#and the self-destructive nature of *how* he tries to grab freedom.

[immortalled]

why do you hurt?

because you cannot hold freedom

the sky is only air. the ocean is only water. the only freedom you will ever have is breathing, drawing this air again & again & again & again. You have to exhale, and it costs you something - you have to quench your thirst and it comes back again - there is nothing solid in being free, it is not a status to be achieved but an action to do. Free is an active status, and you worry you'll somehow forget. there are people who would control you. there are orders you could obey. you keep coming back to take this next breath, your own part of the forever-freedom of the sky, but sometimes you think to hold your breath. it is deceptively peaceful underwater. you don't know if you would notice it if you started drowning.

tagged: yoinked from @parameddic tagging: anyone who wants to!

[arvinsescape]

Ok when you have the time I thought of this Arvin x reader scenario. Arvin comes to a small town after the events of the movie and falls for the sweet girl working at the bakery and visits her everyday. If you wanna add smut, angst, fighting, or make it only tooth rotting fluff , I don’t care. Have the freedom to write it as you see fit!⭐️👄⭐️

His angel.

A/N: Thank you so much for sending this in! It got kinda long! I really hope you enjoy!!💕

Warnings: Language, Violence, misogyny.

Arvin had moved to the small town after the events of Knockemstiff, that's where he met you. You worked at the local bakery and Arvin was almost addicted to you, he found himself seeking out the bakery almost every day in hopes you were working.

Arvin thought you were sweet and kind, he often found himself thinking about you when he was working on a car at the garage he worked in. Your sweet smile always managed to pull a smile from him, you made his heart do flips and he wanted to work up the courage to ask you on a date.

He'd tried a couple of times, he really had but it always got caught in his throat and he found himself with sweaty palms and a racing heart. He was not the only man in the small town who liked you, no, most of the men did. It angered Arvin, their thoughts were nowhere near as innocent as his own.

Arvin hated the way the men in town spoke about your body and the things they wanted to do to you. It upset him that they couldn't see the sweet girl who deserved the world, only saw you as a piece of meat. He'd almost punched his work colleague for a remark he'd made about your physique.

It wasn't that Arvin didn't find you attractive because god he did, but you were so much more than that in his eyes. He'd gotten to know the sweet and caring nature you had, the way you would try and help anyone regardless of what it cost you.

He was yet again in the bakery, his daily routine, he felt a need to see you at least once a day, allow you to brighten his mood just by smiling at him. Grayson, one of the dickwads that liked to make remarks about you walked in, Arvin felt his anger rise as he watched the man rake his eyes up your body, eyeing you like a prize.

"Y/N? You got any of them sweet cakes left? You know, the ones I like?" He asked and Arvin watched as you gave the man that sweet smile of yours.

"Sure." You answered in that angelic voice. Arvin swears he never believed in angels or any of that stuff until he met you. "How many do you want?" You asked politely, making your way back around the counter.

"I'll take them all." He answered as you bagged them up before charging him, Arvin watched as he handed over the money shooting you a wink.

"Keep it. I'm sure you'll enjoy my tip." He said and Arvin nearly flew for the guy. How dare he? He watched as you gulped slightly, face draining of colour. "How about it doll? Me and you?" Grayson continued and Arvin watched as you shook your head in response.

"I think you should leave her alone." Arvin said as he stood to full height, he might have been slightly shorter than Grayson but Arvin looked far more intimidating.

"What's it got to do with you? Oh, sorry am I trying to muscle in on your territory? I'll happily have her once you've had your fun." Grayson laughed and Arvin felt his blood boil over, taking quick and firm steps towards the man.

"Now listen here you fucking asshole. You leave her alone or you'll have me to answer to, she's not interested." Arvin said, he'd subconsciously grabbed Grayson's shirt.

He watched as Grayson shook slightly, fear shooting through his eyes before he composed himself and held his hands up in defence, cocky smirk on his face.

"Sorry, sorry. Didn't realise it was so serious. I was only having a laugh."

"Fuck off out of here before I throw you out." Arvin said through gritted teeth and Grayson did as he was told, Arvin loosening his grip on his shirt. He turned to look at you. "Sorry." Arvin said sheepishly, he was annoyed with himself for losing his temper in front of you.

"Thank you, Arvin." You said and Arvin nodded before making his way out of the little shop. He was almost kicking himself for losing his temper, thoughts about how you were too good for him flooding his thoughts.

You were completely the opposite, he was all fists and violence and you were all sweet and lovely, there's no way you'd ever be interested.

**

Arvin didn't see you for almost a week, too embarrassed to step foot back in the shop. You shouldn't have had to witness him snap like that, memories of his past flooding through the back of his mind. You were too good for him, too good for a man who'd murdered people, whether they deserved it or not, he didn't want to drag you down.

Arvin was aware he could be a self destructive person, he could be grumpy and not see the fun in most things. You were the opposite and he just didn't want to drag you down, you deserved better, the world in fact. Arvin was so caught up in his own thoughts as he walked through the quiet streets that he almost didn't hear it.

"Grayson, stop." It was your voice, but it sounded sad, panicked, strange to Arvin's ears. "Seriously, I'm not interested you need to leave me alone. Go home." You shouted, you were trying to keep your voice steady Arvin could tell that much but it wasn't convincing.

"Oh come on Y/N, a bit of fun never hurt anyone." Grayson's voice echoed off the quiet walls and Arvin hastily made his way towards the voices. His heart hammering in his chest as the panic rose, he needed to get to you and make sure you were okay, make sure you weren't hurt.

Arvin quickly found the two people the voices belonged to and his anger rose again. Grayson was stood, hand wrapped around your wrist as you struggled to get him to let go, this fucker was in for it.

"Oi!" Arvin shouted and your eyes locked with his own, relief flooding them. "Let go." Arvin snarled and he watched as Grayson released your wrist.

"Fuck off Arvin, this has nothing to do with you." Grayson said, great he was drunk Arvin thought.

"I told you last week to leave her alone and I fucking meant it." Arvin snapped as he made his way towards the two figures, your feet quickly carrying you towards him. Arvin felt almost relived as as you stood in front of him and Arvin couldn't stop himself as he moved you behind him.

"Empty fucking threat. Come on, hand her over." The drunken male said as he made his way towards you, Arvin's hand instantly landing on his chest, stopping him. "Fine, you want a fucking fight over a stupid whore, then let's have at it." Grayson spat, far more confidence due to the alcohol buzzing through his system.

Arvin felt his anger reach a dangerous level at his words, he almost forgot that you were there as he swung for the man. Grayson must have expected it as he ducked just in time, Arvin's fist connecting with the wall. The pain almost didn't register to him as he swung again, this time knocking Grayson backwards.

He watched as the man stumbled, split lip evident and a look of pure anger in his face. Grayson made a move for Arvin but Arvin was smarter and far more powerful than the man in front of him as he knocked him onto his back. Arvin almost couldn't stop himself as he climbed on top of the man and repeatedly shoving his fist into his face. It brought back memories of the time he'd taught Lenora's bullies a lesson.

"Arvin, stop." He heard the words, but they didn't register. "Arvin!" He heard a little more firmly. "You're gonna kill him, you need to stop!" He heard again and he felt a soft hand touch his shoulder, Arvin came crashing back to reality as his vision cleared and he took in the man below him.

Arvin stood up quickly, Grayson groaned before rolling over spitting blood onto the floor. Arvin had just completely lost his temper and in front of you. He felt ashamed of himself, what the fuck where you going to think?

Arvin turned to face you, all thoughts of Grayson leaving him, you looked utterly terrified and Arvin felt awful. He'd probably just scared you off forever, your hands shook slightly as you reached for his hand, carefully holding it in your own.

"I just want to go home." You said just above a whisper, Arvin nodded slightly he walked you home, he needed to make sure you got home safe even if you spent the rest of your life hating him for what had just happened.

The walk was silent, you were unreadable, facial expression something Arvin had never seen before. It wasn't your usual happy self, you seemed deep in thought and Arvin wondered what was going on in that beautiful head. You were probably thinking of ways you could avoid him, a way you could get him to leave you alone.

You silently unlocked your door and Arvin waited for you to let go of his hand but you didn't as you made your way inside, pulling Arvin with you. You sat him down on your couch and silently left the room, returning with a first aid box.

You carefully took his hand in your own and only then did Arvin notice the blood and cuts on them. He watched with furrowed brows as you took a washcloth and wiped the blood away, almost like you were slowly removing the evidence of his violent outburst.

"This might sting a little." You said, voice soft as you looked at him with a sad smile before applying the alcohol rag, Arvin hissed as he felt the alcohol enter his cuts. He resisted the urge to pull his hand from your own, he didn't want to frighten you with any sudden movements.

"I'm sorry." Arvin spoke through a sigh when you grabbed a bandage to wrap his hand in. You looked at him with furrowed brows.

"What for?" You asked and Arvin looked at you like you'd grown two heads, his now bandaged hand leaving your own.

"For losing my temper." Arvin clarified.

"Arvin, you saved me tonight. I'm grateful, sure you could have held back but you saved me." You answered with that sweet smile and being here, in your lovely home, his hands bandaged up he realised he could never have you, you deserved more.

"Stop being so nice. I could've killed the guy." Arvin snapped and you looked at him shocked, he'd never taken that tone with you. "You are too nice for your own good."

"I, you," You tried to speak but Arvin cut you off.

"Don't make excuses for me. I'm a violent person Y/N, wherever I go violence follows and you, you're a good fucking person. You shouldn't be around people like me." He ranted.

"I wasn't making excuses Arvin!" You said, voice slightly raised.

"You should stay as far away from me as possible."

"But Arvin, I don't want to, I really like you!" You exclaimed and Arvin scoffed.

"I saw that look of fear in your eyes tonight. You saw it didn't you, how dangerous I am when I lose my temper." He raged and you stood your ground, determined.

"You wouldn't hurt me." You said confidently.

"You don't know that." Arvin spat back and you shook your head.

"You won't. I know what you're trying to do. You think I'm too good for you so you're just trying to push me away, make me hate you but I don't." You said as you took a step towards him.

"You are too good for me!" He shouted, "you can't fix me Y/N, I'm not like all those old people you help, I can't be helped. I'm violent and I'm no good for you." Arvin was trying desperately to get you to see what he did. "What if I lost my temper with you?" He shouted again.

"You have." You pointed out and Arvin furrowed his brows in response. "You're angry right now and look, I'm fine. You haven't tried to hurt me because you won't. You think I'm some perfect woman Arvin but I'm not. I don't want to fix you, I want you for you." You said as you stepped ever so close to him.

Your scent filled his senses and he became almost drugged from how close you were, his heart beating, palms sweaty. He looked at you and the anger washed away and all he was left with was a sadness.

"Y/N," he sighed. "I like you, so fucking much but I'm no good, you have no idea the burden's I carry, what I've done."

"I don't care," you said as you took his face in your hands. "I don't care what you've done. I care about you and how you make me feel. Arvin, you are a good man, you just need to let yourself see it." You smiled at him. "Kiss me." You demanded of him.

Arvin studied you for a moment, studied how close you'd gotten, how he saw no evidence of fear in your eyes, only adoration, for him. Maybe he wasn't a good man but he would always protect you, always make sure the ground you walked on was worshipped. Maybe he didn't think he was good enough for you but you did and how could he deny you? He would always treat you the way you deserved even if he did have flaws.

Arvin took your face in his hands, yours falling over the top of his own as he pulled you towards him, capturing your lips in his own. The kiss was sweet as you wrapped your arms around his neck, one of his hands slipping to cup your neck. The kiss deepened slightly but out of need and longing, he'd wanted this for so long.

"Stay?" You asked as he rested his forehead against your own. "Please? Arvin, I want you, I want to be with you." You spoke and Arvin felt his heart flutter. He was never going to be a danger to you, you were a goddam fucking angel in his eyes.

"Okay. I'll stay." He agreed as he pulled you in for another kiss. He knew he'd have to tell you why he came here, knew he'd eventually have to come clean about his past and he was terrified it would scare you off. He wanted you so badly and the knowledge that you wanted him to, allowed him to let go of his fears. You were his angel and as long as you allowed him to grace your presence, he would.

[seyenna]

Philza and/or Techno and/or Ranboo fic recs

just some of my fav dsmp fics, mainly phil, techno or ranboo bc i’m biased but also a bunch of sbi and others

this one goes out mainly to zablr discord my beloved

pls tell me if the links don’t work

all of these are on ao3

rating\status(complete/ongoing)\warnings\word count\misc tags

ichor flows free amongst the iron by summer_rising

T\o\violence\13k\series\gods AU

Summary:

A gods and goddesses AU of the Dream SMP, dramatized for all our benefits.

First work:

  "Two gods meeting on a mountaintop overlooking the stormy sea? Very classy, Dream, I appreciate your taste."

  Dream didn't turn to look at him, but the faint shake of his shoulders let Techno know he had heard.

  "Scar's healing up nicely, I see," Techno mumbled with a light nod of his head.

  "Mhm. Cut nice and clean. Not that I expected any less from you, of course."

   ~~

   The god of power and the god of luck meet on a mountaintop to discuss Luck's standing in the ongoing political disaster.

We're Only Young by ImperialKatwala

G\o\-\66k\series\Dream & Technoblade

It's easy to forget amid the chaos and bloodshed how similar - and how young - Dream and Technoblade really are.

And when the sun comes up, you'll find a brand new god. by SkyboxZoo

M\o\violence\19k\gods AU

Summary:

The wounds from the fight had healed nigh instantly, but the golden blood still soaked Techno’s shirt. His cloak had gotten torn off and his hair had fallen out of its pony-tail. Ichor pooled in his boots. The man left a trail of golden, bloody footprints in his wake.

old gods (new gods) by WriterWinged

T\o\-\9k\series\gods AU

Summary of first work:

Survival, Blood, Madness. Philza, Technoblade, Wilbur Soot. Three gods who have never cared for mortal life, who play with them when they want to, who kill their toys just as easily. How, then, did a mortal end up in their hands?

This House Is A Fucking Nightmare by SilverWing15

T\c\-\17k\series\sbi

Summary:

AU Where Phil isn't quite as willing to stand by while his sons drop like flies

Summary of third part (my fav):

Does lingering too long in the shadow of a god make you a god? The voices in his head seem to think so.

His brothers know he's older than them but they don't know how much

OR: Technoblade doesn't think his brothers realize how different they are from ordinary men. After all, ordinary men may fight the gods, but they don't win.

It's been a long day. by BecausePlot

G\c\-\3k\Philza & Ranboo

Summary:

Sides are bad: he knows that much. He’s seen it tear people apart time and time again, so when he decided to separate himself from Tubbo and keep his distance, he knew he was in the right.

Well. He thought he was in the right, at the time. Sitting all by himself on the steps to the Prime Path, he’s not so sure anymore.

Yes, the sides might have torn the others apart, might have made them so weak that they have no choice but to fold under Dream’s hand, but at least they aren’t lonely.

So are sides bad?

‘I don’t know.’

~*~

Or, Ranboo looks out at the ruins of L'Manburg, feeling more lost and lonely than he ever has.

But, as he soon finds, he's not as alone as he thinks.

the voices in my head, they say a lot of things by rosyasteria

-\c\violence\1k\Technoblade-centric

Summary:

Some days the voices didn’t listen. They didn’t let up. They screamed instead of whispered, relentless, assaulting his ears until they bled.

tell them i was the warmest place you knew and you turned me cold by rosyasteria

-\c\-\2k\Techonblade-centric

Summary:        

Technoblade cared. But in the end it just fucked him over.

For the majority of his life, Techno felt like less of a companion, less of a family member, and more like a weapon to be wielded. 'The Blade' they called him; never 'friend'.

It Leaves Little Time for Anything Else by mirandible

M\c\-\1k\part of series\Dream & Technoblade

Summary:

   A young man aims for the top, but fate has other plans for him. So does Technoblade, apparently.

   (Or: answering the question of “Why does Techno hide his scars if they’re supposed to be some sort of trophy? Why keep your point of pride a secret?”)

the best requiem is a bar of silence (and I'll sing it, even if I must hold back my tears) by jello12451

T\o\-\10k\Philza & Technoblade

Summary:

   He can’t help the noise of celebration that escapes him. Techno- this means that Techno’s free, and he got his horse back, and everything is alright-

  Tubbo, filled with rage at Phil’s cheers, turns and impulsively shoots an arrow.

   He doesn’t expect to hit his target.

---

  Alternatively: What if Phil didn't have a bucket of water when Tubbo shot him?

Change fate by being aggressively kind by sircantus

T\o\-\13k\sbi, Philza-centric

Summary:

   “You do understand that you’re caring for the thing meant to bring destruction and chaos to our world, right?” The woman asks, Phil looking behind him fondly as Techno grabs at the ends of his wings.

   “He’s just a child.” Phil answers distractedly, humming as his wings get gently yanked at.

   “He’s the first of three to destroy life as we know it! Shouldn’t we, well, get rid of him?!”

   “Oh, no.” Phil raises his eyes with a sharp glare. “Believe me, I have my own way of preventing the apocalypse.”

   ---

   Or, Techno, Wilbur, and Tommy are basically chaotic forces of nature, destined from birth to end the world and bring destruction. Most who hear of the tale of them are trying their best to track them down, and to end the monsters while they’re still young, still just children.

   Phil has a different plan.

   (In which Phil raises the minecraft equivalents of the anti-christ with love and support, so much so to the point where the world ending is really just a funny thought, and Phil has three kids who casually have powers that are bit more extreme than anything else in the world)

I promised you that everything would be fine by findingkairos

G\c\-\6k\Technoblade-centric

Summary:

   manifestation: (n.)

1.     an event, action, or object that clearly shows or embodies something abstract or theoretical;

2.     a version or incarnation of something or someone;

3.     an appearance of a ghost or spirit;

4.     the Blood God.

When he's young and still alone, still establishing his reputation as the immortal warrior, Technoblade makes up an imaginary friend.

Years later, the blood god is very real and very much a god: one that is prepared to do anything for their first and only friend.

the inner mechanism of a black box by Bee_4

T\c\violence, self-harm\Technoblade-centric

Summary:

   Technoblade lets himself get imprisoned for Philza’s sake. He doesn’t plan on being there long. Unfortunately, he’s underestimated Pandora’s Vault.

   There are things that will make even the Blade fall apart in due time, as it turns out.

carry all my sins by BananasofThorns

T\c\-\4k\Ranboo-centric

Summary:

Ranboo swallows. “All my armor and weapons and stuff are missing. Fundy and I were gonna go looking for them after the festival, I think.”

“I see.” Tubbo smiles again, but this time it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I’m sure it’ll be fine, it’s just a festival. We could probably find someone to lend you a sword or an axe or something.”

He starts towards the stage, waving at people when they call his name, and Ranboo follows. The original panic has dulled to a cold buzz in his chest, but apprehension still wraps itself around his body like chains. He doesn’t like being without his armor and tools; he feels too exposed, and if something happens, he’ll be helpless.

“Ranboo?” Tubbo calls, glancing back.

Ranboo shakes his head and hurries to catch up. “Yeah, it’ll be fine,” he repeats. “Everything’s gonna be fine."

Tubbo grins. “That’s the spirit.”

Rule 5: be loyal. L'manberg doesn't do well with supposed traitors. Ranboo deals with the consequences.

Sojourn by Lacy_Star

T\o\-\13k\Ranboo & Technoblade & Philza

Summary:

“Well…” Ranboo started slowly, “You see, uh… I kinda… don’t have a house anymore, obviously. Um… Phil found me in—“ He paused, cutting himself off and squinting at the floorboards— very discreet, “Phil… found me. And… um… He said I could stay by you guys. Like, um, by the dog house he wants to build?” He paused, then began to ramble, “But, uh, if you don’t want me here, I understand— and I’m sorry for coming in your house when you weren’t here, I swear I didn’t touch anything— it was just cold outside and—“

Techno just stared at him. And how, how was this the second time this had happened to him? How was this the second time he returned home after battle to discover an injured teenage boy waiting for him, seeking assistance with nowhere to go? And how badly had that ended last time, in nothing but betrayal and insults?

---

AKA: Phil drags a half-enderman home after Doomsday, and Techno decides that they can keep it. For now.

can an axe count as rent? by aboutfivebees

T\c\-\4k\Ranboo & Technoblade & Philza

Summary:

Ranboo’s struggling to settle into his new life on the Arctic Anarchist Commune, but at least he’s got bread.

or the struggles of an enderman hybrid to come up with a housewarming gift to give to his friends, who are just trying to adopt him

The Caged Bird Sings of Freedom by StarPrince_Punk

T\o\-\25k\Ranboo & Technoblade & Philza

Summary:

The Blade's stance was still tense, his body prepared to fight at a moment’s notice if need be. “What’s your name?” Phil asked “My… name?” The Blade asked. “Yeah. Your name isn’t actually The Blade, right? That’s like a stage name?” Phil tried to keep his tone light. “What’s your real name?” The Blade hesitated. “No one… No one’s called me by my name in a long time.” ------- When Phil comes across Ranboo in his panic room after L'Manberg's destruction, it reminds him of when he first met Technoblade. And just like when he met Techno, Phil's first instinct is that he has to help this kid. While living together, Techno and Ranboo learn that they're much more similar than they had previously thought, and Phil learns that it's not too late for him to be a better dad.

This already feels like more of a home by H3118ENDER

T\o\violence, death\18k\Ranboo & Technoblade & Philza

Summary:

As the ashes of L'Manberg settle the conflict continues to come to life setting the stage for a new wave of blood shed. Stuck slam in the middle of past and present friends Ranboo is coming to learn that even without nations to their names feelings and feuds don't die but people, people do.

A Shadow of a Shadow by unappetizingegg

T\c\-\4k\ Ranboo & Technoblade & Philza

Summary:

There were a few beats of silence, and then- “What are your plans, now? Do you need a place to stay?”

That caught him off guard. Surely he’d heard incorrectly. Phil was offering him a home, right after he’d orchestrated the destruction of his past one? It didn’t make any sense, none of it did. Why would Phil say that?

Then he remembered, he remembered Techno stopping him in the fight. He remembered being handed his book, the question in Techno’s gaze. He swore, in that moment, Technoblade, the Technoblade, had been worried about him. He remembered that he had been told to leave, to run, to get away and preserve himself. He had spared him, he remembered that Techno had spared him.

Techno had helped him. Phil had tried to protect him, to get him away from the danger.

They were there for him.

 ---

alternatively:

Ranboo is alone. But he really isn't.

Meritocracy by oddsbodkins

G\o\-\18k\Dream & Technoblade, sbi, medieval AU

Summary:

Dream is more successful than he'd ever imagined - but there's one thing that's been bothering him. Technoblade, his biggest rival, the Acolyte of the Blood God and King of the Arena, went missing last spring, just before Dream got the chance to duel him. Without that one achievement to pave his way, all the following victories have felt cheap.

So, Dream hired some goons to dig Technoblade up and pester him into coming back to the Capitol, for one last showdown. Easy enough, right?

Interlude I: "Promises to Keep" by Ozzyyy

T\c\-\1k\part of a series\Technoblade & Philza

Summary:

These woods are lovely, dark, and deep But I have promises to keep

And miles to go before I sleep And miles to go before I sleep.

--

Techno has a plan. It's crazy. It's insane, it's actually just batshit bonkers. But if chaos cannot be enjoyed together, then what's it worth, yeah? There's a certain beauty in watching the world burn from the center of the flames. Phil intends to be there.

I Don't Want To Start A Fight (wouldn't you rather start a riot?) by KryOnBlock

T\c\violence, death\15k\Technoblade & Philza & Ranboo

Summary:

An universal ping rang out from behind him, the third and final he knew, and Phil sobbed, clutching the body tighter.

Techno didn’t move.

It always has been Technoblade and Philza, Philza and Technoblade. Take on half, and you shall never go back.

Sheltered by Lulatic

G\c\-\6k\Ranboo & Technoblade

Summary:

It was cold outside. But Techno never heard Ranboo complain.

That was the best excuse he could muster to keep him out.

Antarctic Princes 'verse by BirchWrites

T\o\-\15k\series\sbi

Summary:

Loosely-connected one shots set in an AU where the Antarctic Empire and the Dream SMP are in the same world. Ordered chronologically, but each fic can be read as a standalone thing

Summary of first part:

Oh shit. Forget arrested; Dream’s going to have to tell Wilbur that he watched Tommy get stabbed for being terminally stupid.

May we cross paths again by QueenLunaFreed

G\c\-\1k\Dream & Technoblade

Summary:

“Even if tomorrow it’s just us versus the entire server, Dream, I’m telling you right now - I have confidence.”

---

Dream couldn’t comprehend the pacing contradiction in front of him, the weakness he could clearly see, but would never comment on. Because this man has been defying Dream's expectations since they first met, because despite them not being friends and having no reason to trust each other, Dream knew that Technoblade is the only person who he’d trust to do this right. To destroy L'Manberg alongside him yet again, this time for real.

leave me your starlight by findingkairos

T\o\-\18k\Technoblade & Philza

Summary:

For you the world, Phil.

Once upon a time, Philza Minecraft is the only person who does not shy away from the bloody teen that regularly turns the tide of war.

This cements a friendship that will last wars, empires, worlds, and lifetimes.

 ---

(Featuring: Back to Back Badasses, healthy relationships, accidental deification, intentional world domination, and Phil's past coming back to haunt his best friend.)

[everythingsinred]

Let's Talk About NatsuMikan: Natsume (pt. 27)

The closer we get to the end, the more nervous I am, and maybe you are too, because things are going to go horribly awry and only suffering is to come. Fate is adamant that a specific twelve year old must die, and we really have no choice but to watch it all unfold.

In this part, we will discuss the chapters building up to the New Year's Concert, where Reo will attempt to assassinate the ESP.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Six

Ruka finds Natsume in the snow. He asks where he’s been, and Natsume responds that he went to see Mikan. Natsume imagines that Ruka will be jealous, because he feels guilty. He’d been putting his own wants first this whole night, and he hadn’t even considered Ruka.

Expectation vs. Reality. Ruka, best boy.

But Ruka is not jealous, or he’s very good at hiding it. He beams at Natsume, offering only congratulations and support. He’s happy for them, that both of their wishes came true. In fact, Ruka was also wishing for it, that Mikan and Natsume could find each other.

Natsume apologizes, because Ruka’s cheerful support only makes him feel more guilty, but he doesn’t tell him for what. He will not recount the details of the night, particularly of the many kisses shared between him and Mikan.

There’s a happy moment between Natsume and Ruka until, of course, Natsume starts coughing violently. He coughs up blood again, and when Ruka asks him if he’s okay, he’s ready to downplay it, already hiding his hand so that his best friend won’t worry. But Ruka grabs his hand and looks at the blood on the glove, and there’s a somber moment between them. Natsume tries to talk, but Ruka knows he’s just going to try and downplay it again, so he interrupts.

The best friendship in all of fiction. I stand by this forever. You can't change my mind.

Ruka has watched Natsume suffer the whole time they’ve been at the academy, even before then. He might not have had all the details, but he’s known that Natsume’s life was agony. He was helpless, and even became a burden (in his own view, not Natsume’s). He pleads with Natsume not to hide from him anymore. They’re meant to be best friends, and all Ruka has ever wanted was to be Natsume’s support system, but Natsume shut him out in the guise of protecting him. He keeps all his pain locked away and deals with it on his own.

Watching someone you love suffer and not being able to do anything about it is a tremendous pain, Ruka says. Natsume must sympathize. He will say something similar later on about Mikan’s situation.

Ruka loves Natsume. Natsume might have thought that he dragged his only friend into a bottomless pit of despair but Ruka asserts he’s never once regretted following him to the academy, not even for a second.

Ruka is confessing now. Natsume must know now that his existence is important to at least two people who love him unconditionally, but he doesn’t internalize it. Maybe he can’t. He’s too stuck in the role of martyr that straying from it would go against the very fabric of his own identity. He exists and has always existed to protect others. Protecting himself or even considering himself doesn’t align with that identity. No matter how much Mikan and Ruka plead with him to keep himself safe, he can’t abide. They’re more important than he is. He fails to see how much heartbreak and sorrow he will leave in his wake of self-destruction.

Natsume can’t internalize it. He can’t take it in and change course. It’s too late for that, in his mind. But he can tell Ruka the truth, because supporting Natsume is all Ruka wants.

He confesses too. He’s afraid. He doesn’t like thinking about the future, not even a year from now, because he’s scared he’ll be dead by then.

He says his secret fear out loud, that he won’t be able to protect her, and it’s still so heart-breaking that he still only sees his own value in how much he can protect people. He will shorten his own life to get her out of the darkness she’s ended up in. He doesn’t see worth in his existence just for the sake of living, of breathing, of smiling and laughing and crying and existing. Instead, his value is conditional. He is only so good as he is able to protect others and when he can’t anymore, then he is no longer valuable. It’s a glaring sign of a ridiculously low self-esteem.

He wants to choose life! He wants to live! Oh, this makes it worse...

But something has changed. He doesn’t want to die. He wants to live and be with her forever. He can’t be with her if he’s dead. It’s a selfish thought, and as I’ve been saying, that’s a wonderful thing. If only that selfish impulse were stronger, than maybe things wouldn’t be so doomed in the coming week. But Natsume’s ingrained martyr complex is stronger than anything, and his new flicker of selfishness doesn’t stand a chance.

Ruka promises he’ll do anything to support Natsume and Mikan’s future together. And so Natsume asks Ruka to protect Mikan if he’s no longer able to.

I personally don’t think he’s handing Mikan over here. This whole conversation’s context is specifically about protecting Mikan, and how Natsume wants only to keep her safe, even at the expense of his own life (though he’s actually more cavalier with that than he lets on, so it’s not much of an “even”, is it?). If Natsume is dead, he wants somebody he trusts to watch over her and prioritize her as he has. Who better than Ruka, who loves Mikan too and will want to keep her safe as well?

Or. You could just. Not die. Just a thought.

Natsume has never treated Mikan as an object to be won. He’s in fact made several comments about not “competing” at all. If he was able to give Mikan to Ruka, those two would be together now already and Natsume wouldn’t be the one holding Mikan’s alice stone. He is not any more capable of giving her away then he’s been before, and he’s less motivated to now than he’s ever been. Mikan is his, after all. Why would he “give her away” so soon after promising to be together forever?

He’s only concerned with Mikan’s safety and freedom here. If he dies in the pursuit of that, which he will, then someone else needs to make sure she’s safe and free. What she does with that safety and freedom is not in his or Ruka’s or anyone’s hands. I imagine Natsume, who got jealous of Mikan thinking of all her important people when making her alice stone would also get jealous at the thought of Mikan falling in love with somebody after his death. It might occur in the distant future, but it probably wouldn’t be any fun to imagine.

You may disagree with me, but I just can’t see it that way. I just don’t see it.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Seven

It’s New Year’s. Mikan’s birthday. There’s a celebration happening in the dorms, just like last year, but Natsume isn’t dressed in traditional garb to welcome the new year and feast like all the other students.

Instead, he’s waiting for Narumi in a hallway.

He wants all the information he can get, so he can get Mikan out of her cage sooner. Narumi isn’t talking, always willing to act dumb to get out of things. But Natsume knows better. He saw Narumi in the flashbacks, and knows how much Narumi loved Yuka. He would’ve done anything for her, even if it resulted in his own death. Narumi should understand how Natsume feels, then. He knows Mikan is suffering and in danger, but he can’t do anything about it. He says something to the effect that he shouldn’t even be living at this point, again reiterating that his life only has value if he’s able to protect people, particularly Mikan. If he’s unable to do that, then he might as well die. There’s really no difference, he says.

Jeez, kid, relax.

Narumi tries to point out that Natsume is dying, as if perhaps the kid is unaware of this, but Natsume grabs him and declares that he will not end up like him. Natsume seems to understand Narumi (probably more than I can! Haha) and that his life has been empty and soulless for a long time. Narumi is full of regret and has been for years, but Natsume won’t be like that. He won’t live with regret. He’ll do anything he can to save Mikan, and he’ll die without a single regret. He also claims he won’t give up on the idea of sharing a future with Mikan, and that makes the inevitable doom of their romance all the more tragic. Natsume isn’t planning on dying. He’s not imagining that he doesn’t even have a full two days left to live. He’s thinking he’ll push himself to the end of his rope, save Mikan, and then live happily ever after. It’s naive and childish and ridiculous that he really believes he can have his cake and eat it too, but he does with his whole heart.

"I want to live," is enough for me. I stopped reading after that. LET THIS KID LIVE.

Natsume tells Narumi to stop underestimating him for his age. But Narumi agrees: he doesn’t want Natsume or any of the other kids to end up like him and his generation did. He wants things to be better, for the new generation to have a happy and hopeful future to look forward to instead of surrendering to a life of misery and regret.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Nine

Natsume and Ruka are something like partners-in-crime now. They both know that taking out the ESP is the only way to free Mikan. They are spying on Reo, who has come under the guise of performing for the New Year’s concert, who spills that Z wants to assassinate the ESP.

Tsubasa and Tono quickly join the conversation, although they’re somewhat unwanted.

Reo keeps talking, and now all four of them are privy to his plan. Tono scolds Natsume for trying to get involved when it’s obvious Z is already on the case. Let them do it, he says. Keep yourself safe instead of putting everything on your own shoulders. Naturally, this is Natsume we’re talking about, so no amount of logic will get into his head, but it was worth a try, Tono.

Natsume's little face here is my favorite. His little angry expressions are always the highlight of any page.

Hearing this warning, Natsume can see the sense in it. He doesn’t want to leave his fiancee alone and heart-broken by his loss (more proof that he doesn’t really believe he’ll die) tomorrow, but to his horror, Koko was reading his thoughts aloud.

Natsume is embarrassed to be put on the spot, and he didn’t want to hurt Ruka’s feelings, so he takes out his anger on Koko. Then he punishes Tsubasa for teasing him about how fast he’s going with Mikan when Tsubasa is actually just slow with Misaki. Then it’s revealed that Tsubasa did finally confess to Misaki and got the answer he wanted, which only pisses Natsume off more, inexplicably. He’d be angry either way, just because it’s Tsubasa. He probably just wants to take the focus off himself and the fact that he’s already proposed to Mikan.

Tsubasa was in fact inspired by Natsume’s commitment to protecting Mikan. He confessed because his kouhai was so determined. But he also expresses concern for Natsume’s recklessness. Protecting people is a worthwhile pursuit, but so is valuing your own life. Other people depend on him and love him, and losing would hurt. He doesn’t have to do everything on his own. Working as a team can ensure his safety and keep him living longer. They’re all on the same page, after all, so why not join forces and get it done more efficiently without Natsume being the martyr again?

Yeah, Natsume, go to therapy. Like, yesterday.

But as the group splits up, Ruka holds Natsume still. He wants to talk about what happened on Christmas, but Natsume doesn’t. He’d rather keep that to himself, not at all willing to hurt Ruka’s feelings after he’s been nothing but supportive.

But he can’t lie, and Ruka has expressed interest in hearing all the truthbombs Natsume can dish out, so he comes clean. They exchanged alice stones. It looks like it pains Natsume to admit it. He’s consumed by guilt for the role he’s played in hurting Ruka. But Ruka is still just happy for him. He again offers congratulations, and all is well until Koko announces that Natsume and Mikan kissed a lot too. Apparently, Natsume has been thinking about the kisses so often and shamelessly to the point that Koko is concerned.

Ruka gets upset, but not out of jealousy. He hits Natsume rather pathetically, adamantly demanding that he be honest and tell him everything instead of keeping secrets all the time. Ruka doesn’t care that Natsume has been “selfish” and has kissed Mikan and gotten engaged with her and met with her. He is a fan! He’s Team NatsuMikan now too! He just wants Natsume to stop lying to him, not even to spare his feelings. If Natsume can’t be honest, then Ruka can’t do his job of supporting him. Friendship is a two-way street and can’t work if the friends can’t rely on each other for help and support. Going through good and tough times together is the key to any lasting relationship, and for that to work Natsume needs to talk to him instead of holding back.

Ruka is so cute here. Absolutely adorable. I shall adopt.

Natsume apologizes and the chapter ends on a light note, with the four of them teasing each other and laughing.

But tomorrow will be a different story. Many horrible things will happen tomorrow night, and the bright future Natsume has finally allowed himself to consider will burn up and die.

Conclusion

In the Rapunzel story, the prince was blinded and forced to walk around the forest unable to look for his lost love. I imagine that's why the chapter title image for Chapter 147 has his face covered in bandages. The story of Rapunzel is a tragic one, but it ends in a happily-ever-after. The consolation we have is that the story of NatsuMikan is more like the story of Rapunzel than of Romeo and Juliet, though it certainly doesn't feel like it for the next thirty-something chapters.

I didn't reread this at all before posting because I'm really tired. Thus, I claim no ownership over any mistakes. They can't be helped.

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[reds-burrow]

Sorting The Mandalorian

This is an attempt to sort the main characters of The Mandalorian according to the Sorting Hat Chats system. For anyone unfamiliar with the system, I suggest reading about it in this lovely summary by @wisteria-lodge.

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian/Mando): Badger/Lion

Incredibly loyal to the community that saved him as a child, he's driven by his sense of duty, yet he can't bear to walk away from people in need, even those who can't pay him. And if you mention the reputation of the Mandalorians, he immediately folds. Can't bring shame to the community after all! Not the best business model for a bounty hunter, but as a Badger primary, he couldn't live with himself otherwise. He also shows signs of dehumanizing droids for most of season one, not using pronouns for them, doubting their skills, refusing to trust them on sight. Given his first community was attacked by droids, it's not surprising. But once IG-11 proves himself to Din, Din not only stops dehumanizing droids but has difficulty not humanizing IG-11. The droid has to remind Din, twice, that he is not a living thing before Din will allow him to save Din's life or later sacrifice himself.

What happened in season two then? Did Din develop a Snake primary model for Grogu, overriding his Badger primary? While I think that's a valid reading of the story so far, I personally read season two as the story of a Badger changing their community. Having an External primary means that a Badgers can have very different value systems and rules they follow depending on who they consider their community to be. The Children of the Watch grew up in a cult-like community ("This is the Way."). When Din finally meets other Mandalorians who don't adhere to the strict code he's been taught, he begins to understand he can still be a Mandalorian without keeping his helmet on every standard minute of the day. Season three is set up to confront this more directly, forcing Din to decide what type of Mandalorian he wants to be.

As for his secondary, he's a Lion. Despite always covering his face, there is no question of who Din is. He's forthright, outright asking his bounty if they want to be brought in warm or cold. If we're to believe Xi'an, Din did more obvious charging when he was younger. Now, while he's still reactionary, even grabbing thermal detonators and literally charging into blaster-fire, he does so with a tired sigh.

Greef Karga: Snake/Badger

Greef Karga is only out for himself in the first season. A clear Snake primary, he initially tries to capture Din and Grogu because they're ruining his business. However, after Grogu saves him, Greef takes Grogu and Din into his circle, betraying his deal with the Imps to save them in turn.

As for his secondary, he operates as an agent of the Bounty Hunters' Guild, not by going out into the field, but by being the connection between hunters and clients, a Badger secondary way of doing things. Din essentially broke down everything Greef's secondary had built when he broke the code, including the trusted reputation of the guild. No wonder Greef was determined to have them captured or killed. Then, when the Imperial Remnants leave Nevarro, we get to see what a natural leader Greef is as he helps transform his town into a respectable one by investing in fundamental services like a school, a true Inspirational Badger.

Kuiil: Badger/Badger

Kuiil has had his life defined by hard work. A slave for the Empire, he earned his freedom with his Badger secondary, and while many characters would develop a Badger model to survive in such conditions, Kuiil's Badger appears to be his innate secondary. His chosen profession once he is free is labor-intensive moisture farming.

As for his primary, he's a peace-seeking Badger, always helping, and negotiating, trying to find a fair compromise for all, even if the other party is a bunch of thieving Jawas. He also revived IG-11 and taught the droid to be as respectful to all creatures as he is.

Cara Dune: Lion/Lion

Cara Dune is proud to have been a rebel for the Alliance, but she's left adrift after the fall of the Empire. With no cause to fight for, her Lion primary refuses to settle for a role as a peacekeeper, leading her to become a mercenary. A Lion without a cause tends to look like a Snake primary, and that's the state we find Cara in, initially only making moves to keep herself safe and paid. Later, when she finally agrees to become a marshal for the New Republic, she has a new purpose but is perfectly willing to break the Republic's rules to follow what she feels is right, from helping Din and Grogu to letting Mayfeld go.

Her Lion secondary shows in her fighting style. She used to be dropped over enemy lines to wreak as much havoc as possible and watching her aggressive style it's clear why. She's quick on her feet, improvising in that direct manner Lions like to do as seen in the battle against the AT-ST when their initial plan hits a snag.

IG-11: Bird/Lion

His Bird primary first displays as a strict adherence to rules ("Manufacturers Protocol dictates I cannot be captured. I must self-destruct."). The first time we see him, he walks straight into the middle of a bunch of mercenaries and spouts out the Bondsman Guild Protocol as if once they understand the rules, they'll fall in line. This also is a great example of his Lion secondary. As Taika Waititi described him, "[IG-11] is very innocent and direct and doesn't know about sarcasm and doesn't know how to lie. It's like a child with a gun." Later, Kuiil effectively imparts his Badger primary system to IG-11 when he saves and reprograms the droid. To paraphrase Kuiil, droids are a reflection of those who programmed them which has amusing implications for Ani and Threepio. It's a bizarre example of a Bird learning a new system, but that is still what it is at its essence. IG-11 is still all about fulfilling his protocols and base function; his base function simply changed from "kill or capture" to "nurse and protect."

Moff Gideon: Badger/Bird

A mastermind strategist, the first time we see him his Bird secondary is obvious. He uses his knowledge to intimidate, revealing his enemies names and pasts that they hadn't even shared amongst themselves. As Gideon says, "A friendly piece of advice: assume that I know everything."

As for his primary, he is an Authoritarian Badger, loyal to the order the Empire brought to the galaxy and likely to blast anything he sees in the way of it. To paraphrase Giancarlo Esposito, Gideon firmly believes himself to be a warden for the galaxy whose duty is to oversee people and prevent them from overrunning each other. He genuinely believes he is protecting people from themselves by pushing his strong sense of order onto them.

Grogu (The Child/The Bounty/Baby Yoda): ...um.

How young is too young to sort a character? It's unclear how much he understands about morals. With what little information we do have, he looks like a young Snake primary, only thinking about his stomach, his own survival, or protecting Din. But then, you think a young Snake would have more reluctant about the end of season two. I suppose we'll have to wait and see if his attachment to Din affects his training. Anyway, he's either too young to be capable of much foresight, or he's an Improvisational secondary, testing his limits as toddlers are wont to do. He's such a little gremlin, stealing snacks, sneaking eggs. I'm tempted to call him a Double Snake just for that!

[earmuffstar]

glazed eyes, empty hearts

ao3 link!! Summary: Remus lay on the carpet in the Commons, drinking something inedible and trying to figure out if he could saw off his hand. OR: Remus has ways of keeping himself from full lucidity. Janus has some things to say about it. Genre: canonverse angst Relationships: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders (platonic dukeceit/demus/intruceit) Words: 1589 Additional Tags/Warnings: Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Mentions of Dismemberment, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Swearing

Remus lay on the carpet in the Commons, drinking something inedible and trying to figure out if he could saw off his hand.

He’d have to clamp his right arm down—since his left arm was stronger—and on a table, probably, for the best angle. He’d use an electric saw, to keep himself from stopping halfway through from the pain. Maybe he’d even get away with it, too: right here on the living room table in the middle of Family Game Night, or whatever the Lights were doing, he wasn't paying attention. The others normally didn’t question what Remus did, whether a product of not wanting to look too closely or because they just didn’t care, he didn’t know. It came in handy at times like this—ha, handy, he should tell that to Pappy Patouille.

“Handy!” Remus screeched. The conversation stuttered like tripping over a stone, tumbling to the pavement, skittering off a cliff and ending up squished in half by a train on criss-crossed railway tracks before resuming its pace as normal.

Remus went back to pondering his drink, now half-empty. He kind of hoped it was alcohol, although even the more potent stuff didn’t do much for him anymore. Maybe bleach, then. He took a gulp. Snapped his fingers and malathion filled the rest of the concoction to the top. Downed the glass. It didn’t taste half bad—he almost wished it tasted worse—but it made his head spin and his thoughts appropriately fuzzy, which was all he needed.

Remus stood up, bracing himself against the armrest as the room wavered, legs quivering inappropriately under his weight. The room continued their conversation—he couldn’t make out the words, not like he wanted to, he was sure it was about Disney or some other unimportant shit—as he sunk out.

The corner of Thomas’ mind which embodied Dark Creativity, forbidden thoughts, the macabre, badness, demented reason, remained perpetually in disrepair. Remus tripped over shards of glass—broken Bud Light’s?—needles, plastic orange bottles, and crashed to his knees somewhere wet, cheek brushing against bones and plywood as his eyelids drooped shut.

~~~

Remus shifted as he came to: alive, in his room, with a mind far too alert and lucid. Had he messed up with whatever he’d drunk last night—accidentally used orange juice or some shit instead of malathion? Remus growled in frustration. The easiest methods of forced mental incoherence—starvation, lack of sleep, the like—always took the longest time to take effect. If he’d paid attention last night, he would have been able to perpetuate the misery longer without this unfortunate break. He’d have to resort to more drastic measures for instant relief.

At least the blackout was nice. He normally didn’t get such an easy reprieve. When nightmares didn’t torment his sleep, the knowledge of coherence and well-restedness it offered did.

Dark Imagination always exhaled cold, stinking of rot and filth, miasma and decay. His thoughts always amplified in his domain, spinning and twisting in a way that felt good—or rather, felt terrible, which was good. Remus sank his foot into the muck, his realm unnaturally still. His creations normally drew into hiding when he came here like this—they didn’t like to see him do this. Welp. Too bad for them.

Here was a total blank slate. He could do anything. Remus’ claws itched.

It sucked how much it hurt, was the thing. The pain was delicious, and he soaked it up, reveled in it like cloth soaking blood, he needed it—but it still hurt, at the very beginning, the moment when knife hit flesh. The physical pain always hurt like hell, but the greater the pain at the beginning the longer it would keep hurting, and if at least some part of him was hurting he didn’t have to hurt a different part again to balance out the hurt in his brain.

Remus heard the footsteps only after rivulets of blood ran down his fingers.

“Remus?” The voice came soft, low, with a hint of a hiss curling the edge of their words. Remus’ blood ran cold, drip, drip, dripping onto the ground, and he grinned a false smile as he turned around—pointless, Janus always saw through him, Janus was the one person who wouldn’t brush off his antics as his simply unfortunate nature.

“Hey, welcome, Janny-Jan! Just messing around, you know me.” Remus was still far too coherent for this, brain just as awake as it had been when he’d woken up feeling nothing unnatural in his system despite the pain. Remus summoned a bottle of arsenic, aiming to chug it, when his fingers grasped empty air. Janus held the bottle away from him with one of his extra hands.

“Give it back, Jan.”

“Remus, this isn’t healthy.”

Remus cackled. The notion of “healthy” deserved that much. “Does it look like I care? Give it back.”

Janus sighed, looking resigned, and Remus knew what was going to happen before it did. That didn’t mean he didn’t struggle as six arms wrapped around him, yanking him from his domain into Janus’ room. Janus deposited him on a bed, holding him down by his arms and ignoring Remus’ pleas with practiced care.

Gloved hands met his own, stopping him every time he tried to scratch his arms, eyes, limbs. Already Remus could feel the effects of Janus’ room sink into his body, denials becoming truths as they healed his wounds, and Remus detested the comfort even as he gave in to it. Janus sat down next to him as the fight bled out of him, its absence hurting somehow more than blood and guts spilling from his wounds.

“Why do you keep doing this?” Janus said quietly, no more to Remus than to the air, but he shrugged anyway. He’d tried for far too long to rationalize his actions, formulate some sort of reasoning, some story, some grand reason why. Eventually he stopped trying, because no amount of reasoning ever stopped him. He would either do something or he wouldn’t, and that was how it worked—whatever thought that had led him to that action could have been fleeting, could have been in response to the opposite inclination, could have been anything. He’d long since given up on trying to understand his mind.

Janus should stop worrying. It wasn’t like anything would kill him, anyway.

“Well!” Remus struggled to sit up. “This has been fun, but—”

“Remus, you can’t—”

“I’m perfectly fine now, so—”

“You’re not —”

“I can’t say it’s been lovely but I should be going, got places to be—”

Janus looked about to explode, or cry, and personally Remus thought the former would be much cooler, wondered how flesh would become explosive, charred, twisted, dead. “We have to talk about this, Remus! I can’t— I can’t let you continue like this.”

Something furious and burning licked through his spine. Remus went still—still like the night, still like corpses buried six feet under the winter chill, still like death. Janus’ expression quickly smoothed over, but Remus was pleased to read fear in the pinch of his brow. “What I do,” Remus hissed, “is not up to you. I am not your charity project, and I understand perfectly well what I’m doing. You don’t get to take this away from me.”

“Remus, you—” Janus’ breath hitched. Remus didn’t— couldn’t turn to look at his face. “You can’t possibly think this is a long-term solution to your problems! ‘Oh yes, continually hurting myself will make my life better, it won’t have any lasting effects on anyone at all—’”

“I don’t want to think !” Remus screamed. He would have glared at the yellow-clad side had exhaustion not burrowed into his bones. Or maybe that was just the blood loss, or the aftereffects of the alcohol. “I don’t want to feel better, I don’t want to feel normal, or healthy, I just want to— to be numb, to be—”

He’d grown too used to incoherence to be able to deal with reality without it. The fact that the poisons gave him an excuse for being a fuck up, and that he’d have no shield, no scapegoat, no backup if he was still a fuck-up while being fully coherent. He didn’t particularly want to stop, not anymore, not for all the effort it’d take with too little payoff—but Remus knew better than to talk about his self-destructive tendencies to Self-Preservation.

Remus turned his back on Janus, though he felt his gaze tracing his spine. He wondered how long Janus was going to sit here with him—Janus knew better than to leave Remus unattended in his room.

Janus stood up abruptly, drawing Remus’ eye. He grabbed Remus by the arm again, and, to Remus' surprise, he felt the vertigo-like falling sensation of sinking back into his own room. Janus released his grip, opened his mouth, closed it again without speaking, and suddenly Remus found arms around folded him in an embrace. “We will be talking about this again,” Janus murmured, before both him and his touch disappeared as quick as it had come. Silence resounded in his wake, and Remus realized he’d been given what he’d asked for—his freedom.

Remus summoned another bottle of arsenic and drained it, relishing the way it instantly weakened his limbs, confused his thoughts. He sunk back onto his bed of corpses and plywood, gaze falling limp over his realm, wind rustling over eyes that saw no sights and ears that heard no sound.

[linkspooky]

Gogol the Clown

A member of the decay of angels, one of the few characters in the story we have seen follow Fyodor willingly rather than being mind controlled or a sycophant, an immediately loud and attention grabbing character. Nikolai Gogol has an incredible impact on the plot, despite only being around for a short time. There is a lot of deeper themes and philosophy to unravel in this engimatic character. So let’s answer Gogol’s question, just who is he? 

1. The Overcoat

As an ally of all clowns I am obligated to give a more in depth look at Gogol’s character. The first clue to his true nature is the author of his namesake, Nikolai Gogol. The author Gogol had a reptuation of a dramatist and a satirist, and blended humorous and tragic elements in his story to make critiques of society therefore we have Gogol, the laughing and yet tragic clown. 

His ability is named after The Overcoat a short story that had great influence in Russian Literature, as said by Dostoyevsky as “We all come from Gogols’ Overcoat.” 

The story narrates the life and death of Akaky Akakievich, an impoverished government clerk and copyist. He lives as nothing more than a tool of the bureaucracy, until he decides to save up for a new stylish overcoat which soon becomes the center of his life. Akaky after fasting for months finally can afford it, and is praised for the first time for the quality of his coat, only to be robbed the next day. When he speaks with a government official and meekly asks for help in cooperating with the police to retrieve the coat, the general scolds him so fiercely for interrupting his time with an unimportant matter. Soon afterwards, Akaky falls deathly ill with fever. In his last hours, delirious, imagining himself again sitting before the general and he pleads for forgiveness, before finally cursing the general. 

While Gogol, a clown who cooperates with terrorists and tries to drag down society has almost nothing in common with a punch-clock bureaucrat who has no life outside of his work, there’s an interesting comparison on how different their stories are. Almost as if Akakay is what Gogol is terrified of being, so much so he runs in the opposite direction. 

Both of their stories are primarily about their own deaths, but the way they die is opposite, Gogol chooses death, whereas Akaky meets his death soon after he deviates just a little bit from the social order of his humdrum life. 

If Gogol is a deviant of society, a dangerous terrorist, then Akaky is the living definition of a normal person. He has absolutely no life outisde of doing what others tell him to do His name Akaky Akakievich Bashmachkin, in russian means Akaky Bashmachkin the son of Akaky Bashmachkin. Which basically makes it the equivalent of John Johnson. It communicates his role as an everyman. He begins at the story a introverted, and hopeless but otherwise functioning non-entity with no expectations of social or material success. 

He basically acts like he was born to fit in a slot. His entire life consists of copying down documents, he does not do anything for himself other than what he is told. 

“It would be difficult to find another man who lived so entirely for his duties. It is not enough to say that Akakiy laboured with zeal: no, he laboured with love. In his copying, he found a varied and agreeable employment. Outside this copying, it appeared that nothing existed for him. He gave no thought to his clothes.”

He ‘enjoys’ his life so to speak, but he basically lives without living. He never makes any choices for himself, or desires anything for his life. He is satisfied but only because he wants for nothing. He has no thoughts of disatisfaction, but only because he never thinks. He lives without worries, because he never takes on the burden of his own free will. 

In other words as a bureaucrat he is not a person. He is a tool in the system. Not only that, but despite the fact that he is a completely harmless existence lacking any evil or bad intention at all, he is almost constantly bullied. He causes no trouble for others, keeps his head down, and does not even retaliate when he is jeered at and yet people continue to constantly push him down. Even when he is on the absolute bottom of society, he’s pushed. The only time he retaliates is when their jeers start to get into his work, at which point the mocking of him turns from humorous to tragic. 

How little humane feeling after all was to be found in men's hearts; how much coarseness and cruelty was to be found even in the educated and those who were everywhere regarded as good and honorable men."

When he is asked to think for himself and change just a few words on a document, Akaky is completely unable to do it. He’s unable to have a self.

This caused him so much toil that he broke into a perspiration, rubbed his forehead, and finally said, "No, give me rather something to copy." After that they let him copy on forever.

When he starts to desire a coat for the first time, something outside of his work, Akaky develops as a person. His self-esteem is raised and his expectations towards lief are raised as well by the overcoat. Which is why, when it is finally stolen, and Akaky is put back in his place so to speak by a much more important general he crashes back down. 

"Do you know to whom you speak? Do you realise who stands before you? Do you realise it? do you realise it? I ask you!"

In the end it’s a story of someone who dies without ever living, and only ever really making one choice for himself which was immediately taken away from him as he was ordered to go back to fitting in his slot. It shows that there’s more to life than simply obeying every single order given to you. Akaky by all means lived what society might call a good life, he never caused harm, he was never greedy, he never missed a day or work and yet we see the only result of that is people continuing to beat him down without any consideration. It’s an argument of what fitting into a society entails, and how absolutely mundane human cruelty can be. 

And St. Petersburg was left without Akakiy Akakievitch, as though he had never lived there. A being disappeared who was protected by none, dear to none, interesting to none, and who never even attracted to himself the attention of those students of human nature who omit no opportunity of thrusting a pin through a common fly, and examining it under the microscope.

A being who bore meekly the jibes of the department, and went to his grave without having done one unusual deed, but to whom, nevertheless, at the close of his life appeared a bright visitant in the form of a cloak, which momentarily cheered his poor life, and upon whom, thereafter, an intolerable misfortune descended, just as it descends upon the mighty of this world!

If you imagine Gogol as someone who exists in complete opposition to Akaky, trying to live a life where he makes every single choice in the opposite manner than the clown’s character becomes quite clear. 

Akaky is someone with really no free will, no free thought of his own, and no uniqueness. He is always the punch line to the jokers of other people. He is so plain what you see is basically what you get with him. He has no internal world whatsoever, and no designs of life. 

Gogol is a character based entirely around the concept of freedom, where freedom and his own identity, his uniqueness are the most important things to him. Which is why he dresses himself up as loudly as possible, plays the role of an eccentric, and becomes the clown. 

He is a terrorist, an outsider to society because for him that is the best method of being free. 

Society in Bungo Stray Dogs is after all, a lot like the one depicted in the Overcoat. A stagnant, uncaring thing, almost like a force of its own bearing down on others. Characters cannot easily move their position. Akutagawa is a stray dog, an orphan who is expected to die in the slums without ever receiving a helping hand, and the only way for him to escape that life is to become a murderer for the mafia. The poor stay poor, the weak are taken from, more orphans are not saved, the people in power stay in power in the name of an uneasy peace. 

The decay of angels is a group to hasten the destruction of a society that in their eyes, is already slowly decaying away. Not much is known on Gogol’s backstory, but if the alternative choice is for him to become downtrodden on like the man in the Overcoat it’s understandable why he would be so desperate for freedom he would flip the switch and go in the exact opposite, try to destroy anything that might hinder him, break any chain that might slow him down, run away from society so fast that running away and pursuing freedom became his only true identity. 

Gogol’s plan also shows how quickly society as a whole, but more importantly government bureacracy can turn on people the moment they stop fitting in a slot, the moment they ceae to be useful, no matter how much service they have given before that point. If the employees willingly give up their own humanity, the bureacracy will stop seeing them as people, as we see how quickly the government turns on the Armed Detective Agency despite all of their work before this point. 

The agency is the heart of the country, the nation’s pride, and then suddenly they are not. As easy as that. Which is a good existential conundrum showing that the rules you believe in, the securirty you believe you have, the structures in place are not as solid as you think they are. The foundation can crumble at any moment, and you are not a significant loss, because you are not a person to them in the first place. 

Gogol is someone who wants to be free to the point of radicalism. He deliberately disrupts the status quo, not just for his enemies but even the people he’s manipulating. He leaves the corrupt government agent alive because he does not want him to die until he realizes that he never wanted his seat in society, his power, his role in society in the first place. 

“As I grew up, I opened my eyes and saw the real world and I began to laugh and I haven’t stopped since. I saw that the meaning of life was to get a livelihood, that the goal of life was to be a high court judge, that the brighest joy of life was to marry a well off girl. That wisdom was what the majority said it was, that passion was to give a speech, that courage was to risk being fined ten dollar, that cordiality was to say ‘you’re welcome’ after a meal. And that the fear  of god was to go to communion once a year. That’s what I saw, and I laughed.” - Soren Kierkegaard. 

If Akaky is the joke, then Gogol is so determined not to become a joke that he becomes the clown instead and makes others the joke. That society for him is not something that people live in as themselves, but rather repress themselves so they can mindlessly repeat society better. 

2. The Only Philosophical Question is Suicide

“Marry, and you will regret it; don’t marry, you will also regret it; marry or don’t marry, you will regret it either way. Laugh at the world’s foolishness, you will regret it; weep over it, you will regret that too; laugh at the world’s foolishness or weep over it, you will regret both. Believe a woman, you will regret it; believe her not, you will also regret it… Hang yourself, you will regret it; do not hang yourself, and you will regret that too; hang yourself or don’t hang yourself, you’ll regret it either way; whether you hang yourself or do not hang yourself, you will regret both. This, gentlemen, is the essence of all philosophy.”  - Soren Kierkegaard

Then, what is the center of Gogol’s philosophy? If he sees society as something inherently meaningless that he longs to be free from, if the values of others are just empty ideas to him, if he acnkowledges that every role others might assume, everything they think is important is not, everything they want to hold onto forever was never theirs in the first place: If it is all meaningless to him one way or the other then why are Gogol’s ideals so strong he would die for them in the first place? 

Gogol is someone who tightly controls information. He makes others play guessing games so they can think for themselves. His goal is to make others fall from their roles, and to make them regret the roles they assigned to themselves in the first place. Once again though, this is an objective, this is a goal, there is motivation behind his actions. He acts like everything is meaningless to him, that he is flippant to the world’s woes, and yet he is sharply making these critiques and satires of the society around them with a purpose. That in itself is the central question of his character. His philosophy as confusing and contradictory as it is, is easy to understand once you unravel the central question of his character. 

“There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide... Judging whether life is or is not worth living. That is the fundamental question of philosophy.” Albert Camus, Myth of Sisyphus

Everything is a choice, and the first choice everyone makes is whether or not to kill themselves. Camus judged existence to be one that is entirely meaningless,  but rather than that negating the meaning of choice rather it makes choices matter more as they define who you are. A life that has no inherent meaning is therefore, defined by the actions it entails. 

“If the universe is meaningless, so is the statement that it is so… The meaning and purpose of dancing is the dance.” 

Therefore a lack of meaning, of outside validation, ironically gives people more freedom to dictate their own meaning. 

If the fundamental question of all philosophy is whether or not one should commit suicide, then what Gogol aims for himself is radical freedom. 

Sartre's notion of 'radical freedom' said that everyone always has a choice, and every act is a free act. When people say they have 'no choice' but to do something, they are lying to themselves.  

“We are left alone, without excuse. This is what I mean when I say that man is condemned to be free” (Sartre). 

Sartre’s view of the world is that everyone, everyone, is utterly free. Existence precedes essence. Human beings first come into existence, then they determine their own essence by the choices they make. 

There is no essence to any thing that exists.  There is no pre-existent essence that makes a thing what it is.  There is no essence to a human being that preexists the human and makes a human what that human is.  There is no essence to being a male or a female.  There are no predetermined roles.  NOTHING is predetermined.  There is NO fate or destiny.  Humans make themselves what they are.  Humans choose to believe what they do about themselves.  Humans choose to believe in something called a human nature.  But humans make that nature what it is by choosing to be what they are.  There is no God that predetermines what humans are and even if there is a God, God made humans free to determine their own natures.  Humans are freedom.  I am what I choose.

Therefore if everything is free, then everything is a choice which you bear responsibility for. The cost of Sartre’s absolute freedom m of realizing our own freedom is Angoisse, or the anguish of existence. Everything is terrifyingly possible because humans are just making it up as they go along, and are free to toss aside their shackles at any time.

Because suicide is a choice, that means that choosing to live is also a continued choice that people make. If a gun is put to your head, you are still responsible for your actions, because the choice to die was still a choice available to you. It is something that emphasizes an incredibly harsh respsonsibility on the ideal of freedom, as people are no longer able to blame outside their circumstances for their own choices, it is at the same time liberating but heavy. This is the same philosophy which Gogol holds. 

This idea of freedom is reflected in Gogol’s ability as well, it’s one that allows him to tranvserse space with almost absolute freedom. He can move things around at his will, as even dimmensions bend to his choices. 

During their fight, Atsushi assigns him the predetermined role of a villain. As if he was a character cast in a play, rather than a real person.  Atsushi himself like a striped tiger, sees things in blakc and white, often loses control of himself and blames the tiger rather than his own free will and emotions when his ability went crazy and lashed out. He is in a way the opposite of Gogol, someone who rties to chain himself down because it gives him a purpose, rather than soemone who liberates himself. Atsushi clings onto his past pain, his obligation to save others even to harm himself, and repeats those actions without analyzing their true meaning or even taking full responsibility for them. 

Gogol then plays to Atsushi’s expectations of the world. His black and white, regimented story roles. In Atsushi’s mind people can only cause hurt to other people, because they’re bad people who feel nothing. He has a hard time grasping complexity, because he himself does not want to take responsibility for his negative emotions, his resentment, his anger, so he completely fails to see it in other people.

Gogol confronts Atsushi with the reality that society is not rational and acceptable to him, but rather it is fundamentally irrational and something unacceptable. 

Gogol kills people, he acts as a terrorist, but his pursuit of freedom is the real deal. For Gogol, complete freedom also means the freedom to lose others, the freedom to hurt other people, the freedom to live also means the freedom to die. He accepts the anguish of existence, and the responsbility of all of his choices because to him that is what it means to be free. 

He does not take orders, he chooses to cooperate with Fyodor fully as an equal, because if he took orders he would no longer be responsible for his own essence, and no longer free. He does bad things of his own free will and does not attempt to hide from the guilt, and instead frees it and takes responsibility for the kind of person he is because that is what it emans to be radically free. 

He is someone completely honest with himself, because decieving himself, or lying, is something that would once again make him untrue to his own essence which he wishes to set out to define. 

Which is why Gogol is honest to Atsushi, but also tells him not to listen to the words of a clown too seriously. Because what GOgol says is a heavy revelation. The extreme freedom he exists for is almost too much of a burden, because it means accountability in every single one of your actions in every single circumstance. 

Atsushi can choose to live free of the stories of good and evil he thinks is meaningful, or he could continue to live bound to those stories trying to seek out meaning in them. If Atsushi let go of what other people told was meaningful, than Atsushi would have to define it for himself, which is hard for someone so desperate in validation from others they are almost entirely lacking in a sense of self. It would mean him acknowledging that the validation they constantly risk their life to seek means absolutely nothing. 

He might be happier not having that revelation, to think there is still value to his pointless struggles. Camus argues that after the revelation of an empty life, our search for meaning and happiness is a moral obligation, even though in the end it is as futile as siyphus pushing a boulder up a stone. It’s labor for labor’s purpose that will amount to nothing in the end. Existence is a search for meaning in Camus’ view. A search we must undertake even though we are certain there will be no reward. 

Gogol’s ultimate trick is to switch the roles that the detective agency thought were so fixed in place. They were the heroes one moment, and the villains the next, because the meaning and security they thought they had never existed in the first place. 

He sets them adrift from meaning the same way that he is. He frees them from obligation of protecting others, and makes them have to survive for themselves. He presents them with the same moral dilemna that he awakened to. 

Are the armed detective agency the good guys because they want to be? Or are they obligated? The same way Atsushi believes he is obligated to save others because he believes it is the only thing that will give his life worth. The detective agnecy are in a trap they 100% could have avoided if they simply made the choice for themselves to avoided it instead of acting out of thoughtless obligation. 

There is one truly seriously philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Gogol appears as a careless clown, but he is actually the most responsible character in the story. He lives with his choices, and then dies with them as well to live a life perfectly defined by his own choices, himself. His death therefore, awakens the characters to the fact that they are also responsible for their own choices. 

[captainkurosolaire]

I like that his words are not wasted. He knows what he wants and he doesn't ask for it. It's already his.

OOC: Has to be. In his world, if someone doesn’t reach out or grab or show their intentions or act’s under passiveness many deaths happen, ship’s burn, torture’s, enslavements, plundering. Desire fuels many a man but living in the moments of it and achieving it often aren’t met in living. It’s a take or be taken in his seas in his teachings. If ship’s at his flank, acting second nature or trying to remain with cautiousness leads to bombardments. No-quarters can be risen anytime, even by your closest allies, to your own fleshing loved ones you romantically had because ambitions exist there it’s what determines who survives, who’s path is right. Anonymously send me your favorite detail about how I play my character.I will publish and respond OOC. (Thanks for the ask. ^^ In-depth if you want to go into below cut since long appreciate the attention to details and eyes. <3 Stay lovely, pleasant mystery.)

Though obtaining and taking they’re not always the brightest solutions. Learning on land that is not the way of the trade. He is no different than a slaver and that’s concerning because if he’s an oppressor then what’s really better between him and them? He has odds because of it. Keeping anything in longevity is all but nigh impossible. To sit and keep communication, to not keep people in a distance, to let them in especially from the tumbling seas they’re unrelenting and rocky, there has to be one steady for that navigation. Either lose himself and the ambition’s that were agreed to the terms for his story to undertake all the dangers and pressures that come with claiming a mantle to be a leader and become renowned for the sheer sakes and make all sacrifices lost mean something. Or to shrivel and lose him become self-destructive but yet happiness, but it’s not with productiveness to him because he’s not out to those blues. Loving is the hardest craft he’s ever tried to achieve to keep bonds, relics, what he earned. He’s just used to having a a couple of wenches or objects to draw him into morale, or throw it at another miserable. Though when he wants to settle and makes that effort and based on how he a once stationed heartthrob who charmed and did the same fell in blind love and went all the way to the near go-post ending. He became a realization of just being a temporary ‘need’ they wanted a play against him as a diversion from falling out with their truest picketed fence with kids and a second life already made. Everything about him is stuck in danger but also everything also, in the beginning, is encouraging and a spirit lifter when he meets someone different from docking. There aren’t few that probably have encountered his type, he’s a proven exceptional at giving impressions and making light happen in his travels. Though with a man split between one soul, one holding your core and emotions, the other holding your surface and ambitions. It’s balance, wholeness, remaining self-loved in everything that’s the toughest storm he’s got. Psychologically he’s a statistic mess, a no-good, but damn does he want to! More than anything validated as something more than that measure placed on him. It’s only recently is starting to find that journey to explore his wants, himself, what freedom means to him. What he can do better, he has to grow, has to. So he’s finding the words that make him a spoken someone that doesn’t leave room for thought and acts in every pressure and medium so he can become the proper leader. It’s little does he know, yet, he’s already and always had something though that does separate all his afflictions they’re also possible to take as a blessing. Sometime he’ll get there it’s just ideally he doesn’t reach it all too late.

[musicprincess655]

Youichi ripped another page from his sketchbook and threw it to the ground at his feet. The crumpled pieces of paper had gathered around him, and if Youichi wasn’t feeling so stubborn and contrary, he’d consider now a good time to stop.

Drawing was frustrating at normal speed. It shouldn’t have made a difference. After all, he could perceive things at super speeds as if they were happening in regular time, but somehow it changed everything. Youichi sometimes drew at normal speeds, just to change things up, but being forced to do so felt stifling.

Usually, drawing was an escape. It was something that was just his, and if what he wanted to escape from something to do with the team, what better place to go than somewhere they couldn’t really follow?

“Did that sketchbook do something to offend you?” Youichi turned to see Barry drop onto the porch beside him. “Need me to fight it off for you?”

“I should probably give it a rest, huh?” Youichi asked, mouth quirking up in a self-deprecating grin.

After two months in America, his English had already started to smooth out. Barry couldn’t speak Japanese all that well, and his aunt Arisa had insisted Youichi practice English if he was spending time in America.

“It’s an interesting coping mechanism, but not a bad one,” Barry said. “At least you’re only raining down destruction and mayhem on paper. I’ve seen worse methods.”

“I’ll run out of sketchbook at this rate,” Youichi said.

“So we’ll get you another one,” Barry said simply. “It’s a solvable problem.”

Unlike my speed, Youichi couldn’t help but think. Barry seemed to notice his shift in mood, and reached down to pick up one of the crumpled sketchbook pages at his feet.

“So what did this one do to offend you so badly it had to be purged?” Barry asked, holding up the sketch of the house across the street that Youichi had been attempting. “I think it looks pretty good.”

“The perspective is all wrong,” Youichi said, pointing out all the flaws he could see. “And I didn’t get the roof right at all, it slants different. And over here…”

“I can’t see any of that,” Barry admitted sheepishly.

“You don’t know much about drawing.” Youichi said it without accusation, even though it was true. Barry was a scientist, and it was how he’d come by his speed. Youichi had just been the product of an accident and a particularly fortunate lightning strike.

Or particularly unlucky, in light of recent events.

“This has always been just your thing, huh?” Barry sighed. “I understand the world through science, and your aunt has her words, and you have this.”

“Don’t have it so much right now,” Youichi said. He was pretty sure they weren’t just talking about art anymore.

“Maybe you’re just focusing in on the finer details too much,” Barry said. “If you step back, maybe it’s not so bad.”

Youichi stared hard at the drawing, glare deepening.

“I don’t think I can keep doing metaphors in English,” he said finally. Barry laughed.

“That’s fair,” he said. “Have you talked to your team at all since you left?”

Youichi looked down at his hands. It was a fair question, but not one he wanted to answer.

“Thought not,” Barry said, not unkindly. “They’re worried about you, you know. They keep calling me to ask how you’re doing. Ryou especially.”

Youichi tried to laugh at how hard Barry hit the R in Ryou’s name instead of feeling the separation between them more keenly.

Because he missed his team in a way that hurt to his core. He missed Miyuki’s shitty personality, and Sawamura’s bright, obnoxious laughter, and Jun’s shouts, and Tetsu’s terrible jokes.

And more than anything, he missed Ryou. They’d been best friends since they were young kids, practically inseparable since the day they’d met. Ever since they’d formed their own team with just the six of them, they’d been even closer.

It had been easy, falling for Ryou. From the first day, he’d captured Youichi’s attention, and as Youichi had slowly learned to translate the jabs and insults and appreciate the genuine words when they came, as they grew up together...he couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t fall hopelessly in love with Kominato Ryousuke.

And his feelings were returned. That was something Youichi was sure of. It wasn’t just the one kiss they’d shared, either, it was everything put together. It was the shared looks, the easy partnership, the quiet moments where both of them were content to just be. Youichi missed those most of all.

It had been easy to just let things develop at their own pace. After all, they should have had their entire lifetimes together. What was a few years while they figured everything out? It couldn’t feel like a waste of time, not when they were together. They’d been friends first, and they would always be best friends first, no matter what else happened.

And then the time Youichi had left had changed from decades to potentially months. Oh, he could still live a long life, but it would mean giving up what he loved doing the most. Every day, he got to wake up and do the best job in the world. Being a hero was cool, and it was all he’d ever wanted to do, and he was expected to drop all that because his body was starting to reject the lightning that flowed through it?

Surviving wasn’t living, and Youichi couldn’t be content just surviving.

“They’ll be okay without me,” Youichi finally said. “They’re all strong.”

“I’m sure they’ll survive just fine without you,” Barry said. “But it’s obvious none of them want to.”

“No place on a hero team for a speedster who can’t run, right?” Youichi asked. He could feel Barry’s eyes boring into the side of his head.

“You know, kid, when you first got your speed, I had no clue how I was gonna handle it,” Barry admitted. “And I’m not ashamed to admit that I was terrified.”

“I never noticed,” Youichi said. He’d been too starstruck, in awe of the fact that his favorite uncle and personal hero was a real superhero, and that Youichi was all of a sudden just like him.

“Well, I did at least one thing right, then,” Barry said. “You were just so young, and so different from me. I could understand all this hero stuff with science, but even when you came to the lab with me, it was pretty obvious you were just humoring me.”

Youichi shrugged. He’d never been much of a science kid. Like Barry had said earlier, it wasn’t the way he understood the world.

“You took to this better than I ever expected, considering I had no clue how to teach you,” Barry continued. “I was still learning myself. I was barely an adult, and suddenly I had this sidekick who looked at me like I hung the moon?”

“American saying,” Youichi said out of habit.

“Oh, sorry. It means…” Barry trailed off as he tried to find the words.

“I kind of get it,” Youichi said, cutting off the explanation. “You’re still my hero. All I wanted when I was a kid was to run just like you. I still want to do that.”

Barry looked at him for so long that Youichi was sure that he’d said something wrong. But Barry’s face was gentle, not angry, so maybe it was okay.

“You know, kid, you’ve spent a long time trying to run just like me,” Barry said. “Maybe it’s about time you started running like you.”

He clapped Youichi on the shoulder, getting up and heading back into the house.

“I’ll let you get back to your angry sketchbook rampage,” Barry said.

Which left Youichi alone with that thought.

Maybe it’s about time you started running like you.

What did that mean, though? Youichi had always tried to follow the theory of running from Barry, and then from Bart too. Both of them were faster than him, because they understood the physics of speed, the mechanics of running. Their brains worked with numbers and scientific principles and Youichi had spent years trying to keep up.

But Youichi wasn’t a scientist. He wasn’t a numbers guy. He didn’t see the world through hard constants like that.

Youichi worked on instincts. He saw the world through feelings, through images, through emotions. He couldn’t always describe his world, so he had to feel it out. His gut had always been good, and he’d learned to trust it even in the face of conventional logic.

Maybe it’s about time you started running like you.

So if he was supposed to run like himself, did that mean to let go of the theory? The form he’d spent so many years forcing himself into? Was he supposed to just listen to his instincts? What were they even telling him?

Youichi stood, grabbing his comm. as he left the house. He’d come to love Central City over the years, but right now, as he tried to think, the bustle and noise was only distracting.

He’d gotten familiar with the bus system, and after an hour jumping from bus to bus, he was finally outside the city. There was nothing romantic about this country. There was just a cracked asphalt road, dead grass on the sides, and a fence quickly falling into disrepair.

It was perfect.

Youichi stood perfectly still, trying to listen. What were his instincts trying to tell him? What did his gut say was the right move?

Wind swirled around him, cooling the warm sunlight that fell across his cheeks as he closed his eyes and really tried to listen. The wind hummed in his ears, and if Youichi really listened, he could almost pretend he heard a voice in it.

Run, the voice seemed to say. Run like the wind, run faster, run like you have a force of nature inside your soul. Run to the ends of the earth just because you can, run just to feel the freedom in your heart.

Youichi couldn’t help the half-hearted chuckle that fell from his lips. He couldn’t tell if he’d just imagined the voice saying everything he wanted to hear. After all, he wanted to run again, and he’d always wanted to be fast. And it was impossible that there really was a voice on the wind. That was only his imagination.

Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was wishful thinking.

Youichi opened his eyes anyway. He could see all the way to the horizon, and all he wanted to do now was see what was beyond it. And then see what was beyond that horizon, again and again and again. He loved his speed because he loved being a hero, but more than that, when he was running, when he was flying, that was when he felt truly free. There was joy to it, joy to the action itself, and that was what truly pained Youichi to lose.

It was a reckless idea. Stupid beyond belief, stupid in a way that Youichi had never been before. But he’d always been reckless. He took risks, just to see if they paid off, and even if it killed him, he’d wanted to stay in this game for just a little longer, for just one more glimpse at the summit.

Youichi set his feet for a sprint, and then he let go of all the tension in his shoulders, dropping them from the form he’d forced himself to adopt, letting his arms fall wherever they wanted, shaking out his legs until they felt just right instead of stiff.

“New message from Nightwing,” the comm. link said in his ear, and Youichi jumped. He’d almost forgotten that even if he was alone out here, he’d never really be alone in this world, not when he had his team.

Youichi tapped the comm. It wasn’t often that they left each other messages. If it was important enough to call each other on the comm., it was important enough to speak directly. But Youichi could understand the difficulty in speaking directly. He’d let go of his anger towards Ryou almost as soon as he’d left, but reaching out was something he was still trying to do.

“Hey,” Ryou’s voice said in his ear, and Youichi clenched his jaw against all the emotions inside him. But even with the lingering frustration, even with the pain...it was obvious which ones he felt the strongest. “I just wanted to say one last thing before we go out on this mission. I bet you’ve seen the Warworld thing on the news. We’re going to go take it down. I need to say this before we go, just in case. This isn’t a guilt trip, though. I’m definitely coming back. Just in case.”

Youichi snorted. That was all Ryou. Of course he’d deflect from what he really meant. Youichi chose to ignore the part where they were maybe going on a suicide mission in favor of listening to the rest of Ryou’s words.

“I’ve decided you’re right about one thing. I have really shitty timing.” Ryou laughed a little. “I had two months to tell you all of this, and I decided to wait until now. I guess I really am a coward. But I still need to say that I’m sorry, one more time, because I never said that. I never said it that way. I’m sorry for calling you replaceable, and for implying that you weren’t hero enough to defend yourself. I wanted to keep you safe at all costs, but that wasn’t right. The choice I tried to force you to accept was one that would hurt you, and I’m sorry I was selfish enough to ask you to accept it anyway.”

Ryou cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice was steadier.

“So that’s it. I’m sorry for everything. And when we get back, if you’re willing to hear me out, I want to say it in person. Because you deserve that. You deserve so much more than I’ve given you. You’re a better man than I am, but I can promise I’ll try. For you, I’ll try. You’re worth that. So just wait for us to get back, and I’ll give you a real apology. And I’ll tell you everything else I was too scared to say before.”

The message ended, and Youichi tried to force the lump in his throat down. There had been so much raw emotion in Ryou’s voice, and it told so much more than his words. Ryou had bared his soul to Youichi, and even if his message was unspoken, Youichi had heard it loud and clear.

Youichi tuned into the comm. link that the team would be using on the mission to the Warworld. Even if he was stuck on Earth, he could still listen, supporting them in spirit.

“We’re losing in here!” Haruichi’s was the first voice Youichi heard. “We need backup!”

“There is no backup!” Nori said, his voice edging into desperation.

“I can’t get the power core shut down!” An screamed. “Arsenal’s down!”

“I could use backup in the crystal key chamber,” Ryou said, and Youichi shivered at the fear in his voice.

“There is no backup,” Nori said again. “All other squads are pinned down.”

Youichi stopped listening, staring up at the sky while the sounds of everyone he cared about slowly losing surrounded him.

Run with the wind. Run faster.

Was this it, then? Was he really better off staying here, staying safe, listening to the deaths of the people he loved.

But was the alternative better? Was throwing all his hopes onto a vague feeling, knowing it would probably kill him, but praying that it wouldn’t, the right way to go? If this was his last run, was it worth the price he would pay for one final look at the summit?

There was no question. Youichi turned and ran.

[notesfromnayeshi]

Group Reread: Notes on Chapter 11-15

Chapter 11

Pivan describes the night as "godless", which makes me think of the phrase "palace of the day, in the kingdom of the night". I wonder if they see the "kingdom of the night" as Nayeshi, because it's a place where they don't believe in Parfir. But it's also the "palace of the day" because it is where the Rifter is born? I don't know, just something about the phrase "godless night" brought that to mind.

I know some people already mentioned this on Discord, but it stood out to me too: John might have actually caused Saimura to trip on a tree root. I think it's super plausible! He was wishing so hard that Saimura would be safe.

"As John pushed himself to his feet, the young man looked up at him and went pale. His brown eyes were wide with fear. The moment he caught sight of the rifle in John's hand he drew out a long hunting knife. He didn't hold it towards John. Instead, he turned the blade to his own throat.

"Don't," John whispered to him.

"I won't burn on your Holy Road," Saimura said."

What. A. Badass. I love Saimura!

Chapter 12

I like that they have indoor plumbing in Basawar. It's a weird worldbuilding detail that you don't usually expect in a fantasy setting. A lot of Basawar is like that, which I love. It's not your typical fantasy world!

Lady Bousim says of Bill and Laurie "perhaps it was fated that they should be wed." She's sort of right! They were never technically married, and who knows what would have happened between them if they had stayed in Nayeshi. They pretended to be married as a survival tactic in Basawar, which ended up with them essentially *being* married for all intents and purposes. But I have to wonder, is that really what they both wanted? Given more freedom, would they have stayed with each other?

"Her expression turned sad and she clenched her hands into fists around the chains."

We talked a little in the Discord channel about what marriage chains looked like, and I am amending my opinion to say that I think @sammybunny711​ is completely right and that the chains hang down between the fingers. At first I didn't think it made sense, because it would be so impractical and annoying to have chains always hanging down and getting in the way of anything you tried to grab, but now that I think about it that actually is very believable. The marriage chains are definitely presented as a burden imposed on women, so I can definitely see them being inconvenient and impractical (just like many other beauty and fashion trends that women have endured in the real world).

"Now, you see a fair-haired child and no one thinks anything of it, not even the child's own mother. She may have Eastern blood but it doesn't matter because her soul has become Basawar. It's pitiful."

She's definitely talking about herself here. We haven't actually met Fikiri at this point, so we don't know that he is fair-haired, but it makes sense. I feel bad for Lady Bousim. She's very passionate about her heritage, and that's relatable. It's sad that she doesn't get a better fate.

John ponders how Ravishan has an "uncanny knack" for finding him. Even though, for Ravishan's timeline, the bond hasn't actually been forged yet, I think it still exists between them. For John, the bond was forged when he was a child. There is definitely some self-fulfilling prophecy going on with the Issusha'im and the way they direct the outcomes of the future.

Chapter 13

Pivan tells John that it's his duty to make sure Lady Bousim never leaves Amura'taye. Maybe that's why he's so insistent that Fikiri makes it up the Thousand Steps. It sounds like if Fikiri succeeds, Lady Bousim must stay there, but if he fails or if he dies then she can go back to Nurjima.

Marriage customs are definitely strange in Basawar. Pivan can't believe that Laurie agreed to marry Bill, saying "Perhaps she didn't give him much of a fight". Reminds me of Wildling marriages in A Song of Ice and Fire where the wildling men "steal" their brides and the women will fight their suitors if they're not interested in marriage.

"But you don't have a woman waiting back in your village?" Pivan's voice broke into his thoughts. "No," John said quickly. "I don't have anyone." More truth. This conversation was turning out to be among the most depressing of his life."

Awww, John. Just wait! Only 3 or 4 years before you finally get to be with Ravishan..

"John found it a little ironic that Pivan would want to teach him one set of prayers so that Lady Bousim could have no objection to him, while the lady sent her servant to teach him another set of prayers to win Pivan's approval"

The levels of irony are deep here. John is praying at his own temple. And all the acolytes who visit the temple are actually praying in the literal presence of Parfir.

"The stone was dark and rose up into a man's body, arms outstretched. In places his muscles seemed to melt into carvings of branches, flowers and leaves."

According to Payshmura philosophy, Parfir and the Rifter are two incarnations of the same divinity. It seems like they might not have it entirely right though. John, who is definitely the Rifter (we see the destructive power for sure) also embodies the regenerative, benevolent nature of Parfir. It makes it extra sad that the Payshmura essentially broke the good natures of every past incarnation of their god so that only the destructive Rifter was ever seen. They never realized the same powers could be used to do good for the world.

"When he closed his eyes, he thought he could still hear Pivan whispering prayers."

Maybe he can! Maybe Parfir really does hear prayers.

Chapter 14

"Sky and stones didn't speak Basawar or any other language"

I love how righteously indignant John is on behalf of the stones.

"Candidate Fikiri, you have come a long way through hardship and danger but Parfir has reached out his hand and given you his protection."

Literally! There is so much irony in these chapters.

"Ravishan reached past John to pull a spray of pine needles from the branch above them."

This is a description from when John finds Ravishan in the courtyard. I love how this scene ends up mirrored later on in Nurjima when they are checking into the hotel and Ravishan is shredding a flower between his fingers. And I also think this description calls back to the diner scene in Chapter 4 when Kyle notices Laurie reach past Bill to get the menus and he think about how the act of reaching past someone so casually displays great intimacy.

Chapter 15

Back with my sweet angel, Kyle!

Some of the politics in this chapter are interesting. If you haven't seen the Lisam family tree from the paperback extras, you may not know that Ravishan, Rousma, and Dayyid are (or were) down the line of Lisam succession, Dayyid being a younger son and Ravishan and Rousma being the children of a younger son or daughter.

"So, I kill him and then I'm on my own?" Kahlil asked. The prospect seemed oddly familiar."

I think this is what he would have been expected to do in Nayeshi. Kill John, and then stay there and do whatever you want? I guess. It seems strange that they Payshmura wouldn't want him to come back after he killed the Rifter.

Alidas: quiet, mysterious, good leader, responsible, hard to get a word out of… I'd say Kahlil definitely has a type. We all agree that he's crushing hard on Alidas, right?

[engine-of-life]

Children of the Orchard

In a city of gold and turquoise, a monster slept. With cathedrals and tiled plazas. Aqueducts and canals. Statues painted in magenta, with wings stretching to the heavens. It imagined itself an artist and its art a masterpiece.

But in its canvas, it found flaws, spots, tears. Places where the pigment mixed in unintended ways. Where dust had accumulated on the surface between sessions. In the sunlight, it could see the ridges where the paint had built up from too many reworks. And it would rework it again and again and scrape and paint and scrape and repaint, never satisfied with its work, always on a quest to remove the stains, the spots, the mistakes, the coincidence. It would try to correct a spot, only to smear another, mashing the grease of its hand into the ridges. It would be corrected. It would be worked to be the best it could possibly be. The work was never done.

In the distance were the orchards. Sacred trees, giving birth to a populous, sustaining a vision, a dream, a love, things flesh and fruit. They were perfect in all the ways the artist was not. They existed in harmony with their imperfections, a wash of pigments, colors, textures, dancing in wonderous shapes, changing and fluctuating, a beautiful symphony. They had grown of natural order, in sunlight, in darkness, becoming and shaping, until they were something more, until the ground itself was reaching towards the heavens where no statue could reach.

The artist, in their feverish quest for impossible perfection, could not recognize them and saw their being as only flaw. It sought to repaint and repaint and repaint. To make permanent, to orchestrate how the pigments mixed, how they set, how they looked, how they reflected its vision, to suit their standards, to suit their ideas.

The children of the trees looked quietly at first upon the monster and wondered at what was to come. Because when the work was done, the trees wilted. Their scales fell from their sides, their fruits were rotten and bruised, and the populous without sustenance or soul. Kaleidoscopes of colors turned into muddied greys, fluidity and vibrancy lost, until the children were starved and suffering.

The artist would repaint them. It was no matter to them now. They had painted and repainted so much that to scrape it all away was no matter any longer. It could be redone. It could always be redone.

But the truth was of destruction. Burning, noise, clamoring. The children were grabbed, fined, imprisoned, interrogated, thinking at first to reserve themselves to be forgotten, painted over, until, finally, the guardian of the orchard emerged.

His name was Foulke. He had been born in soil, in dirt and sweat, watching the trees die and renew each year. He knew their nature, their beauty, and all the ways they suffered and were whole. The children were the same and he knew deeply their plight. To be erased, to be rewritten, to be thought of as spots and stains and mud. And he raised his voice to all who could hear.

Three disciples came to listen. A poet. A banker. A soldier. They were Forsistelle. Isaiel. And Vensrit. And they heard his words, looking upon what they once thought was a work unfinished and opened their eyes to the needless death and destruction.

A great haste came upon them to gather the children. With a throng behind them, they first tried speaking to the artist. “Do not tear down our homes,” they said. “To you they may be but an imperfection, but to us they are a masterpiece all the same. Leave us be, in our natural beauty, to be chaotic and wondrous and untamed.”

But the artist didn’t listen. It had worked for so long, so hard, with such singular purpose, that it could not hear at all. So it continued to work. It worked slowly, methodically, bringing up its knowledge of how it had worked before. But under the knife, the paint wouldn’t give. It knew to work it harder would be to risk cutting the canvas, never to be whole again, so it was careful.

And in that care, the paint hardened. Word had spread and in the orchards were a mass. They had come from all over, gathered in cause only by what of them had been destroyed by the artist, what had been rewritten, what had been erased, what had been distorted. They fought back, daring the artist to cut, holding hostage the only thing it valued, swelling in number and unity in hope that the artist would see sense.

That, perhaps, it would catch a moment to look at its work, to absorb it as it was, and appreciate the flaws and spots and stains, for those were products of work, of individuality, of soul, of circumstance and beloved memory.

But the artist is a frustrated sort, filled with self-loathing and cowardice, that when dared, in a passion of fury, it indeed saw to cut. And it held aloft the piece removed with disdain, the piece that had been of so much trouble, stabbing it with its knife again and again, though the trees and the people were nothing more than slander against its abilities, against its vision, full of vindication and ire.

The people, stunned and without any home, had been proven wrong. The artist had everything but heart, so assured that only more work was needed. More work, better work, skillful work, to make their canvas the way they designed. Thinking none on the countless versions destroyed, overlooked, discarded.

Homeless, the children talked amongst themselves. In the act of retribution, the artist had taken Foulke’s spirit. It had cooked the skin from the poet’s hands. It had taken the banker’s arms. And the soldier could no longer see. The people, too, had been scarred, mutilated, abandoned like scraps of a ruined work. They no longer had their orchard, but they had each other.

Word came amongst them of a different artist. One of the same blood, of trees and spots, who had just come into her own. She knew well the vanity of Rainetwen and the orchard’s children traveled north, hoping she would add their scraps to her collection.

She offered freedom, embracing their colors and chaos, and under her, they dared to become the very masterpiece of which the artist had been blind.

[sugarpinecrews]

title: eye of the storm word count: 2,751 warning(s): major warnings for alcohol, violence, and death. a/n: it’s another parker fic, what do you want from me. mostly an akrasia re-write.

     Solitude never has been an easy pill to swallow. Dependency on others came second nature to people like Parker, all reserved and naive to the dark side of the world, and yet he somehow never expected this tight leash to eventually snap. He never expected things to end, to inevitably leave him standing alone amidst all of this wreckage, and how pathetic is that? How sad a thought, that of complete ignorance, of unadulterated oblivion --- how could anyone be so stupid?

         The sun is finally beginning to set, a picturesque ending that casts a hazy coat of warm tones against the now quiet home, and Parker silently kicks himself for having fallen into such a rut; friends were meant to be lost, he supposes, even if he liked to think otherwise. He clung to that optimism so tightly, and where did that get him? What good did this choice do? It only left him lonely, a miserable excuse of a lovelorn fool, and that was no way to live. He knew this much. To ignore the painful reminders surrounding him, he busies himself with cleaning around the house, tidying away the mess his roommates have left behind; even the two he considers his best friends have of late seemed too preoccupied to notice him, only ever acknowledging his existence if he was somehow intruding into their lives --- he only gives this thought a brief moment of light before quickly shoving it away, hoping disregard would cause the possibility to simply disappear. He makes quick work of haphazard cleaning, and decides to reward himself with a little bit of television --- maybe something would be interesting enough to distract ( from the quiet, or this gaping loneliness, or this itch that he simply cannot scratch --- ).

          Time seems to pass ever so slowly now, seconds seeping into this space separating want and tangibility like nails down a chalkboard; without giving the action much thought, Parker grabs his phone, checking for...what, well, he isn’t exactly sure. The screen lights up bright, his lock screen showing a picture of himself and a man he supposed he could no longer call a friend. The man’s girlfriend stands between them, beaming like the sun; her hair blocks out the face of both men standing behind her, but only slightly. He could feel the distaste from his friend --- or, friend of a friend --- even through the photo, and this feeling causes him to awkwardly lock the screen, picture quickly fading to black as he sets his phone back at his side. He turns his attention back to the television in front of him, hoping for something to catch his eye. Surely something could distract him. Anything.

            It is an unexpected interaction, Steven asking him to step outside to speak privately, and Cib almost thinks that it’s a joke. He wants to believe that this is all just one big elaborate ploy, a prank that would soon enough have a punchline, a plot twist, anything. Even as Steven speaks to him, all slow and calm, he silently begs for this all to be a lie --- they were messing with him, they had to be; Sami Jo would never do that, he thinks, drills this thought into his brain until its existence is undeniable, and yet he still listens, nods along to the words being said. Sami Jo went to Parker, Sami Jo betrayed his trust, Sami Jo lied to him --- seconds pass like a millennia, and time gives anger a chance to fester inside of him. How could she do this to him? How could she run to a man who has done nothing but intrude, nothing but interfere in a relationship that was meant to be none of his concern? These thoughts are abruptly shoved aside as Steven speaks again, breaks this barrier of silence with the suggestion of solitude; he was to take the rest of the day off, to go home and relax. They hug it out, all awkward and insincere, and Cib walks away. 

           He was told to go home, but Steven must know him better than this; he ends up, just a couple of hours later, perched against a dingy bar top, attempting to drown his demons in alcohol too sharp to savor. Thoughts inevitably drift back to his girlfriend, all faux innocence and false loyalty, and this path naturally leads itself to Parker, a man he was meant to trust. Even despite the recently strained relationship between the two, he feels betrayed, hurt by the other man’s willingness to be deceitful; did Cib deserve this? Was he meant to feel this much pain? With this thought in mind, he downs another shot, trying to chase this vengeful flame away; he couldn’t act upon this need to fight fire with fire, he couldn’t.

              The night passes slowly, and with loneliness comes retrospection; Parker stares blankly ahead, the moving pictures before him living their lives oblivious to his own, and this realization paints a vivid portrait against a backdrop of black; somewhere, well across town, Steven and his friends were probably laughing along to some joke, some silly little bit they were writing for a show he could only occasionally step in on. This neglect presents itself as a driving force behind the separation, but Parker knows otherwise; he knows that this is all his fault, that if he were to just keep his emotions hidden, just like he always had, that perhaps things would be different. For once, he has expressed his true feelings, allowed himself to be completely honest with the men he called his friends, and where did that get him? What did he gain from all of this trembling truth, this shaky ground he so often avoided? It only placed him in the same place he’s always been in, all ignored and left behind. 

                 His mind toes the line between acceptance and regret, dancing between apologies and memories he would much rather forget, and the latter train of thought detours itself towards the kitchen; suddenly, Parker recalls the alcohol left behind from his friends, those roommates that seem to have so suddenly lost interest in him. The freedom to drink was lost long ago, but he supposed a few glasses couldn’t hurt anyone --- it would only calm his head, help to ease the pain of what he’s done, and where was the harm in this? What the world didn’t know couldn’t hurt anyone, he supposed, dragging his feet as he approached the cupboards hiding this liquid salvation. He would only have a few drinks --- nothing too strong, nothing too hurtful; just enough to distract, he reminds himself, drills this thought into his mind until it is impossible to avoid. He couldn’t allow himself to get too carried away with this, he couldn’t, and yet the rising buzz swings freedom just in front of his gaze. Only a few glasses, he reminds himself, leaning up against the counter as he tries to drink his way into a better ending than this.

                 Temptation is a friend of anger, a distant cousin that only appears when the promise of violence presents itself, and Cib realizes this all too suddenly as he sits here at this bar top, swirling a nearly empty glass around in his hand. Deception would always be painful, always seeping red with confrontations not yet occurred, and yet he tries so often to simply brush this betrayal off; everyone lies to a friend, everyone makes mistakes that they would much rather forget. James has done it --- hell, even Steven has done it --- and this thought gives rise to a new set of concern; the secret rendezvous involved two participants, and who was he to make assumptions of intent? Who was he to believe his girlfriend would so openly betray him like this? Even if she has, the other man involved should have stopped it. 

                Keys tap nervously against the counter of the bar, beating themselves almost rhythmically against layers of grime and second thoughts as he silently considers his options; he could speak with his girlfriend, confront her while his anger is at its rawest form, or he could wait, allow himself the time to place rationale before judgement. Alcohol, however, creates a screen of indignation, and before he even knows it, he is drunkenly speeding through the darkened streets of Los Angeles, sending messy texts to a girl he hopes can still return his feelings. Their meeting is jarring, and he steadies himself upon the sands of their first date --- all happiness and new beginnings --- as she insists upon innocence. He’s a good listener, she says, unlike you, and these words provide an escape for any untamed anger he held just beneath the surface; the two inevitably part ways, and as he stumbles his way back to his car, he very unsteadily finds his phone, calling the only person he knows that will listen to him. I’m sorry, he says, all distressed and unsure of himself, I’m ending this right now.

                 A shot glass is slammed upon the smooth of a counter top, and the sound is nearly immediately followed by a disgusted groan; he only had a few glasses of wine before deciding to resort to something a bit stronger, and despite the countless shots beforehand, the taste of whiskey still hasn’t settled against his taste buds well enough. He supposes this was understandable, though focusing on the thought for too long begins to pose a considerable challenge to the all too inebriated man now struggling to remain upright; he leans against the kitchen counter, one hand sloppily gripping the edge as he stares at the wall opposite his current position. The television still drones on in the other room, distant voices playing secondary characters to his own self-destruction, and he briefly considers going to find his phone. Alcohol allows inhibitions the ability to roam free, and the guard he so often places before emotions and true expression has long since fallen to pieces upon the floor; surely Sami Jo would want to hear from him again, he thinks, deciding all too suddenly to throw all caution to the wind. He struggles to down one more shot of whiskey first --- a good luck charm, he tells himself, the words slurring themselves into fruition just before he shoots it straight --- and then he is stumbling his way back into the living room, staggering against walls and furniture before eventually collapsing onto the couch. The change of position is shocking at first, but he allows himself no time to focus on this development; he fumbles through his recent messages before finding the desired recipient. Before he even clicks to send a voice message, he is already speaking, syllables slamming into each other with no hope of separation.

               “Sami ---...uh,” he starts, then abruptly pauses, leaning his head back in some failed attempt of calming the dizziness now plaguing him. The audio must reflect this, as his voice becomes further away from the phone simply setting in his lap. “...hi. I was just...uh, I was just thinking about you, and us...mostly us, because I miss you. I know I just saw you the other --- ...oh god, “ he pauses once more, giving himself a brief moment to, yet again, try to steady himself. The effort proves itself pointless, and he again starts to speak. “ --- we saw each other...yesterday, I think? The day before that? And I...I really miss you. I hope, uh...god, I just hope you’re okay. ‘Cause I’m...I don’t think I am.” he then falls quiet, a soft groan escaping him as he moves to sit up and send the message. A glossy stare finds itself glued to the screen for awhile as the message is sent, and he isn’t sure why he expected an immediate response; it’s so far into the evening, he reminds himself, throwing his phone to the other end of the couch in a hasty bout of distress. The next few minutes are spent in silence, the television continuing to play a distant soundtrack, and it is only then that he realizes it was playing as he recorded his message. A string of swearing escapes him, all muddled and messy, and the realization provides a reason for him to stumble his way back to the bottle awaiting him in the kitchen. Before he has even left the living room, the front door opens.

               Cib doesn’t possess much of a plan, but he knows that he has to speak to Parker. Maybe a discussion face to face would help to dispel any harsh feelings brought upon by this latest endeavor come to light, or maybe he just wanted to get into a fight. Maybe he needed for Parker to feel what he felt, the sort of pain no amount of hospital bills could repair; he enters the home of his now friend turned rival, silently staggering his way towards the man who has so proudly acted upon something he had no business even feeling in the first place. They meet just behind the couch, and Cib takes the opportunity to speak well before Parker even realizes what’s going on. Are you a good listener, he asks, and the man standing him opposite begins to stutter out a response; I don’t --- ...I don’t know what that means, he starts, but Cib doesn’t feel the need to explain. It’s a simple question, after all, and he feels he owes no one an explanation; if he was to be left in the dark, hurt behind closed doors, then he would do the same to them. It’s only fair, he thinks, but before he can act upon any further aggravation, Parker is again breaking the silence.

             “You can’t just...uh, damn it,” he starts, swearing as he nearly loses solid footing; he grabs onto the back of the couch, gripping the furniture tightly as he holds his free hand up in preemptive defense. “...you can’t do this. I didn’t... I didn’t do anything this time,” he tries to protect himself this way, vocally expressing his feelings in some desperate attempt of stopping this impending altercation, but before he can say anything further, Cib is storming forward. With his typical guard down, the expected filter of denial and acceptance long since disappeared, Parker has little to reason with; a sober mindset would write this off as Cib being upset, or his friends again seeking solace in being harmful towards him, but alcohol insists upon abuse no longer being acceptable. This thought causes arms to rise in defense, fists forming as he tries to root himself against the hardwood beneath him. 

            Little thought accompanies his next few actions, fists forced outward in both defense and an unexpected offense, and yet the adrenaline pumping through his veins feels like no other he has experienced; blood shines red against knuckles from both men, bruises already painting shades of blue against pale skin, and all Parker can think to do is fight. He fights not for his own life, but for the girl he longs to have, the only light in this life turned dim; were he sober, he would insist upon violence solving nothing, upon Sami Jo working things out with Cib, upon his own involvement being little and unimportant, but alcohol provides a pedestal for anger to sit upon. Before he knows it, he is insisting upon his heart’s true standpoint, slurring together strings of she deserves better, of this is why I tried to help, of this is all your fault; the two men eventually stagger their way into the next room, where Parker finally finds himself on the leading end of the battle. Cib soon enough stumbles back, losing his already unsteady solid ground; he grabs for the edge of a nearby table in some desperate attempt of again standing upright and controlling the fight, and without thinking, Parker grabs the back of his shirt. Maybe his emotions held to his actions a bit too tightly, or maybe this was already a long time coming; either way, he shoves Cib forward, causing the man to consequently hit his head against the table edge he so hopelessly reached for. Cib falls limp to the floor, blood pooling as the open wound rests against the cool hardwood below. The television behind him continues to play, and Parker swears he can hear his phone vibrate against the couch cushion it was left on.

[mischievousmoonhunter-blog]

Shadow of the Stars

A Captain America and Winter soldier story

Jaylin Rogers has always struggled with being the daughter of Steve Rogers, aka Captain America, mostly because of her lack of freedom. After a failed attempt to do something about this, her life is changes forever when a shadow from her father’s past returns to haunt her.  

Chapter One

@skeletoresinthebasement @38leticia @purplekitten30 @fetalpositionokay @lokiyoulittle @all-hail-the-fandom --------------------------------------------------------------

CHAPTER NINE

It was concerning how well my wound had heeled; it meant I had been in my underground prison for an awfully long time. How long exactly, I couldn’t tell, but my mind thought it was a hell of a lot longer than the wound indicated. Winter, as I now called him, hadn’t spoken to me since he had given me his “name”, and he seemed fairly on edge around me. He seemed to replace my bandages when I was sleeping, which was pretty impressive, seeing how he didn’t wake me up while doing so. Whenever he was near me during my waking hours, he was silent. That is, until he found me banging my head against the wall.

I hadn’t heard him come in; I had been too busy groaning and telling myself how badly I needed to get out. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, still in – what seemed – his native tongue. With my forehead still pressed against the wall, I smirked at the concrete. ‘Going crazy.’ Winter took another step towards me, standing quite awkwardly as he frowned at me. ‘Why?’ ‘Why?!’ I huffed, turning around. Indignation made the words come out rapidly. ‘Because I’m locked up with literally nothing to do! My brains are going to self-destruct!’ Did he tilt his head curiously? ‘What do you want to do?’ ‘I don’t know!’ I exclaimed. ‘Drawing, I guess.’ I smirked. ‘Most preferably going home, but I don’t think that’ll be allowed.’ Simultaneously I shrugged and let my shoulders slump. Winter looked at me. Like always, his stare was unfathomable. After at least twenty seconds, he left. He barely locked to door behind him, as if he was in a hurry.  He returned shortly with a stack of yellowy paper and a scrubby old pencil. I raised my eyebrows. ‘Okay, that’s new. Though I think you’re right giving me this; it would be a shame if after all the trouble you’ve gone through, my head just explodes.' I smiled slyly, even though in my heart I was truly grateful for this, a way to keep my mind off current events. I felt so stupid for not trying to escape, but it wouldn’t work. I had already tried more than once, and both attempts had ended badly. The only thing left was to wait, until I had a plan, or something I could do. Know the weakness to their plan, or this base. I just had to wait. Against my expectations, winter didn't leave my cell. I looked at him in surprise as he positioned himself against the wall opposite me, until it dawned on me. 'O, I get it,' I smiled, 'you have to make sure I don't do anything stupid with this,’ I wiggled the pencil between my fingertips and tapped it against my temple. ‘Smart.' I started to hum a soft lullaby, while my fingers gently wrapped around the wood encasing the graphite. How long it had been since I had held a pencil. How long it had been since I had done something I enjoyed. I started carefully, testing the paper and the pencil. They both weren't made for drawing, but they worked well enough. Instead of deciding what I would render onto the paper, I did what I always liked to do when my mind was too full: letting my hand draw with my mind as blank as the paper. A peaceful woodland appeared, with small paths between proud trees, and bushes full of berries. I got completely absorbed by the process, until I had drawn every leaf and shaded every berry. My hand cramped, and I could no longer hold the pencil. 'Look,' I said to Winter, who was still watching me with his unfathomable eyes. 'These are the woods near my home. I used to run there, every morning. It is fenced, so it is like the only place I am allowed to be alone.’ I frowned. ‘Well, was. It is a wonderful place, especially in the morning, when the fog is still there. It seems so mystical, almost magical. Mostly just beautiful.' I sighed deeply. Leaning back, I studied the paper, wondering how I had never realised how truly beautiful the place was. 'I guess you'll have to take the stuff, so you can get me dinner, huh?' Winter gave me a slight nod. I handed the pencil and paper back. He took it, almost carefully.

The next day, Winter returned, with new paper and the same stumpy pencil, and we repeated the process. He watched, I drew. Then I told him about the places I had depicted. They were all places of great natural beauty where dad or Sam had taken me. It was a routine I was started to cling on to, as my anchor of sanity. At first, Winter kept his distance, observing me from a safe spot against the wall, where, after a while, his posture became less tense. Then, he stopped standing like a guard, but more like an intrigued witness. ‘There is a free spot with your name on it,’ I said teasingly, looking up from the tremendously tedious job of drawing a field full of flowers - the one where I’d plucked the flower I’d taken with me when I visited my mum’s grave. I gestured to the empty space next to me on the bed. Winter glanced from me to the place I had nodded towards. ‘Just sit down,’ I smiled. ‘You’re always standing, that must be exhausting.’ He inched a bit closer. ‘Come on!’ I urged. ‘Just sit down already!’ When he actually sat down beside me, leaving enough space between us so he didn’t touch me, I had the odd realisation I’d ordered my kidnapper to sit with me. I had asked the man who’d shot me to come nearer. ‘Look,’ I said, laying the drawing partly on his, and partly on my, knee. ‘This is a meadow near my house - well, not that nearby, actually. But I pass it every time I visit my mom.’ Quickly, I glanced up at Winter’s blue eyes. ‘Her grave,’ I clarified. ‘You should see it in real life, honestly,’ I continued melancholy. ‘The colours are beautiful. And if the sun sits exactly right, the entire meadow is bathed in golden light.’ I chuckled. ‘That rhymes.’

Without the sun to tell me when the day ended an a new one began, only Winter’s visits were an indication how day and nights alternated. My life became a steady rhythm, with our little ritual without much variation. Until one day, when my wound had closed and started to morph into a white, jagged scar, I started with a pair of kind eyes, followed by a straight nose, a gentle smile and a face I missed. 'Hi, dad,' I muttered quietly, as I put my hand next to his graphite face. 'I wish I could tell you I'm okay. I'm sorry for being so angry all the time... I just wanted to be free, to make my own choices...' I laughed sadly. ' You can see where that brought me. I hope you are not too worried, though I know you are. Please, if I'll never see you again...' I let out a stifled sob. One tear fell down my face and hit the paper. My throat felt like sandpaper. I didn't know what to say anymore. The thought of never seeing him again killed me. 'Here.' I reached out the pencil and paper, so Winter could grab it. He did, but when I looked up, I saw him staring at the paper. His eyes looked clouded, and his hands were shaking. 'Winter?' I asked, but he turned around and almost flew out of the room. He left me sitting with my head in my hands, sad and confused.

Chapter Ten

[projectgaiarp-blog]

Full Name: Rafael Augusto Valderrama Nicknames: Raf, Gus, Rafa. Level: 1 Species: Metahuman Age: 25 Date of birth: April 15th 1991 Home Town: Doral, Florida. Occupation: Transportation. Faceclaim: Santiago Segura.

Personality:

ISTP | Choleric | Chaotic Neutral

Rafael  can seem very loyal and steady for a while, but he tends to build up a store of impulsive energy that explodes without warning. He is an individualist first and last. He values his own liberty but doesn’t strive to protect other’s freedom. He avoids authority, resents restrictions, and challenges traditions. Which is why no one one understands why he’s on Atlas.

He has a particular difficulty in predicting emotions, but this is just a natural extension of his personality, given how difficult it is to gauge his own emotions and motivations. He has a tendency to explore relationships through actions rather than through empathy or conversations, and it can lead to some very frustrating situations. He struggles with boundaries and guidelines, preferring the freedom to move at his own pace. He enjoys a little physical risk, and he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty when the situation calls for it.

Rafael is very private and reserved, he is difficult to get to know, keeping his personal matters to himself, and often just prefer silence to small talk.  He can also be very stubborn, as easily as he goes with the flow, he can also ignore it entirely, and usually move in another direction with little apology or sensitivity. If someone tries to change his habits, lifestyle or ideas through criticism, he can become quite blunt in his irritation. He can be insensitive even when he tries to meet others halfway with empathy and emotional sensitivity, it rarely seems to quite come out right.

Biography:

Born in a small town in Florida to colombian descent parents, Rafael was always destined for big things. As a boy, he always stood out because of his athletism, trying his hand at every sport he could. His parents always encouraged him and his twin sister in everything they wanted. Careful not to push too hard, and making sure the two always had fun above all. In search for a better education for the kids, Rafael’s parents chose to move to California when he was 13. Hearing great things about the sports progams in town, they enrolled the Valderrama twins in the best school they could find.

In football, Rafael found his real passion. And thanks to the sport he also realized he wasn’t quite like the rest of his peers. What seemed like intricate plays for the rest, Rafael was able to see everything clearly, almost as if it was slow motion. His coach called him gifted, but Rafael was beginning to think that it was true in more than one sense. It wasn’t often that things slowed down around him, he couldn’t choose when to see things that way, it just came to him, sometimes in crucial moments of the game. It was a good skill to have, but most of the time is just frustrated him. He never told anyone but his sister about those strange episodes.

Fresh out of highschool, he attended college with a full ride scholarship because of his talent. He’d only become a better player, polishing all of his raw talent thanks to his coach. At 21 he was poised to become one of the biggest drafts of the season, and he pushed himself harder everyday to become the best. It wasn’t a suprise when he became the selection of one of the biggest teams in the NFL.  The first months there were hard, and people doubted he had the talent and the attitude to make it in the NFL, but slowly he took advantage of every chance he was given to play for the team, building up his reputation. At the end of the season, he was the breakout star of the team.

Unfortunately his dream ended almost as soon as it began, on September of 2011. No one expected him to be on the end of a brutal tackle during the first game of the new season. He saw it before anyone else could, a player twice as big coming from behind, but his relexes weren’t there for him. His knee got the worst of it, a gruesome injury. It was a long recovery after that, but Rafael had his mind set on making a comeback. When he was finally allowed back in the field, almost a year later, he realized things would never be the same. His body didn’t seem to respond like it did before, and his emotional state wasn’t too great either. He knew it was the end of his promising career. He never bothered to announced his retirement, he packed his things up, and flew back to his hometown, to be with his family.

Back in his town, and living his darkest days, he became addicted to bike and car races, a fast way to earn back the money he blew off with his medical treatment, and a good way to feel that adrenaline rush he used to get with football. Like everything he ever tried his hand at, he was quick to learn the skills, soon competing against the best racers in town. For a couple of years he worked as a security guard on a strip club, almost living his life in autopilot. He wasn’t sure what to do now that his dream was over.

When two men approched him one night while he was working, he really thought he was in deep trouble. It’d make sense to end up in jail after all the illegal activities he’d been part of in the last couple of years. He didn’t know what to make of everything they explained to him. About abilities, metahumans and organizations. It all sounded like insanity, even though he knew he was one of them. He ended up being offered a job at this placed called Atlas, doing something he was good at and he was definitely not being sent to prison. The only reason he accepted was the promise of a stable job, something his mother and sister had begged him for since he came back. It was time to put aside his self-destructive ways and get back on track. He grabbed his sister and together they moved to Washington, ready for a new phase in their lives. While he wasn’t too keen on all the rules and protocols Atlas had brought into his life, he was thankful to have some sense of normality again.

Powers:

Temporal Deceleration, also called time reduction or slow motion, the ability to slow down time and continue to move normally. He is capable of slowing down time to various degrees, never stopping it. This could mean slowing time around a single target or affecting everything but him. He can also slow down opponents to avoid attacks and dampen movements.

Sub-ability: Accelerated perception or speed thinking, his mind and senses process information at such speeds that time appears to have slowed down, allowing them to perceive what would normally be moving too fast to see and respond accordingly.

Weaknesses:

Since he hasn’t trained his ability, he is not capable of slowing down a person or objects by free will, he mostly sees slowed down situations at random times.

While the senses and mind can follow the attacks quickly, the body may not be able to act in time to do anything about it, as his reflexes aren’t trained.  

Has limited range of field.

Has a limit for how long he can slow time.

(Optional) Headcanons:  

His twin sister has an ability that compliments his, either related to time, or senses or speed.

His combat style is usually defensive, contradicting his often forward personality.

Allergic to penicillin.

Loves cats.

Wanted Connections:

NAME: (UTP)  Valderrama

FACECLAIM(S): UTP, any colombian american actress is okay with me, though I headcanon her as Diane Guerrero.

AGE: 25

CONNECTION: Twin sister.

DETAILS: UTP

CONTACT: Yes

[maximuswolf]

Departure into Emptiness: a Taoist approach to the climate crisis and other contemporary issues (sample) via /r/taoism

Departure into Emptiness: a Taoist approach to the climate crisis and other contemporary issues (sample)

​

https://preview.redd.it/h4b8diucg5g51.jpg?width=472&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=ddae1e29690086bf3d24677f6e39b4119b790e10

I.

Not as much! That is the imperative of our age: less plastic, less CO2, less consumption, less stress. That sounds like a renunciation: of meat, of flying, of driving cars.

But does this necessarily have to be a renunciation? It would be renunciation to deny yourself the fulfill­ment of a deep desire. Not doing something because there is a better choice: that is freedom.

There are good reasons to use that freedom: need­ing less can be full of its own pleasure. It means be­ing less dependent and - instead of constantly chas­ing after the satisfaction of needs - having more time for the really important things.

“Those who have lost by being moderate are rare.” (Confucius, Analects, IV.23)

II.

Doing and leaving are what shape our perception of the world. A woodcutter, a biologist and an in­vestor perceive the same forest in a completely dif­ferent way. Whoever is taking on a task must be careful not to be taken over by the task. The more the focus is on predetermined goals, the more the view of collateral damage is lost.

In a world of numbers and financial streams, every­thing becomes a means to an end. The earth be­comes a raw material warehouse and people become human capital. Everything becomes a utility. What is useless or not useful enough from an economic point of view is in danger. Primeval forests are being cut down; animal and plant species are becoming extinct; in the name of utility a huge destruction is underway.

It would often be better if less were done. But this is difficult to achieve, because many people despair when they have nothing to do. They cling to their occupations. Often work is the centre of their lives - and for many it is the source of their identity.

In our performance-oriented times, this can be seen with extreme clarity. That it is not a new phenome­non, however, is proven by a more than two thou­sand year old text from China:

“When the farmer has nothing more to do with grass and weeds, he has nothing more to hold on to; when the merchant has nothing more to do with alleys and markets, he has nothing more to hold on to. Only when the people of the crowd have their daily work, do they make an effort. The craftsmen depend on the skill and handling of their tools to feel themselves. If he can­not accumulate money and goods, the scrooge becomes sad. If power and influence do not expand steadily, the ambitious man becomes desolate.The slaves of power and wealth are only happy when in the process of change. If they find a time when they can act, they cannot stop acting. They all follow their path with the same regularity as the cycle of the year. They are caught up in the world of things and cannot change. So they run along, internally and externally trapped, sinking into the world of things and never coming back to themselves. Oh, how sad!” (Zhuangzi, XXIV.4)

So what can be done is done - and that is often much more than what needs to be done. We virtu­ally suffocate under the mass of products that our productivity produces.

III.

Idleness. A word that has fallen into disrepute. Idleness, as the proverb warns, is the root of all vice; and more than a few even see in it the worst of all vices: the refusal to perform in a performance-based society.

The calls for deceleration, which are becoming louder and louder, have rehabilitated idleness to a certain extent in recent years. In the wellness sector at least it has found a firm place - and in countless magazine articles when it has to do finding oneself or burnout syndrome.

Idleness requires free time. This is more than leisure time: it is a time free of constraints, empty time that can be filled with what the moment offers.

Caught in the daily hustle and bustle, it is difficult to develop new perspectives. One is so busy mop­ping up the water that one does not even think of turning off the tap.

In order to get a grip on things at any time, your hands should be free. Being idle means to have time to do the right thing at the right moment.

IV.

Inspiration. The Muses like idleness. To be kissed by the Muse is the pictorial description of what many artists experience: a higher power seems to guide the creative process. This process is more of a letting happen than a conscious creation. Not the conscious ego - it paints, it writes, it composes. This state is called Flow.

In this way, making art becomes a communication with something unknown. Are higher powers at work here? Or is it simply neurobiological processes? Either way, it seems like a miracle.

But the flow does not come on command. You can only create good conditions for it. There's an an­cient Chinese story about that.

“A wood carver carved a bell stand. When the bell stand was finished, all the people who saw it were amazed at its divine work. The Prince of Lu also looked at it and asked the Master, ‘What is your se­cret?’ The latter replied, ‘I am a craftsman and know no secrets, and yet there is one thing that matters. When I was about to make the bell stand, I was careful not to consume my life force in other thoughts. I fasted to bring my heart to rest. When I fasted for three days I no longer dared to think of reward and honour; after five days I no longer dared to think of praise and blame; after seven days I had forgotten my body and all my limbs. At that time I also no longer thought about the court of Your Highness. Thus I was collected in my art, and all infatuations of the outside world had dis­appeared. Afterwards I went into the forest and looked at the trees in their natural growth. When the right tree came before my eyes, the bell stand was ready in front of me, so that I only had to put my hand on it. If I had not found the tree, I would have given up. Be­cause I let my nature interact with the nature of the material, that's why people think it's a divine work.’" (Zhuangzi, XIX.10)

V.

Art is often the art of omission. Capturing the at­mosphere of a place with just a few strokes of the pen or grabbing the audience with a few notes is considered high art. It is often important not to do too much. If you try to speak a text in a particularly beautiful way, you will quickly appear artificial. If at a jam session all the participants constantly wanted to show all their skills, it would be very exhausting to listen to. Only when others hold themselves back can individuals come to the fore with their solos.

As much as through the emphasis of its tones a rhythm gets its special character through its pauses. A scale gets its special sound by omitting certain semitone steps.

The white area left blank on an old Chinese ink painting appears like the water of a river or like wafts of mist between the mountains. The emptiness here is an essential element of the composition.

In the early twentieth century, abstract painting de­veloped through an increasingly consistent omission of all references to objects from the outside world.

This led to an undreamt-of freedom in dealing with colours and forms. And since there is no predeter­mined meaning in abstract paintings, they are an in­vitation to the imagination to go walking.

VI.

Let it happen! Trust in the momentum of the cre­ative process! That was my basic attitude for decades when I was artistically active. For me, abstract paint­ing became a voyage of discovery. Painting always had a meditative aspect for me. When I painted, I let the spontaneous impulses of my body take their course; I let my hands do it, without a plan, without thinking. I tried to leave the door to chance as wide open as possible. What happened to me often went far beyond what I could have thought up by myself.

I playfully found my artistic way. Over the years I did a lot of different things: pictures made of ce­ramic tiles, lit objects, digital art, abstract anima­tions ...

It was not a planned development. One thing led to another, each connected to the other, appearing in retrospect to be logical. But for me, every new turn was a surprise. I saw my own artistic development in the way that train passengers sitting with their backs to the direction of travel see a landscape. I never saw what would come next.

I learned to have faith in the continuing process. And that I would discover more in my journey I’d ever dreamed of.

VII.

Cognitive methods. The modern sciences are atheistic in their methods, i.e. the recourse to reli­gious beliefs is taboo in the scientific framework for good reasons. This does not mean, however, that one needs an atheistic default position to do science. The atheism of science is purely methodical and not ideological. Even those who are scientifically active have questions that cannot be answered in this way. Then one can decide for or against believing some­thing specific. As long as the scientific activity remains unaffected by this, all is well.

Besides, the sciences cannot prove an atheistic world view because their method is atheistic. They cannot prove what they presuppose. That would be a circular argument.

Just like a methodical atheism there is also a me­thodical spirituality. As an artist, I become more open to inspiration when I feel that there is some­thing greater than my conscious self, and that I can open myself to this something in my creative process. I just need to have the capacity to be amazed. Miracles are more likely to happen when I beleave they are possible.

As little as scientific knowledge can support athe­ism, so can artistic experience serve as proof of a higher powers.

The word "inspire" comes from Latin and means "to breathe in". It raises the question: who is breath­ing in? But all answers to this question remain speculation.

It is possible, perhaps even reasonable, to talk about creative work with religious or esoteric vocabulary. Then one interprets experiences within a given pat­tern of explanation. This makes them easier to com­municate. This is legitimate, but it proves nothing with regard to the pattern of interpretation.

Beyond all doubt, the experience itself remains: In­tuition can flow more freely the less conscious con­trol you exercise. It is an experience that probably all people can have, no matter what they believe or don't believe.

VIII.

Success. Basically, it's quite banal: of course my art will be better if I'm painting, focused on what I'm doing, and not constantly thinking about what oth­ers will say or whether my work will yield enough money. The freer my head is, the more attentive I can work. With attention comes wonder and with wonder comes awe. With awe I have a good chance of succeeding in what I do.

In his book Effortless Mastery the New York jazz musician Kenny Werner makes the observation “(…) that there are good players who, for some reason, have little impact when they play. Everything works fine. They are ‘swinging’ and all that, but still, some­thing is not landing in the heart of the audience.” (p.10) He attributes this to the fact that they are caught up in their thoughts and are far too much guided by ideas about how right it should be. “One must practice surrendering control to a larger, or higher force. It’s scary at first, but eventually liberat­ing.” (ibid)

I very often experience my painting when others talk about their art, be it music, painting or litera­ture. Whoever wants to taste abundance must be­come empty.

IX.

Emptiness is of crucial importance in Daoist phi­losophy:

“How the nose breathes and the ear hears, is essentially emptiness. All things use what they don't have on the basis of what they have. If you don't believe this, just look at a flute or a pipe made of reeds.” (Huainanzi, XVI.6b)

This is not about an abstract or metaphysical idea of emptiness, it is about the very concrete emptiness between things or within things. It's about empti­ness interacting with what's there. An emptiness that can be experienced.

Emptiness means potential. An empty space can be filled, empty time can be used, an empty sheet can be written on.

Not burdening oneself with unnecessary things means freedom. To become empty in this sense is the best way to find oneself.

To be empty means to have room for abundance.

In "Huainanzi", a book written over 2000 years ago as a collection of knowledge for the Chinese em­peror, it reads like this:

“A restless spirit does not feel well even on a nicely pre­pared bed with soft mats. Nor does it appreciate a meal of wild rice and juicy beef. Even sounding strings and flute tones do not give him any pleasure.

Only when the anger dissolves and the restlessness dies down does the food taste good. The bed becomes com­fortable, the home safe and being on the road a plea­sure.

From this point of view: our nature is open to joy, but it is also open to sorrow. Whoever struggles with things that do not give pleasure to his own nature and hinders what gives pleasure to it, will certainly become a sor­rowful person, even if he possesses all the riches of the world and is revered as a son of heaven. In general, hu­man nature loves peace and silence and not discord and noise. It loves rest and quiet and not trouble and toil. If the mind is permanently free of desire, it means peace. If the body is permanently free of tasks, it means rest. The one who allows his spirit to wander in peace and quiet, who allows his body to indulge in idleness, who simply waits for what heaven gives him, will find joy in his inner being and will be free from worries from the outside. Nothing can change his insight, be it as great as the whole world. Even if the sun and moon darken, nothing can stop him from his path. Even when he is low, he feels blessed, even when he has little, he feels rich.” (Huainanzi, XIV.59)

X.

Desires tend to take over control. The ambitions of the ego endanger inner freedom. They lead to com­pulsive behavior and a limited view of things.

“Among the people of Chu was one who stole gold. Just when the market was at its busiest, he came, took it and left. When they detained him and asked, ‘How can you steal gold in the middle of the market?’ he only replied, ‘I have seen no one. I only saw the gold.’ When the mind deals with desires, it forgets what it is doing.” (Huainanzi, XIII.10)

XI.

Overcoming the ego. Many religions and spiritual teachings demand this. Overcoming it sounds like a hard struggle, a heavy effort, an act of will, in short, a strong ego to tackle this task. How could the ego be overcome in this way?

Asceticism can become a trap. The ego indulges it­self in the rigid self-control it can exercise. There must be other ways to deal with the ego. This was also thought about in ancient China:

“The scholars in these times of decay do not understand how to get to the origins of their spirit and return to their roots. Above all, they try to model and polish their nature, to refine or suppress their original reactions in order to meet the demands of their time. Therefore, when their eye desires something, they intervene with prohibitions; when their mind delights in something, they restrict it with rites. They run further and further in circles, prostrating themselves, while the meat goes bad and inedible and the wine sour and undrinkable. Outwardly they tame their bodies, inwardly they scourge their spirit. They destroy the harmony of Yin and Yang and inhibit the original way of their nature of responding appropriately to fate. This is why these people are full of worries throughout their lives. Those who follow the Dao are very different: they regulate the original responses of their nature, cultivate their consciousness, nourish it with harmony, and direct it appropriately. They enjoy the Dao and forget the low things; they rest in their potential and forget the trivial issues. Since their nature does not desire anything, they achieve whatever they desire. Since their mind does not seek pleasure, there is no pleasure they would not participate in. Those who stick to their natural answers preserve their potential. He who yields to his inner nature preserves his harmony. Physically relaxed and unrestricted in their attention: such standards and regulations can serve as a model for the whole world.” (Huainanzi, VII.14)

XII.

Regulation instead of blocking. Not asceticism but self-cultivation is the path that the Huainanzi describes. To rest in one's own potential means knowing one's abilities, but not having to prove them all the time. This makes it possible to react ap­propriately in ever changing situations.

“Planning things in advance is not better than learn­ing techniques. Acting is not better than having options for action. Intervening is not better than leaving things to the Dao. If you act on purpose, there are goals that you will not achieve. If you strive for things, there are things you don't attain. So human beings come to their limits while the Dao pervades everything.” (Huainanzi, XIV.24)

This kind of restriction does not mean renuncia­tion, but the greatest possible sovereignty. And on the way there, it is not the effort that counts, but finding balance and peace. The less willpower is needed for this, the better.

Read more

Submitted August 10, 2020 at 04:17AM by JuppHartmann via reddit https://ift.tt/2PEuJ5Z

[katarinaphang-blog]

Six Important Messages About The Mind That Will Change Your Life Forever

If you have followed me a while you will notice that I don’t actually dispense love advice, rather mainly how to be love itself.  This is what makes me stand out from the rest.  To immerse in and become love is simply to drop the mind.  But to drop the mind requires you to understand what the mind is and how it works.

Here are five important messages you can start cultivating and meditating on and that will change your life forever:

1. To know how the mind works you have to separate yourself from the mind. You need to practice creating that gap between you and your thoughts. Only then you can observe in a detached fashion like a scientist observing natural phenomena.

When you know the origin of thoughts, you see through their illusory nature. Only then you will also understand the the mechanics of the disappearance of thoughts. Thoughts can only disappear when you no longer see their benefits but instead you see objectively their destructive effects.

Only when thinking or continuing on a thought is a matter of choice you have attained self-mastery.

You will no longer duped by them. Simply put: depression is a sign of believing in every damning I-thought. It’s a mind that is DUPED big time. It’s very overwhelming. Only when you have tasted the experience of no thought (no mind) you will experience the taste of life without any depression/anguish/suffering at all.

This is what liberation is all about and it is doable in this lifetime as I have attained it myself.

2.  Since the mind (ego) will always inquire and seek, I found out that it wouldn’t be quiet till it had exhausted every avenue. Then it would know it can’t know everything and let go. Hence my inner work program Journey Inward gives the appearance of the whys of this and that so one day you’ll just let go all this “knowledge” cause it doesn’t serve a purpose anymore. It doesn’t matter anymore. Acceptance will come naturally when the mind is totally exhausted and seeing its own limitations. To tell a newbie to just accept is a tall order cause the mind will resist.

I used to have an idea of what the Buddha’s enlightenment was: he could see this life, past and future lives and how lives (the universe) come to be, etc…all this superpower stuff. But that is the ego that always seeks to figure everything out. The Buddha came to that realization when he had tried all methods under the sun and he got exhausted, deprived and nearly killed himself with starvation. That’s all ego. The truth was much closer than he thought it was. Just be here, now…stop running and seeking. Be okay with what is…that’s all to it.

Enlightenment isn’t about gaining more knowledge or the ultimate knowledge, it’s about extinction of all egoic drives (hence it’s called Nirvana which means extinction or disappearance).

He didn't become a super man, he became an egoless man. He didn’t add more to himself, he shed all of himself to come to the center of it all which was Emptiness.

3.  Most people operate from the level of consciousness that is limited to thoughts. They are lost in them day-in day-out. They have no control whatsoever of which thoughts appear and which grab hold of their awareness and creating so much mayhem in their lives cause they take every thought they think as the truth and their reality.

Check this in yourself.  Is it true?

It’s a level of consciousness filled with suffering. The total identification to the false self which is made of thoughts is the roots of all the problems in the world.

The level of consciousness transcending thoughts is called awareness.  You can cultivate awareness by practicing mindfulness meditation.

“Risk everything for awareness, but never risk awareness for anything. This is the commitment of a sannyasin: that he is ready to lose his life but not his awareness; he has found a value which is higher than life. There is no other value which is higher than awareness. Awareness is the seed of godliness in you. When it comes to its full growth, you have come to the fulfillment of your destiny. As your goes deeper, your actions may not be efficient but they will have a new quality, the quality of grace, which is far more valuable. No machine can have the quality of grace. Your actions, your words will have a beauty of their own.

The way a man of awareness lives, each moment is filled with tremendous grace and beauty. It is reflected in his actions, even in the smallest actions – just in the gesture of his hand or just the way he looks; in the depth of his eyes or the authority of his words or the music of his silence. His very presence is a celebration.” ~Osho

When you gain skills to understand how the mind works and how it binds you, over time you just know not to think and only think when you need to. It’s freedom when you get to that point. You feel this spaciousness all around you cause you vibrate from a higher level of consciousness: the level that doesn’t poisoned by mundane useless thoughts. Your life starts to change dramatically from that point on. You have more energy and focus to work on what really matters and what you focus on expands and you’ll vibrate higher and higher.

And you become an empty vessel which doesn’t take blows but only allowing them to go through you. You’re like a teflon cause nothing sticks nor can hurt you. You have no definition of self anymore. It’s fluid and changing moment to moment cause you have dropped all the stories that you thought were you. You are undefined and boundless.

4.  To be egoless means to relax. To be egoless doesn’t take energy cause there is no tension in a state of egolessness. To identify with the ego requires thinking. To think requires energy. To fight, to resist requires energy. To be miserable requires energy. To let go, to surrender, to accept and to be joyful doesn’t require energy. Our natural state of being requires no energy and that is what egolessness is.

To just be is to experience the state of egolessness.

You can just be while creating and building. In fact best builders and creators are those who know to just be. They’re one with the tasks they’re doing, instead of resisting them. Idle people often don’t know how to just be cause their lofty idealism is in the way. They want something that isn’t here and they think thinking about it some more will help them get it. Idleness combined with idealistic thinking creates impulses that end in mayhem. That’s the sickness of the human mind.

Your view of the world is related to your self-conception/ego. The more dogmatic you are to any school of thought, the thicker the ego is, the more likely you will have problems with men. So look at your reaction when you get so easily offended by what people say. The likelihood is you take offense to every little thing guys say too. Who has the time to take care of your feelings 24/7? I certainly don’t.

5. Learn and practice direct perception. Direct perception doesn’t lie. It doesn’t have the motive the ego has. And the ego is none other than the mind. The mind is so filled to the brim with conceptions and preconception, should and must haves. It’s the screen through which you perceive the world. You filter out what’s beyond your awareness. So be very careful about locking yourself up into a position. Where you stand from you can only see one side of any situation. There’s the other side you never know about and they feel just as strongly as you do.

“An idealist is a hypocrite, because he is always trying to become what he is not, instead of being and understanding what he is.” J. Krishnamurti

Change isn’t brought about by idealism. I didn’t get to be successful because I was an idealist. I am successful because I’m a realist. I don’t resist what is in front of me. I work around it and make it work. I have both feet firmly planted in the ground. What brings about change is necessity and organic growth. It has to be organic for it to have a long term effect. It can’t be forced which is what idealism is all about. It’s a mere denial of reality clothed in a lofty concept.

Idealists are often tribalists. Their refusal to face reality square in the face brings so much resistances inside. Their focus is on lack, instead of abundance. As you grow spiritually idealism is replaced with radical acceptance of what is and the uncanny capacity to see everything in the big picture. There is no more drive inside to become somebody other than oneself moment to moment, to deceive oneself and others just to appease. To disguise and cloak, to speak other than the honest truth that the heart perceives and feels. One has become simply witnessing awareness that doesn’t cling nor reject.

An idealist thinks and thinks some more. They’re at odds with the world and the world renounces them and they fight it some more. A realist works with reality and transforms it in the process.

Hyper intellectualism blocks the path toward expansion of consciousness. It impedes self-realization. It’s the static noise that hampers discernment.

6.  The shadow is the last piece of the puzzle.   Embracing your shadow means embracing your dark side, the side of you that you have repressed because you’ve been told how bad and wrong it is.  Come to terms with it.  Accept that you are sometimes rude, nasty, judgmental, arrogant, manipulative, selfish, prejudiced, sexist, racist, jealous, impatient, controlling, etc. When you accept it the very trait dissipates cause it’s not being resisted so no more complication is brought about.

Those who resist it begin to look outside to shift what feels repulsive to them onto others so they are spared from the pain of admitting that the ego is not flawed. Then the cycle of victimhood starts. It’s all other people’s faults. The ego is a mere victim of other people’s imperfection and evilness. It’s much easier to point finger than admit one’s flaws…seemingly…. but it’s really not.

Once you accept you’re flawed you can now relax and just be you because you love yourself enough to accept all of you: the dark and the light. You are then whole and complete. When self-compassion arises, compassion for others follow. Love and accept yourself first before you can love and accept others.

When you are resisting and repressing the unsavory side of you, you’re going to project it onto other people.

“Let everything arise out of your awareness. And the miracle of awareness is that without your saying anything, without your doing anything, it simply dissolves all that is ugly in you into all that is beautiful.

Awareness is a transforming force. Whatsoever deepens with your awareness is virtue. Whatsoever disappears with your awareness is sin.

I don’t label any act as sin, virtue, right, wrong – acts don’t have that quality. It is your awareness. Just try it and you will be simply amazed that there are things in you which cannot stand in front of awareness, they simply disappear.

Awareness functions almost like magic.” ~Osho

When somebody triggers you it’s because you reject that part of you that you are now projecting onto them. It’s not about them. It’s about you. That is what judgment is vis a vis discernment. In my line of work it takes a lot of discernment on my part so I can help you out of your predicament so I must say things about you that will look like judgment to others (who haven’t done their inner work). The difference is in the acceptance and motive. Judgment’s motive is self-deception, self-aggrandizement. Discernment motive is to help, to clarify and there is acceptance in there.

This direct realization of the nature of mind perception will bring you into a world of existence that so vastly differs to the one you’re living at the moment.  I’ll talk in great depth in our upcoming Feminine Magnetism retreat that will take place on September 1-4, 2017 at my home in San Diego county.  Currently, registration has opened with early bird specials ($400 OFF).  Reserve your seat cause we only take 40 people max. All meals are included, cooked by a gourmet chef.  This is a rare opportunity to really explore your true nature in an idyllic, tranquil and safe environment in which you’ll be accepted as you are.  You will learn self-acceptance and how to heal your split mind that creates so much discord and anguish in your life.  The very wounds that prevent you from having a healthy relationship because so long you aren’t balanced you’re going to always project your repressed/denied broken self on others, especially your partner.  The notion and insights of salvation through relationship (which will start on July 1 as part of online Feminine Magnetism group coaching) will also be introduced in this very deep first retreat.

And of course we’ll have some night of fun as well on the Saturday or Sunday.  Enjoy free socializing in the hot tub (bring your swimming costume), free flowing of champagne and (live) music.

The early bird specials will end on June 30, 2017.

Rest and recharge and be prepared to walk away with a new pair of glasses.  You will learn so much self-mastery in this retreat you will want to come every year.

Sign up for the one-of-a-kind retreat here.

Learn more the difference between judgment and discernment in this class: How To Observe Your Reactions And Heal Your Inner Wounds In The Process.

When you’re ready to learn the ins and outs of being a master to your own mind, sign up for Module 1 Feminine Magnetism: Journey Inward.  This knowledge will change the way you see the world FOREVER.  Your life will turn upside down.  Love, abundance, wealth, success and peace will come your way.