#and there's that certainty of self that does not allow for nonsense. i want to be like this one day

[wrencatte]

7. “No. No, stop. Stop talking like that. You’re gonna be fine.”

With Merrin and Cal please :3

Thanks for the prompt!

"Mer," Cal chokes, bloodied hand flailing until he snags her sleeve. She goes to pull away, only stopping when he wheezes her name our again, wet and thick, more blood bubbling the corner of his mouth. Now that he has her attention, he doesn't seem to know what to do with it, tugging on her sleeve, mouth opening and closing like a beached fish gasping for air. Merrin's shoulders hunch, her hands shaking, some terrible certainty making a home in her chest as she watches him struggle to stay awake, to stay aware, pale eyelashes fluttering rapidly, his chest jerking. "Mer-rin," he says again, barely a whisper.

She gives in finally, wrapping a hand around his, gently uncurling his fingers so she can clasp them between her palms. They're cold and limp. She remembers half a dozen instances in this same position because Cal Kestis never learned how to put himself first. People have called his single-mindedness selfish. Once or twice she accused him of the same, but she eventually learned that to even be selfish one needs a sense of self, and Cal has never truly believed himself to be a person enough to have that sense.

"T-Tell Greez," he mumbles. The thought abandons him. His brows furrow. Merrin shakes her head before she even registers her denial. "C-Cere...Tell, tell C-Cere..."

"You can tell her yourself," Merrin says. They should be here any minute (please) with BD-1 leading the way. "I will not be your messenger, Cal Kestis. Not like this."

His distant gaze comes somewhat closer. His fingers twitch. "I'm glad I met you," he breathes out. The words are speckled red. The haze of death drapes heavier. Merrin sweeps it away again, burning the frayed edges until the shroud recedes - a little less this time. "Merrin..."

"No. No, stop. Stop talking like this. You are going to be fine." Merrin ignores the way her voice quivers. Ignores how she does not believe it herself. But for as long as she has known Cal, he has been steadfast and unrelenting, and she can not allow him to give up now. Not when he promised to show her a proper ocean to make up for the one on Nur. "You will be fine," she says firmly around the coldness in her chest.

"Will be - fine," he repeats weakly, the corner of his mouth twitching in the ghost of a smile. "Of course," he says with surprising surety. "Have you."

Merrin closes her eyes against the sting of tears and bows her head, pressing their clasped hands to her forehead. "Stubborn, foolish Jedi," she says helplessly. Cal just sighs in response, unable to give strength to whatever nonsense he wants to waste his energy on next. "Hold on just a little longer."

She does not cry when she hears Cere call their names, but it is a near thing.

[idontmindifuforgetme]

not scared of my 30s as all bc the amount of drop dead gorgeous women ik in their 30s is tremendous. please let me march into the room w that unwavering confidence i beg of you

[midnightsunnyday]

Say It With Your Chest *.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

[Masterlist] [AO3]

➼ parings: Barbatos & Black Fem!OC, Diavolo/Black Fem!OC, implied Lucifer/Black Fem!OC ➼ content warnings: none that I see, yet still read at your own discretion. ➼ summary: there's something about the new exchange student, Vivica, that Barbatos doesn't like. Diavolo is clearly smitten, and for the sake of his lord, Barbatos tries his best to keep said discrepancies hidden, until he can't. Fortunately, the feeling is mutual.

(Chapter Two)

There was nothing particularly celebratory about this evening's summons, yet Diavolo insisted that the typical arrangements regarding guests wouldn't suffice. Not even his outfit was enough, having tossed aside the royal red uniform in want of something more… "sensual."

"Tonight is of special consideration, so everything must be perfect," Diavolo said, a pair of slacks in each hand. He eyed them both and groaned, tossing them to the growing pile of rejected outfits that crowded his bed. "Why is everything I own so…formal?" He stomped towards his wooden wardrobe, frowning at his apparent lack of choices. "There must be something here I can wear."

Barbatos stood in stunned silence, dogging the occasional haphazardly thrown shirt or belt. He'd demanded, pleaded, to allow his usual habit of laying out his master's clothing lest he destroy the entire castle.

"Nonsense. I'm perfectly capable of dressing myself," Diavolo said as he tumbled over the various buttons of his dress shirt, face tightened in concentration.

"As you wish, My Lord." Barbatos sighed, narrowly avoiding a popped button.

The prince was a demon obsessed, spending hours contemplating the moral dilemma of whether "a day scent was appropriate for an evening dinner?" A phrase that Barbatos would find less haunting coming from Asmodeus whom--as fate would have it--Diavolo was in close contact in recent weeks, his newly formed bond being less in part of any actual interest in the sixth born and more so for his closeness with a particular human.

"There," Diavolo turned to view himself in the mirror. "Does this look alright?" he asked, the usual confidence in his voice unfounded.

Barbatos clenched his breath, a slight vein pulsating on the side of his forehead. He would've accepted it all: the hours-long fashion show, the clothes that would need refolding and ironing, the bombing of his senses from spraying cologne after cologne…

…if only he'd chosen anything other than a red suit, the same red of his uniform, a uniform in which he cried was "not enough." Still, he smiled. "Upstanding as always, my lord," and it was the truth. Despite the growing urge to toss his entire wardrobe from his bedroom window, it had always been the truth.

Diavolo frowned, apparently not convinced. "Yes, but…does it look…cool?"

Demon King help him.

Through his conversations, Diavolo learned that his precious human possessed a fondness for suave, self-assured gentlemen types, whatever that meant.

"Sounds a bit like Lucifer, doesn't it?" Diavolo laughed, though there was little humor behind it. It's true the human spent time around the firstborn more often than most, and their apparent closeness only stroked at the prince's insecurities.

"My Lord, I am uncertain as to where this lack of confidence is coming from, yet there is not a day that goes by where I ever thought of you as being less than impeccable. Certainty not next to any demon, and certainly not now."

Ah. That seems to have done it. A better sight than the slacking posture before. Diavolo straightened his shoulders, standing with the poise expected of a future king.

"Thank you, Barbatos. Also, I'd like to apologize to you. This is all…well," he turned to look about his room, giving a nervous chuckle. "Let's just say that such afflictions are new to me."

Barbatos nodded in response. "I understand, my Lord. Though please try to calm yourself. Tis only supper, not a marriage proposal."

Diavolo's eyes widened as if he heard the word "marriage" and nothing else. "Right, yes…definitely not."

Barbatos sighed. A man who held the world in his hands was still a man, and plagued with all the insecurities that most lonely men had. The prince was starved, so to speak. And while not entirely ignorant of the world, remained unfamiliar with the many wiles of human social and sexual communication.

Indeed, the young master had fallen in love. To put it lightly, he never stood a chance. 

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicmas Redux: Shadow To Light

Happy New Year to everyone, and I hope 2024 is a beautiful and positive year for everyone - I think we've all earned it.

As promised, as an auspicious offering, the first 1000 words of the STL Ch 13 draft. Mary-Alice is being profoundly difficult about this chapter, but she's allowed to be a little bit messy.

Here's to a great year with more regular updates and more of my self indulgent nonsense ;)

Fourteen. Starved for so long of beauty

Once upon a time, a lifetime ago, she made a choice. It was an easy choice to make, because it was the right one. Because she didn’t truly know what came next; her certainty in her own visions, her certainty in who she was going to be - who the Major was going to be - had made her confident.

(She doesn’t regret it, she would never wish to go back and make a different decision. She just wishes… she just wishes that she knew better what was to come. What it was like to be stripped right down to the bone, layer by layer, from loneliness and violence and hopelessness. She wishes she’d read the contract she was signing in blood and tears and time, just so she could look fate in dead in the eye and make the same choice without a second thought.)

The Major smells like… he smells like something she doesn’t want to acknowledge.

(He smells like home.)

—

She feels silly after the worst of her panic attack is over, and the Major is there next to her with his arm around her. She feels utterly ridiculous, actually - the stolen t-shirt in her arms, curled against him so tightly… She almost feels ashamed.

(Except… she’s frustrated. She wants to demand answers - when is she allowed to fall down? When is she allowed to break apart and have someone else put together the pieces? In more than eighty years, it’s always been up to her to maintain control, to be the thing that bends but does not break and she’s so tired. But she’s also supposed to be better than this. Isn’t that what the Major always said? Why Peter always resented her? Even Maria noticed. Mary-Alice is sturdy, reliable, consistent. If she falls, she gets back up. It… it would just be nice not to, just once.)

“How are you feeling?”

The Major’s voice is warm and kind and it almost makes her feel less pitiful.

Almost.

“Present.” Her voice is quiet but her tone is clipped and distant, and she regrets it when she feels him withdraw slightly. She’s wrecking this, like she wrecks everything. It’s all she ever does.

(Maybe that’s why she was such a good soldier; she knows exactly how to ruin things.)

But the Major doesn’t leave. He just shifts so he’s not pressed quite so close, his cheek no longer resting against her hair. But his arm is still around her.

“Do you need to hunt?” He asks, and she doesn’t know. Everything feels odd and off balance and maybe she’s not as back as she originally thought.

So she doesn’t answer. She just rests her head back against the wall and closes her eyes.

The Major watches her for a moment before looking away. “When I met the Cullens,” he begins in a gentle voice, “I swear Esme only made Carlisle approach me because I resembled a drowned cat. Hadn’t stopped raining on the East Coast for weeks, and I’d been roaming the woods the entire time. I was disgusting. Maria would have thrown a bucket of water at my head weeks before if we’d been back home.

“And Esme took one look at me and whisper-bullied Carlisle into approaching me, like I couldn’t hear every single word. She kept saying that I looked cold.” The Major chuckles and she’s close enough that she feels the vibrations through his chest and it’s… it’s not unpleasant.

It’s strange being this close to another person and not being on edge. Not waiting for the killing blow, trying to figure out how to get to their throat first. Making sure that she knows exactly where their hands and teeth are, that she’s prepared for their next movement, for the tightening of their muscles before they lunge…

(It’s very strange being this close to someone, at all. She prefers to keep her distance normally. But this… it’s not the bad kind of strange, she doesn’t think. She’s just so intensely aware of him.)

“Just imagine it, will you - Esme wearing a tweed coat and riding boots and a hat to go hunting, and I look like a monster who spent a week sleeping in a swamp,” the Major continued, “And she was worried about me, like I was a soggy kitten.”

She can imagine it, honestly; his hair sticking to his face, and that gaunt, murderous look he got on his face when he was thirsty. Weeks of grime pressed into his clothing, his skin, looking like the monster from an old story or some mythological horror rising from the riverbed. Nothing sympathetic or pitiable about him for most people.

Right now, she feels oddly grateful to Esme for looking past all of that and seeing the Major as he could be.

“And you followed them home?” She tries to make the words sound light-hearted, but they fall flat and ugly, and she wants to take them back.

That makes the Major laugh out loud, a rumble against her side that is startling and she jumps a little.

“No. I told them to fuck off and leave me be; I had to tell them that a few times over the years until I gave in and talked to them. Let Esme convince me that taking a shower and accepting new clothing was a right and not charity. Let Carlisle remind me that I owed them nothing by ‘visiting’ with them. It took a long time for them to lure me over the threshold.” The Major takes her hand in his; his thumb smooths over a patch of scar tissue, a repetitive motion that feels… soft. Nice. “I think in the end, I hinted that I was ready for them to ask me to stay with them. I don’t think I was subtle about it either.”

“They didn’t ask you before then?” Mary-Alice feels the frustration boil for a second. She watched as much as she could bring herself to, for many years, and there are pieces that she’s missing. They just weren’t important enough for her to see, or something changed and recalling what she’d politely dismissed was too difficult.

(She had entrusted the Major to the Cullens. It didn’t matter that they had had no idea, all those years ago, her visions had made the contract. And even now, knowing that it all came together the way it was supposed to, it upsets her that he had to wait for so long to be taken home to his family.)

[lgcmanager]

NEWKIDS NEWDREAMS 004 (PART 1)

SCHEDULE TYPE: TRIMESTER SCHEDULE RESTRICTIONS: cannot be paired with another trimester schedule, unless stated otherwise. for reference as to whether your muse is eligible for this event, please click over HERE.

(ooc preface: as you'll see below, please do not view this as a punishment from the company and more as a touchpoint and a opportunity for you characters to grow and recenter themselves on the goal ahead. to usage any worries that you might have, starting from november 24, those who decide to stay will dive head first into working reletlessly into 'phase one' of the group, which includes their first album, another music project and a tour)

this time, when the future idols arrive, no one is waiting for them in the room. even if it had been mentioned that legacy entertainment's staff wouldn't be involved moving forward, DAEHYUN and his MANAGER usually greet them. only when the clock hits 9:00 AM does he make his entrance, alone, coffee in hand. he sits at the head of the table and leans back in his chair. daehyun might appear intimidating because of his looks and no-nonsense attitude and until now, he's been trying to share his enthusiasm for this project with the members the best way he could. today, there's none of that. it's mask of, its pure honesty, it's a man with a lot on his mind. he drums his finger on the table, taking in his small assembly before clearing his throat.

"well, this isn't going to be a fun meeting, but bear with me." he begins; a self-deprecating smile touches his lips before fading away as he straightens his shoulders and all traces of worry, doubt and even playfulness disappear from his face. "let's begin with the bad news first: your december debut has been postponed." he raises a hand to forestall any reaction or objection. "this decision wasn't taken lightly, but rather after an accumulation of events, by staff members of various levels, even up to legacy entertainment's high management.

some of it is likely a result of my personal failures due to my limited experience in this position... first, the good news is that we've been satisfied with your various performances during the summer. the bad news is that the staff and i agree that we've encountered some problems. we've wondered what was different between this group and the project origin groups. is it because of the lack of competition? of the certainty of debut? because most of you were hand-picked? is it because i am too accessible or lax? or maybe just that times have changed? the staff keep mentioning that they've never before had to deal with predebut group members who take their preparation period this lightly: slack off, miss practices, go out as they please, or even display… impatience. the coaches and the 'dont-fuck-up-in-public' department all had some general and individual comments, but i've left those home. there's no point in sharing them right now." he doesn't appear disappointed or angered and only talks matter-of-factly.

"legacy entertainment has its own way of dealing with this, here though, we perfer discussing things and move forward all on the same page. this doesn't change that we will need you to show better discipline and manners from here on. to be able to have fun, we must first earn the trust to do so.

so don't see this meeting as a failure or a punishment; instead, see it as a chance to decide whether this is the place for you or not. if you decide it isn't, we understand, and you'll be allowed to return to legacy entertainment without prejudice. after all, we did pluck out five of you without your consent and brought four others, who, while knowing they were moving to USGEN, also don't know what we want USGEN to be." he takes a short pause there, probably to let his audience digest everything that's just been said.

"i'd like to begin by explaining how this subsidiary came to be.

when our contract period neared its end, the members and i had an honest talk. though we were - literally - raised by legacy, we felt like, after 15 years, our loyalty had repaid them enough. we all shared goals and intentions, and all agreed that the constraints of staying under legacy weren't worth it. while discussing all this, the idea of making our label came about. maybe it's because we've been together for so long, but we all shared the same desires; we wanted to create a space where we would be comfortable and leave the corporate behind us. rather than be governed by a ceo we'd see once a year, we wanted a place where even the newest part-timer could access the top brass, similar to a start-up. with this mindset, we created USGEN. through some great luck, legacy offered their backing.

now with more funding and resources than we expected, some members and i could work on a project we had planned for the future; debuting a group. while watching music show performances and various content, we felt like the current groups are too polished, coached, scripted... while the general talent of the current generation exceeds those of the past, they do end up lacking… flavor and personality. so we wondered; why not both?

when we brought up this idea to legacy's directors, they didn't believe in us. but if DBSD is one thing, it's that we're persistent. in the end, they relented and we worked with hyuncheol to find suitable trainees. we weren't looking for trainees who fall in line, but trainees with a strong sense of self, their own brand, if. people who would easily find their place in a group without us having to assign 'characters' or guide their growth. and you all know the rest." he pauses momentarily, gathering his thoughts.

"HYUNBIN, SEOHAN and I aren't planning on holding your hands forever, or turn any of you into something you aren't. from the start, we only intended to play the roles of mentors, to set you on your path, and then slowly give you more responsibilities. i'm not using the word freedom because self-production is far from freedom. for instance, when the company finally let us work on our music ourselves, we were sent back to the drawing board more often than not. even while preparing mzsd, we were given certain parameters to work within; things like concept and image overlap with other legacy groups." he explains. "the performance positions we assigned you? they are part of the responsibilization. they were given to ease you into working together as an independent group with the confidence to operate with minimal oversight by the coaches.

that's the vision we have for this group. we don't have a master plan for any of you, nor do we want one person in a position more than another; your positions simply currently reflect your strengths and skills. none of it is static, and how you choose to develop yourself is the only limiting factor. as long as you remember that you are part of a team. yes, there will be times when you'll need to compromise for the sake of the group, but there wil also be other times when others will have to do so too. the group is the sum of all its members; you are all equal in this." daehyun pauses again, this time to drink his coffee.

 so, for now, i need you to think on all i said today, do a serious introspection and ask yourself if you really want to be here. maybe the way us gen works is not for you, and that's fine. if you decide to stay, you need to show up at work, you need to be a team player and accept that there's still a lot left to learn.

again, please, do not see this as punishment or feel targeted. in fact, none of what i've said might apply to you personally but does reflect on your team as a whole. you have SIX WEEKS to make your choice. until then, there will be no lessons. you're essentially on vacation. If you desire, you can come to do some solo practice, but no coach will be available to assist you. i sincerely recommend taking at least a week off before returning since you will NOT have a january break.

which reminds me, you were supposed to move to your official dorm during the week. we've decided to move forward with that. however, only the group members may move in. so, once your decision is made, you may either move to the mzsd dorms OR ask HYUNCHEOL to return to the trainee dorms."

finally done with the meeting, daehyun seems to perk up as he stands up and picks up his coffee, ready to exit the room. "until next time!" almost out of the door, he pauses in his steps and snaps his fingers. "oh! right! if you want to record diaries during this period, feel free to ask the staff for a camera." and with these last words, he's out the door.

ABOUT US GEN

as some might have noticed, this is in reaction of certain things that happened during the trimester. from the beginning, daehyun who acts as ceo of the company, has been present and hands-on in the group's preparation, unlike legacy entertainment, where if the ceo is ever present at a meeting, hyuncheol will still usually lead the meeting. this has been done on purpose. there are no buffers between the group, directors and producers. this easy access has its pros and its cons both ic and ooc. all we ask is that you do not create too much drama as to not give us too much additional work ( haha ).  i will reveal now that, after their debut, the group will have official channels and ways to suggest ideas and talk directly with daehyun or their manager.

DORMS

as mentioned above, should your muse decide to stay, they will move to mzsd's real dorm. unfortunately, their dorms is a little further away from the other debuted artists. on the other hand, they are moving in a 3 STOREY apartment situated on the 18th FLOOR of a gated building.

the FIRST FLOOR has a large living/dining room with an open kitchen, one full bathroom, two large bedrooms, and a third with an adjointed bathroom.

the SECOND FLOOR has a living room area, kitchenette (a fridge, counter, sink, and a small over), two bedrooms, one bathroom, and access to a fully furnished private patio.

finally, the THIRD FLOOR is a single area that will be used to store suitcases and extra clothes.

FIRST FLOOR

- ROOM A: HWANG MINKI & KURAMOTO MISAKI

- ROOM B: HAN NOEUL & LAI WENJUN

- ROOM C (with bathroom): MANAGER

SECOND FLOOR

- ROOM A: BAEK BYEONGKWAN  & MAE JASPER

- ROOM B: XUE YICHEN & SUNG HANEUL

MEET ROH KYUHYUN

upon moving into the dorm, their official manager, ROH KYUHYUN, will welcome them. a man in his late 30s, he's someone who manages to keep his composure in all situations. he isn't here to babysit the members as they are adults, but expects them to respect the company rules and not get in trouble.

AFTER THE FIRST WEEK out of 6 has passed, KYUHYUN give, to the members who have moved in, the list of skills the company expects them to work on. those are just pointers, it's up to the muse to decide whether or not to work on them.

BAEK BYEONGKWAN: dancing, lyrics composition, hosting

HAN NOEUL: lyrics composition (noeul is on the right trajectory, he will be requested to think about the future solo gigs he'd like to have and work on the corresponding skills)

HWANG MINKI: hosting, variety

KURAMOTO MISAKI: no skills (misaki is on the right trajectory, he will be requested to think about the future solo gigs he'd like to have and work on the corresponding skills)

LAI WENJUN: hosting, variety, music composition

MAE JASPER: hosting, variety

SUNG HANEUL: performance skills (haneul is on the right trajectory but needs to continue honing his singing, rapping, dancing and performance)

XUE YICHEN: no skills (yichen is on the right trajectory, he will be requested to think about the future solo gigs he'd like to have and work on the corresponding skills)

OTHER Q4 SCHEDULE

SEPTEMBER 16: appearance on 'novascope' with nova [ ALL ]

OCTOBER 26: date lottery season 4 ep. 2 [ BK ]

NOVEMBER 9: date lottery season 4 ep. 4 [ BK ]

NOVEMBER 28: intimate note ep. 3 [ NOEUL & YICHEN ]

DECEMBER 1: star top pet care ep. 7 [ SAEM ]

DECEMBER 5: intimate note ep. 4 [ NOEUL & YICHEN ]

DECEMBER 8: star top pet care ep. 8 [ SAEM ]

(the variety shows' missing episodes will be airing in Q1 2025)

DECISION

if you are NOT interested in staying in MZSD, you have until OCTOBER 19, 2024 11:59PM EDT to message the main about it. any muses who don’t send a message to the main will move forward with the group. if you choose to leave the group, your muse will become eligible for the regular trainee mission.

REQUIREMENT

DECISION: write a 300+ words solo either about your muse recording the entry where they take the decision to stay OR about your muse moving into the dorm for +3 SKILL POINTS, +3 NOTORIETY !

FREE TIME: write a 300+ words solo or headcanon about how your muse has used their free time for +6 SKILL POINTS, +2 NOTORIETY !

make sure to use the hashtag lgc:nknd on your threads and solos ! to validate your skill points and collect your notoriety points, please submit the following form ONCE on the points blog before NOVEMBER 23, 2024 11:59 EDT.

    MUSE NAME ∙ NKND 004     - DECISION: +3 SKILL POINTS DISTRIBUTION +3 notoriety [ LINK ]    -  FREE TIME : +6 SKILL POINTS DISTRIBUTION +2 notoriety [ LINK ]

MZSD'S VARIETY

from january, MZSD will begin filming their PERMANENT YOUTUBE VARIETY SHOW. just like the group itself, the show premise is 'for fans to spend a FUN and FRESH time with the group'. while some content will be prepared by the staff, most of it will actually be up to the boys themselves. any member who wish to produce a segment of the first season (3 episodes) may submit the following form ONCE to the LGCMANAGER blog before DECEMBER 28, 2024 11:59 EDT. note that they are limited to film anywhere WITHIN the company's building. additionally, if you have suggestions for the name of the show, feel free to also send them !

    MUSE NAME ∙ MZSD'S VARIETY     - name suggestion:     - muse's segment:

[forasecondtherewedwon]

10. You confessed your feelings and we’re about to kiss but we get interrupted

36. Friends with benefits and both people catching feelings

Wavetide

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E (we’ll be working up to it) Chapter: 1/7

Summary:

She never tells anyone. Well, she admitted it to Ned once because he caught her staring at Peter in a way that was too difficult to deny, but she’s never confessed to the fact that her love for their friend isn’t a solitary tsunami of longing; it sweeps in and out in waves.

Michelle Jones’s life is a world-record attempt at most times falling in love with the same person. She’s loved Peter Parker on-and-off dozens of times since they were 10, and they’re only 12 now, so it’s almost a weekly thing. He’ll make her laugh right when they’re coming in from recess and she’ll love him. He’ll pick her for his squad when they’re doing wind sprints in gym and he’s her thoughtless best friend again. She never tells anyone. Well, she admitted it to Ned once because he caught her staring at Peter in a way that was too difficult to deny, but she’s never confessed to the fact that her love for their friend isn’t a solitary tsunami of longing; it sweeps in and out in waves.

When they wake up, Peter will be 13. A teenager. They’re camped out in the Leedses’ living room in anticipation of the big event. His aunt and uncle are going to host the actual party at their apartment tomorrow, with cake and balloons and everything, but tonight, the three friends have Ned’s pup tent set up indoors (was supposed to be outdoors, but it’s raining). The scenario feels strangely like a farewell to their mutual childhood and Michelle’s having a hard time falling asleep.

Ned’s been asleep for half an hour, but she doesn’t realize Peter hasn’t joined him until she rolls over on the air mattress and he turns his head to look at her. Ned’s on the far end; they always banish him to the edge for snoring. Peter’s hair shushes against the cotton pillowcase as he adjusts, still watching her.

“Do you think it’s after midnight?” he whispers.

“Maybe. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

He smiles at her and Michelle draws her knees up to her chest inside her sleeping bag, hugging them in place. She’s grateful that the three of them are still allowed to do this, have sleepovers in confined spaces and all sleep on the same air mattress.

Peter garbles something through a large yawn and she snickers, shuffling closer. The confusing tug of her reluctance to grow up eases when she concentrates on him.

“What?” she asks.

“I wonder if it’s still raining,” he repeats.

“We could go see?”

Ned’s house after dark is weighted by dense silence. Michelle doesn’t have to ask if Peter feels it too, because they’ve discussed it on other occasions when Ned was the first to conk out for the night. The Leedses’ home is a fascinating place for two kids who’ve grown up in apartments. The lowness of every window looking out on the ground floor, the quiet of no neighbours on the other side of the wall. It’s almost creepy.

They shift their weight carefully, wriggling off the air mattress like commandos crawling under barbed wire, trying not to jostle Ned in his slumber.

“Bouncy castle,” Peter hisses at her and pumps his arms against the mattress to make them both sway on their hands and knees.

“Stop it,” she says, giggling as her eyes flick to Ned. It’s ok, he’s still asleep.

With a rub of nylon, they slither out of the tent. Peter darts his arm back in to snatch his sleeping bag. Michelle glances sideways to see how he’s bundled about half of it into his arms as they pad across the carpet. Ned’s mom drew the blinds and Michelle shuffles over to part them, but Peter pulls her wrist and they go to the back door instead. With a flip of the lock, he slides the glass door open, letting the sound of chittering insects pour through the screen. The rain’s done. There’s a big oak in the yard and Michelle can see the bright lightbulb curve of the moon above its crown before she and Peter sit cross-legged on the floor.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

“No.”

But it’s nice when Peter unzips his sleeping bag all the way so they can pull it around their shoulders like two kings with one luxurious cape. Michelle grips the corner over her left shoulder, Peter over his right. Even a year ago, this might’ve been the moment where she confessed to how tired she was and felt him gather her close, making sure the sleeping bag tucked around to cover her knees. Tonight, she has a soft white bra under her pajama top because she’s too aware of her friends being boys to take it off, even to sleep. Under that, she has a heart that gushes and swells with this feeling she gets whenever she sneaks a look at her friend’s sleepy face, the hair that tumbles onto his forehead and curls up above his ears.

“Fireflies,” Peter points out, scratching his finger against the screen when he gestures too fast and misjudges the distance. He’s right. They’re blinking yellow all over Ned’s yard.

“Yeah.”

“You think they’re lucky?”

“Not that lucky. They only live for two months. I read that,” she says. There’s a mosquito bite on the back of her arm that makes her currently unsympathetic towards bugs.

“But what if I want to make a wish on them?”

“On a firefly that’s going to die in two months? Why would you?”

“Lit birthday candles last way shorter than that,” he counters, “and we make wishes on them.”

“Well, that’s just because men are obsessed with demonstrating their dominance over fire. Man master of fire!” Michelle elucidates in a Neanderthal grunt.

“That’s not really why we blow out candles, is it?” Peter asks. She shrugs next to him. “It can’t be,” he says with more certainty. She doesn’t respond. “Still, they’re pretty.”

Michelle looks to see him watching the fireflies, eyes darting to each flare of light in turn. She’s on the dock of her childhood and she can spot the next wave rolling in.

“What would you wish for?” she asks.

Peter scoffs and twists a little so he can focus on her.

“I can’t tell you.”

“You can as practice. The wish only doesn’t come true if you talk about it after you blow out your candles. Allegedly,” Michelle adds, because they aren’t children anymore and she, for one, will not be taken in by nonsense on the arcaneness of birthday wishes.

“A real lightsaber.”

“That’s dumb.”

“It’s not your wish!” he says.

“No kidding.”

He shrugs off her sarcasm.

“I don’t really want anything.”

“Don’t pout just because you can’t be a Gemini.”

“Jedi.”

Oh, she knows what they’re called. She’s employed this particular taunt many, many times.

“Pick something,” Michelle urges.

“I do, uh…”

Peter drops his gaze and plays with the string dangling from the edge of the sleeping bag. This is suspicious behaviour. She studies him, attempting to recall the information on reading body language she’s picked up from true-crime books and fake-crime TV shows. Her parents don’t like her reading or watching that stuff ‘at her age,’ but she’s a firm believer in a running start to teenage rebellion.

A warm breeze rustles the oak’s green leaves and washes over their faces.

“I do want one thing,” he mumbles. It’s barely spoken―the gentle wind is making more noise.

There’s something off and it makes Michelle nervous. Everything inside her, apart from her brain, thinks it knows where this is going when Peter licks his lips and flexes his hands briefly like he does when he’s making a decision. She’s waited for this. She’s scared of this. How it’ll change them. She almost wants to go back to five minutes ago, when they were side by side in the tent with nothing to make them feel older except her feet hanging off the end of the air mattress when she scrunched down to get her head aligned with Peter’s so they could talk softly in the dark. Michelle asks her best friend what it is he wants, but only in her head.

“I want to kiss you,” he says, looking at her.

“Why?” she blurts.

“I just do.”

Her heart’s galloping. The wave’s about to crash.

“I guess it makes sense,” Michelle bluffs. Her whole body feels numb with the anticipation.

“What do you mean?”

“We’ll be starting high school in a year and people are going to start getting together so I guess I get why you don’t want to be left behind or whatever.”

Peter faces forward again and she can see him well enough to watch his throat jerk as he swallows.

“MJ, that’s not why.”

“Sure it is. You want practice.”

“It’s not like that,” he says and she’d bet he heard that somewhere, all the old movies he watches, because it sounds too grown up for her Peter.

“Do it then.”

His head snaps up and he looks at her.

“What?”

“Do it. Kiss me.”

She tries to square her shoulders and be the self he knows her to be. The Michelle who steps between bullies and her boys. The Michelle who isn’t scared to hold a bug or go to the section of the Halloween store with the really disturbing rubber masks that have, like, eyeballs dangling out of their sockets.

“You want me to?”

“Yeah, I want to see if you’re good at it,” she says toughly, chin up in a challenge.

“You’ll probably be good at it,” Peter mumbles under his breath as he scoots to face her instead of the door. Michelle mirrors him.

As he leans towards her, she can feel herself inside the wave―water all around and her twirling in a complicated pattern as it decides what to do with her. Not wanting Peter to get all the credit for going through with this, Michelle bends in his direction. Their knees make contact and she glances down at where her best friend’s shins cross. She sees fine brown leg hair, then squeezes her eyes shut as she tilts her face up, scared of however he appears in this moment. She’s surprised that she doesn’t flinch when his fingertips touch her cheek. He exhales in a soft puff, close.

“I really like you,” he murmurs.

Michelle’s underwater and can’t speak.

And then, “COOKIE!” someone yells in the night. A dog yaps sharply in response.

Michelle and Peter spring apart at the sound of one of Ned’s neighbours. Are they going to persevere? Get back in kissing distance and find out if they have some kind of spark that’ll tell them they’re meant to be more than friends? That’s how it seems to work in the old movies she watches and doesn’t tell the boys about. She’s not sure yet where rom-coms fit in the image of herself she’s only beginning to sketch, so she keeps them quiet.

Because she’d rather make a wrong action that’s all her own than react to whatever Peter decides to do, Michelle scrambles swiftly to her feet.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she says. It seems like the least romantic thing she can say. Peter stands too, eyes searching hers uncomfortably. The shared sleeping bag is neglected at their feet.

She strides off and he doesn’t try to grab her to stop her. She’s not sure what she’d do if he did. The bathroom’s down the hall and when she looks back, she sees him in his t-shirt and pajama shorts, scooping up the sleeping bag. A distinct longing to swim out to him surges inside her, but the wave of more-than-a-friendship-kind-of-love flings her away and she faceplants on the beach of Unrequited Crushes. Maybe… soon… they can still try? Because they’re both too embarrassed tonight when she eventually returns to the tent. And she acts like nothing happened during his birthday party. When his uncle dies suddenly and terribly, she can’t put any kind of expectation on Peter for them to be anything but friends. He needs her as a friend. The memory of him standing at the back door with his arms full of sleeping bag lingers. In Michelle’s mind, she turns away from the ocean. If she doesn’t look, she can’t see the wave.

To be continued!

[jabberwockyontheloose]

I remember I was tagged in one of these a while ago, I can't remember by who or when and tumblr has probably deleted thw notif so here it is a year late :D

Alicia

Bugs Bunny

Bugs was a driving inspiration when Alicia was being conceived - that wily energy and the comedy of social norms in completely inappropriate contexts but like? You go along with it? Because??? What else are you gonna do??? I wanted Alicia to exude that energy. Never actively malicious and just in it for a good time. Also Bugs being, like basically the hand of god half the time? That's Alicia

Sussie

This is Vy's fault, almost entirely. I would've lived my life in peace not realizing if it weren't for her. Jokes aside, Sussie is very... unique. Not in a bad way, of course - she's just. Well. Sussie. A cloudcuckoolander that works with her own set of rules, incredibly off putting but entirely harmless*. And in her own words, "Sussie likes all the things in the world"

Bonus:

Elmo

Alicia is kind and very friendly once you get to know her. She may seem a bit simple at first, as if you were talking to a kid, but you she's genuinely very thoughtful. Elmo is a sweet natured all-loving hero and while Alicia is significantly more off kilter and intimidating at a glance, they're both good eggs

Stitch

Stitch is a loveable blue not-dog alien who also is probably a war criminal or at the very least a living weapon. His character arc of learning to appreciate his ohana even if it goes against his creational directives is incredibly sweet. Alicia is end of the movie Stitch, handcuffed and ready to be arrested, only asking to be allowed to say goodbye to his family. Though, vibe-wise, she's has epilogue Stitch down pat. Domestic antics that are just a bit out of this world.

The Jabberwocky

The jabberwocky is Alicia's little lizard companion if you didn't know! The nonsense poem after the same name was another inspiration to Alicia's general nonsensical attitude, and the incredibly creepy art that pops up whenever you search for it inspired that, ever so slight hair raising tension one feels whenever she stares at you for too long. As if, something menacing was lurking right under the surface.... but its probably nothing right? After all, the jabberwocky doesn't exist.....c:

Astolfo

The man, the myth, the legend, while I'm aware of Astolfo's reputation in the wider internet, he's genuinely a very charming character. He's upbeat and airheadedly optimistic but that only makes him moments of sobering self-awareness all the more uplifting. There's this certainty to how he speaks, that even if things go wrong, somehow, it'll be okay - and Alicia takes after this. Evaporation of Sanity they both may have, it adds to the appeal probably. After all, there's nothing quite as charming as sincerity.

Joker

The joker is Alicia's card suite, and primary inspiration for her aside from the jabberwocky. She's technically twisted from the joker as well, along with her hair being a reference to a jester's hat - hence the bells. Though if you get her in old maid I'm sure you can still find a way to be a winner Sei Shonagon

Miss Nintendo Switch herself, Sei is a cheerful, bubbly lass who doesn't care much for court proceedings aside from the potential drama. Despite her, violently zoomer energy (like she would have a tiktok, that's not up for debate) Sei - for all her irreverence and insensitivity - is a surprisingly old soul once she takes a minute to breathe. Her dedication to her own values, her stalwart beliefs, and her incredibly perceptiveness of people's issues betray a much wiser character beyond her natural goofball demeanor, and Alicia takes after this splendidly. Though admittedly, Alicia leans on the clownitude even harder than Sei does.

Atiq

Mung Daal

Don't look at me like that. Atiq takes after Mung Daal's fits of rage specifically, both of them have tendencies to just straight up contort in rage. Think of every time he has to talk to Endive, that's Atiq.

Cagliostro

Cagli is the self-proclaimed cutest girl in the skies and has enough confidence to back up on her claims (as well as firepower, if you do manage to annoy her to that extent). Atiq is, incredibly vain, maybe not as vain as Cagli but it is a close thing, and both of them don't hold back on the snark when need be. Confident, poised, and being both aware enough to be the tsukkomi and vain enough to be the bokke, Atiq takes after alchemy's founder well

Arashi

Did I say vanity because I meant vanity. While Atiq is not nearly as bubbly - or as generally pleasant to be around - as Arashi, both of them have vanity in spades. Arashi's tendencies to daydream over an impossible romance also carries over with Atiq's unfortunate crush on the himbo in RSA he used to have as a lab partner in middle school. Neither of them are afraid to flaunt their looks and femininity, often to humorous extents.

Miss Piggy

Again, don't look at me like that. Miss Piggy is an icon, she's tough, she's gorgeous, and she will break your spinal cord if you say otherwise. Despite Atiq's rather willowy appearance, he is not scared in the slightest to dig his heels into people who insult him - at least when they're not looking. Atiq may not be as bold as Miss Piggy will ever be, that utmost confidence in himself (usually) and his moodswingy nature definitely put them in the same ball park.

Yzma

Yzma is who he was originally twisted from, the sly former adviser to the emperor who seeks the throne - as well as the antagonist in the second best Di/sney movie don't @ me. He was specifically twisted from the scrapped villain song "Snuff out the Light", where Yzma wanted eternal beauty - while Atiq wants to reverse the effects of his illness for his vanity's sake. Yzma's a fun character, she's scheming and mean but incredibly funny and you never really feel bad when bad things happen to her cause she kinda deserves it but she never stays down for long, that's the vibe I want for Atiq more than anything.

Charlotte

I think Charlotte gets a bad rep for being a two-faced golddigger, I mean she definitely is that but it doesn't make her a bad person she's just being realistic. She's cunning but not unkind, and is genuinely loyal to the people she cares for. Also she makes incredibly great faces when she's pissed. Atiq definitely has shades of this, and while he and Charlotte are both prickly they're good people when you get down to it. It's just in Atiq's case. It's a long way down

Rin Tohsaka

Okay I'm gonna be real while actual canon Rin does work for this, the one that gave inspiration to Atiq was the one from UBW Abridged. Powerful, beautiful, and completely flippant to people who are not her, she's hot shit and she knows it - and definitely not afraid to show it. Despite her general impertinence, Rin shows a surprising amount of generosity and kindness when the chips are down even if she does still complain about it. Personality-wise I'd say Atiq takes after her the most

Carmilla

Carmilla is a lot of things, a murderer, a sadist, questionably of vampiric nature - but most of all she's fun. While initially in the lore she was more of a cruel dominatrix more than anything, Atiq takes after her post-character development. She's still a sadist (that one part in a summer event she ran over Liz three times in a single drive openly admitting to trying to kill her was just great) but there's just something familiar to her, maybe even friendly if you wanted to be brave.

[curioussubjects]

and let me correct it

(ao3)

Pairing: Dean/Cas Rating: M Words: 1.5k Tags: Coda: 15.09 The Trap, Post-Episode, Fluff and Smut, (easy on the smut), Established Relationship, Getting Back Together, Feelings Notes: This fic is probably one of the most self-indulgent things I've ever written. I admit I was tempted by that MoC!Cas angst, but sometimes one just wants some warm and fuzzy feelings -- even in this economy. Probably canon divergent. Like...maaaaybe. Anyway, hope y'all like it! Title is from New Perspective by Panic! at the Disco because I really meant that bit about self-indulgence. 

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The hushed sounds of the bunker are loud around them. Dean can hear the buzz of electricity from the lights and the generator, feels alive with it. The lights in the hallway aren’t particularly bright, making the angles of Cas’s face soft. It’s been too long since they’ve been this close, and Dean’s fingers itch to touch him. They’re in the hallway about to part for the night, so Dean makes a decision. He steps closer to Cas, slowly, carefully and with baited breath. Cas watches him move, but doesn’t back away, doesn’t add any distance between them, though he doesn’t move closer either. Instead, Cas looks at Dean with curiosity, a trace of hope and a challenge in his eyes. Dean licks his lips and sees Cas track the movement, purposefully. It’s easy then to lean in, to wait for Cas to meet him halfway. The kiss is a careful thing, incongruent. Neither of them make a move to make it more intense; the moment feels fragile. Dean doesn’t want to push his luck because they’re still reeling from purgatory, from Chuck. They still have more to say to each other, more to fix. But he wants to kiss Cas again, has missed how he feels and how he tastes.

Cas sighs into it and pulls Dean closer, his hands settling warm on Dean’s waist. Dean relents willingly, needs to be close and closer still. Feels their apprehension steadily falling away. He moves a hand to Cas’s jaw, to angle him just right. Lets his other hand move further, so he can run his fingers through Cas’s hair. And Dean loves kisses like this, slow and focused – not heated, but no less overwhelming. Dean struggles to remember the last time him and Cas kissed this way, were this caught up in how to touch and be touched. Dean relishes in it, in how Cas’s lips are chapped and dry, but have a softness to them that Dean has long grown addicted to. He lets himself get lost in it, knowing Cas is doing the same by the way he holds Dean tightly and nips at his bottom lip.

But when Cas walks them backwards, slightly, towards Dean’s bedroom door, Dean forces himself to break the kiss, to pull away just a little. Dean hadn’t had a plan beyond a kiss in the half-light of the hallway. He’s not opposed to what Cas seems to be suggesting, as if he could ever be, but he doesn’t want to derail their progress by getting carried away now. With his voice rough around the edges, Dean says:

“I know we still have to-”

Resting their foreheads together, Cas nods. Dean is about to ask if they could talk in the morning, maybe grab some lunch or – but he loses his train of thought at the sound of Cas clearing his throat.

“Later?”

For a second, Dean thinks of saying no. Of gently pushing Cas away, saying they need to talk before they resume any kind of normalcy in their relationship. Except Cas is so close, and he’s so distracting when he nudges Dean’s nose. Not demanding anything, he does it just to be tender. And Dean gets it because there’s been enough violence between them. Every soft touch they share is a discovery, a wound healed. Besides, they need some solace, and they’ve found it in each other more often than not. So Dean doesn’t pause whatever it is they’re doing, doesn’t say they should wait until they have no more secrets to share or hurt to dole out. The bunker feels suddenly warmer and brighter than it has in months.  

“Yeah, alright.”

Dean guides them the rest of the short way into his bedroom, encouraged by the steady hold Cas has on him. Opening and closing the door is simple with them trading lingering touches and an errant kiss. Yet, when the door shuts, and the only light comes from under the door and the display on the clock on the nightstand, it’s easy to get lost in the push and pull of undressing and the marvel of exposing skin. In remembering how to touch after months of absence. There’s no grace in their movements: they are tugging at each other’s clothes and stumbling in the dark.

----

They find a rhythm soon, hips rocking together.  Heat builds slow and steady with the slick slide of their bodies. In the endless span of skin and the press of fingers and lips. Dean feels drunk on it, his senses overrun with how solid and warm Cas feels beneath him, the way he smells, and the litany of sounds he makes against Dean ear. He is lost in the way they move together, muffles a groan against Cas’s neck at the sting of blunt nails running down his back, at the way Cas tugs at the short hairs at the nape of his neck, allowing him to bite the bolt of Dean’s jaw. So then Cas can trail his lips across Dean’s cheek until they kiss, open mouthed and sloppy. They know how to do this, know how to read their bodies, and move together. They know how to move until they lose focus, with racing hearts and panting breaths.

Their movements grow erratic; Dean is sure he has embarrassing nonsense spilling from his lips, knows Cas hears it all by the press of his hands and the fondness in his eyes. It’s not unusual that moving like this is enough to tip them over, hips grinding together in tight thrusts. They hold hands sometimes, above their heads, when it’s hard to breathe. When it’s so good they can barely see straight. But there are times when Cas needs more friction. Needs to move more freely, even if he’s the one pressing Dean into the mattress. Dean can tell, knows by the way Cas makes impatient noises in the back of his throat. It’s unsurprising that he pushes until Dean is on his back, watching as Cas straddles his hips and looks like he could stare at Dean forever. It’s difficult not to squirm under the attention. Even after years together, Dean isn’t quite used to it, kinda hopes he never is. And really, he can’t be sure he doesn’t have the same look on his face because Cas is gorgeous like this: with a flush running up his chest and his eyes bright, even if framed in shadow. Dean pulls Cas down against him, can’t stand the distance. Whispers c’mere and gasps against Cas’s lips when Cas wraps a hand around them both.

----

Cas falls heavy on him, after. Tucks his face against Dean’s neck. Nuzzles. Dean thinks his heart is going to burst, and he hates himself for almost giving this up. For almost letting it fall away into nothing. He wraps his arms around Cas, not caring about the mess spreading between their bodies. Kisses his temple, breathes him in. Cas kisses his Dean’s collarbone in response, and sighs his contentment. Dean can’t help asking then, directly and not cushioned in deflection:

“Stay?”

It’s quite for a while, and Dean tenses with regret. Braces himself for the inevitable. Cas tugs at his hip, so Dean turns on his side. He keeps his eyes open, looks at Cas and tells himself the earnestness he sees there is not a sign of apology. The second before Cas answers is long and fretful.

“Tonight?”

Dean licks his lips, feels his throat closing up, old alarm bells go off in his head. He powers on, he can do this. Dean makes it slightly easier on himself by closing his eyes, resting their foreheads together:

“And the next.”

“And the next?” And Dean knows Cas is smiling, can hear it in his voice.

Dean lets out a breathless chuckle in disbelief that maybe it’s that easy. Relief floods his whole body, and he feels a little foolish for doubting. Maybe it’s not complicated at all, even if it actually is in practice. Even if they bicker and fight and sacrifice. Even if they don’t tell each other things they should, or if they struggle to break old habits. But the certainty of another night, and another, and another make the ugly parts smaller, insignificant in the feeling that blooms in Dean’s chest and takes roots in his body: a shriveling thing waiting to come back to life. Dean knows what this is, knows the love he’s felt for years and tried to keep away from the light. He grips Cas’s waist, his hip, pulls him closer. Hums his assent because he’s choking on the thought that this isn’t just something he gets to have again, but gets to keep – for good this time.

Cas holds him close, thumb running against Dean’s cheek; he brings their lips together, soft and soothing.

“Dean,” he breathes. “Yes.”

Dean opens his eyes and they smile at each other. They know tomorrow will be less kind and tender than this. And yet it changes nothing. It doesn’t change the words bubbling up Dean’s throat, words he’ll save for now. For after. For another night, and, hopefully, another morning. Afternoon, if they’re lucky.

“Okay. Okay,” Dean says, instead, softly. It’s as much acknowledgment as it is reassurance: that whatever comes, they have this. Always. And Dean knows Cas will stay here with him, in their bed, even if he doesn’t really sleep. He knows the morning light will find them still wrapped up in each other.

[thassabadtake]

firstly, “and my real name is a combination of circumstances” is a fancy way to say “and i chose a non-native name because i decided to”. she didn’t stumble into it and accidentally put it on her birth certificate - she still very much chose that name for herself. that’s intentionally obfuscating language that doesn’t actually counter the anon’s point of her not choosing to have a name from the culture she’s claiming.

though, i don’t think that’s actually a point at all. whether or not someone has a certain name doesn’t change their race or heritage. i think this person means that is another way in which lily passes for white/avoids racial stigma, but it’s still certainly a racist sentiment.

secondly, i’d be very interested to see where she got those statistics, though this article by the pew research center does provide a statistic of 50% of all mixed-race people self-identifying as “white-native american” (regardless of any actual connection to their heritage) - but most also not identifying as “multiracial”.

https://www.pewsocialtrends.org/2015/06/11/multiracial-in-america/

a quote on self-identification that could lead to someone giving the above ask, which could actually stem from them being or knowing a person of mixed race background who does not feel it’s appropriate to call themselves “mixed”:

"Multiracial identity is complicated, as much an attitude that can change over a lifetime as it is a genetic or biological certainty. Only four-in-ten adults with a mixed racial background (39%) say they consider themselves to be “mixed race or multiracial.” Fully 61% say they don’t consider themselves to be multiracial.

When asked why they don’t identify as multiracial, about half (47%) say it is because they look like one race. An identical share say they were raised as one race, while about four-in-ten (39%) say they closely identify with a single race. And about a third (34%) say they never knew the family member or ancestor who was a different race. (Individuals were allowed to select multiple reasons.)”

the idea that someone receiving racist insults based on heritage they frequently discuss having means they are that race is also ludicrous (though, i’ll note that i’m calling out the problematic point she’s made here, not lily’s identity itself).

i have personally received negative jokes about my chinese heritage. my nearest chinese ancestor was at least ten generations back. 

this does not mean i am a chinese person facing anti-chinese sentiment. it means racist assholes don’t care what you are, if you’re a “mutt” (as i was called growing up), they’re going to pick out the presumably non-white aspects of your heritage and mock you for it. 

i wouldn’t dismiss that anon as “racist garbage” - what they said is a sentiment many native american and multiracial people use as a metric to gauge at what point “white passing” becomes “white”. because that point does exist.

but if lily doesn’t want to keep arguing with people like this, there’s a very simple answer:

don’t.

if she says she’s native american, there’s really no way to disprove that. any “proof” she tries to give is either going to come out sounding racist/illogical - which will give people more ammo against her - or it’s going to be easily dismissed as “lying”.

she says she meets the blood quantum, and the obvious asshole response is: “prove it”. which is total strangers demanding extremely personal information they have no claim to.

they’re going to keep saying “prove it” or “i think you’re white”, because they’ve already decided lily is a white person pretending to be native american to escape her white privelege.

and unless she wants to indulge that nonsense, she ought to ignore it. the fact she’s pointedly trying so hard to defend herself only feeds the idea that she has to.

[shall-we-imagine]

Mess me up. (Klaus GoldsteinxReader College AU)

When you start getting angsty feels way too late at night and you just need to write a random one shot..anyone? Just me? Okay

Genre: angst/suggestive/slight fluff

Summary: Klaus goes through a break up and turns to you, aka his bestfriend, for comfort.

(Second person point of view)

"It's okay, (Y/N). This is your last year. You can get through this." Having your own apartment with no roommates throughout college had its perks- one of them being moments like this when studying has practically driven you insane, and now you're just talking to yourself. Fun.

"I fucking hate information. Couldn't I have been created as a rock?" You huff, stretching as you decide to give yourself the hundredth break this past hour to go make yourself your thousandth cup of coffee today.

A knock on the door interrupts your plans, however.

You glance at the clock hanging on your wall. 2:30 AM. The fuck kinda asshole knocks on people's doors at this time in the morning? You sigh, but trudge to the door anyway.

Upon peeking through the peephole, you almost gasp at the unexpected guest. Your bestfriend might've been an asshole, but he certainly wasn't one to stay up that late. He cares about his health, or whatever.

Maybe he'd decided it was time to change his boring habit and spend time with the most fun person in his life, you of course. You chuckle at your own joke, pulling the door open.

But your smile falters at the sight before you.

"Klaus?! What's wrong with you?! What happened?!" Questions escape your lips before you could comprehend any of them. His mischievous, teasing eyes had been turned blank and glossy, redness and puffiness evident even at first glance. He appeared to have been crying, but that was something you'd believed impossible, for you've known Klaus since childhood, and you couldn't remember the last time you saw tears in his eyes.

"Can I come in?" He croaks, keeping his head low.

"Y-yeah, of course." You step aside, allowing him to shuffle into your messy living room and place himself on the couch.

"Um, it's a bit of a mess; I wasn't expecting y- not that I mind, I just- um..do you want some tea?" You finish your string of nonsense awkwardly.

"It's okay. I just wanted to see you." His eyes don't meet yours. Normally, Klaus would be scolding the living shit out of you for your 'pig lifestyle'; never would he have been okay with your living room looking like it'd just been hit by a tornado.

You nervously inch closer to him; it was almost like you were waiting for a bomb to explode at the slightest mistake. "Did something happen?"

"No, nothing; I'm just cosplaying a cloud." He rolls his eyes and looks at you directly for the first time.

You laugh nervously, unnerved by the lack of humor in his statement regardless of how clearly sarcastic it was. Something is very clearly off, but you didn't know how to get him to open up.

"Are you gonna keep standing there like that? Could you just sit down?"

"Oh, um.." Suddenly aware of how awkward you look, you fumble to sit next to him on the couch.

After what felt like an eternity of awkward silence, you'd had enough of how hot your face was getting, but you weren't sure if you were supposed to ask again about what happened, so you do what everyone hates but resorts to anyway: small talk. "So..how much studying left do you have?"

"What makes you think I have any studying left? I'm already done." It was honestly hard to try to talk normally when he looked like he had a permanent pout etched into his face. You couldn't see him for the stuck up, demanding nerd he normally is.

"Klaus, seriously, what is it?"

"What is what?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

"I-" He seemed to have been about to continue the argument but pauses, eyebrows furrowed and eyes glued to the floor (or rather the books and papers covering the entire floor). "I don't know if I'll be able to talk about it." He sighs.

You rub your eyes with your palms in frustration and exhaustion. "Forget the tea; I'm getting the vodka." You push yourself off the couch and head to the kitchen, returning with a large bottle and two glasses filled with ice.

"Drink till you spill....information not vodka; this shit's expensive." You clink your glasses together, downing the clear liquid in one go.

You both cringe a little at the flavour before you pour more for each of you. After that second round is when his majesty had finally started speaking.

"So, you know how I'd told you I'd propose to Mila, right? I was even looking for a ring and all, right?" He stares at his third glass like he was reading his words off of it.

"Yeah?" You already knew of his girlfriend; you weren't very fond of her, but if Klaus likes her, that's the whole point, isn't it? Okay, you weren't that understanding at first, mostly because you'd started developing feelings for Klaus at around the end of middle school, but after he and Mila started dating in their first year of college, you'd given up on it and decided to remain friends with him instead, and slowly you'd felt your feelings for him fade away, helping you become more supportive of his relationship.

However, his next statement makes you wanna throw all that support out the window.

"Well, I went to visit her dorm a few hours ago." He pours himself a fourth glass, downing it before uttering any more information.

He sighs. "She was giving some dude a head." He chuckles humorlessly. "I'd suspected she was cheating, but what I didn't expect was for her to try and play it off like she had the right to- like I deserved it somehow." He slams his glass on the coffee table and reaches for the bottle, only for you to pull it away.

"What are you doing?" He grumbles, the effect of the alcohol evident in the slurring of his speech.

"Enough. I know you're upset, but it's too much; it's strong; I've only had two glasses, and I'm already struggling..you've had four!"

"I'm not telling you the rest if you don't hand it over!" He crosses his arms childishly.

You hesitate.

"Only one more, okay?" Your shakily hand him the bottle, which he gladly grabs to pour his fifth drink.

"So, what does she do? She tells me I'm bossy?! That all I ever do is control her life?!" He laughs in disbelief, "She says if I hadn't been such a pain in the ass, maybe she wouldn't have gone for another man." His laugh turns into shaky, desperate sobs. "Am I really that bad?" You doubted the question, like the rest of his speech, was even aimed at you; it was like he was only babbling and ranting to himself.

But it's not like you were gonna let him wallow in self-pity. "No, Klaus, it's her loss; don't say that-"

"She said at first I seemed perfect: rich, handsome, smart, but up close, I'm absolutely disgusting, and," he pauses, letting himself calm down slightly, which didn't even help because he still kept sobbing harshly, "and that she tried to hold on for the money, but even that couldn't prevent her other temptations."

It was absolutely ridiculous- so ridiculous, it pissed you off.

You pull the blond into your embrace, allowing him to sink into your warmth and let his tears roll freely. "Klaus, you're the biggest sweetheart I'd ever met; yeah, sure, you enjoy sarcasm more than chocolate or sex, but that doesn't make you a horrible person." Your flawed method of comforting earns laughter from the male in your arms.

"See? Who wouldn't kill for such an adorable laugh? Come on." You preach.

Gleaming purple eyes, still tainted red, stare back at you in disbelief, "Going a little too far, aren't you?"

"I'm re-inflating your huge ass ego, is it not working? I should get paid for this." You state in certainty.

"You're an idiot." He pulls himself away from you. You couldn't help the grin forming on your lips; the way his smile contradicted the trace of tears on his pink cheeks and red nose, the way his eyes glimmered in happiness though holding remnants of sadness, it all did wonders to your heart. It was a living, breathing proof that anything she breaks, you can fix- even if at your own pace.

And suddenly you begin to doubt if your feelings for that rude blond ever really went away.

"(Y/N)?" He snaps you back to the present. Has his face been always this close to yours?

"Hmm?" You attempt to shift away from him, but before you can really move away, his lips swollen, pink lips press onto yours softly.

Your eyes widen in shock, hands immediately flying to his chest and pushing him away. "Klaus?!"

"You like me, don't you?" His eyes bore into yours, forcing you to melt under his manipulating gaze. He looks like a kicked puppy, but somehow he'd managed to gain the upper hand, leaving you red and hot with embarrassment and surprise.

"Wha..what are you talking about?" You move back, creating distance between you two, but he just moves closer to you.

"I like you too; how did I never notice my attraction to you?" He sloppily traces your jawline with kisses.

You find it in you to push him away once again, trying your best to ignore your heart pounding in your chest. "Klaus, you reek of alcohol; you don't know what you're doing. Just stop."

He doesn't respond, his lips meeting yours in a heated kiss, one you were unable to pull away from. Butterflies were going crazy in your stomach, matching the speedy rate your heartbeats were going at.

The taste of vodka conquered the kiss, reminding you every passing second that he doesn't mean what he's doing and that it'll be awkward in the morning and maybe for the rest of your life, but maybe this is your only chance to feel loved by him, maybe you too wanted to forget about the future for a second and get lost in the heat of the moment.

So you do.

Therefore, when he begins reaching for your shirt, sure enough, you let him. And faster than you would've imagined, your clothes piled up on the floor with the books you'd abandoned since that idiot has stepped foot into your apartment.

"You're too good to me." Lips pressed to your neck, he mumbles, his right hand caressing your bare hip and side while he uses the other for support. He bites lightly on the soft skin, making you yelp at the sudden sharp pain, but it doesn't last. He licks and sucks on the skin, etching his markings onto your neck and collarbones.

×××

Perhaps an old, hard couch wasn't the perfect place for your sexy time with your crush, but then again were you even thinking at all last night?

Certainly not.

You shamefully collect your clothes off the floor, quickly noticing the fact that Klaus's were no longer there.

"Klaus?" You call out, earning no reply.

Before you give yourself a chance to actually look around for him, a paper on your coffee table catches your attention.

"It was a mistake. I'm sorry.

Please ignore last night I wasn't myself.

Klaus xx"

"Ignore it?" You chuckle sadly, "You fucking dick."

You pour your third glass.

~~(A/N): it's currently 7 am so idk if this is terrible and I'll regret it when I wake up or not but I'm posting it anyway 😂 Also I feel like this blog is becoming don't get Klaus drunk unless you want to get into his pants then sure go ahead! Idk 😂😂 but anyway if y'all want a part 2 for this tell me lol

[futuristicdenial]

For typing

I’m mainly stuck between ENTP and INFJ, though I’ve not shut the door on other types; why will soon become clear. For general context, I’m 24 years of age, female, currently in between research jobs (mathematics), living alone. I have been diagnosed with depression (high-functioning).

Ne-Si:

When I am functioning properly, the world seems filled with potential, and I experience that potential as inherent to it - there is a touch of mind projection there, but also just the sense that openness is integral to reality. Whether or not it is true at the base level, I feel fulfilled when dealing with an open-ended mental world (taking the world as branching, as a series of if this then that sequences where each “if” is indeed possible rather than simply a heuristic). Being able to adapt to a changing reality (and having a changing reality) is very important to me, and I derive a lot of my identity from adaptive and generative capacity. My sense of optimism is far more linked to flexibility than anything else - and I’m terrified of becoming comfortable with a single view of the world. My concept of relationships rests very much on joint creation, on the feeling of mutual contribution to an expanding vision - and just the sharing of ideas in general, the joy of pure thought, and at times, of troubleshooting. Much of the feedback I receive is feedback on being unpredictable, ever-changing, disconnected from material reality, generative but ineffectual. For context/situating me in my life, I decided to study mathematics with a focus on logic and category theory; as such, I set out to get a bachelor’s degree. I found it stifling, slow, computational, and was made far too miserable by its structure - so I dropped out, studied the relevant material on my own, and found a way to get around the red tape a year later, going straight for a master’s. Socially I tend to find alternate paths for people, I my way of contributing to their well-being is frequently linked to allowing them a wider view of what may yet be, and helping them detect the assumptions that limited their sight. I can be at a loss when there’s no sense of motion in someone’s life, I’m not sure what they need when there’s no trap, no problem, and no developmental challenges.

I’m terrified of repetition, of a crystalized self-image, of material comfort as a main motivation. When I’m truly not myself, I become a hypochondriac, I feel constantly physically threatened, I dwell on past ideas or events, I create a doomsday view of the future, I become embroiled in feelings of inevitability and become unable to think. I mentally hoard, I zoom in one one problem, feeling it is the problem to end all problems (and usually one that is horrible to think about) I feel I can do nothing else until I’ve solved it, and my view feel so narrow and simplistic it causes me great pain. I try to move beyond the past before truly integrating the lessons I derive from it. As part of this pattern, I frequently feel my expertise is feigned, that I’ve not mastered anything, truly, that I have nothing to show for myself an endless cascade of unfinished projects. Having always fled the standard path, I’ve often felt as though I had no credibility.

Ni-Se:

I need to feel a connection to meaning, to symbology, to story, grand narrative at all times - the material is never as real to me as perception itself, and that which shapes perception. (Whether or not this is ultimately physical is beside the point, I’m looking at experience here.) The feeling that the world is structurally ugly, lifeless, without possibility or vision has lead me to feeling suicidal in the past; what helped was starting with the experience of meaning in perception, and then applying a careful conceptual cleanup, rather than attempting purity from the start. I need a charted course - even if this course changes over time - a notion of the significance of my existence, and a notion of the world itself. The possibility I crave is the possibility that allows meaning, so while I absolutely need open-endedness, a progressive unfolding, I also need a coherence of vision. Naive analysis, of the form that starts with an attempt at formalization, and then unvaryingly follows that formalism to the grave is something that absolutely kill meaning for me - perhaps I’m sensitive to this as a mathematician, but it is a natural tendency regardless. We start with the truth of perception - a formalism that cannot be absorbed into experience is a failed one; reason is human reason, dreams of enlightenment that fail to take this into account are doomed, and they’re a far worse version of mind-projection than the one I cited earlier. Presupposing meaning is very dangerous. Visualization is an integral part of my internal life - I formulate my thoughts by shifting back and forth between between verbalized propositions, and film or photo-like impressions; I cannot say one form dominates over the other. I very much start out with a blurry image, feeling it become progressively clearer - I let the fog dissipate as I integrate things into a coherent whole, and then prune. I get feedback on being pretentious, highfalutin, bizarre, uptight, cold, obsessive... Socially I see relationships as ideally being about formulating joint meaning, and a lot of what I contribute to them is a sense of airy purpose, the sense that every piece of strife and trivial pain is contributing to something larger.

When I’m truly not myself I see no way foreword, the future seems lost, people seem stupid, I feel hopeless, and all of the mental suddenly feels cold and unsafe. The sensation is that the fruitless objective is the only truth, or at least the truth that will win out of sheer efficacy, and that I have no tools to fight due to not wanting to fight with tools. I feel unable to think, unable to see, and have at times sought comfort in substance abuse - this was perhaps peak out of character behavior: impulsive, “tomorrow we die” behavior. It is feeling a bleak lack of purpose and lack of potential combined with a lack of personal significance or ability that leave me distraught. I can also feel a great sense of loneliness - not just socially, a sense of immense distance from the world, as though I cannot connect to its structure.

Fe-Ti:

My ability to harmonize is frequently the last to go; I’ve often been told that I have a kind of distanced sympathy, that I understand what someone is experiencing well enough to provide them with true comfort, while not becoming directly involved in what they’re experiencing. Reading a social environment is very easy for me, though not always interesting - and having assumed the role of the mediator and “sage” from a very young age, I’ve come to find it very burdensome. I’m quick to spot what people need, what they crave, but have a very hard time using this knowledge to craft relationships that satisfy me - in the past I frequently ended up a tool, though I have become far more self-sufficient and assertive with time. A lot of what I contribute socially is also the ability to help people see the experience of others, which I often find self-evident. Fe behaviour feels somewhat tool-like to me, however... I find I frequently need the “find emotional comfort in the world” advice, though I often feel it is unsafe/try to find justifications for it that lie outside experience. I could see Ni-Ti looping tendencies: I justify my pessimism with reason that isn’t the best I’m capable of, and my pessimism is hyper-structured; I need to rationalize any comfort before I let myself have it (and usually don’t actually allow myself to have it) and frequently apply naive conceptions of “truth” to it; I retreat from the world to defend my self-imagine as a “brilliant and unique analytical thinker”, lest the external world hit me with a hammer; I disappear from social interactions and dive further and further into a self-defeating pit. I can feel a despair that I believe to be wholly unaided by material or emotional comforts, and refuse all help that isn’t a coherent model of what is.

Ti-Fe:

What it feels to me like a far stronger concern than all others - if human values have trade-offs, I feel reality takes the cake. I cannot cede ground to grace, or beauty, or efficiency or anything else until I have given reality its due. While I may feel more fulfilled by processes I would identify with intuition, what my mind does before anything else is a formal breakdown of cause, level of correlation, level of certainty, a check on personal biases and motivation, a search for alternate explanations, etc. There is a kind of automatic analytical thought that overtakes synthesis very quickly if I’m not paying attention; it’s what my mind does when I’m not looking, even when it is inconvenient and I wish to turn it off. I have always taken great pleasure in epistemology and logic, and my interests have often involved finding the purest, most general form of reason. It feels to me like the laws of the world go without saying, they may not be pleasant, they may not be obvious, but they are, and when we rebel against them we do not realize we are nature rebelling against itself. Even when these laws drown me, I still think in terms of them - I’m more likely to condemn the subject than that which gives rise to it. Though I write about this with some degree of sadness, I used to take great joy in mere reason, but I was presupposing the human mind, I feel, and working in fields which have required me to think about optimization apart from all human enterprises has opened my eyes somewhat - value that presuppose the valuing are a tad dangerous. “System” is my default idea of what something is, analysis is my default approach. (Writing the paragraph on Ni was quite challenging because I had to turn off my nonsense detection for moment in order to document my experience without Ti overlay.) As a functional approach to the world, Ti is my go to, and used to be so to an even greater extent (it took me a long time to try other modes) as the basis for reflection and meaning, it has torn me apart, so I truly don’t know where it is.

My ego defense is very much “you are original, generative, independent, brilliant and apt”. I see myself as a jack of all trades, and I frequently deal in personal potential without actual action. I have often used social manipulation to preserve a certain self-image since I could easily manipulate feedback - and even technically, I’ve often performed intelligence in mathematics to get that feedback because, e.g writing a paper on a subfield of topology I wasn’t remotely interested in because someone was struggling with it, and claiming this was inherent to the subject.

General and examples: Inaction has often been my plight, I find meaning in planning action, in undertaking a subject, in representing personal power, and then never actually move forward. My social relationships have often been unbalanced, with me playing the role of the therapist (and validating my abilities this way) and being very unfulfilled (failing to notice this initially). I get feedback as being overly mental, but not overly cold, people feel understood by me (though they often hear what matters to me and say it sounds “very cold” or boring, and ask me to talk about my life instead, which leaves me profoundly alone). In my teens I learned contemporary dance, and this mode, this synesthesia, really gave me a sense of ease that I otherwise lacked in life.

Early in life (ages 9-14ish) I was very much the therapist to adults around me, mainly being useful by problem solving for them (getting a divorce? Here are housing arrangements and suggestions for how you might piece yourself back together. I’m also here to resignify your life. Here’s a breakdown of how I think this happened.). Simultaneously, around 12 or so, I took a stance against my family's “irrational” beliefs and became a staunch atheist, devoting myself to hard science with little philosophical sophistication. At this time I also acquired a couple of teenage friendships with that followed similar patterns, and I started having problems with substance abuse stemming from feelings of emptiness. From 14-17 I became very interested in epistemology, ethics, aesthetics, literature, filmmaking… many, many things, and I also began to gain a little more intellectual maturity. Around this time I also decided to pursue a career in mathematics (physics was also an option, though many people expected me to pursue philosophy, and a far few would have guessed psychology). From this age onwards, my focus has been on the preservation of human meaning, and the forecasting of the future. I’ve had a variety of jobs, helped a couple of start-ups get started, and generally had an unstable life (though I always needed a coherent framework for it, I always needed a sense of direction, it’s just that it evolved).

Edit: In case it isn’t clear, interest hopping, the need for new ideas and general cognitive stimulation (transformed into fright of the future/a single ugly truth in my worst periods), and a need to imagine and fantasize about the fantastical are all very present - but while I can get quite disconnected from practical matters, stark realism isn’t really a quality I lack (or appear to lack, I’m told).

[dreamofcentipedes]

Red Lotus Blooms: 8 - Burning Bright

Summary: A monster is forged in flame. As light burns out, red leaves unfurl. Crossing paths once more, Tatara and Houji hurtle towards the end of the beginning, and the ashes of the past again burn bright.

Characters: Tatara, Houji, Eto, Noro, Arima, Donato

Rating: Teen Words: 8, 766 Link to AO3

Link to Table of Contents

A/N: FINAL CHAPTER! Thank you so much to all you readers, whether you've been here from the start, you hopped on partway through, or you're reading this in the future from start to finish - every comment and kudos I've received from you gave me the willpower to see this through to the end. 

A note on ages: here, Tatara is 17, Eto is 16, and Houji is 27. It's a little under 9 years before Kaneki goes on that fateful date.

Cochlea was a uniform place for diverse peoples. Prisoners sane but for their cannibalism, guards mad but for their wives and two children, it was a melting pot of the most absurd congregation of ghouls and humans alike. Its architecture, with its circling rows of identical doorways, looked bizarre in contrast by its very unremarkability. Perhaps the effect was intentional: to differentiate the prisoner from the prison, chaos from order. The guards would not play into that fantasy, however. Houji often found himself wondering who really needed protecting here: who should be outside the cells, and who should be within.

So it came as a strange relief to meet so disgusting a ghoul as the child-murdering Donato Porpora. For a brief moment, Houji could regain some sense of moral certainty.

“And you are Special Class Kousuke Houji, is that right?”

Houji inwardly flinched at the title that still felt so ill-fitting to him. This ghoul, with his elderly but dignified aspect and his calm smile that seemed to hold secret knowledge, made the honour feel especially rancid. Like he was comparing him with Special Class Wu, a comparison he knew in his heart of hearts to be true.

“Oh, did that have some kind of impact on you? I really can’t tell, your face is solid as a rock.” The ghoul seemed disappointed behind his mockery. Or perhaps it was the other way around.

“Priest.” Houji addressed him, smoothly cutting through his nonsense, firm, clear, impassive. “You know why I am here, and why you are being kept alive.”

“Nosiness as usual then, is it?” He threw back his head with a rasping cackle that echoed behind the glass screen that separated them in the interrogation room.

The balding Warden Koumura sat beside Houji, bored. Houji was sure he had better uses of his time, but it was advised that interrogations took place in groups of two, especially with this ghoul. Arima was unavailable as he was on patrol and, though he was not fond of Koumura, he was preferable to a guard like that savage Tokage. Ultimately, Koumura could not turn down a rule he was meant to impose.

“Have you heard about any ghoul plans to breach Cochlea? Or if anyone who would be stupid enough to try it?” Koumura spat. He was obviously sceptical about these rumours, but they were the reason Houji had been assigned there as extra security.

“Breach Cochlea?” The ghoul seemed interested, for very obvious reasons. “Where did you hear that?”

“First Class Arima overheard a group of ghouls discussing the plans before intercepting them. However, they were not wearing anything indicative of allegiance to any group we know of.” Houji clarified.

“How would I know, when you’ve been keeping me in here so long…” He grumbled.

“Rest assured, an attack will not succeed. This is a maximum security prison now being guarded by myself and one of our finest upcoming investigators. So, if a breach does occur and we discover that you hid something from us, you will have outlived your usefulness. Do you understand?”

That was the view of the brass, anyway. Sceptical about the likelihood of such a bold venture, they had only assigned Arima, since he had raised the concern, and one investigator of his choosing. He had chosen Houji, for reasons he could not decipher. But that was always the way with Arima.

“Come now, you can’t blame me for hating being trapped up in here. I know you do too.”

Houji could not deny it. Caging ghouls up like animals, the pointless torture that went on behind closed doors that everyone could hear regardless – why prolong their suffering so cruelly, so meaninglessly? He may have resigned himself to the reality of the CCG’s role as humanity’s brutish cudgel, but the ghouls could at least be given the decency of a quick death.

Koumura gave him a sceptical side-eye. Houji’s demeanour did not falter.

“Indeed. If I had it my way, you would no longer be with us, Priest. But that is not my decision to make. So we most both perform our given roles.”

He had only the right to observe, to observe and do his duty. He was part of this greater, twisted whole, and so he must accept responsibility for their sins if he wanted to continue serving the CCG regardless.

Donato hinted at a sickly smile. “If I’m not mistaken, you performed that duty spectacularly in China. Is that where you developed this selfless, or should I call it spineless, ideology?”

Houji narrowed his eyes. How did he know about China?

“I’ve never been, myself. Are things much different there?” The old man went on.

Exactly the same. The same as the Japan he had come back to, if not the one he had left.

As soon as he had stepped out of the aeroplane after landing at Narita, he was hit by the same hostile air. He had thought – wished, rather – that when he returned to Japan he would return to how he was before he left. It was now woefully apparent that the Japan he had known was lost forever. Or rather, the self he had known. He was forced to look at the world through this new set of tainted eyes.

“Priest, if you have nothing of worth to say then I will terminate this interrogation.” Houji was getting tired of talking to Donato. The more the Priest talked, the more unpleasant thoughts haunted Houji’s mind. But he would cede no such reaction for that man’s enjoyment. Those days of vulnerability were far behind him.

“You’re getting more and more useless to us every day. Keep that in mind.” Koumura growled in his bullying fashion.

Donato drooped his brows like a child being deprived of his toy. “How rude. I was just making conversation, Special Class. It was no small thing, taking out Chi She Lian. An organisation of that size…that’s a lot of death.”

Blood dripping through the floorboards. A severed head. A ring on a lifeless finger.

“Although – and this is just pure hearsay, mind – I hear that you couldn’t quite finish the job. The one that got away, hmm?”

Houji’s teeth clenched like a vice. How could he know? Before he had left Beijing, he had spent two weeks fruitlessly searching for Tatara Huo. Not a trace. That was the true ghost of China – the one that had not died. It could not end while he was still out there, somewhere, in the shadows, grieving, hating, mourning…

Donato’s lips turned fully upwards now. “Maybe there’s your culprit. That ghoul must want your head more than his own life. Maybe he’s risking everything breaching Cochlea just to kill you. Tie up those loose ends.” The ghoul looked Houji dead in the eye with an expression now serious. “Would you like that, Special Class?”

Houji sat wide-eyed, staring and speechless. These had to be mind games, surely: there was no way the ghoul could know this. But Houji could not help but wonder if it was possible. Whether Tatara could truly be in Tokyo. If it was to kill him, then, perhaps…

Before he could respond, a siren started blaring.

Koumura’s jaw dropped in horror and fearfully turned towards him for an answer. Houji’s body tensed as he understood what it meant. The Priest, at first surprised, burst out into raucous laughter.

“Well, I suppose you’re about to find out! Don’t hold it against me, gentlemen, there really is nothing more I could’ve done for you.”

Houji shot him an icy look with a face of otherworldly calm. “Please relinquish that smug expression, Priest. You’ve no need of it. You will not be escaping this facility today.”

Houji rose briskly out of his chair, grabbed his attaché case, and marched out of the room with Koumura scrambling after him. The door closed behind them with a slam as they exited onto the ground floor, and Houji looked up to the great gates at the top of the prison. Slowly but steadily, they were opening.

--

Like clockwork, the heavy gates on Cochlea’s roof opened exactly on time. Tatara could hardly believe it. Eto had promised she could do it with her ‘connections’, but she had refused to specify what they were no matter how hard Tatara grilled her. In the end he decided to allow her this modicum of trust and return on a different day if it failed - after he beheaded the girl for her deception. Yet it seemed that trust was well founded. He wondered if she might have orchestrated a riot among the prisoners or something of that nature, but it looked peaceful enough down the great fall encircled by rows and rows of jail cells. That is, until the guards noticed the doorway receding.

There was no time for standing around. Tatara beckoned for his cohort, the remaining rabble of Aogiri, to follow him down the sinkhole. He jumped, and two hundred red cloaks followed him.

The ghouls unleashed hell on the guards below. Storms of ukaku shards thundered down upon them, and quinque bullets shot upwards in return. There were casualties on both sides already, but Tatara had the element of surprise. He landed on the first elevated platform in the centre of Cochlea, and immediately began sprinting, his eyes darting around on all sides for Houji. Seeing the afterimage of a white coat disappear behind an opaque screen on a floor above, he quickly rammed his kagune through the five guards charging at him simultaneously, smoothly slid it out, and launched himself into the air to an astonishing height to follow him.

He landed with a crash onto the railing, and, raising his head, stared at the now visible face of the white-coated figure with surprise and anger.

“You’re-”

“Not Houji.” The bespectacled man finished, and cut Tatara open.

--

Houji pelted through the rain of shards as ghouls descended from above.  He could not understand how it happened. Were there ghouls strong enough to open the gates from the outside? After Loong, he could not doubt it. Guards rushed out into the fray, only for several to be impaled immediately. Arima was nowhere to be seen – his patrol had probably led him to the other end of the facility. More and more of the ghouls were landing on the ground floor, white-masked and red-cloaked.

If these ghouls spring some of the inmates…

There were immensely powerful ghouls being kept here. The S-Rate Tail Brothers. Tokage’s plaything, that S-Rate Jason. Not to mention the SS-Rate Priest. Iff even some of them were to escape, it could spell dire news for Tokyo. Houji could not let that happen.

He clicked open his attaché case, and drew out Douhi.

Special Class Zhao, who had miraculously survived Loong’s onslaught thanks to the quick feet of the other survivors in getting him medical attention, had presented Houji with three quinques before he left China. Seeing Zhao’s armless stump and remembering how he had failed to fulfil Zhao’s wish of putting a final end to Chi She Lian, Houji hardly felt like he deserved them, but Zhao had insisted on rewarding Loong’s slayer. Two of the quinques were unique as the results of new studies in quinque research which combined the kakuhou of one ghoul with the cell matter of another, allowing, for instance, an ukaku quinque to be augmented with the strength of a powerful bikaku ghoul.

Such was the case with Douhi, named for the lead researcher of the project. It was a long cannon in pale yellow with curved horns protruding from either side, and it was made from the ukaku kakuhou of a Chi She Lian ghoul and the cell matter of Fei Huo.

For this reason, too, China never left him.

He pummelled out shards from Douhi that rained and slashed through the ghouls charging towards him. Even so, they were quickly swarming the place. Guards unleashed quinques and fought all around him, some pushing forward, some giving ground. Koumura was barking orders but noticeably not fighting himself, his electric baton-style quinque hanging uselessly at his side. Kagune came darting towards Houji but he blew them apart with the force of his cannon, followed by the heads of their owners.

He swung around to obliterate another kagune spiralling towards him, but lost his momentum when he saw the monstrosity. It was huge, grotesque, with jagged teeth like razor blades. The moment of hesitation allowed it to smash Douhi out of his hands and send it clattering to the floor.

The kagune’s owner appeared briefly behind it, but there was nothing brief about the tall, pony-tailed figure with his eyeless, grinning mask. He looked like trouble. Houji glanced concernedly to the far edge of their arena where Douhi had fallen metres ahead of him, but the distance was too long and the fighting too thick to retrieve it, not to mention that his opponent blocked the way. There was no chance of fighting that thing without a weapon.

He saw Koumura shrinking against the wall on the periphery of the battle. If he’s not doing anything anyway…Houji caught his eye and shouted over the fray: “Quinques!” Koumura blinked and nodded frantically, and, hesitantly raising his baton, began fighting his way to the armoury on the same floor.

As Houji watched the eyeless figure stand stock still and swing his kagune around for another attack, Houji knew that until Koumura could retrieve the weapons he needed, he would have to be exceedingly careful. He turned and dashed behind him as the kagune hurtled in his direction. Pushing his way through the calamity of ghouls and guards, the kagune found itself lost, as if confused, unable to locate Houji in the fray. Houji punched away the ghouls surrounding him with his fists, constantly keeping up his pace, knowing that if he slowed down he was dead. Yet despite his efforts, the grinning ghoul’s kagune found him again and charged at him through the crowd – eating up guard, ghoul, and anything that stood in its way.

Thankfully, Houji had calculated everything just right. Or, almost just right. He still needed to leap to the floor before the kagune bit the air in front of him and could go no further. His python of a kagune had finally ran out length. This would have not been a handicap for any other ghoul, but this was one insisted on standing still, eery and overconfident. It cocked its head to the side, confused. But the victory did not last long. Houji scrambled up and began dashing into the crowd again as slowly, it began to walk forward.

Winding and weaving through the hordes of people, ducking kagune and quinque alike in the mad fury of combat, running at the greatest pace he could muster, Houji was quickly becoming exhausted and wondered how much longer he could keep up. Finally, he heard the shout of a familiar voice over the cacophony, calling his name.

Houji leapt up and made himself as visible as he could. Before the fat kagune could devour him, Koumura hurled him two attaché cases, one of which he caught in the air. When he hit the ground, he clicked the release and sliced the toothy maw leering over his head in half. No matter how strong his opponent was, it was no match for Chi She.

The second of the hybrid quinques Zhao had given him was a koukaku-type quinque with a broad blade outlined in red and a segmented silver guard attached to a lengthy pole. Houji had recognised the quinque at first sight, save for the red. It was the poleaxe he had used to kill Loong. The already extant quinque was, in an act of grotesque irony, infused with the cell matter of its victim to create Chi She, named for the organisation that it both led and destroyed.

There was little that Loong’s claws could not cut through. Houji blitzed his way through the obstructing ghouls and darted towards the grinning ghoul, whose attention was still fixed on his mutilated kagune. With a single heavy slash, he separated the ghoul’s torso from his pelvis.

When it fell to the floor with a thud, Houji allowed himself a moment to breathe. But almost immediately, he could tell something was not right. The ghoul’s legs were still standing.

The thin strand of flesh that still stood between the two halves began retracting at an incredible speed, swinging up the ghoul’s top half with it. Squelching, the torso reattached itself, and the bloody gash regenerated as if nothing had happened. The ghoul cracked its neck.

Houji looked on in horror. What on earth was this ghoul? Such regenerative abilities were far beyond the purview of typical ghoul biology. He readied Chi She in a defensive stance as he saw his kagune regenerate instantaneously as well. He was preparing for the worst, when he heard a girl’s voice call out:

“It’s okay, Noro, I’ll deal with this one.”

The ghoul jumped backwards, and a colossal mass crashed down in front of Houji. Instinctively, he shielded himself from the blast force, but when he turned his eyes upward again he saw a thin, grinning face whose slobbering tongue alone was almost the size of his head. Houji fell back to create some distance and examined the monster in full view.

The great white behemoth was draped in a burgundy cloak, with four enormous kagune like spider legs ripping out from its sides and a set of shorter ones bursting from the top like flower petals. Its face was made up of an elongated chin, a set of four horns, and a single mad red eye. Thin arms like bird legs served as the creature’s arms while its legs were obscured by the cloak. Suffice it to say, he was dealing with a kakuja – and no ordinary one at that.

“Hooouuujiii-kun!” The creature sung in a distorted sing-song voice. Houji flinched at the recognition. How can it know me?

But then, he was thinking he was starting to recognise it as well. He had never seen it before, but he had heard the reports of the creature that had killed the wife of his mentor Mado in Houji’s absence. Could this thing be that One-Eyed Owl?

“I can’t kill you or Tatara will be pissed, so don’t worry! I’m just going to rough you up for a bit, okay?”

Tatara?

Had this thing – just said…

“Is Tatara Huo in this building?” Houji questioned desperately.

“Oh, oopsy, I said too much. Well, can’t have you interfering. Lights out for now, Houji-kun!”

The monster swung one of its chicken legs towards him and Houji lifted Chi She’s great weight just in time to block it. The force still sent him skidding across the floor, and before he knew it, one of its arachnid kagune descended on him from above. There was no time to block this one, and Houji felt his ribcage reverberate as he was knocked across the floor.

He barely had time to recover before the creature was on him again, laughing in crazed delight. Its size did not seem to impact its speed at all, and it was all Houji could do to dodge while its sledgehammer kagune came crashing down like lightning. Still, if he could avenge Associate Special Class Kasuka…

And yet, while Houji knew that was where his mind should be, it was not. He could only think of the name she had mentioned. The unfinished business which kept the memories of China swinging over his head like the sword of Damocles. Tatara. He was here. That damnable priest had been right. He was here, just for the sake of killing him; and here Houji was, fighting some other ghoul entirely.

He could make out openings in his foe’s defence, but he could not take advantage of them: because for every brief moment of rest his eyes were on the railings of Cochlea above him, searching for a white-cloaked figure amongst those endless rows of grey.

When at last, he saw him.

White cloak. White hair. Red mask. And the awed hatred burning in his eyes when they briefly met with his. Without a doubt, it was Tatara Huo. The heir of Chi She Lian was in Tokyo.

And he was fighting Arima.

This was bad. Arima was too strong, even for a Huo. Houji had seen his skill firsthand in the Clown Operation, and he had been promoted two ranks since then after forcing this very same Owl to retreat in their last encounter. Sure enough, he could already see Arima’s strikes ripping Tatara apart; at this rate, if Houji did not get up there in time, Tatara would die at the hands of a complete stranger. He could not allow that. It had to be him. For Tatara’s sake, and his own.

The Owl was quick to exploit his distraction. A clawed hand smashed him down into the Cochlea floor, and he coughed up blood as pain quivered through him. Then it hoisted him into the air, lifting him by his collar above its ecstatic face, its overgrown tongue licking the bone where its lips should be.

“Ah, but you know…I am hungry…”

There was no time for this. Houji had to leave. So with one sudden swing, he cleaved its tongue in two.

“AaaaaaAaAAAAAAAAAAAAAeEEEEEEEEEEiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIIIIIII”

The ghoul gave a cartoonish scream as it shook the blood off its broken tongue to splatter onto the floor, and in that gory mass followed Houji. His coat and suit thoroughly bloodsoaked, as the ghoul raged he pulled himself out of the red water and called for Koumura. The Warden, holding his own against the ghouls surrounding him and the remaining guards, perked his head up.

“I’ve spotted a highly dangerous ghoul. Please hold off the ghouls here before I get back!”

For all his personal failings, the Warden was an Associate Special Class Investigator. Backed up by his guards, he should be able to handle the heat for a time, at least. That was what Houji told himself. The Warden’s face went completely pale.

“But this is a highly dangerous ghoul!”

Houji paused in his dash for the stairs, and tossed Koumura his Chi She, which he caught between fumbling hands.

“You won’t lose with this.” Houji assured him, and ran for the other attaché case which Koumura had thrown to him before. It felt right, that this should be the one to end it.

He clicked the release, and Hollow swirled up his arm.

This was the third of the quinques Zhao had bestowed upon him. Wu had written a proper testament after all, albeit just a list of curt demands utterly devoid of sentiment. One of those sundry requests was that Houji inherit her quinque. No reason given. Whether it was out of any fondness for him, or if it was meant to teach him some kind of lesson, or if it was just some incomprehensible prank, Houji could not tell. To the end, he could not understand that woman. But if Hollow would put her killer to rest, that would ease the memory of yet another lost soul.

Leaving Koumura hacking away at his enemies with Chi She, Houji ran through the door to the stairway. He only prayed that he would make it in time.

--

Houji. He had seen Houji. Through the rage of blood and searing pain, Tatara was sure he had caught his eye. He was fighting some enormous ghoul, probably one of the escapees. Tatara had followed the smell to where he was: the smell that had filled his soul with such a confused anguish. He was sure that, somehow, after this long, long, year, he had smelled his brother and sister again.

For a brief, fantastical moment, Tatara imagined that they had somehow been returned to life. That they had come here to save him. When that beautiful dream was deflated and Tatara realised the gruesome truth, he went through the pain of losing his family all over again. There was only one thing it could really mean.

Kousuke Houji had perverted the bodies of his family into his personal ghoul-killing weapons.

Knowing this, he could not abide Houji’s breath a second longer. He could no longer waste time on this immovable enemy. But every time he tried he tried to turn his back on the dove, the dove would burn his back to smithereens.

His quinque was a peculiar model made from four metal planks that came together to form a lance and split apart to fire balls of electricity. The combination of short-distance and long distance fighting techniques, as utilised by the tremendous skill of its wielder, rendered any of Tatara’s attempts to either attack or escape completely useless.

Some of his hits Tatara managed to dodge within a hair’s breadth; but most connected. He could barely stand from all the wounds littered across his body. Great stretches of flesh were torn off and blackened from the force of the thunderstorm bursting from his quinque. There were huge gashes across crucial tendons in his arms and legs, and more than he could count across his chest. His face, too, had a disfiguring scar slashed straight across it that set his eyeballs stinging like they had in front of the burning house at Yangshuo. That was the last time he had ever felt so helpless. It was as if all the strength he had tireless worked to gain had evaporated in an instant.

I still can’t accomplish a single thing.

The dove, on the other hand, was completely unharmed.

Tatara collapsed to the floor with another shock from the lightning quinque. His loathing for the dove for holding him back from Houji yet again had been overwhelmed by an almost religious sense of fear. No single person could be this powerful. As he struggled to raise his head from the ground, the man stepped over him, all in white, with the light shining off his glasses and his lance still buzzing with power. The image was godlike.

He felt, then, that more than Houji, more than himself, this was the true face of Death. This man not much older than himself, with his long blue hair and cold mien, was assuredly the reaper. And to think they had crossed paths out of such random chance…

“You’re sturdy, aren’t you…” The reaper murmured as he raised his quinque over Tatara’s head.

He could not die this way. He could not die at the hands of some stranger dove, not after coming all this way. Not with Houji still breathing. He would not let even the reaper deny him that right.

Tatara’s kagune blasted from his back and slammed into the quinque, scattering it to the floor. The dove looked to where the weapon clattered away in mild surprise and dashed to retrieve it. This was Tatara’s window of opportunity. He pulled himself up, and, with a draconic roar, activated his kakuja.

The flesh was not half-formed around him before the dove sliced off all of his limbs. Tatara’s roar vanished into the air. The reaper had already retrieved his quinque and closed the distance.

It was over.

As something shattered within Tatara’s soul, his waking mind plunged into oblivion.

--

By the time Houji finally reached the railing where he had seen Tatara fighting, it was empty. Blood coated the cold metal, but there was neither ghoul nor investigator to be seen, dead or alive. He looked into the distance left and right, clutched the edge of the barrier and searched up and down for any sign of the two. There was nothing.

Houji yelled a cry of frustration that was lost beyond his throat, soundless and impotent. He hung his head in remorse that he had come too late again. And when he did, he bore witness to the bloodbath below.

Koumura, and all the guards who had fought with him, lay dead, their bodies bloody and savaged. The carcass of that mutant kakuja lay splayed out amidst the carnage. A little girl wrapped in bandages skipped over the abundance of death with the ghoul in the grinning mask in tow. Some of the ghouls had joined their victims, but not nearly so many.

As soon as he saw it, he was snapped back to his senses, and he knew he should have never gone after Tatara. That Priest had scrambled his brains. If he had simply stayed where the battle needed him most, this tragedy could have been avoided.

Raising his head, he saw ghouls spread out all across the facility, running towards cells and smashing open their windows. Houji realised with horror that it had only been a portion of their forces he had fought on the ground floor, and that first and foremost, it had served as a distraction. He had been so concerned with keeping the Priest and his fellow SS Rates behind bars, the ghouls had exercised free rein over the rest of the prison, releasing C Rates and B Rates and A Rates and S Rates alike.

There were more guards than those who had fought with Koumura, but they were evidently ill-equipped to deal with the threat, and there was no sign of Arima. That left it to him. He readied Hollow.

This was the last time, he swore. The last time he ever let his conscience get the better of him.

Pulling the trigger, he unleashed hell from above.

--

When Tatara awoke, it was dark, and it was raining.

He lifted himself off the ground with the stubs of his half-regenerated arms as the water assaulted his face like tears. He could not see anything in the blackness. Wherever he was, it was not Cochlea.

He had failed to kill Houji.

He tried to stand, but his legs were only stumps, too. Pathetically, he fell head first into the watery concrete with a clang of his mask, grazing his already swollen face. How did he end up like this? He tried to lift himself again.

“Kishou really did a number on you, huh, Tatara?”

Tatara started at the voice, and almost fell over again. He recognised it. That crooning, mocking tone was the last thing he needed right now. He ignored her and drew out his kagune. He smashed it into the paving stones, dragging his incomplete body behind it.

“Woah woah woah, where are you going?” She asked. Tatara could just see her through the darkness by the single glow of her red eye.

“Cochlea. To kill Houji. Where else.” He growled. His throat was coarse, his voice pained and too quiet to sound as firm as he intended.

“Ugh, seriously? And here I thought we taught you a lesson. You’re a stubborn bastard, I’ll give you that. Stubborn and foolish.”

Tatara twisted his form around in bewildered anger. His eyes adjusting to the dark, he could see the outline of her mummified form. In the shadowlight, those rabbit ears on her hood made her look like some kind of devil.

“What – are you saying…?”

“I’m saying my buddy just fucked you up, on my orders.”

Tatara’s eyes dilated. That couldn’t be. There was no way that could be.

“How do you think we got into Cochlea in the first place, numbskull? He let us in. Kishou Arima is my partner in crime. Oh, but don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.”

A dove? Working with a ghoul? It was impossible. Unheard of. She was lying. She had to be lying, messing with his head.

“I started the fight.” He argued back, between coughs of blood he caught in his mask. “I came to him.”

“And you saw him because he was on his way to fight you. Oh, and for the record, that’s why I positioned him there in the first place. Told him to spread some rumours about an impending ghoul attack on Cochlea, and to bring Houji along, of course.”

Tatara was becoming furious. What was she saying? She had been orchestrating the situation, the whole time?

“Ah,” she continued rambling, “he was a bit of a wildcard, though. We weren’t able to rescue as many ghouls as we wanted because of him. He killed one of our guys for every prisoner we sprung, which was kind of a pain. But this,” her eye shone down at him through the darkness, “this makes it all worth it.”

Tatara lost it. He ripped his kagune from the concrete and sent it swirling around Eto, trapping her in the same constrictor hold as before. She stood motionless in its folds as the dirge of heavy rain resounded around them.

“What are you talking about?” He screamed. “You only went to Cochlea because I made you!”

“No,” Eto responded unperturbed, and in a flash she suddenly expanded. A gigantic kagune emerged from her back and swung up her arm, knotted and swollen, the size of a car, with hundreds of branches like withered trees and human hands. Tatara’s kagune hold was broken in an instant, and the hand at the head of Eto’s abomination now caught Tatara’s throat and hoisted him into the air.

“You went to Cochlea because I tricked you.”

Tatara thrashed uselessly, wheezing for air. He could not breathe. Everything burned. The monster beneath him grinned with a daemoniacal aspect. It was dark. It was cold. He could not move his arms. He could not move his legs. Why was this happening?

“We’d planned to infiltrate Cochlea for ages. How else would we have been able to do it in two days’ time? When you wouldn’t join us the first time, I asked Kishou to plant himself and Houji in Cochlea so you would come along on this little mission of ours. He heard all about your past from Houji, and I heard all about it from him. I wanted nothing better than to snatch the object of your desire right from under you, exactly when you were so close to dying just the way you want. Then, I wanted to really teach you about death. That was Kishou’s specialty. So he sliced you up good and proper and gave you back to me before I made my getaway, which brings us up to now.”

Tatara hated the woman below him more than even Houji at that moment. He hated her for going to such lengths just to make him suffer, and when he thought about how he had fallen for every trap she had set, he began to fear her too.

“Then you – you let me win?!”

“Duh, and the drones you killed were far from my best people, either. After you tried so hard turning them into charcoal and taking down Noro, I decided I didn’t want to deny you your victory. Nothing better than a shot of overconfidence to show you how unprepared you really are. You were always joining me in Cochlea, whether you agreed to come along, I made you come along, or I tricked you into coming along and let you think it was your own idea. I figured the last option would be the best one. I wanted to break you in the right way.” Under her bandages, she seemed to lick her lips. “I am an author, after all.”

The world distorted below Tatara. Amidst the shadows he thought he could see an army of demons, and the sky began undulating like a sea of fire. Between the hell in the sky and its spawn on the ground, Eto’s small form seemed to flare up like a rising flame, synchronising with the twisted form of her gargantuan arm.

“Ah, but Tatara,” her voice seemed to carry on the red ocean, rising, “I didn’t do this because I hate you or anything. Actually, I really like you. I really want you to join Aogiri Tree. That’s why I did it.”

It was all sound to Tatara. Senseless sound. The primal religious terror that Tatara had felt with Arima, he now felt with Eto. They had the power to mean nothing at all.

Eto released her grip, and with panic Tatara came crashing to the ground, smacking his head against the concrete. It made him dizzy, but he retained enough consciousness to see the form of the blurred demon in front of him approach with the scores of laughing night behind her. She lifted his chin, and brought her faceless face close to his, boring her red eye into his own.

“Your brother and sister sacrificed themselves for you, but how are you using that life? You’re running around like a mad dog, living in pits and on roadsides, biting strangers just for the sake of biting them. You justify it to yourself, if it’s all for the sake of killing Houji, Houji, Houji, Houji. But this has nothing to do with Houji. It’s not for the sake of your family either. I think, Tatara, deep down, you really just want to kill yourself. Am I wrong?”

“Y-You are-”

“Not.” Eto cut him off. “I can see it. In these.” She brought out two fingers, and pressed them hard into Tatara’s eyes. He screamed.

“Don’t you think your brother would have wanted you to continue the legacy of Chi She Lian? Don’t you think that’s why he protected you? You can’t do that alone, but that’s exactly what you’re doing. Chi She Lian wanted to build a better world for ghouls, but you couldn’t care less about that. You don’t even care about avenging their deaths. If you kill Houji along the way, well, that’s a plus, but when push comes to shove, you want to fight Houji so you can die against Houji and join your family in the pit.”

“N-no, that’s not-“ He shouted out desperately in his blindness.

“True.” Eto cut him off. “It’s true. I can taste it. In these.”

Tatara felt fingers tugging at his mask, and he heard its metallic clatter on the pavement. Then he felt something warm descend on his lips. It sucked on them like seawater, and something wormish slipped in, sliding against Tatara’s tongue, tugging it forwards. He felt compelled to reciprocate. He just wanted something warm to cling onto. Everything hurt. His body. Her words. Everything.

It was lasting too long, and he was struggling to breathe again. But when the warmth left him and he heaved for air, he missed it with a paranoid intensity. He moved his lips motionlessly.

“Want more?” He heard Eto’s voice coo down to him.

He nodded frantically, dignity long gone, desperate only for the warm bosom of something like love.

“I’ll give you more.” Came her voice, maternal and soothing.

He felt something touch his bottom lip, but it was not warm. It was cold, and sharp, and it stabbed right through it. Tatara screamed.

“Sh, sh, sh, sh.” Eto whispered softly in his ear. “No more noise. I’ll do your speaking for you.”

Then she began to sing.

“Tyger, tyger, burning bright,”

He could feel string being pulled through the hole behind the needle, and then the same pain on his top lip.

“In the forest of the night,”

He felt too terrified to scream any more, and after each stab came the string, closing up his mouth, one by one.

“What immortal hand or eye,”

He did not know if he would ever be able to scream again.

“Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”

Her movements stopped, and Tatara knew that the stitching must be complete. He was too horrified to risk speaking, so she spoke for him, whispering the words he needed to hear.

“You can still atone, Tatara, you can still honour your family’s legacy. I mean to change the world through Aogiri. There are forces at work that only Kishou and I know about, who want to keep everything exactly the way it is. Aogiri is the only organisation that can stop them. The only force that can truly save our species. We will create the world Yan wanted to see.”

Her voice calmed Tatara even through the residual agony burning on his lips. Here, it sounded soft, honest, itself pained, unlike the ruthless mockery and interrogation of before.

“You’re lost, confused, lashing out after everything was taken from you. I understand, I used to be the same. But it’s okay now. I’ll make everything better. After all, I promised you, didn’t I?”

The pressure lifted from Tatara’s eyeballs, and he opened them with a flutter of fear. He could see Eto lit up beneath the fire-sky, her bandages unravelling to reveal her bare skin and her beautiful face, looking at him gently through one green eye and one red. Tatara breathed faintly through his stitched mouth in awe.

“I will become your God.”

At that moment, he thought he fell in love with her.

--

Three days after the assault on Cochlea, Special Class Houji stared out from his office window at an afternoon sky awash with the first splashes of sunset. The redness of its waves sank his mind even deeper in its ruminations. He had only one thought that came with fire.

His office was otherwise empty, save for the entry, to his surprise, of First Class Arima. They hailed each other in greeting as Arima walked over to Houji’s desk.

“I’ve just come from a meeting with Special Class Washuu.”

“Oh?”

Arima pre-empted his question. “The guarding of Cochlea was my operation, so it was only me that they questioned. They didn’t blame you for its failure at all.”

They should, Houji thought to himself guiltily. It felt as though he was constantly being lifted up by others and protected for his misdeeds. A demotion or two would have been more than warranted.

Arima seemed to notice his fallen face. “Our conduct was not subjected to scrutiny. The other Special Classes are unanimous that we mediated the damage as best we could. It was Koumura and his lax administration that was lacking. He should have taken the threat more seriously, and, so Special Class Washuu said, so should have his father the Chairman. But with the number of ghouls you killed in particular, they are certain many more would have been released were it not for your presence.”

Arima spoke with nothing like consolation or pity, but in the same controlled, professional voice he always had. It made Houji feel more confident in his judgement. Although ghouls as dangerous as Jason and the Tail Brothers had made it out, he had at least kept his promise to the Priest, who was still rotting away in his cell curmudgeonly.

Despite that, he knew his inner sin. And despite that, he still could not stop himself from asking, one last time:

“First Class Arima, thank you for your words. But I still have one question, if I may.”

Arima looked down at him expressionlessly. “Go on.”

“What happened to the ghoul I saw you fighting with? It had a white cloak with a flame pattern, and a red iron mask.”

There was a hint – just a hint - of surprise in his reaction. “Ah, that one. It got away. It was surprisingly strong.”

“Even for you?”

Arima gave a polite, artificial smile. “Even for me.”

Houji gave such a smile of his own as he turned his attention back to the reddening sky.

“Thank you, First Class Arima.”

“Special Class.” Came Arima’s voice in acknowledgement, followed by his receding footsteps.

Too strong for Arima…

If that was true, Tatara would already be his brother’s equal. Houji turned his gaze to the cases containing the quinques he had retrieved from Cochlea, and remembered all the blood that had been spilt to make them. When the day came to finally end this struggle, he knew much more would follow.

When the day comes.

For now though, Houji knew better than to try and rush things to a conclusion. For now, he would pursue his duties in the CCG to the utmost of his ability, just as he always had, and put his personal desires aside. One day, he knew, he would finally meet Tatara in battle; but he would come to that day the long way round.

Forgive me, Tatara. I cannot give you peace yet.

--

The lotuses were in bloom.

Full red colour burst brilliantly on the flowers floating in the pond. Their leaves were stained as if from blood, but they had become something beautiful. Tatara pondered how far they had come since the shrivelled shrubs of the Yangshuo retreat. The flowers may be different, but his eyes were the same.

“Ah, he’s here.”

Eto’s voice called to him from the side. She was not wearing her bandages today, but appeared to him as he first saw her – or not quite. She too had bloomed. In what he had once seen as a childish nuisance he now saw the very spirit of power.

There was only one who could rival her. At the top of the slope from the forested alcove, where the pond lay hidden in the empty cemetery, stood the white-coated form of the reaper. Standing there, Kishou Arima appeared as a concentrated sunbeam, radiant in burning majesty. Tatara could truly believe he was the One-Eyed King.

There was much to this world Tatara had not known which Eto had shown him. V. The Washuu clan. Half-ghouls and half-humans. She told him about her past and Arima’s both, and about their plan, to raise a successor to achieve their dream of uprooting that warped root and creating a peaceful world for ghouls. He was reminded of how Yan had groomed him for that very similar role, and had saved him, in the end, for that purpose.

He and Eto ascended the slope to meet Arima. The King could not come down to his subjects. When they reached the top of the hill, Tatara fell on one knee before him.

“Welcome, Tatara.”

“King.” He responded with deference, his voice muffled behind his mask and stitched mouth. Now that he had fully regenerated, he was presentable for the ceremony. Eto had even ordered a new robe to be spun for him for the occasion; but not an Aogiri one. It was a Chi She Lian robe, decorated with the same licking flames at the bottom, but free from all the dirt, filth and blood of his old one.

“You seek to join Aogiri Tree?”

“If I may have that honour.”

“The honour would be ours.” Arima’s face was pensive. “I have heard you are a ghoul of ambition. Certainly, besides Eto you are the strongest ghoul I have fought in my career. Few have lasted so long against me. But, you are not the heir we are looking for. Do you still wish to join us?”

Tatara knew as much from Eto. That was another reason she had him fight Arima: they had decided that the messiah they needed was a ghoul strong enough to kill him. Again like Yan, their commitment to their mission extended beyond the parameters of their own lives. But Tatara had not managed to lay a dent in Arima. Despite Yan’s hopes, he was not the saviour the ghoul world needed.

“I do, King.”

His insufficiency for that role had been hammered into him excruciatingly in his one-sided ‘fights’ with Arima and Eto both, but he had found peace with it now. There was another way to honour Yan’s legacy.

He would take on the role Yan did. He would advance the cause of Aogiri Tree to raise up the true messiah, who would finally save the ghouls from their damnation to torment and tragedy that Tatara knew so well. Yan had thrown him into the fire to make him strong enough to survive, and that was what Tatara meant to do this world. How had Eto put it? To take this fucked up, piece of shit world, fuck it up even more and then give it a factory reset.

“Your humility does you credit. It is a small organisation yet, but I have full confidence that you can take it to greater heights.”

Arima released his attaché case, and brought out his lance-like quinque. Tatara did not flinch.

“In honour of your strength, your heritage, and the role you played in the honourable cause of our martyred comrades in Chi She Lian, I hereby dub you a leader of Aogiri Tree.”

Arima tapped his quinque lightly on each of Tatara’s shoulders. The honour surprised him. He felt greatly humbled. Eto was smiling widely at him, and he was glad his mask obscured the blood he felt rushing to his cheeks.

“Looks like we’ll be working together closely, Tatara.”

Arima nodded. “The two of you and Noro will bring the organisation forward while I maintain my cover in the CCG.”

“King, I will not squander this honour you have given me.” Speaking so ceremonially, Tatara felt like he was performing once more in the disciplined rites of Chi She Lian. It gave his life an order he desperately needed.

Arima gave another nod and looked towards the sunset. “With that settled, I should be leaving. Oh, one last thing.” He fixed Tatara with a steady gaze. “Houji asked after you.”

Tatara lowered his head.

“Is that so?”

“Do you still want to kill him?

There was no doubt about that. He could never forgive the lives he took from him, especially not after he made them into his quinques. But he had already seen where haste had taken him. He turned his eyes upwards again.

“The work of Aogiri Tree comes first and foremost.”

Now he had a real reason to live, there was no need to rush things. He would continue the work of Chi She Lian first and foremost, and take his revenge the long way round. His God was different now. Arima gave a small smile, and Eto did too.

“I see.” Arima responded. “Then, fare well, Tatara. I wish you luck.”

“King.” Tatara lowered his head again in respect. When he looked up again, he could see Arima’s snow-white back descending down the cemetery path. They waited by the pond fo r a little while longer to put distance between them.

Tatara rose and felt his shoulders. A leader of Aogiri Tree. Arima had given him quite the gift. He had been blessed, many times over, and not just by Arima. His very ability to stand there that day, watching the lotuses float by and the sky fall into deeper depths of red – his life itself – was a agift to him from Fei. The purpose symbolised by his robes and the mask he felt on his face were given to him by Yan. And the stitches he stroked beneath it were bestowed upon him by Eto.

They carried her unique scent. They smelled of human and ghoul, of blood and of lotus petals.

Looking back, it was scents like this one that Tatara had followed from the start. The smell of the flowers had taken him to the catfish pond, and the odour of blood had taken him to that ghoul in the alleyway. The stink of power and vengeance had summoned him to the Longxia’s den, whereas Fei had merely followed Tatara’s scent, and Yan a scent greater than either of them could detect. The doves followed that bloody miasma to Xuhangli, the same reek that brought Eto to him; and the whiff of Houji’s blood, blended with that of his family, had brought Tatara to Cochlea. Everywhere, anywhere, the strength of their noses had led them to destruction.

But even so, he wanted to see where Eto’s scent would lead him. That predatory instinct to follow the smell of something more was common to ghouls and humans alike, and he could no more defy it than he could shut out the roaring of the flames that burned in his brain since that fateful day in Yangshuo. No matter where it took him, he knew that the smell she was following came from something real, if just out of sight. So he would follow the smell of her. With these stitches, she had given him the promise of a new world.

She turned to him as the burning sky cast her in a light as terrible and beautiful as herself.

“Let’s go, Tatara.”

“Mm.”

Together, they walked down the graveyard path beneath the setting sun, towards the great ghoul dawn.

[autismgavemychildvaccines]

Why I’m Ashamed to Be Christian

So, now that I am literally sick of the Measles nonsense (no, fucking literally, working 12+ hour shifts on an incident management team has got me sick and tired enough to call in tomorrow), I’ve decided to do a non PH rant, though it’ll for sure rear it’s fucking head somewhere in here. Instead, let’s tackle something real fun. Religion! Time to buckle up.  In my half fucking awake daze that I was just nudged out of, something really wild hit me. My faith, my belief in a very specific God with a specific book (though I admit that other religions, so long as their origin is not a company or a tool to oppress others on the outset, are valid/likely just as true) makes no God damned sense.  (For reference, here I will claim my most closely related sect as my own; American Evangelism [though if one were to ask in person I’d say “non-denominational”, but historically, the two are close] and will be speaking as a part of a community I used to closely belong to but now have drifted away from on some granola-crunching dumbassery that is “I am a church of one” bullshit. I’ve wanted to be other things, but ever since I left the Freemasons, fuck all else has had much appeal.) So, first things first, Garden of Eden, right? Pretty fucking cool place, some might have even called it a perfect garden, a perfect place for humans and God to interact? But here’s my hang up with it. The trees of Life and Knowledge, and the rule that Adam and Eve could eat of any fruit except those grown upon that pair. Why even fucking have them?

 When I asked that as a kid in a faith based area, they said because it was a test.

 Of what?

 “Well, of our loyalty to God and our Faith, of course”. 

Except again, what the fuck? Like, I get the idea of free-will, in fact I am a huge believer in individual free will (I’ll get to that in a sec), but here’s the stickler here. As any other creative type will tell you, we want our work to take on a life of its own. Like say I wanted to program a remarkably bright AI, and it worked, and all I wanted was for it to recognize me as its creator and to discover and enjoy what home I could make for it. You know what I wouldn’t do? I wouldn’t give an AI, even with some simulated free will, the ability to break certain rules. For example, I wouldn’t allow it unrestricted access to the internet or my personal accounts. I wouldn’t even give it the concept that such things existed, let alone put it right fucking there to be used. That would be a flaw, an imperfection in an otherwise perfect place. And yeah, there’s something to be said for giving free will with not-free consequences, sure. But two things: 1) Don’t be pissed when the thing happens that you allowed to exist in the first place and thus forced it to be a mathematical certainty now that you’re dealing with perhaps the most curious species to ever exist.  2) Don’t go blaming them for a lack of faith. If anything, it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, an act that abusers often use to get what they really want and have a thin veneer of an excuse to make happen. Now doesn’t that sound a lot like a good number of the followers of this faith, as opposed to an almighty, omnipotent, powerful being? Hmm, something to consider there, maybe.  Speaking of followers, let’s actually also take a look at some of the prophets that we as American Christians often hold so dear. Now me? I’m a Luke guy, I like Luke. Peaceful, loving gospel for the most part, and I dig it. Peace and love, baby, that’s all I want coming from stories regarding a higher power that we had to hang up like a fucking tapestry to make sure we got all that love. But do you know who I fucking hate, and who I blame the most for how the American chruch is? Paul/Saul of Tarsus. Thiiiiiiiiiiis prick. This fucking Deus Vult Vulture. Actually in many ways, he really is the archetype to the Modern Evangelical fucking anything. Actively participated in the harassing, attempted extinguishing and successful terrorizing of a marginalized group. Then after being hit back for it, literally “seeing the light” and trying to be the fucking vanguard of said group only to lead it down a path where he’s suddenly the appointed expert of anything to do with the issue. And while he does this, he helps create the most violent and bigoted thoughts in the whole of the religion, and is praised for his visions as he says they are truly from God, and can thus act oh so righteously. This right here is a fucking problem, y’all. Like, I know the whole forgiveness idea allows for some mental gymnastics on how this could even happen, but even then to make a genocidal ass-face your de-facto leader aside from Christ himself for the next 2000 years is a fucking flip that even at the 1988 Olympics, if Christians were America, Russia would give them a straight 10/10.    And yet, for many of us, that’s exactly what we’ve done. Hell, we’ve even fallen into the forced victim narrative of the synopsis of this asshole:  “Oh well, you see, I was a heathen and thus I couldn’t help myself, but then like, the God of the people I was killing talked to me and like, now I have to do this (Take on the “burden” of leading the church) as penance for what I couldn’t help myself over.” We’ve fallen for it so much, that it may as well be hard wired into our nervous system to believe anything resembling it, just as we assume if something is flat, green and on a tree, it’s a leaf.  Maybe it’s why we as a religion (and let’s face it, other Abrahamic religions as well) are so damn good at beating down the marginalized while screaming that we are the saints, we’re the sacrificiers trying to make things better. Like, let’s have some modern day fun with this bullshit, man; let’s see how we treated and in many places continue to treat women.  Of the few churches I have been to, 100% of them had one dual-sided message that made me real fuckin’ uncomfortable, fam:  Part 1) That women cannot be trusted onto themselves and thus 2) Men must take control of them and society to not allow for some unspecified “Ridiculous bullshit”.  (as a fair heads up; I do fully recognize non-binary, trans individuals, etc, but for the sake of brevity I’ll be mostly referring to M/F in the traditional sort of way, because opening up Christianity’s treatment of anything regarding gender fluidity is a Ph.D. thesis for another day)  Now, I don’t know about y’all, but I know damn well that out of all the dudes I know, and all the lasses I know, they’re a pretty mixed fuckin’ bunch. It’s almost like their gender assigned at birth doesn’t really affect how reasonable they could be as people nor how much responsibility they should have. Obviously some cultural practices skew this quite a bit in so far that women are expected to take more responsibility, younger, and for less praise, but if anything that should help destroy, not reinforce that message.  And yet, the idea persists so much in Christian circles. And not just by the men themselves, but the women, also. For the longest time of my church going days, the pastor was a woman. She wholly believed it was just and right that her husband be in charge of everything, that women should be loyal to their men in all aspects. Then again, she also (despite recruiting members primarily from college) did not believe in evolution at all, so there’s that in terms of an intellectual hurdle. But regardless, this inherent submissive attitude within the faith (and even the half-hearted and self-congratulatory “Yeah but we REALLY are the ones making the decisions because we can withhold sex if we want” is essentially that too just a smidgen more empowering), when combined with the idea that men should be wholly in-control (which is a breeding ground for toxic masculinity if there ever was) is shameful. It’s what has allowed so much bullshit in the past, including these recent abortion laws. Now, I’m going to cover abortion in another post (I might get to it tomorrow; It’s been on the burner for weeks), but it’s super pertinent here.  We, as a religion, have allowed ourselves to tell women (just as we tell/told minorities before) that they cannot be trusted with their own bodies, that they cannot be trusted when they speak, and most certainly cannot be trusted to truly hold dominion over anything. And that has allowed the most insidious, hateful, bigoted, disgusting things to happen in the name of God. A God that while I am writing this post I still believe in, but my doubts about how genuine the message has ever been is hitting home. One whose words about peace have been ignored when they could be interpreted or pointed to to support war, where the rich can profit off the poor, or to support sexism, because we as men historically have wanted to control “everything of ours”, or to take the very free will we claim to hold so dear from those who need the ability to make their own decisions the most. Words that have been used to hold down good people from making lives better. Words that in the hands of those who wanted, could be profaned and desecrated and thus allow for profane and disturbing events, both on the grand stage of the world and behind the closed doors of any house in some small town. Words which are held up with a wink and a nod so that followers feel included when they are scammed by some fucking fried chicken joint who wants to make more money to fight against equality, or to pay for another $9 million jet for some asshole who croons about how the poor should be grateful they do not have the temptations of the rich.  To other followers, do you not lament that we are this way? That we have been this way for so long? Because I fucking do.  And to those who have been discriminated or marginalized or whatever else against because of your gender or skin colour or situation or victimization or  past deeds of any sort; I’m sorry. Genuinely, truly sorry you have suffered as you have. Sorry for what people have done thinking it was somehow morally or spiritually justified, sorry that they thought they were saving you. And I can assure you that I will never try to lead you as those before me have tried to. Though if it’s all the same, I’d like to get to hear you, and walk beside you. 

[sagebodisattva]

The Hyperreality of Mind Over Matter - Part Two

You have to be willing. This is easily glossed over and very often not nearly emphasized enough: you have to be willing. One does not realize mind over matter when one is an unwilling participant. Many different approaches can be taken when one is trying to break down the conditioning that we have engrained into ourselves, but none of these approaches will be successful if one is not willful of realizing it. And it takes more then just an intellectual affirmation that one is willing. More thinking isn't what's going to get the job done. The internal dialogue and constant chatter of the consciousness isn't conducive towards increasing willfulness. The thinking mind always looks towards the reasons for ‘why not’, and that's understandable, since the thinking mind uses reason to navigate everything, and reason does not allow room for anything that would seem to be unreasonable.

This is what is known as the logic box, and the addiction to the known. Common sense is good, but it is only applicable to a framework, the framework from which you are trying to expand beyond the borders. So reordering the attention starts here: in removing mental blockades that prevent willfulness, which in turn, suspend certainty and belief, which in turn, create the atmosphere wherein what's unreasonable, illogical and nonsensical, can grow wings and take flight. So this is key to remember: it isn't a matter of adding anything additional. It is a matter of removal.

“I can't do it. It's impossible. There's just no way it can be done”, are all self disempowering mental blockades, that impede our breakthrough.

But thinking the opposite is not what's going to facilitate a realization either.

“I can do it. It’s possible. And there is a way it can be done”, while nice as a motivating mantra to keep our eye on the ball, isn't what removes the obstructions.

And that's a common mistake that is constantly made: trying to use the tools of disempowerment to free ourselves. The thinking mind isn't where the realization takes place. This is about relaxing and quieting down the conscious mind so that the subconscious mind can have more freedom to maneuver. Once the yoke of the thinking mind has been subdued, the willingness of the subconscious can be allowed to find and express itself, having found some modicum of stability, free from the burden of the thinking dictator that wants to control everything.

This has been shown to be the case with hypnosis, and in fact, is central to the technique. Despite gimmicky side shows, and Hollywood depictions, hypnosis can't have success with the unwilling. That's why someone can't be made to do something against their free will, if the suggestion isn't in accord with their instincts. You can't force someone against their free will to be a Manchurian candidate with hypnosis. But you also couldn't necessarily have success with beneficial suggestions, if the conscious mind is still too heavily convinced otherwise. Hypnosis is all about relaxing the conscious mind so as to allow the subconscious mind the possibility to consider suggestions. And it is in this twilight zone area, so to speak, where the impossibilities of reason could manifest.

The monk that can turn off his pain at will is doing so willingly with his subconscious mind. The miracle cure that whisked away a dying man's terminal illness was done, not so much by the healer, but by the dying man's willingness and the power of the subconscious mind. It's not the power of belief, but the suspension of belief, that allows these seemingly impossible events to occur.

Sometimes one has to fool themselves into it. We've all heard of the placebo effect, wherein a patient is given the suggestion that a drug or treatment will be beneficial, and it indeed becomes beneficial, but not for any substantial properties of the drug or treatment itself. So if the benefit is not from any inherent characteristic, then what exactly is bestowing the results? If you are told that a special pill made from rare ingredients from Southeast Asia will cure your ailment, and you are indeed cured, but all that was given to you was a water pill, to what is this cure attributed? Willfulness of the subconscious mind. It's not that we make it work through our belief in it. It's that we suspend belief and let our subconscious mind run with a suggestion.

But it doesn't always have to be the case that we fool ourselves. With more practice and utilization of directing the attention, we can begin to do these things willingly and willfully. It becomes less and less difficult the more one has experience relaxing the conscious mind and letting go of the self defeating mental obstacles that prevent us from doing so. It's allowing oneself to step outside of the conditioning, and from this standpoint, gaining the outside perspective necessary to begin to dismantle and deconstruct the conditioning. This is the way towards lucidity. Of which, we are only in the beginning steps.

And how do I manage to gauge that? How am I able to pinpoint where humanity is, in relation to progress with the subconscious mind? It's simple: we are still pre-lucidity. If our current state of consciousness has been and continues to be superficial, this means that we have not challenged our conditioning, and have instead just hit the cruise control and are now riding on autopilot. And of course, the way to remain in this rut is to dismiss any inclination to challenge the conditioning as something foolish or selfish.

Do you see how hard the conditioning has you locked into place? It even has fail safes in place in the rare case that you might think to challenge it. Yeah, seeking to break free from the conditioning is just more conditioning. It's just more desire and attachment. And it's impossible anyway.

See how that works? Mental blockades that try to keep you in the box. Stop thinking inside the box, and don't even think outside the box. There is no box. So stop thinking about it. It isn't "thinking" that is going to bridge the gap anyway.

Acquiring the willingness to let go of the conditioning isn't a desire, even though it may seem to appear as such. Desires are only applicable to aspects that are prospective attachments to the illusory persona, and hence bring suffering, for the persona must suffer the loss of such attachments.

Unlearning, subtraction, deconstruction and detachment do not feed desire, for they are avenues that are contrary to grasping and avoidance, unless, of course, one is not really letting go and instead is getting attached to detachment. But this isn't detachment, in the true sense of the practice, is it the desire to avoid disguised as detachment. I am not asking you to avoid desire, or to avoid the conditioning, I am asking you to take it head on, then slowly let go of it.

And I say "slowly" let go, because it is a gradual process. And as you gradually let go, you gradually become more lucid and then gradually the mind is able to reorder itself above matter, which is already the case; it's just forgotten it and become a slave to it's own projections. With the mind now fully aware that it's rightful natural place is over matter, that indeed it is the creator of the projected reality, and with the willingness to let this new order replace the old conditioning with a new description of reality, the impossible becomes possible.

With increased lucidity comes the clear seeing that all reality is a creation of the mind, and as such, the only limitations encountered are self imposed. This is where you can heal yourself. This is where you regulate pain. This is where you can experience extra sensory perception, and, dare I say, levitate.

“Oh Sage, c'mon. Levitate?! That's crazy and irrational. No one can levitate. It's a physical impossibility!”

Indeed. And this is exactly why you fail.

[dreamscapesin1582]

Chapter T H R E E

Word Count: 2685

Reading Time: 10+ Minutes

Tagging: @acrispyapple , @masamunesmistress , @that-otome-potato 

Trigger warning: Mentions of death/suicide.

[ edited: 07/17/20 ]

Katsumi didn’t mean to fall asleep during the trip back, especially not in the arms of a man she just met. But she was just human, whose energy was drained in a single night’s time, and soon her body just eased onto his chest.

Kenshin spoke nothing of it. Not how he carried her back to her room when they arrived, almost admiring the familiarity of a woman’s touch—no. He convinced himself that it was because hostility nor fear did not suit that pretty face, and the bliss of unawareness seemed better.  

And then his noble self soon honored his word. He personally instructed his people not to approach the young woman unless she agreed to have their company. Complaints nor questions were not entertained, and so they just listened… well, his people, that is.

Sunlight peeked through the doors, pulling her away from the comforts of slumber. Her brows twitched as her eyes cracked open to find the same wooden ceiling she woke up to hours ago.

That’s right. Remembering the events of last night, she exhaled and closed her eyes. Then she sat up and gave her cheeks a good smack.

A decision always has its consequences. And she has to bear with it.

Her hands fell on her lap as she thoughtlessly looked around the room, thinking about what to do from then. There, she found a package stowed away near the door.

She approached it, seeing a change of clothes with a note signed by Sasuke. Apparently, Kenshin had gone to the extremes to see through their agreement. She blinked, both at the note and the kimono, as her chest warmed at the thought.

Katsumi began dressing when her mind lingered on Kenshin’s last words before she surrendered to her fatigue.

“You remind me of someone.”

Just who would that someone be?

A few moments passed until she heard a soft knock from outside, ripping her away from her trance. “Katsumi? It’s me.”

“Sasuke..?” She called as she frantically fixed her obi before coming to the door, only to find him carrying a tray. “Is that for me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, t-thank you.” She bowed immediately, as if it was a reflex. “I would have gotten it myself if you told me…”  

“Don’t worry about it.”

Both of them stared at each other before Katsumi spoke again. “Would you like to come in?”

“Thanks.” Katsumi stepped aside as Sasuke entered, carefully setting the tray down on the desk. She reluctantly made her way beside him when he noticed her clothes. “It looks good on you.”

She offered a humble smile. “Thank you for getting it for me.”

“Do you need anything else? I could have it brought to you.”

“Oh, no. This is too much already.” She waved her hands. “I’m sorry for the trouble. You must be very busy, after all.”

“No, it’s okay. I wanted to check on you before attending to Lord Kenshin.” Sasuke attempted to show a smile to ease her worry. Katsumi relented and nodded. “Well then, I’ll leave you to eat in peace.”

Before he stepped out, he paused by the door and spoke again. “…Also, someone might visit you soon, despite Lord Kenshin’s castle memorandum. Though I assure you, he means no harm.”

And he left just like that. Katsumi pursed her lips before paying attention to the food. She picked up the chopsticks and started eating. Her brows rose in delight at the well-prepared meal, and she took her time relishing on it as a compliment to the cook. However, there was a nagging thought at the back of her head saying that she should prepare. For what?

Meanwhile, Shingen was up and about, striding the halls like an eager kid excited about something. But when he passed through Kenshin’s room, his smile faltered.

“Haven’t you had enough?”

Kenshin was just as displeased as his visitor. As if too weary to even answer him, he downs another cup and refills it again. That was an answer in itself.

“I’m surprised the alcohol hasn’t drowned you just yet.” He sighed and waved his hand dismissively, turning to leave. “Do your worst.”

And he leaves him to his drunken misery. Kenshin stares at the cup filled to the brim, losing his appetite. He cursed Shingen in his mind, but if he only became honest with himself, he just really loathes the fact that Shingen was damn right.

“I’m surprised it hasn’t killed me, too.”

As soon as she unclasped her hands to thank for the food, the door slid open. Katsumi casted her eyes at her visitor, tall and confident, on the other side of the door.

“I finally get to meet you.”

Is he the one Sasuke was referring to? She wasn’t sure, but the charming smile on his handsome face said nothing about an offender. But—

“As expected from a lady who was able to charm Kenshin, you truly look like an angel.” He said with all the certainty in the world that Katsumi was dumbfounded. A light blush dusted her cheeks.

“C-Charmed? Angel?” She looked away modestly. “I—please. Jokes like that aren’t funny…”

“Oh, but it’s the most honest thing my lips has ever said.” He doesn’t budge. Katsumi twitched uncomfortably. “I never speak of nonsense. I like to say it how I see it fit.”

A wry chuckle escaped him when she couldn’t speak. “Apologies. It wasn’t my intention to startle you, my angel.”

Katsumi drew a breath, reluctantly facing him again after reminding herself of Sasuke’s words. Surely he means no harm… since he still remained on the other side of the door, albeit the masculine grin stayed as well.

“I’m sorry, I just don’t know how to respond to… sweet talk.” She uttered. “Can I help you with something?”

“Ah, yes. I came to ask for the pleasure of having your company? I would love to invite you to a walk around the castle.” He was saying it in his typical fashion, but Katsumi somehow detected that he toned it down. “I heard you were staying. I would hate for you to get lost while you’re here.”

And that was how she found herself walking with one of the greatest names in Japanese history: Takeda Shingen.

He talked about everyday things that happen around the castle, allowing her time to comprehend his words. Then he moved to casual topics, like his beloved young commander whom he likes to tease every now and then.    

He was an unshakeable flirt, but for some reason Katsumi gradually felt okay with his company as he spoke in a rather considerate pace.

“Um, wait,” she said in the middle of their tour, “I thought Kenshin was your rival…”

“Ah. He still attempts to kill me at every chance he gets.” He casually nodded like being a target was a normal thing. “But he also does that to Sasuke, though he calls it ‘sparring.’”

Shingen led her to the cherry blossom tree that stood in the garden behind the castle. Katsumi followed silently, watching him as he gazed up at the swaying blossoms, like a sad fellow reminiscing his woes.

“We have battled each other four times, each ending in stalemates. Kenshin is a man I held worthy to fight with… a rival I acknowledged the most.” She spied his expression, seeing a flash of grief underneath steel gray eyes. She recalled Kenshin’s similar expression, and her chest ached anew.

“…But when I lost my home to Oda Nobunaga, Kenshin offered me shelter in his castle. Then we got into an alliance.”

And then it disappeared just like that… just like Kenshin’s. Shingen faced her with the same alluring smile. “Sorry for making this conversation dull. How shall I make it up to you?”

“O-Oh, I didn’t mind.” She shook her head. “I’m just surprised how it came to be. You know, rivals being in the same house.”

“Kenshin is a complicated man.”

“…I thought so, too.”

The man turned to her with piqued interest. “Did he say something about himself?”

“Not exactly,” she pressed her lips as she tried to find the right words, “I mean, his words were a little harsh and demanding… but he almost seemed like he was struggling with something, contradicting himself all the while. I found him… difficult to understand.”

“…Are you afraid of him?”

Her mind went back to her brief encounter with him. She was aware of his reputation: the God of War. She watched him strike a person without hesitation. She knew that he could kill her that night.

After an experience like that, anyone would be afraid.

But what she saw behind all that was different. She saw it with her own eyes. In that brief moment, his eyes that were once of a predator had the reflection of a broken man. His arms trapped her like a caged bird, but he had the intention of taking her to safety.

He was a complicated man, indeed.

“No.”

Shingen chuckled heartily, which Katsumi oddly interpreted as satisfaction. She wasn’t even certain it was the right answer—but it just rolled out her tongue so naturally.

“You’re in safe hands indeed.” He reassures all of a sudden. “If that woman-hater went through all that for you, then rest assured he won’t point his sword at you.”

“You say that with such confidence.”

“I’ve known him for a while.”

Katsumi’s eyes lit up subtly, with curiosity getting the best of her. She hesitantly looked at Shingen. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Do I look like someone you know?” She asked. “Or rather… someone Kenshin knows?”

“Why do you ask?” Katsumi nervously faced Shingen’s puzzled expression.

“Because he mentioned that I apparently remind him of someone.”

His forehead creased. Shingen didn’t know Kenshin was that careless… or was it the influence of alcohol? No, he wasn’t that invulnerable. Maybe he was just flustered by having to face this young woman whose eyes almost have an uncanny resemblance as hers—

“Ah,” he muttered, getting the answer, “I’m sorry, my angel, but I don’t think I have an idea.”

“Oh…” She frowned, remembering the expression he wore when they rode back home. “I wonder if it’s someone he cherished…”

“Now you’re just breaking my heart.” He feigned a hurt expression. Katsumi blinked at him blankly. A very unforgiving reaction, he thought. “All this time you’ve been with me, you speak about Kenshin.”

“Uh, I didn’t mean—” Heat crept up on the apples of her cheeks as she denied it. Her hands frantically made gestures out of panic. “I just… he looked so sad that time, so I wondered if… you know…”

“Sad, huh?” Shingen repeated. A mirthless laugh escaped his lips.

“Well, he does want to die.”

“…Excuse me?” She looked at him for confirmation. Shingen turned around and began walking forward, away from that tree that seemed to have the magic to make them say things they didn’t want to. “Shingen, what did you say—”

“Let’s go, my angel.” He insisted, briefly glancing behind his broad shoulder to face her. “We’ll speak while walking. I still need to make you forget about Kenshin while we are together.”

But you just made me want to think about him more!

Katsumi didn’t want to be too insistent, but she was too confused. Eventually, she spotted a brown-haired youth marching towards them. He was not happy at all.

“Lord Shingen!”

“Ah, Yuki!” Shingen seemed unbothered by the young man’s annoyance. “I was just about to introduce you to Katsumi—”

At the mention of a woman’s name, Yukimura turned to Katsumi as if he just noticed her there. He took a step back.

“Ah—sorry!”

“Yuki, how could not notice an angel’s presence in front of you?” The Tiger of Kai unhappily scolded Yukimura. “Katsumi, this is Yuki, my vassal.”

“N-Nice to meet you.”

Yukimura found it unsettling to see her bow to him politely, so he roughly asked her to raise her head. Honestly, when Sasuke told them to be gentle with her, he didn’t expect her to be this— delicate? It was like he couldn’t help but be different around her. Ah, this is why he can’t deal with women.

“A-Anyway, my lord! We have business to attend to!”

He stared eagerly at his lord, and Shingen sighed in distress. “I apologize, my angel. It seems I must see to this urgently.”

“Oh, please. I don’t mind at all. Thank you for your time.” She bowed.

“Well then, do you intend to show that appreciation later—”

“LORD SHINGEN!”

“Yuki, that was a little too loud.” Shingen complained, as Yukimura sighed loudly before turning to Katsumi with an apologetic expression.

“Don’t mind him.”

Without another word, Yukimura dragged his esteemed lord away as Katsumi stayed to watch them quietly. She wondered why she seems to keep meeting such weird people.

Finding herself all alone, she began walking again. She passed through a slightly open door and spots a familiar face inside. Pausing at her tracks, she saw Kenshin sitting in front of a desk, looking through several papers with a noticeable array of decanters by his side.

“Do you need something, woman?”

She flinched as he acknowledged her presence. “Sorry, I was just passing by—”

“Well, he does want to die.”

Katsumi pressed her lips together. Kenshin looked up from the document in his hand and waited for her to speak.

“A-Actually… I wanted to apologize for causing you trouble.” She said, eyes avoiding his stoic gaze. “I realized that I bothered you and wasted your time by running away and having you come for me. I acted childish and played hard to get.”

He didn’t speak. She continued. “I… I have a hard time dealing with men. I hope you can forgive me.”

“Come.”

She lifted her gaze to find him setting the papers aside to bring out the decanter of sake and a jar of pickled plums. He gestured the spot in front of him, and just like that, she stepped inside.

With the desk separating them, she settled in front of him. He brought out two sake cups.

“Frankly, I don’t care about your reasons.” Kenshin proceeded to pour a helping for himself. “My demands are baseless in itself. The apology you offer is meaningless.”

She watched him quietly as he gracefully took a sip. Strangely enough, his brusque manner of speech doesn’t bother her anymore. He glanced at her, then at the remaining cup.

“You should know that I will not pour for you.”

Katsumi regarded the empty cup, wondering if it was his way of inviting her to drink. However, Kenshin misinterpreted her reluctance.

“I am not interested in women,” he said, “much less taking advantage of them.”

Now she was more confused. Did he just try to reassure her?

“Why drink with me?”

“I’m bored.” He coolly replied. “Shingen refused to spar with me. Sasuke and Yukimura are preparing to set off to Azuchi.”

She was unsure of herself, but she gradually reached for the sake and poured herself a cup half full.

“…and I have the right to know about you.”

She paused to look at him. “About me?”

“In a battle, it’s best to have information.” Kenshin suddenly came back as his usual battle-loving self. “I know nothing about you. You are here to give me the information I need.”

The mention of battle left a bad aftertaste in her mouth, but she acknowledged how his words, no matter how peculiar its use sounds to her, has this certain charisma to it. Like it has the divine power to make anyone believe and follow him. Because look at her now, defenseless in front of the God of War, yet she wasn’t feeling afraid.

“When dusk arrives, you are free to leave.”

And there it is again. It somehow felt like he was assuring her, but she somehow knew that if she tried to confirm, he will most likely deny it.

She felt defeated, and yet she doesn’t mind.

“…Thanks for the consideration.”

And she takes the cup.

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[jirachi5]

50-70 for the ask post :•)

Yeowch! That's a lot. Ok I didn't number them but here goes:

What do you expect from a friend or partner?

Somebody you can be a little silly with

What question could you ask to find out the most about a person?

Ok not to be that guy but I really do think the books/movies/whatever that people consume, and what they take from it, does give you a lot of insight into what kind of person they are

Do you justify all your beliefs or have you just inherited/absorbed some?

Yeah I've definitely just absorbed some

Which beliefs do you have that is most likely to be wrong?

Literally anything I believe about God or the afterlife

Can human really understand the complete nature of the universe, space and time?

No

Is a conscious what makes someone a person?

No. Animals have a conscious, plants have some sort of awareness. That does not make them people

What do you think about artificial intelligence?

Don't like that

Do you thinks humans are obsessed with escapism (books, video games, movies, etc.)? Are you looking for an escape? Do you think that’s a bad thing?

Yes. Yes. And it's neither a bad nor a good thing, it's just a thing. If life were easier we wouldn't want to escape so much

Are we eventually going to ‘run out’ of new combinations for music, art, language, etc.? Is there a limit to human creativity?

No. Maybe you're bored with it now but someone will always come along once in a while and do something completely new and unexpected. Don't know when though

What do you think the next era of music will be like?

Desired ending: return of disco

True ending: someone is shaking laminated paper into a microphone

What do you think the next era of fashion will be like?

90s are back

Do we live in tumultuous times, or do they just seem so strange because we’re living in them?

They are so tumultuous. We live in the underworld

Would you want to meet a clone of yourself? Would you like them?

No and no.

How confident are you, really?

No idea. I think I come off as confident sometimes because I have no idea what's going on so I just say nonsense with a lot of certainty

How consistent is your perception of time?

It's horrible. I go to work, blink once and it's time to go home

What age should people be allowed to vote? Should children and teenagers be allowed to vote?

18 seems fine. Any younger than that and you'll have kids just voting for people as a joke or smt

How do you feel about the idea ‘an eye for an eye’?

Really bad, impractical, dumb as hell, waste of energy

What’s the worse thing a person can be?

Vengeful, vindictive, self-righteous, uhhh?

How do you feel about monogamy?

It's fine

Can you be in love with someone and still fall in love with someone else?

Yeah it happens

What’s the tragedy of your life?

One time I was at petsmart and there was a cat up for adoption named Cary Grant. Weirdly enough he Looked Like Cary Grant. But my grandmother wouldn't let me get him so :/