genocide

Not every racist is a fascist

Not every right winger is a Nazi

Not every bad thing is the worst thing ever.

Words have meanings for a reason and to repeatedly misuse them waters down both the horror of the even you reference and the horror of whatever is going on. In the same vein as the quote "science works whether you believe in it or not", definitions exist whether you think something 'feels' like something it isn't or not.

Repeatedly using the wrong words because you want to invoke an emotional response makes you look dumb, uniformed and stops people taking you seriously as you've clearly got no idea about how reality works. Not just that but it becomes clear when you repeated repurpose words used about specific events which target Jews that you're trying to claim things that aren't yours and that you want to remove the Jewish story from anti-jewish events, erasing us and our history. Grow up.