#fanfiction in Ukrainian

[pieswithglassloveit]

because of studies I don't have time to write at all((

can someone explain to the world that I need to write harrymort and not all of it?

[pansnovydinnia]

кхм... фанфік!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52727581/chapters/133364839

усі сім частин написані!! тільки опублікувати залишилось.

про них, так. 😋

[deathwhoregutfucker]

[x]

I love them more than words can describe omfg

[annawayne]

Whispers Of The Verdant Lament

Mavka AU*

*Mavkas, in Ukrainian folklore and mythology, are the souls of women who had died an unnatural, tragic death; they often appear in the form of beautiful young girls who entice and lure young men into the woods, where they "tickle" them to death. Mavkas have no reflection in the water, nor do they cast shadows; they have green hair and pale/green skin, sometimes - naked.

In the forest, you're not alone. Smerekas* with their long trunks stretch up to the sky, cutting the cloud with emerald needles and wooden veins. The soft moss covers the soil, echoing each step with rich crisp. The horizons are flooded with grass, erasing the limits, prolonging the space as if it's infinite harmony of savage, wild nature. The forest is the tribe, with its rules and rhythm.

Armin knows - every family has secrets, so does the forest, and every shade of green keeps the story of someone who made this place their tomb. And Armin also knows - the distant cries of the mountain river breathe with the last words of his Annie. 

It was an accident, the unmerciful, cruel circumstance. Her feet slipped, a second - and the river took her. A day later, they found her lifeless body, and Armin was sure -his lungs filled with water of mourning he never would be able to get rid of. 

His vision aches from the bright light as he reaches the cliff, where the tense tree line meets the sharp edge of the earth. Here it is. The place where everything ends - and as well would his life. She was the place between his ribs, and after she was gone - it couldn't be replaced; it whistled with grief and sorrow, nothing and no one could fulfil. She was everything - the feeble smile in the morning with sleepy eyes and groggy voice; the crystal laugh as they chased one after another in the slopes under the prominent spring sun, only to fall into the embrace of long grass, giggling and hugging each other; the tiny sparks in her eyes and the steady, slow breath as he plays trembita**; the delightful hum when the bilberry* she has plucked from the bush turned to be sweet and juicy; the adorable blush on her soft cheeks and the broad smile only he was able to see after they made love; the exceptional stitches on shirts she embroidered for both of them... Oh, of course, he's wearing the one right now. With his wedding outfit, she never has the chance to see. 

Armin sighs and closes his eyes. Annie made stitches not only on the fabric but also in his heart and body; he carries her unique embroidery and ornaments on the skin and soul of her life and love. It's almost unbearable to see his reflection because every part was kissed, touched, and loved by her. And now Armin stands at the same cliff and ready to take a step forward: not a tragic coincidence, like with her, but the decision. 

"Armin."

He is sure - this is the wind. Another trick of nature, his imagination, anything. 

"Armin."

No, no, no, it's all in his head. But tentative, almost slow, he turns his head, and he sees-

"Annie," her name exhaled like the air he needed all the time she was gone. Tears immediately filled his eyes, blurring his vision, but even with this, Armin captured her hair slightly green, her pale—more pale than usual—skin, green lips, and her favourite long undershirt, which she wore that fateful day. 

"Long time no see, love," A small smile paints her face, and Armin steps towards her, running in her direction. 

"Annie, Annie, Annie, An-" 

Her small hand rises up, and with a gesture, she pleads him to stop. Like a spell, his feet halt, and his chest rises with heavy breath; he is sure not from the run. 

"You can't jump from this cliff." her calm words fill the air between them. "You should live a long life, see the world, like you dreamed abou-"

"But I wanted to do all of it with you!"

"But I'm gone, Armin. I live in this forest, and you're still there, without strings to the place. You still can do it for both of us. "

The tears completely covered his eyes, and uncontrollable sobs cut all of his intention to say the word. So, she smiles again, and the gentle voice follows, "You should live, and when you would be the grumpy old man, you would come to this forest and call for me. You would stretch your hand, and I would take it, as I always did, and then, you will be young again, and we will be together one more time, and forever; we will be lost in the slopes and the rivers, in the grass and the mountains. But only then. Not early, not today. Only then,"

"Annie, I lo-"

"I know. I do, too."

"I miss-"

"Me too."

"An-"

"Only then, Armin. This is the condition. So, live. Live, and we will meet again."

His words are muffled with sobs, so the only thing he manages is to nod. 

"I... I don't know how, but I'll try. I miss you so much."

"I'm always there in your heart. I never left you, so...carry me to the world with you because this is the only way I could see it. Our hearts are connected, after all, so... Show me the world, Armin, as we dreamed about."

Armin closes his eyes, and the nails dig into his palms. It starts to hurt. "I'll try, Annie. I'll try."

The phantom touch caressed his cheek and made him open his eyes, and her face was right before his. Her dreamy, ghostly eyes are glossy and hazy with fog, but he recognizes this shade—his favourite, hers. Her lips quickly brush against his, and the hushed whisper follows: "It's nice to see this wedding outfit on you. You look so wonderful and beautiful. I really wanted to show you mine, but... I will be waiting for you, love." 

And with this, she is gone. 

Again. 

The shadow of her cold kiss still lingers on his lips as Armin falls onto his knees, and the loud song of the mountain river is muffled by his cries.

*Smerekas or Picea abies - the pine tree that is widely growing in the Ukrainian Carpathians;

**Trembita is a type of wood-made alpine horn. It is common among Ukrainian highlanders, Hutsuls, who live in western Ukraine (Carpathians). According to the ancient Hutsul tradition, a trembita should be made from a thunderbolt, i.e. a tree that has been struck by lightning. The age of the tree should be 120-150 years.

[sickficideas]

may i propose the idea of dazai crying until he throws up but Actually. do what u will with this information😭

hello anon, i greet you 11 months later...i am so sorry....and I have no idea if this was even a fic request or just a Hey. This Concept is Cool. and you're right so I wanted to write a fic about it and it took me 11 months. so. here you go Im so sorry LOL

just get up, get up || kunikidazai sickfic

ao3! 5.2k - please refer to the tags in the link for content + warnings! this one is a little heavy (past suicide attempt references, death mentions)

Kunikida is standing outside of Dazai's apartment, originally with a bone to pick with him for not showing up to the company dinner, but he’s long forgotten that. He's far too focused on the fact that he hears Dazai crying through the front door.

Dazai doesn’t cry.

Kunikida has the key to his apartment, as a precaution. He’s had it since the first time Dazai seriously attempted to kill himself, swallowing nearly forty pills from something he stole from Kunikida’s bathroom, that being the only reason Kunikida found him in time. He’s told Dazai he won’t disrespect his privacy unless he thought he had good reason to, and he thinks he has a good reason to do just that right here. He fumbles with his keys to find the one labeled Dazai.

Because Dazai does not cry for no reason.

He barges in, closing the door behind him but not bothering to even lock it properly before he runs to Dazai’s bedroom, where the sobs are coming from. Kunikida’s praying in his head on repeat that he isn’t in a life-threatening situation because that’s not a farfetched idea here, but he doesn’t quite get that feeling here.

Dazai is curled up in the corner of his nearly barren bedroom with the lights off, on his side, on the floor. Kunikida doesn’t see any signs of a suicide attempt, but that doesn’t mean much - just because he doesn’t see a noose or a pill bottle doesn’t mean he’s fine, and clearly, he’s not.

Kunikida can count at least five empty bottles of various types of alcohol on the floor.

“Dazai,” Kunikida starts, but he doesn’t detect any reaction from him, he’s just choking on sobs and sounding nearly unable to breathe, and Kunikida is contemplating calling Yosano. But he can’t do that. Dazai won't do any better with a doctor here, even one he’s familiar with.

Kunikida, for once, can't think of anything to help.

He's seen Dazai drunk before, but he doesn't think that's what's going on. Something else is causing this.

Kunikida kneels down in front of him, laying a hand over Dazai’s arm, covering his face for the most part. The bandages on his arms have long come loose, which tells him just how far off his mental state is right now.

Dazai’s face is red and his eyes are shot, a fact that Kunikida is only able to tell because of how Dazai looks up at him, brow furrowed and almost somehow begging Kunikida to make it stop. What exactly that is, he doesn’t know, but he can’t stand seeing Dazai like this. He needs to do something.

"Did you take something?" Kunikida asks as Dazai’s eyes drift away from him again. Kunikida’s forcing eye contact with a death grip on his arm. "Medications? Drugs?"

Dazai shakes his head just barely, and for some reason, Kunikida feels inclined to believe him. Kunikida is shocked Dazai is even listening to what he’s saying.

"Were you drinking?" Kunikida asks, even though the answer is obvious. Dazai barely nods before pulling his arm back over his face, trying to make himself smaller in some feeble attempt to tell Kunikida to leave, but he won’t even consider it.

"Are you hurt?" he asks, but Dazai doesn't answer. He cries out like he's in pain and his body twists, eyes screwed shut. Kunikida panics, he presses against Dazai's shoulder to lay him flat on the floor and check him over for injuries, but he sees nothing. No blood, no rips in his clothing, nothing. Dazai's eyes have relaxed, but they're still flooded with tears.

“Dazai,” Kunikida starts, not even sure what to follow up with. He feels dizzy. What does he even do here? He needs a plan. He needs to figure out how to help Dazai at least feel better enough temporarily so he's not choking on his sobs. “Let's get you to bed, come on.”

Kunikida scoops a hand under the shoulder that's against the ground to encourage Dazai to get off of the floor, at least, hoping that he can walk himself. Dazai's not crying as hard right now but it almost sounds like there's something else keeping his focus. He manages to get himself together enough to prop himself up, but Kunikida realizes too late that he looks nauseous all of a sudden, and the gag confirms his suspicion. The choking he was hearing were probably half-gags to begin with.

Dazai leans forward and chokes up a torrent of pale, watery vomit, just barely missing Kunikida's knee, but he's not to lucky the second time he gags, most of it splattering up the side of his thigh.

In any other circumstance, Kunikida would have certainly shouted at him. For drinking so much, for not being able to control himself, but he can't even bring himself to say anything, much less reprimand him. All he can do is make sure Dazai doesn't fall face forward in his own vomit.

His seemingly endless tears join in the vomit and drool that drips from his chin as he breathes heavily over the puddle, not able to keep himself up anymore. Kunikida doesn't want him to lay back down anymore -if he's not down throwing up, the last thing he needs is to choke on his own vomit, so he tries to at least prop him up.

He isn't finished, so it was a good call. He manages to avoid Kunikida this time, gagging and spitting up more of his stomach contents to add to this existing puddle, a hand pressed against his tummy.

He hasn't calmed down at all. His eyes look wild, as if throwing up has just made him feel a hundred times worse. Another thing that Kunikida can't do much about. He's so helpless, sitting right in front of him and watching him cry his eyes out without any idea what's going on.

Kunikida leans forward and holds him close, both arms wrapped around him in some kind of attempt to ground him.

“Dammit, Dazai,” Kunikida murmurs quietly. He’s completely and utterly heartbroken. Dazai was just suffering here. He wasn’t trying to end his life. He wasn’t hurting himself. He wasn’t even on anything, he just drank his sorrows away and sobbed for what must have been hours before Kunikida got here. “I'm going to stay with you tonight. Okay?”

He feels Dazai nod against his shoulder. That's a good sign, but he still shakes and sobs against him, like he wants to curl up and disappear in his arms.

That's fine with him, if the feeling helps. Kunikida will hold him as long as he needs him to.

He can't tell how long it's been once Dazai starts to breathe normally, but Kunikida takes the opportunity. He manages to move him over to his bed and under his covers. Dazai's eyes have glazed over. His lashes are still wet but he doesn't seem to be crying much more right now, and he's hoping he will at least be able to sleep for a few hours.

Kunikida tries to straighten things up, per his nature. He picks up all of the empty alcohol bottles and trash that litter his bedroom floor and brings them to the kitchen. He brings a trash bin beside Dazai's bed in case he needs to vomit again soon before he cleans the puddle in the corner. He feels nauseous himself, but he certainly won't make Dazai do the job right now. He wipes up the now-dried bits of vomit on his pants, and grabs another rag for Dazai's face.

He's almost asleep, finally. Kunikida wipes up his mouth and his chin. His face is warm, he lays a hand against his cheek to feel it. He's not worried about a fever, thinking it's probably just how much Dazai has worked himself up.

“I wish you would've called someone,” Kunikida says quietly.

He's glad he got to him before it got worse, at least.

…

The next morning, Kunikida opens the screen door to Dazai's porch. He should have done that last night. The entire dorm room reeks of alcohol and vomit, something he's only realizing with a taste of fresh air.

The rest of the night was easier than it could have been. Dazai somehow managed to sneak past Kunikida at some point, who had fallen asleep on the floor next to his bed, to puke in the bathroom for a few minutes. He would've fallen asleep there if Kunikida hadn't noticed and put him back to bed.

He groans, trying to stretch out the aches in his muscles from sleeping on the floor.

There's not a long list of people he would do that for.

When he wanders back into Dazai's bedroom, he sees him watching. On his side, head halfway engulfed by his pillow and looking at least seventy-five percent asleep, but he's awake.

"Hey," Kunikida says quietly.

"Hi,” Dazai croaks. The first coherent word he's spoken.

“I'll be right back. Just going to my dorm room for a moment,” Kunikida tells him. Dazai only nods. He wonders if maybe he shouldn't leave him alone, but it doesn't look as if Dazai has any energy at all to do something he shouldn't. “Do you need anything?”

He shakes his head, and lets his eyes fall shut. Kunikida feels relieved.

Thank god they have today off, too.

He disappears into his dorm for no longer than ten minutes to change clothes and do his morning routine - brush his teeth, wash his face. He thinks about showering but decides to put that off, not wanting to leave Dazai alone for longer than he needs to. He thinks Dazai would certainly benefit from a shower, too.

He makes it back soon enough to Dazai's bed room. The air feels much more fresh now, which will certainly do Dazai some good. He's turned around, now, the glass of water Kunikida had places beside him on the other side, but still full. Like he had tried to drink some, but decided not to. Kunikida wouldn't be surprised at all if he was still nauseous.

He needs to make him something to eat. Rice or soup would do him some good. Nauseous or not, he needs some substance in his stomach or else throwing up will be much more painful, and leave him feeling much worse - especially when he's pumped full of alcohol.

He turns to walk back into the kitchen, but Dazai's hoarse voice stops him before he can go any further.

"Sorry about last night. Kunikida," Dazai mumbles, his back still turned to him.

Kunikida doesn't think he's ever heard him sound that sincere about an apology before. It's genuine but dripping with guild all the same. It feels strange to hear. He almost wants to joke back.

"It's alright," Kunikida tells him, deciding now is not the time to be having any sort of conversation about it. He'll talk later, right now he just wants Dazai to feel normal. "I'll make you some food. You need to eat."

"I'm not hungry, ‘s okay,” Dazai replies quietly. He’s lowered his voice, like it hurts to keep it over a certain volume. Kunikida watched him shift like he wanted to move, but ultimately decide to sink back down.

"You still need to eat, Dazai. You threw up at least six times last night,” he says with a little sigh. “Just a little so that there's something in your stomach. It doesn't need to be right this second.”

Dazai has two packets of instant rice if he remembers correctly, and nothing else. Kunikida decides he'll go get groceries for him tomorrow. He's pretty certain those packets are left over from the last time he got groceries for him, too.

“I’ll eat later,” Dazai agrees begrudgingly, which Kunikida thinks is certainly better than the response he was expecting. “What’s the time?”

Finally, he turns so that he’s on his back. He tilts his head in Kunikida’s directly. He looks like he’s nearly on his deathbed - he’s so pale and looks exhausted.

“It’s almost nine in the morning,” Kunikida tells him.

“It feels like it’s five AM,” Dazai grumbles.

“Do you want to shower?” Kunikida asks. He’s trying to think of ways to get him out of bed. He doesn’t think wasting away in his dark room is any good for him, and he thinks a shower would certainly help him feel better.

“No,” he grumbles, glaring at Kunikida.

“Well, you should,” Kunikida says, leaning against the door frame.

Dazai groans like a child, turning away so his back faces Kunikida once again. This reaction, he should have expected.

“I'll help you,” Kunikida offers.

“Can it be a bath instead?” Dazai mumbles. Kunikida can hear the pout on his lips.

“Whatever will get you smelling better than a bar,” Kunikida says. He doesn’t care either way. “I’ll start it now, then. I’d really like if you had some water, I don’t need to you pass out on me.”

Dazai makes a vague noise in acknowledgment, but the way he pulls the sheets over his head tells him that he’s going to take advantage of his bed before he makes any plans to drink water.

Thankfully, Dazai doesn’t make the rest of it difficult for him. He doesn’t even argue about the bandages anymore.

Kunikida massages a second round of shampoo into his hair, with Dazai underwater from the shoulders down, quiet for the most part. The water is the perfect temperature and it’s certainly doing him some good, some color has started to come back to his face. He’s a little more quiet than Kunikida is comfortable with, though.

“Anything you usually do on Sundays?” Kunikida asks him, leaning Dazai’s head back just a bit before taking the pitcher of water to rinse the shampoo out.

"I usually…" Dazai mumbles, pausing like he’s not sure he wants to share. He keeps his eyes shut as Kunikida continues to rinse out the shampoo. "I go visit a friend."

"A friend?" Kunikida asks. He thinks most of the shampoo is out. There’s a bottle of conditioner that Kunikida put in here years ago that Dazai clearly never uses - he decides he’s going to do it now, while he has him here.

"Yeah," Dazai nods. He pauses again as Kunikida words the conditioner into his hair, but the silence must have encouraged him to say what’s on his mind. "Do you…can you come?"

Kunikida's surprised at this.

"I don’t have any plans today,” Kunikida says. Not entirely true. He has a Sunday routine, but he can make sure he gets to that in the evening, and just stay with Dazai this morning. “Does he live here? In Yokohama?”

“At the cemetery. By the Port.”

Kunikida almost replies, wondering which neighborhood that is exactly, but his stomach drops once he realizes what Dazai is saying.

Oh.

He's visiting a grave.

Somehow, all of this makes sense, now.

…

Kunikida lets Dazai take his time. Of course, he’s not going to rush him out of the dorm room to go see his friend’s headstone, but he’s moving much slower than normal this morning anyway. Kunikida dries his hair and gives him a change of clothes as he cooks some rice for him to eat, even if it’s only a few bites. He argues, hopes he’ll win, but Kunikida manages to get him to eat at least half of it.

“You go here every Sunday?” Kunikida asks him as they approach the cemetery, now within their sight. Dazai’s been relatively normal on the trip there. It was only a stop away on the train station and a few blocks of walking, but still, he seems much more like himself, he’s realizing now, though, that he was simply trying to distract himself.

“Every Sunday,” he confirms, the tone of his voice now changed. He sounds far away, living some past memory, but his voice holds the same texture of when he was trying his eyes out last night. Kunikida chews his lip.

He’s not sure how he never noticed this tradition of his, either, unless this death was recent. Dazai’s never around on Sundays but he’s never clear about his plans either. He’ll say anything from he’s getting a coffee to he’s planning on overthrowing the government, if he threw in a I’m visiting my dead friend, Kunikida would have thought nothing of it.

Atsushi’s mentioned finding him at a cemetery before, once, when Dazai failed to show up to an emergency meeting. But even then, Kunikida never thought he was there to visit someone.

Dazai slows down as they make it to the entrance, and Kunikida makes it further ahead of him before he realizes he’s stopped. He’s turned away from the direction of the sea, almost looking like he’s holding his breath. Kunikida decides if he should ask him if they should turn around before Dazai brings a hand up to his mouth.

"Dazai, are you - " Kunikida starts, but Dazai is already bent over with a hand on his stomach, throwing up onto the sidewalk before Kunikida can finish his question. “Shit.”

Kunikida curses, laying a hand on Dazai's back. Dazai probably assumed the rice would come right back up anyway, that’s no doubt why he was refusing to eat, but Kunikida wonders if it has something to do with the nerves of where they are right now. But certainly, he wouldn’t react like this every Sunday?

“I’m fine,” Dazai breathes out, spitting up the rest of what’s in his mouth into the small puddle at his feet. It’s not much, but he didn’t have near anything in his stomach to begin with. He looks even worse, now. Kunikida wants him to sit down and drink some damn water.

Kunikida keeps his hand on Dazai’s back as he straightens up and tries to take in a steady breath. Kunikida is almost certain he’s going to throw up again, but he manages to pull himself together enough to continue on to the cemetery gates.

Dazai snakes his hand into Kunikida’s and squeezes it, hard. Kunikida squeezes it back as Dazai leads him to a gravestone, right underneath the tree on the far side of the cemetery.

S. Oda.

Reading the same sends a chill up his spine and he can’t explain why. Kunikida's never heard Dazai mention this person before, not even unnamed. A friend. Dazai doesn't seem like the type to have friends at all, not outside of work.

Whoever he was, he must have been very important to Dazai, to affect him like this.

And the longer Kunikida stands there beside Dazai and stares, the faster he starts to realize that the date of death on the headstone was yesterday's date.

"You should've said something," Kunikida sighs quietly as Dazai slips his hand out of Kunikida’s grip.

"I have a friend who I've never told you about who died in my arms four years ago yesterday. There," Dazai says. It's incredibly nonchalant, something he's trying to pass off as a joke, but Kunikida can hear the pain in his voice. He can feel it.

It must have been an awful death, to break down Dazai like that.

Dazai kneels right in front of the headstone and lays his forehead against the cold marble. He chokes back a sob, evidently, completely incapable of holding himself together. It hurts him so much. He can’t fathom what could have happened. Dazai’s completely broken by this.

Kunikida can't just sit there and watch. He kneels beside him, a little further back. He wants to lay a hand on his shoulder, but he hesitates, and takes his hand again to squeeze it hard instead.

“I'm sorry,” Dazai mumbles quietly, wiping his tears with the sleeve of his hand. “I think…he would've loved working at the Agency.”

“You think so?” Kunikida asks. Four years ago would have been someone in the Port Mafia with Dazai, Kunikida is fairly certain.

“He would've…he would've deserved it more than I do, Kunikida,” Dazai tells him, a few teardrops landing in the earth right in front of the headstone. He’s getting that look in his eyes again, like he’s somewhere else.

Kunikida bites his lip. “Don't say things like that, Dazai.”

“Maybe…maybe if he found him instead of me, then…then they both would've…” Dazai murmurs, and Kunikida starts to worry, because he's not making much sense. He’s not sure who he’s talking about. “but then Atsushi…what about…”

“Hey,” Kunikida starts, squeezing his hand a little tighter, “I don't know what happened to your friend, but no matter how things ended for him, there's nothing you can do to change the past.”

Dazai’s shoulders tense up. Kunikida worries he's having the opposite of the desired effect, but there’s nothing he can do to guess what Dazai could possibly be thinking. 

Dazai lifts his head off of the stone, a little too quickly, it seems, because his whole body slumps forward and he smacks his forehead into it before Kunikida can stop him. He holds his shoulders to move him off the stone and he seems to have come back to him already. Kunikida steadies him and makes sure he gets a good look at his face. He still looks dizzy. "You're dehydrated."

"Mm," Dazai huffs. He doesn't seem to care. He rubs the part of his forehead that smacked against the stone and groans.

"Let's take you to Yosano,” Kunikida insists, taking Dazai’s hand and helping him off the ground. He’s really concerned. All of this is very out of the ordinary for him. He wants to take him somewhere he can rest for a few hours, at least.

"I'm okay, Kunikida,” Dazai mumbles, his eyes still pointed down at the headstone. He’s not crying anymore, but he's certainly not all there.

"Like hell you are, Dazai," he huffs, reaching out to lay a hand under his chin and point his face up to look at Kunikida. He looks like a sad, wet cat. "She could get some fluids in you, at least."

"I don't like needles," he murmurs. His eyes drop back down to the ground.

“I know you don’t, but you just fainted because you’re so dehydrated. And I don’t think you have any interest in drinking water right now,” Kunikida says with a deep sigh. Dazai doesn’t argue, but he leans forward to lay his forehead on Kunikida’s shoulder.

Kunikida holds him, one arm around his back and the other on his head, for as long as Dazai needs him to. He knows a lot of what Dazai shows him on a regular basis is a front, a disguise, he’s learned that after many years of working with him - but to see it completely torn down like this breaks his heart.

After a while, Kunikida leads him out of the cemetery. Dazai doesn’t object. He keeps his arm around Kunikida, his eyes on the ground in front of him, not lifting his head. Kunikida lets him. He plans to walk the two of them to the Agency, which isn’t more than a fifteen-minute walk. He knows Yosano is there today, even though it’s closed - it’s when she catches up. He can at least have her look him over.

The Motomachi shopping structure starts to come into view as Dazai starts to lift his head a little and slip his arm out of Kunikida’s. There’s more people around here now, and he can already see Dazai start to mask on, even around people he doesn’t know, people he’ll never meet.

Kunikida feels Dazai’s hand slip out of his grip, and he worries for a moment before he hears a voice coming from behind them.

"Dazai? Kunikida?"

It's Atsushi, Kunikida realizes upon turning around. 

"What're you guys doing here?" Atsushi asks. He’s by himself, it looks like.

"Work," Kunikida answers simply, trying to avoid any tough conversation for Dazai. He doesn’t think Atsushi will ask any questions beyond that. "And you? Are you by yourself?"

"Kyoka's in the bakery over there. But I saw you guys from the window and wanted to say hi," Atsushi says, but the smile on his face fades as soon as his eyes peer over to Dazai, who, no matter how much he's trying to fake it, still looks miserable. "Are…you okay, Dazai?"

"Oh, I'm fine. You know. Hungover," he jokes, but he still doesn’t sound like himself, no matter how hard he’s trying. Kunikida supposes the hangover bit might be partially true.

"You really should stop drinking so much," Atsushi scolds. Kunikida mirrors that sentiment, mentally, but he thinks Dazai probably has a much bigger problem than they can address with scolding.

"Mmm…maybe you're right," Dazai says, but it's impossible to tell if he's going to take that to heart or not. Kunikida is going to guess, likely not.

"Me and Kyoka were going to try out this new tea house. It’s like, a block over," Atsushi tells them, gesturing in the general direction. "Would you guys wanna come?"

"Hm. We're pretty busy with work," Kunikida lies, but he's trying to give Dazai an out in case he needs one. "Dazai?"

"We should go. Tea's good," he says simply with a shy-looking smile.

Kunikida's heart melts. Atsushi looks a little suspicious. Certainly, Kunikida would never let Dazai decide if they were going to work or not. Maybe he’s not covering their tracks as good as he thinks they are.

"Alright. We'll come."

"Why are you guys working, anyway? We're closed today," Atsushi says, turning around and leading them towards the bakery down the street, where Kyoka is, presumably.

“Just something the president asked us to take on,” Kunikida explains. “Classified, though.”

“Uh-huh…”

He’s not buying it, but he doesn’t press on. Kunikida’s relieved.

Once they meet Kyoka, the tea house isn’t far at all, and in the direction of the Agency anyway. Kunikida still plans to take Dazai to Yosano afterwards, but he thinks this is a good idea. Tea would definitely do him some good, if he’s willing to drink it.

He doesn’t last long at all, though. He only takes a few sips of what Kunikida had ordered, claiming he would decide from there, before he sneaks off to the bathroom. Kunikida say the nausea on his face, though, that green tinge, his hand over his stomach. He can’t keep anything down right now. He really needs to see Yosano.

“Do you think he’s sick, Kunikida?” Atsushi asks, concern written all over his face. He knows something’s going on.

“He might be. I need Yosano to take a look at him,” he says with a shaky sigh, already having finished sending her a text that they would be on their way over very soon. He’ll flag down a taxi to get them there. It’s not far, but he doesn’t think Dazai should be doing any more activity than he needs to.

When Dazai comes back, looking even worse than before with three concerned faces staring at him, his shoulders sink. Kunikida thinks that he can’t possibly believe he wouldn’t get caught.

“I’ll meet you guys there after we pay,” Atsushi tells them, and Kunikida thanks him. He’ll send him money to cover the bill later. He takes Dazai by the arm and leads him outside. He’s hoping he can get him feeling a little better soon.

…

Atsushi gets to the agency about an hour later, so worried about Dazai that his stomach hurts because of it. Something’s not right, he could tell that as soon as he saw the two of them in the street. Sure, he’s certainly sick with something, but he’s too quiet. He looks sad. That’s just not something he ever sees on Dazai’s face.

He makes it up to the Agency floor. Kyoka decided to go back to the dorms, so it’s just him, and no one but Yosano, Kunikida or Dazai should be in the office. The door to the infirmary is open, but he hears something coming from the office couch.

Dazai sounds like he's gagging again.

He carefully wanders over, not seeing any sign of Yosano behind the partition, it’s just Kunikida and Dazai - he’s curled up on the couch, his arm attached to a fluid line. Kunikida is in the middle of laying a blanket over him and holding a trash bin under his chin. Atsushi wonders why Dazai isn’t in the infirmary instead, but he does like this couch. Maybe he’s just more comfortable here.

Atsushi knows something must be wrong with him if Kunikida of all people is being so kind and gentle with him. Laying a blanket over him just can't be something he'd do for no reason.

Dazai spits up something into the bin before Kunikida lowers the bin. He groans and curls up in on himself again. He doesn't look good at all. Atsushi isn't sure if he's sick or not, but even if he is, it's concerning.

"He's having a hard time today, Atsushi. Don’t bother him too much," Kunikida says sternly, quietly, before he disappears into he infirmary. He hears him and Yosano faintly chattering about something, but the sound is lost on him as he focuses on Dazai’s miserable form.

Atsushi sits on the couch opposite of Dazai for a minute, watching him. Dazai knows he’s there, but he doesn’t look up. His eyes are on the floor. His breathing looks off, like it’s a conscious effort every time. He’s pale and he looks terribly nauseous. Atsushi feels guilty. He wouldn’t have offered for them to come if he knew he stomach was bothering him this much.

"Are you okay, Dazai?" he asks meekly, even though he knows the answer. It's a stupid question to ask, really. Dazai’s eyes finally dart up to meet Atsushi’s.

"I'm always okay," he says. The most non-answer possible.

“You don’t look okay,” Atsushi tells him with a little pout. He’s seen Dazai hungover before, it’s never, ever this bad. The worst it does it make him complain and give him a headache.

Dazai sighs quietly. "Just…missing a friend."

"A friend?" Atsushi asks, scooting up a little further. Dazai doesn’t ever talk about friends. "Why don't you go see them?"

"I saw him this morning."

Atsushi’s heart sinks as he puts all of the pieces together. He’s seen Dazai’s friend before, too. He and Kunikida were coming from that direction before Atsushi met them today. “Your friend in the cemetery?”

Dazai nods slowly.

“I'm sorry, Dazai,” Atsushi says quietly. Dazai shifts his body so that he’s lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “He must’ve been really important to you.”

"He's the reason I left the Port Mafia," Dazai says gently. “I wouldn’t…be here without him.”

Atsushi gives him a halfway smile. It’s not often that Dazai ever opens up about anything. Maybe it’s how he’s feeling, maybe he’s just deep enough in his thoughts to let his guard down, but Atsushi’s thankful that he’s shared that with him.

“I’m glad you knew him, then. Even if…even if you wished you knew him longer. He changed your life, right?” Atsushi says. He can’t part much wisdom to Dazai, someone who seems to know everything, but Dazai turns his head to look at Atsushi. It’s a warm expression on his face. Atsushi can’t tell what he’s thinking at all.

“Right, Atsushi.”

[menacewithawolfcut]

i promise i didn’t abandon writing “i met a fox (…)”, i’m just juggling it together with several diy projects and general irl stuff at the moment, but I made a few quick concept doodles/collages for it

[tiger-manya]

Мій перший фанфік за oots. Спойлери до подій від завершення Don't Split the Party до поточної арки. (Взлітаєм, тобі поки що читати не можна.)

English version is coming later (I hope).

[untitledskeletonblog]

“and as I finally let my guard down,

a dog lies down, relaxing the worn jaw

from baring all its teeth,

and something beautiful sings

in the skies above,

and beside me, too,

lying next to my bones,

tending to my skin,

warm breath against my body,

soft kisses on my flesh,

and starving eyes,

eating me up.”

[talesfrommedinastation]

Here's a quick sketch of Omega, and the latest chapter of To Guard Against Titans, where:

Crosshair complains.

Tech admits he doesn't believe in luck.

Bobbie Draper greets another Martian Marine.

Omega enjoys a nice dinner within a frigate that is staffed completely by women.

Read right here

---------------------------------------

Also, in case you couldn't tell, one of the OCs here, Leda Svoboda, is an Earther of Ukrainian descent in the world of The Expanse.

Seeing the news from Ukraine recently, as this chapter goes into detail about her, her role as a commander for the Golden Horde, is a wild feeling for me.

I did not make Cmdr. Leda Ukrainian on a whim. I did not give her the last name of 'Svoboda' (meaning 'Freedom' in Ukrainian) on accident.

(Commander Leda Svoboda, art my own)

I am in a heavily Ukrainian city, and my home is filled with the woodwork and embroidery from Ukrainian artists. A Ukrainian jeweler made the lily-of-the-valley set I wear every Easter. Both of my kids have hand-sewn dolls from Lviv. My oldest daughter sleeps in a hand-crafted bed from Kyiv. A close friend was a dancer in Kyiv's ballet.

I think about this quite often.

Even though it is no longer front-page news, the war within Ukraine still goes on.

If the chapter, or the story itself, moves you, please donate to The Red Cross, who still does mission work in Ukraine, as well as other areas around the globe in need of help.

Thank you all.

-Dr. MM

[nadiajustbe]

Bartimaeus in the last TLA chapter without context:

[megavasyachaika]

[pieswithglassloveit]

Увесь мій світ (My whole world)

Harry Potter died at the hands of the Dark Lord, but made the choice not to return.

Voldemort struggles with the consequences of this decision. He returns to the past.

link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57630805/chapters/146648443

[pansnovydinnia]

"Коробки"

Джон Константин/Бернард Блек, текст українською. Жанри в теґах.

Фанфік на АО3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45492709

John Constantine/Bernard Black, Ukrainian language. Genres in tags.

Fic on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45492709

Бернард - котик, що має котячі вушка, хвостик та приблизно подібні звички.

А книгарня раптом починає порожніти.

Сьогодні Бернард зробив дуже дивне, несподіване, зовсім не приємне, відкриття: книгарня його все-таки почала порожніти.

У плані книжок: деякі полички, що зазвичай тими книжками напхані, світили порожніми місцями, а навіть зазвичай похований під горою книжок Головний-Стіл-Для-Книжок уже під ними виднівся! Так, лише одним куточком (дуже привабливим, треба сказати, куточком, але в Бернарда зараз не весна, тож він про це не думав) та повною від того кутка ніжкою, але все-таки!

Погано, дуже погано. Невже навіть його спосіб продавати ��нижки може привести до аж таких кардинальних у книгарні зникнень?!

Тому Бернард був сьогодні дуже незадоволений. Він повторював собі під носик це запитання, точно кожного разу хтось відповідав «Зникнення книжок – нонсенс, і зовсім не твоя провина», пушив милі пухнасті вушка й тримав дибом хвостика, через що покупці не раз побоювалися навіть до каси підійти. Їм же на користь! І книгарні на користь. Книгарня має бути напхана книжками. Крапка!

Коли Бернард он якраз муркнув це собі під носик, поки готував собі же чаю, до книгарні повернувся другий її мешканець – Джон Константин. Він оминув покупців, що здивовано озирнулися на його щасливу усмішку, скинув із себе пальто, як жодному з покупців робити заборонено, та пішов за фіранки на кухню. Тут усі погляди, що його переслідували, згаснули, але опустімо це.

Джон зайшов на кухню, побачив там незадоволеного Бернарда, каштанові ніжні вушка якого вже повернулись у сторону звуку, та обійняв самого Бернарда за животик, аби ткнутися носом поміж тих самих ніжних вушок.

- Привіт, котику, - відказав туди стиха; поцілував праве вушко. Воно у відповідь – ніжненько сіпнулося.

Бернард, що до цього був дуже незадоволений, зачаровано зажмурився; обернувшись, обійняв Джона поперек грудей та розслаблено замуркотів, коли хвостик його встиг схопитися за Джонове стегно.

- Коханий, - муркнув у відповідь, бо дуже-дуже скучив: Джон пішов уранці, коли Бернард іще спав, і це сильно засмутило. Бернард, як киця домашня та дуже прив’язана, засмучувавсь, якщо не видував коханого задовго. – Хочу на ручки.

- Ходи на ручки, - погодився Джон легко, бо й Бернарда йому тримати було легко. Той обійняв його ніжками за талію, сховався біля шиї та муркотіти продовжив саме туди, заспокоєний погладжуваннями по голівоньці. – Отак. Такий ти в мене теплий коханий котик. Я бачив, у тебе щось сталося, ти був чи то роздратований, чи то засмучений…

- Книгарня спорожніла, - пояснив Бернард уже без натяку на роздратування. – Мені це не сподобалось. Я не хочу, щоби книгарня стояла порожня, це ж усе-таки книгарня! Що же мені читати відтак?

Джон знову поцілував пухнасті вушка.

- Ми же з тобою можемо замовити нові, невже забув? – запитав, коли стикнулися поглядами. – Задзвонимо до видавництв, замовиш іще, і не порожнітиме. Домовилися, котику?

Бернард знов опустив ніжні вушка – тільки тепер з іншого приводу.

- Я не хочу спілкуватись із людьми сьогодні, - пояснив, відвівши в сторону зажурений погляд. – Вони дурні. Одна нахаба затягнула сюди псину! Справжню дворову псину! Він мало не вкусив мене за хвостик! – І, притуливши хвостик до животика, накрив його ручками. – Вони сьогодні мене дуже сильно розчарували. Досі хочуть якихось книжок, після того, що посміли мені зробити!

Усадивши Бернарда на стільницю, Джон обережно розвів його ручки, що на хвостику, та поцілував самий його кінчик, лагідно та ніжно.

- То проженімо всіх і влаштуймо вечір виключно на двох, - запропонував, коли Бернард далі муркотів у його обіймах. – Зготуєш нам смаколиків, котику?

- Зготую, - усміхнувся той сонячно; вушка його розправилися, хвостик – погладив Джона по підборіддю, а зелено-бронзові оченята засяяли. – Чого хоче мій коханий?

- Хочу щось, що нагадуватиме смаком тебе, - шепнув той, підсунувшись під самі Бернарда губки – ті самі, червоненькі, пухкі й дуже солодкі на поцілунок губки. – Або просто достатньо поживне, щоби відновити після клятих демонів сили й насолодитися твоїм смаком напряму. Домовилися?

- Домовилися. Ходи до мене, коханий.

Бернард розмуркотівсь уже інакше – податливіше; обійнявши Джона й за шию, сам почав поцілунок, поки Джон фоном огладив його стегна, животик та бочки, би насолодитися привабливим сексуальним об’ємом. Бернарда можна було би назвати вушастою булочкою чи вушастою хмаринкою, не інакше. Він іще й застогнав так ніжно, так ніжки податливо розвів – напевно був уже збуджений, залишилося тільки забратися рукою вниз та перевірити…

- Покупці, мій любий, - обізвався сам Бернард, а муркотливий його голос тремтів, і Джону захотілося цілувати його більше, глибше, пристрасніше, мокріше. – Спочатку вони, а потім-… потім перевіриш мене на вогкість. Навіть якщо вже все зрозуміло…

- Звісно, кошеня. Приватність, - усміхнувся Джон йому в заціловані червоненькі губки. – Зажди-но тут. Нікуди не тікай. Справа двох хвилин, сам розумієш.

Вигнати покупців – і справді справа двох хвилин. А от задовольнялися значно й значно довше, би вже за деякий час закінчити в убиральні, під потоком тепленької водички. Бернард тоді сам на нього сів, а Джон, якому таке подобалося ледве не найбільше, мало не втратив од цього глузд.

Дзвонили до видавництва вже на наступний день. Книгарню, до речі, Бернард не відчинив – бо поки що жадав приватності, бажано такої, щоби розділеної з Джоном. Той абсолютно цьому не опирався, навпаки: погодивсь із задоволенням, а тому Бернард дзвонив у видавництво не просто в спокої, а ще й у Джона на ручках: той час од часу цілував його вушка та гладив животик, найчутливіше котяче місце, звісно, якщо не враховувати те, що поміж ніжок. Туди його рука спустилась уже невдовзі, але виключно з дозволу – Бернард відкинувся йому на груди, коли договорив, і сам же затягнув у поцілунок, муркотінням лише підсиливши бажання обох.

Книжки, як виявилося, приїхати мали якщо не завтра, то післязавтра. Але приїхали за два дні, із цілим запізненням: за цей час книгарня встигла втратити ще кілька десятків екземплярів свого вмісту, який утрачати не мала, і тому Бернард знову ходив незадоволений.

...але справді потішився, коли побачив крізь віконце, що на подвір’я йому нарешті вивантажили десь штук сім чи вісім коробок.

- Коханий! – обізвався до Джона, що після роботи затягнув свого котика на ручки й дрімав у нього поміж вушок. – Книги привезли. Ти мав рацію, коли казав, що то станеться сьогодні.

Джон не розплющив очі, але всміхнувся; торкнувся животика, від чого Бернарда приємно пробрало, а Джону стало ще приємніше.

- То ходімо їх розберемо, - запропонував.

Бернард безшумним поступом вибрався з його обіймів, хоч і зовсім не мав на це бажання, і першим направився по коробки, які ще треба було затягнути всередину й розпакувати в принципі: у сенсі, витягнути книжки, розставити їх кудись, потім іще постраждати над документами… Але спочатку – вивантажити вміст, так.

Джон підійшов уже за хвилинку, і вони обидва встали на порозі. Бернард помахував хвостиком, задумливо розглядав коробки, а потім, опустившись, узяв одну з них собі. І незадоволено муркнув, коли замість того, щоби встати, гепнувся чутливою гарненькою дупкою на підлогу.

- Понапхали! Коханий, воно заважке, - обурився, опустивши розчаровано вушка. – Чи то я заслабкий…

- Ні, воно заважке. Ходи-но, я допоможу, - зачарований цією ніжною мило��ою та ще й незадоволеним «мурк», усміхнувся Джон; опустившись, узяв коробку собі та зціпив од не меншого обурення зуби: Бернарда тримати легше, чим цю кляту картонну книжкову Пандору. – От же ж…

Бернард підхопився з підлоги, нашорошивши вушка назад, і поспішно взявся під відносно вільну частину коробки, щоби його коханому не довелося тягати все самому. Щоправда, Джону не те щоби було насправді аж так важко, але неприємність він відзначити встиг.

А потім сталося дещо цікавіше.

- Зажди-но, - обізвалися вони водночас, так і не зрушивши з місця.

Зелено-бронзові оченята Бернарда знову засяяли – він неймовірно обожнював, коли ставались отакі от милі моменти.

- Я перший, - нап’явши від задоволення хвостика, вирішив він. – Ми робимо дурню, коханий. Краще перетягнімо самі книжки.

- Я намірявся запропонувати те саме, кицю, - вигнув брову Джон, утім, абсолютно не здивований. За п’ять років шлюбу то вже був не перший такий випадок, а тим паче – і не останній. – Опустімо це на три чорти й візьмімо її вміст.

- Візьмімо.

Коробка опустилася на землю (точніше, плитку), вони обидва опустилися також і, понабиравши книг у руки, понесли то все всередину. Там Бернард відставив на момент свої, а потім – упевненим байдужим рухом зсунув із Головного-Столу-Для-Книжок те, що на ньому лежало. Саме туди й наказав складати все нове. Ах, не вперше не востаннє…

Наостанок залишилися лише самі порожні коробки; Джон хотів був скласти їх стосом, аби затягнути за раз, але зібрати зумів не всі – одну Бернард затягнув власноруч, причому – із таким зосередженим виразом миленького личка (його хвостик іще знову нап’явся, чим уявнив вигин пругкої дупки), яке Джон уже цілий день не бачив.

Коробку Бернард узяв не найменшу, але й не найбільшу; вона йому ще при розпаковуванні сподобалася – принаймні, так Джону пригадалося. Він затягнув свій картонний стос також, зачинив, нарешті, двері, а коли зайшов, одклавши в сторону тягар, - то побачив те, чого побачити… не сподівавсь, але зовсім не здивувався.

Бернард, задоволено зажмурившись та сонячно усміхнувшись, іще й вушка розпушивши, сидів у коробці, склавши на колінках ручки. Кінчик його пухнастого хвостика мірно похитувавсь у такт задоволення, і в Джона серденько оскаженіло від цієї милоти. Він дихати побоявся, би т��льки не переполошити цей момент, це ніжне котяче щось; Бернард іще якраз трохи повозився, мабуть, аби всістися зручніше, а потім розплющив оченята й розставив приязно ручки:

- Коханий!

- Іду-іду, - усміхнувся у відповідь Джон; зачинивши поспіхом двері, підійшов до Бернарда й усівся на підлогу поруч, а вже за момент – почув розніжене чарівне муркотіння. І знов, як зачарований, цілував вушка, теплі, пухнасті, милі каштанові вушка…

[they-lived]

Welcome to this weeks episode of Jess continues to write the saddest things in the world feat. Yuuri and Viktor are great parents and war is garbage:

I am still in absolute disbelief that I continue to write this story about war and always find a new horror to talk about. I’m furious that this war isn’t over and that the violence continues to target innocents around the world. I am angry that people are still dying for nothing; I am angry that stories like these continue to be relevant; but I am so full of hope because I would simply die otherwise.

Anyway, stop killing kids and start fostering peace it’s worth it.

[kuroptax]

Фанфікшн як постмодерністська література

есей (зауваги до зірочок див. внизу)

Умберто Еко - це сучасний Стендаль, а ніякий він не постмодерніст. Я починаю есей з персональної атаки на всіх, хто стверджує зворотнє, хоча сам жодної ґрунтовної праці по постмодерністському мистецтву не читав. Все тому, що поверхневі енциклопедичні погляди, з якими я стикався, не дають навіть мінімального натяку, чим визначається постмодерністське мистецтво, а це, як на мене ознака глибоких проблем.

Коротко кажучи, інтертекстуальність, постійне цитування, іронія та інші приколи - це ознаки всього мистецтва загалом. І в сучасному мистецтві це приховано навіть краще, ніж в мистецтві давньому, яке буцімто мало би бути оригінальним. Власне, навіть Ліотар в праці, де вводить термін постмодерн*, наводить приклад усних історій, які збудовані суто на принципі цитування й посилань.

Себто, всі ці ознаки не дають нам можливості відрізнити постмодерністське мистецтво від всього масиву людської мистецької культури. Тому вважатимемо постмодерністським мистецтвом просто мистецтво доби постмодерну, і спробуємо зрозуміти його особливості. Складнощі кращого продумування помітні уже із вторинності найменування, оскільки після інтуїтивної спроби Ліотара відчути сучасність після другої світової, ніхто не спромігся довести його роботу до кінця і замінити назву з приставкою "пост-" на щось індивідуальне, бо ніяка індивідуальність доби достатньо відчута не була.

Тут можна миттєво зауважити, що Еко потрапив до стану постмодерністів** саме через історичний момент ("Ім'я рози" вийшов через рік після публікації Ліотарового "Стану постмодерну"). Проте я би зауважив, що дивитись просто треба було в інше місце.

Деякі дослідники зауважують, що новий період літератури настав з можливостями масового друку. Я би поширив цю тезу: також з поширенням вміння писати та поширенням можливості публікувати. Масовий читач і масовий друк продукують лише прибутки для авторів, хоча, безумовно, кількість авторів може збільшуватись завдяки цьому. Але сама по собі ця структура ще ��е далека від того, що Європа мала в XIX столітті. Будь-який починаючий автор має завойовувати прихильність видавців, редакторів та критиків, перш ніж отримати першу копію свого рукопису. Натомість інтернет надав можливість публікуватися всім. Він став чимось на кшталт всесвітнього видавництва з необмеженими можливостями по копіюванню.

Втім, при такому різкому зростанні кількості письменників, конкуренція за читача стала ще більш жорсткою. Без ґрунтовної кампанії реклами виділитись на тлі інших стало вкрай складно. Тому кристалізуватись почала творчість цитування, зокрема фанфікшн. Канон (ориг. твір, до якого пишуть фанфіки) притягує читача, що бажає розширеного досвіду споживання. Так само і письменника, що готовий цей досвід поставляти.

Всередині такого локусу, тобто фандому, формується спільнота, в якій читач та автор час від часу змінюють ролі. І тоді стається надзвичайно особлива річ: спільнота та її цінність переважує автора оригінального твору, і настає відторгнення канону.

Відбувається це, звісно, у сфері суто мистецькій. Інтелектуальне право захищає канонмейкера (чи його видавця), зберігає за ним право на економіку канону. Проте для фандомної спільноти канон важить більше, ніж його творець. Якщо творець не відповідає моральним нормам спільноти, спільнота не полишає канон, а ігнорує творця, що сталось, наприклад, з Роулінг та Гарі Поттером.

В цьому сенсі, після формування засад канону, фандом не потребує подальшої присутності творця. Він здатен витворити свій власний корпус текстів, значно масивніший, ніж канон. В спосіб, аналогічний тому як тонкий кінотвір "Зоряних Воєн" переріс в літературного гіганта. Настає "смерть автора" значно зухваліша, ніж дозволив собі передбачити Ролан Барт, який писав для системи, що мала індивідуального творця та критиків. Для фандому твором стає корпус фанфікшну, який може жити та розширюватись зусиллями учасників, що самі для себе є читачами, творцями і критиками.

Деякі елементи цього випадають навіть в сферу економічну. Існують серії творів, що були певним чином відторгнуті видавцями від оригінальних авторів та передані новим через якісь непорозуміння. Таке ставалось і раніше, проте головне тут саме бажання видавця формувати корпус тексту, франшизу, назва якої тяжіє над індивідуальним.

Коли ж мова заходить пр�� Еко, Зюскінда, Фаулза, Борхеса чи ще когось такого, я бачу в них тяжіння до минулого. Вони, ймовірно, говорять якесь нове слово, проте вся інфраструктура навколо них існує точно так само, як існувала би два століття тому. Вони є і прагнуть бути Авторами з великої букви, індивідуальною творчою силою. Вся реклама їх презентує так само, саме як носіїв осібного інтелекту. П'єдестал слави постмодерніста підносить їх туди, де колективність творчості неможлива.

Ба більше, люди, що захоплюються цитуванням, інколи навіть ладні атакувати фанфікшн буквально за те ж цитування просто через те, що автор фанфіку не прагне майструвати аналогічний п'єдестал для самого себе.

Лишилось тільки визначити, чи є фандомна творчість сучасною, чи ми ризикуємо впасти в ті ж фантазії, в які завалився Бодріяр, коли продумав доволі кмітливий концепт симуляції***, але нафігась сказав, що це явище нове.

В "Стані постмодерну" Ліотар постійно звертається до прикладу усної традиції південноамериканського народу Kaxinawá, яка вибудована на основі оповідей, передачі історій цитуванням попередніх оповідачів. Безумовно, в усній традиції передача не може завжди здійснюватись без перетворень. Хоч випадкових спотворень, хоч просто перетворень, покликаних зміною обставин життя, мови, особистого натхнення оповідача. Тут за бажання можна говорити, про існування спільноти співавторства міфології, коли твір належить спільноті.

Проте, що, на мою думку, відрізняє фандоми, це тяжіння, установка - як сказав би Дацюк, саме на творчість, а не на збереження традиції. Це покликано як і особливостями формату (в усній традиції складно продукувати багато "тексту", особливо різних версій одних і тих самих історій, оскільки передавати треба буде усі версії, що далі, то більше; в той час як в діджиталі це легко), так і особливостями світогляду (все-таки доба модерну сформувала в європейцеві наснагу говорити своїми словами, відкидання традиції, загострене переживання лінійного часу).

Смішно бачити людей, що критикують цитування, оскільки ми чудово знаємо, що ставалося з тими, хто намагався відкинути цитування: з дадаїстами, з Малевичем. Вони витягли себе з культури щоб не перестати бути ангажованими її наративами, і були повернуті назад тільки коли були пошматовані на цитати. Бо цитування характерне для всіх "оригінальних" творів, починаючи із епосу для Гільгамеша (не вірю, щоб хтось ладен був записати стільки тексту, який нічого не цитував для тодішнього шумерянина-аккадянина). Навіть альфа та омега західного цитування, популярність якого не падає й досі - Євангеліє - попри все своє новаторство було написано через активне цитування юдейських те��стів. Тому й новеліст зразка французького роману не є особливим новатором, коли цитує. Так і треба. Можливість стати на його місце егалітарному колективу без індивідуальності - ось що може бути справжньою ознакою нової доби.

* Мається на увазі "Стан постмодерну". Якщо спрощувати, Ліотар характеризує настання нової доби після другої світової війни як добу відмови від віри у великі пояснення всього одним баченням (також відомі як фєєрічєскі расстановки точєк). Втім, він стверджує, що ще не розуміє в чому суть нової доби, а бачить лиш окремі обриси, тому й не наважується дати їй самостійну назву.

** pun intended

*** В "Симулякри та симуляція" він вирізняє п'ять різних видів копій за рівнем співвіднесеності з оригіналом, де деякі види створюють враження існування оригіналу, якого не існує, а останній вид копії взагалі не потребує оригіналу. Бодріяр також говорить про те, що останній вид став існувати тільки після доби модерну і знаменує відхід від сутнісного, що, на мій погляд, є дуже наївним поглядом на історію нашої культури, а симуляція в усіх формах була присутня в ній завжди.

[bearfoottruck]

FANFIC UPDATE 5-26-2023:

I don't have anything except for updates for Gonna Kiss You On the Boulevard, Russian Winter, Broken Hearts and Motorhead. Just be warned, though, this week's update for Russian Winter, Broken Hearts contains material that could prove disturbing to people. Nevertheless, I'm letting it stand as a reminder of the genocide that the Russian Armed Forces are committing in Ukraine.