#hugs_writing

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(short snippet below cut)

disabled!mello actually gets me so bad. imagine No One is there to help him once he got exploded. he's close to death but near has an in through infiltrating the spk, so while the task force was occupied with soichirou, near's team digs mello from the ashes.

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mello woke up in a private hospital with his whole body aching and half his face bandaged.

oh, and he can't hear a thing.

he's scared but trying to act tough, and that's harder done than said when he's bed-bound and pathetic. near showed up at his bedside and mello instinctively snarled. it's so quiet that near's eerie eyes, boring into him, become frightening. until the younger boy's hands start to move.

*How-you-feeling,-Mello?*

he signed mello's name sign with his three middle fingers in prongs, inverting from the double arch of an "m", into a crown. he'd received it from a deaf classmate whom they'd met on an exchange program, for being exceptionally good at football hat tricks.

mello couldn't bring himself to respond. he swallowed down the lump in his throat, the countless nights spent conversing with near in BSL when they were *super* little; where words failed, they had sign. when near spoke in the presence of mello for the first time, he'd nearly cried.

and though he secretly wanted near's voice to himself, sometimes he'd be surprised by the pleasant sound of it, like muted silver bells, chiming carefree down the hallway whenever he discussed concepts with one of their professors.

mello gave a great huff, meeting near's eyes the best he could, beleaguered by injury. he raised his right hand laboriously and stuck up the universal sign for "fuck you."

in response, near's lips raised and his eyes crinkled, sparkling.

and oh my, even without hearing it, wasn't his laughter just like bells?

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hiiii if I’m not too late, I’d love to hear your answers to 4 and 12 🫶

hiii thanks so much for the ask, empress!!!! no omg you're not too late, i love to yap about writing and also listening to writers yap.... thank you so much....... as you can see, i've written far too much for a light read below. and i hope you don't mind spoilers (for my own work lol).

4. a story idea you haven't written yet

MELLOBOT!!! i'll discuss it briefly. Basically, it's a sci-fantasy au where something similar to the Kira case still goes down, but a Terminator-esque war between machine and humans break out (advent of AI, etc etc). Near creates a homunculus of Mello with the help of Gevanni in exchange for his services as an AI and android scientist, and so Near inadvertently becomes drawn into the side of the machines. Mellobot, as i've affectionately dubbed him, is an amalgam of developing AI and tissue engineering, so Near raises him from birth, essentially, and this time he makes sure Mellobot receives all the love the real Mello never got. As Mellobot grows older and learns the truth of his existence, the tides of war shift to the human side as AI technology destabilizes. Near has to grapple with his growingly complicated feelings about Mello, his believed-dead love interest, and Mellobot, technically his son but maturing quickly into the face of the man he loved and a painful reminder...

and, of course, who stands on the other side of the war, taking down war machines and thwarting cyber attacks? the living, breathing Mello!!!!!!!!!! Screams!!!!!!!!

it's a story that i have shared one snippet of, and i plan to end it at its climax. It will be Quite the longfic, it will be pretty angsty but more like, depressing and bittersweet? And philosophical? But it will be exciting, and quite sexy at times... heheh... /gets shot I'm happy about the idea because it incorporates a lot of sci-fi themes I love, but i admit that i need to read and research more before i can truly get started writing it.

12. a trope you're really into right now

100000% came-back-wrong stories. as you can see, both ikiryo and mellobot (temp name) are came-back-wrong stories, in a way. i just find something so deliciously tragic about reuniting with someone you love only to find them not quite the same as before... and how to fill that space of uncertainty: will there be new love, or will it destroy what little love remained? is it more painful to start over or continue a charade? pet sematary by Stephen King is a pretty good exploration of the psyche of how someone reaches a breaking point where they're willing to win back love, in whatever form they can get, even if it comes back not quite right (disastrously wrong).

some forms of came-back-wrong i really like: androids/robots breaking down/getting corrupted, ghosts returning from the afterlife, someone who gets irreversibly changed by their trauma, amnesia...

full list of asks here, i will answer any and all of them with burgeoning enthusiasm

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chapter 3: the Devil

Chapter 3 of ikiryo for the day 4 prompt, temperance, event at @nearsbday!!!

Upright: Balance, peace, patience, moderation, calm, tranquillity, harmony, serenity

Reversed: Imbalance, excess, extremes, discord, recklessness, hastiness

my first birthday entry for the darling near, my beloved lamb.

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a little pilot episode of a mellobot!au. it's actually a scene close to the end of the story, but i wanted to write it to get a feel.

android scientist!near / insurgent!mello

sci-fi/sci-fantasy, drama, rated general. (1.1k word count)

it's twenty years after the kira case, and mello and near are on opposite sides of the artificial intelligence war. today, mello has infiltrated near's base. he finds a special room with his name on the door.

Mello walked past the android repair shop, the server room, the controls headquarters. He kept heading deeper. The rooms became more personal, less organized, less like they were used for this proxy war that really wasn't a proxy war at all and instead spilt the blood of millions, and more like the battered, rattling lungs of a wounded animal, all the air sacs contracting and expanding in turn. The floor outline, based on the trackers he put in each room, became increasingly crooked and cramped as he approached its center.

“Bastard, what a nice fuckin’ place you've got, huh?” Mello snuffed out his cigarette and flicked the butt into a nearby trash can overflowing with office papers and junk parts.

There were a few facilities that implied more people may have worked here, once, but the downturn of the war on the side of the artificial had taken a toll on that too; offices abandoned, the cantine laced in cobwebs. He tagged those, too, sliding trackers under desks and tacking them on support beams.

The first room he happened upon that held his interest had a door of sturdy oak wood and a slightly oxidized plaque with an old-fashioned inscription. It had nothing to do with the aesthetics of the base that surrounded it; it had the distinct charm of the conception of the twenty-first century, when everyone was freshly hopeful that the dawn of a new age would bring prosperity and light. Mello sneered at the thought of the doomsayers. In the end, those fanatics waving signs and self-flagellating on the streets were much closer to seeing the truth. Still, it was an imperfect truth because here Mello stood, cleansed by fire, built by ash.

The world did end, but it was reconstructed brick by brick by people like Mello.

Though his vision had never quite been restored in his left eye, the curly script inscribed in the plaque clarified into perfect legibility as he approached it, and he stopped dead in his tracks five paces away from the enigmatic door.

“Mello?” He traced out the script with a hoarse whisper.

It was left slightly ajar with a gentle light source emanating from within, as though someone had been waiting and watching, as though the slight crack allowed a breath to pass through.

He tossed a tracker inside and heard it bounce twice before settling. No commotion. Carpet flooring, based on the muffledness.

Unlike the rest of the base, he had zero predictions for what could be inside, but the warm glow spilling out like silk welcomed him, so he hoisted his rifle up a bit more across his shoulders, and slipped a thumb into the holster of his handgun. His stomach twisting and turning in knots of apprehension, Mello gingerly pushed the door open with one gloved hand.

The sight of a mundane bedroom greeted him. Still the chills of a peculiar familiarity ran down his spine. The hue of the lights, the woven carpet, the bedposts in that same rich mahogany. It kind of looked— he recalled with a gulp— like his own room, back at Wammy's, a lifetime ago. Geez what tipped you off, maybe the name on the door?

There were a few odd details that kept his mind from exploding completely, principally the life-sized version of what must be his late teenage self tucked in bed facing away from him, rusty blond hair spilling over his white pillow, his face in a neutral repose. Mello swiftly aimed his handgun at the boy’s head, barking out a harsh warning. When there was no reaction he kicked the edge of the mattress. Still nothing.

He flipped the boy over by the shoulder (it was cold with a bit of give, velvety). and did a quick scan: There. The unmistakable electromagnetic signature of an android. A mighty fine one at that, but still a machine, and powered off. Mello crouched down and peered incredulously into the face of his younger self. He could almost see the scarlet blood rushing beneath his shockingly humanlike skin. None of the androids he'd met independently reached this level of lifelike. Besides the glaring difference of his facial scar and the decades packed into Mello's sallow skin, they were spitting images of each other.

It was truly state of the art.

“You sick fuck,” Mello laughed derisively.

He stood back up—almost dizzy— and surveyed the room one more time. The window, or the model of a window, was of particular interest. Just a standard LED panel behind a traditional-looking frame, with no indication that it could be opened, but it seemed a deliberate difference that only two people in the world were ever clued in to.

“You remembered,” Mello marveled to himself. Past the window played a very subtly looping footage of a generated coastline, the muted blue of brackish waters ambling in and out.

He blinked and watched more closely.

Ah, it wasn't generated. Little dots of people, vintage people, dotted the beachy shores. Even in the cliffs there was occasionally someone chancing a dive. Such idyllic coastlines didn't exist anymore, but in this window, they were immortalized. Mello’s lips thinned into a wobbling line as he put a fist beside the window, in this mirage of a room.

There was a second part to their conversation. His and Near’s. He had let the memory be buried for three decades, under the suffocating hatred and longing and all the thorny feelings stirred in him by one particular man; now it came rushing back unbidden, with vengeance.

“If you go, I wouldn't mind following. I wouldn't mind seeing all these things you find beautiful." Near had been lying on Mello's bed, feet dangling off the side because they were dusty. He didn't look at Mello, but stared up at the ceiling of that windowless room.

Mello had laughed back then.

”How are you gonna do that? You don't even want to leave the orphanage.”

”That's only ‘cause you're here, Mello. But I could do it, don't you believe in me? We'll go visit the Mediterranean Sea, then the Baltic, then sail around the world using L’s money.”

”You're gonna need to lug around so much medicine. Plus, it's kind of hard to believe a recluse like you could find anything beautiful beyond the nails of your own ten toes.”

”You can teach me to.”

In the present, Mello peered down into the youthful face of his mirror one last time before storming out of its room, slamming the door behind him.

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mello and near would not sing to each other unfortunately

lawlight is this over the top clashing nemesis shit and jumping round the rooftops being crazy evil geniuses, meanwhile meronia is like

n->m

"I'll wait for you, you may be a bird but your hollow bones call me home"

"today you're a biting dog, bite me, then, if my flesh is sweet to you"

and

m->n

"you're a masterpiece, your very existence negates me, you make and destroy my reason to live"

"I'll always follow you in footsteps of worship, i see no one else but you"

etc etc etc

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remember (i)

near/mello•gen•assisted living, angst, post-kira au

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Nearly two decades after the Kira's death and L’s public retirement, no one remembers Near.

It was just a hazard of his work, or maybe it was a hazard of his upbringing, or he was just born to be forgotten. That's what Wammy’s raised him on; he could take it back then, he takes it now.

He doesn't mind. He doesn't worry about anything. He has enough money to live another three lifetimes just like this.

His day follows the exact same schedule:

At seven in the morning, the nurse wakes him because he hates the sound of an alarm. She dresses him in the same white clothes; he hasn't grown an inch since then, since coming out of that dark cave of screens and keyboards, blinking in the sunlight— there's a warehouse, painted yellow— yellow like—

He's aware he's screaming, he doesn't stop. He's in a safe place. He's in a safe place where he can get away with anything, like screaming at working professionals and strangers and visitors, they're never who he wants to see.

“Nathan,” the nurse reaches out for his shoulder and he swats it away.

“I'm sorry,” he says, just as abruptly.

“Let's eat breakfast,” she says, her smile warm. She says ‘let's,’ but Near always eats alone in his quiet corner of the cafeteria.

At seven fifteen, he eats breakfast. One cup of oatmeal, slightly undercooked. There's cinnamon sprinkled in it and Near wants to praise the person who came up with the idea. Thirteen blueberries, all the color of a sullen bruise. Today he bites into one instead of crushing it in his mouth, he's not sure why. It's on the tart side, stinging his tongue and his lip where the dried skin split. The nurse takes out a tiny jar of Vaseline and offers it to Near. He considers it while peeling them even more, then decides he likes that it hurts.

As the last part of breakfast, he takes his first round of medications, pills and syrups and powders. They water him with them in the hopes some soak through.

At seven forty he brushes his teeth and does his skincare routine. The nurse watches, because the facility he lives in is nice— nice enough for the bathrooms to have glass mirrors and porcelain sinks and beautiful big windows to fly away through. The pictures the windows show are so pretty they're unreal.

She gets the spots behind the ears that he misses, but not before asking permission.

By eight, he’s left alone to tend his garden of memories, either lying in bed or at his desk with a blank stack of papers. Most days now, nothing sprouts. The roots are slumbering. He digs with his metaphorical rake, he stabs— deeper, he tries to wake them up before he can get scared of what will— nothing today, either. His breath of relief clouds the window.

They rescue him at ten for physical therapy. He walks circles in the yard with his cane, getting nowhere. It's colder today, so he gets to use his walker. The autumn air bites him on the nose and it reminds him of England; how far does one stream of wind travel before it's mixed in with others? Once it's mixed in, is it still there, or did it become something new?

He's supposed to get free time at eleven, but today he gets a knock on his door.

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Chapter 4: said in prayer

scream chapter 4 of ikiryo is out!! it's the most exciting chapter by far, with many influences drawn from le compte de monte cristo.

furthermore, please note that the content rating has been updated to Mature (M).

we venture deeper into the belly of the most convoluted ghost fic ever written..........

[truestfeeiing]

remember (ii)

near/mello•gen

Once he became permanently bedbound, Near took up painting.

He could rest on an incline of up to twenty degrees. The doctor insists he keep conditioning, but Near is concerned only so far as keeping paint from dripping on himself. Then again, Michaelangelo painted the entire ceiling of the Sistine Chapel on his back.

He still isn't very good. But with nothing else to do since his POTS flared up and he never quite recovered, Near improves somewhat quickly. He almost wants to call Linda.

“Who's that guy you keep drawing?” The nurse asks as she changes his bedpan. Any conversation is better than nothing when it comes to the sloshing sounds of his excretions, Near supposes. He's polite when he responds— carefully since it could trigger his illness— “That's my old friend. He's named Mihael.”

“That's sweet.” She dips her head to inspect the painting. “What happened to him?” She's young, and the least afraid to ask questions out of all the nurses that work his wing in this facility.

“He died,” Near says. It's been a long time since anyone had anything to do with Mello. No one knew what came of him, no one cared. Near can't bear the thought that, even if there are people who still remember him, that they'd be indifferent, or even glad, that Mello is gone.

Her face twists into something peculiar, as though she's trying to school it into the proper amount of grief.

“What,” Near laughs.

“You're weird.” The nurse’s sobriety breaks and she laughs, too. “All your paintings are of the same guy!”

She continues to chit chat while she wipes his privates, just enough that Near forgets to be embarrassed. “I bet if you lined them all up you could make a timeline of him.”

“I bet I could,” Near smiles at that. “Well, it'd be a bit short. He was only twenty when he died.” Near is twenty-five now. In this, he's defeated Mello too, without even intending to.

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more ikiryo snippet alluding to some of the philosophies i rambled about yesterday

i need the non-interventionist N to become selfish, immediately (he will! it will not be enough)

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MORE IKIRYO SNIPPET!!!! FINALLY it's been well over 2 weeks i feel bad fr but i've been operating on minimum capacity cause uni

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restarted chapter 5, it's more intriguing this way, more exciting! i love inner dialogue!

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ikiryo snippet. chapter 5 has been far more difficult to write than any that had come before, because of some conceptual nuances.

i fear i've made everyone wait too long for chapter 4 but it's my emergency stock in case i need to nuke ch5 HAHAHAHA

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ikiryo snippet

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btw, this is from my first ever meronia work, which is a longfic still in drafting stage, and doesn't seem like it will be completed any time soon (it's third priority after ikriyo and mellobot). ikiryo took me away by storm but i always intended to write a wammy to canon to post-canon fic of meronia!! so here's the prologue. it's near-centric and about escaping the shadow of L's legacy.

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ikiryo snippet of chapter 4: said in prayer

i love this chapter so much it's been so fun to write the only thing is it's a bit of its own arc hahaha. things are moving in the background too though

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still thinking about this. can you imagine mello saying "time to die." with total resignation. can you imagine.

can you imagine mello stabbing that nail through his palm in mimicry of christ on the cross, glad to hold onto any veneer of humanity he has left even if it's suffering

can you imagine mello saying "this is what it feels like to be a slave" while looking into near's eyes before still choosing to save the life of his mortal enemy, to make his last act as a replicant an act of humanity

can you imagine near dreaming of the beautiful rachael only to wake up to mello, who's more alive and frightening and gorgeous than his murky concept of a woman could ever be, someone he didn't have to teach how to love because mello does it so freely, as though love's the only thing that's ever kept him going

can you imagine mello facing his creator (L) only to find his life is inherently limited, doomed to suffering, and that no amount of miracle-working could save him from alienation? could save his lover? can you imagine mello kissing him good bye as thanks anyway?

CAN YOU IMAGINE????

also GUYS i rewatched blade runner yesterday anf im So emotional i need to write a meronia au RIGHT NOWWEEE