#oblivion being the most elusive

[magical-mascots]

Magical Mascots AU Character sheets ahoy~

Okay so first up we have Sun - hope his nervous energy shines through because he has a lot to spare! So Sun is an overstretched mascot who can make balloon dogs and paper plates and all sorts come alive before your very eyes (much to every parent’s delight I’m sure)! In the end, he ended up taking on pretty much all the tasks at the play park once Moon was found to have …issues that seemed to come about as an unexpected side effect of his dream weaving ability. He’d sooner explode than admit it but it hasn’t been easy for him. Outside of Moon he doesn’t have a friend in the world, and to top it all off he was decommissioned and left to rot in the once busy soft play area following a mysterious incident, which has taken its toll on him. He would love nothing more than to be best friends forever and show you all the things and possibly keep you in his pocket!

Next up is Moon. Moon is difficult to read at the best of times, but all the more so since his role was cut down more and more at the theme park and he was forced to reside in the mindscape he shares with Sun for most of time. Moon has been basically starved of all interactions in the real world for the longest time which has left him extremely elusive and wary. You’ll mostly only see him in doll form until you get to know him because he’s been kept away from people for so long he’s unsure of how to interact with them. He is playful, but it mostly seems to be on his own terms for the time being. Moon actually spends a lot of his time hanging out in the dreamscape and it’s in your dreams (or possibly your nightmares depending on whether you’ve been good or bad) where you’ll find him most.

Aaaaand that brings us to our third major player …y/n! No stranger to fixing up toys and mascots in your brief time as Freddy’s handler at the theme park, now you’ve found yourself in the strange position of needing to fix yourself before you fade into oblivion. Ever since you woke up in the hospital following an unexpected incident with Freddy, your body has been glitching and fading on and off at the worst possible moments, and it’s starting to feel like you’re neither here nor there. A mysterious counsellor has promised a cure, but the only problem is it’s locked away in a dusty old corner somewhere along with one (or was it two?) apparently decommissioned mascots who are looking to be a lot more alive than you’d been led to believe. Will they be your best bet at getting the cure to your affliction or will they literally turn out to be your own worst nightmare?

[narukaminigga]

something interesting i noticed

In Bavitz’s works, there’s a moment where the story ends. It’s hard to explain how I feel or what I’m talking about, but at the end, these larger than life figures, people who don’t seem to have a lot of character or hobble around as misanthropes unleash a dam of tears when they are complete, no longer barred from the circumstances making it impossible for them to cry. I’ll try to explain it in the best way I can. SPOILERS beneath the cut for I think all of Bavitz’s works.

In Fargo, Sloan Redfearn is beaten down after many epic battles, deaths of people she cared or didn’t care about, and cosmic destiny looms on the horizon. Despite her becoming an insignificant character in the grand scheme of things, Madoka herself approaches Sloan. Sloan, who could not feel anymore, drifting listlessly through the motions and could barely be invested at this point beyond key moments is brought back down to earth again. This moment is important because earlier in the story, Sloan tells Sayaka to bring down the Homura devil explanation ��down to earth”, but Sayaka can’t. But after all of the conceptual talk, the world blowing up, and girls from Chicago, Sloan returns to something she cares about. The ending is akin to an abrupt ending of a movie or a video game, which Cleveland Quixotic returns to. The last chapters after the story function as an extended epilogue where life slowly transitions from the story to normality in the weirdest way possible.

This moment sets up a recurring theme in Bavitz’s works. These characters, larger than life, or not, are people at their core. In Modern Cannibals is the elusive Katsumata, who remains mostly out of the story but functions as Z. Coulter’s greatest inspiration. If we recall the story, Mr. Katsumata believes the game is for young girls, who he wishes to inspire and empower, compared to the malignant and elusive Hussie who swaps between several personas, several existences, many ideas, all layered under an ironic schtick that may or may not be a form of postirony. This simple and straightforward creator, once stone-faced, like Fargo, is touched, and the story ends because there is no reason to keep exploring. Z.’s journey is over.

In Cockatiel X Chameleon, Caricresco (or Car, I struggle with that name…) realizes that nobody was here for her or will prop her up. Car disappears without a trace, yes, without a trace, vanishing into oblivion. Harper, meanwhile, who just passed her, stares at her own creation, apart of her own being. In the story there is a great emphasis of art being apart of who you are, and the art being apart of who you are can be commodified, changed, and even controlled, but it can never be destroyed. In a similar vein to UNDERTALE, despite everything, it’s still you. Harper understands that, even if she is stuck in a perpetual state of drifting and non-thinking.

This takes me to his most recent Pokemon fic, When I win, the world ends, where Red, this silent figure, boogeyman supreme, is inscrutable to Aracely. It’s hard to even tell what Red is thinking compared to everyone else, and Cely missteps multiple times in her shock. It is like the mention where Red wins playing basic fundamentals and his opponents trip up somehow. But in the end, Cely loses despite having literal psychic powers, and the story ends. It shifts to Red himself, who returns to his 11 year old self. Red isn’t even the protagonist of the story, and yet:

The story, beyond that, means nothing. Red has won, and for everyone else, the story has ended. Bavitz chooses to take it in another direction, however. After this moment, it is only Aracely who is the loser of this tournament, the one who did not get her happy ending. But Red beat the person who was the herald of the end of the world, and that’s it.

[hachiibun]

❗ PLEASE NO REBLOGGING TO NON-KINK BLOGS ❗

I'm honoured to have collaborated with the incredible @onetrickponi to celebrate a certain gravity-manipulating shorty's birthday! This has been in the works for a while now, and we're both really excited to finally share this with everyone!

Without further ado, we'd like to present Vigil.

— ♠ —

“I’ve always wanted to die in a church.”

Beside him, Chuuya snorts. “I thought you wanted to die in the Ooka.”

Dazai wrinkles his nose. “Not since it became a tourist trap,” he replies. “That wouldn’t be a peaceful death at all.”

“The amount of thought you’ve put into this disturbs me,” says Chuuya, his own nose creasing. His, however, is due to a low seated, buzzing itch along the bridge of his sinuses that has been lingering since breakfast.

Chuuya won’t give it the satisfaction of culminating into a sneeze, however; instead choosing to quash the soft tingle into oblivion with the sheer force of his willpower alone. Anything else would be unacceptable.

(—as well as fucking candy to the idiot next to him, if Dazai ever gets wind of…whatever this is.)

Chuuya swallows against a spark of itch that ignites in his nose and grits his teeth. When he thinks he can speak steadily he points to the pews with a gloved hand. “Find the flash drive,” he orders. “We’ve got a window of thirty minutes at—the fuck are you looking at, shithead?”

Dazai cocks his head to the side, blinks, and answers with, “Just admiring your striking resemblance to a cherub in this light.” It’s smooth and practiced, like most of Dazai’s bullshittery.

“Why, you–” Chuuya cuts himself off and exhales slowly through his nose. He tries not to wince at the slight whistling sound it makes. With a sharp sniff he stalks off to the sanctuary and begins sifting through the drawers there. Dazai scurries off to the apse with an excited noise, muttering something about how angelic his corpse would look strung up along the mosaics.

Chuuya’s nose gives a foreboding quiver.

It isn’t like Dazai hasn’t ever heard him sneeze, or vice versa. They’ve been working together too long for that. They’ve seen each other express every bodily function possible to man (in addition to the ones that aren’t).

And Chuuya might have even been okay with his current predicament, had it not been for a quip Dazai made last week about Chuuya being a “weakling.” It had stung because Dazai, whose lack of self care is, frankly, appalling, can operate seemingly unbothered by even the most serious neglects of basic needs. Chuuya’s seen him run at peak wit on days of sleeping ninety minutes a night, seen his hair and skin glow on a diet of crab cakes and sake…while on the other hand Chuuya’s the one with the—

Don’t say it. As if ignoring the problem will make it go away. It hasn’t worked with Dazai, so Chuuya is a fool to think it will work with his increasingly sensitive airways.

Chuuya rifles through some bibles, sparing a glance or two at Dazai before deeming it okay to swallow a couple of sneezes and throat clears into his sleeve. He’s perfected the silent stifle over time, which is a feat in and of itself since Chuuya tends to sneeze harshly, loudly, and in multiples. Perhaps the intensity is Corruption at work, but regardless, Chuuya enjoys scaring the living daylights out of people. Usually.

The flash drive is proving to be elusive. The Port needs it, badly, if they have any chance of winning over the west side gangs of the Pier. Chuuya jams a gloved knuckle against the side of his nose as he hitches, squints, and glares at the church pews like they personally offend him.

“Oi, Chuuya,” Dazai whisper-calls from somewhere behind a cupboard. “I think someone’s coming. You find it?”

“No,” Chuuya snaps. The dust of old, flaky books is making his already irritated nose twitch. He shakes his head and the tickle abates. Cocking his head he realizes that Dazai is right; the sound of slow footfalls is getting closer to the vestibule. “Shit.”

Dazai scurries lightly over to where Chuuya is glowering at nothing in particular, and takes him by the arm. “There’s a little den area over there,” he nods to a veiled corner, “where we can stay hidden until whoever it is leaves,” he says.

“Or we can just come back in the morning,” replies Chuuya, snatching his arm away.

“Mori-sama will be disappoinnnteddd,” Dazai sing-songs. Dammit. He knows how to hit Chuuya where it hurts and they both know it.

Chuuya sighs. “Fine.” He stalks over to the den and crouches in the darkness with Dazai just as the cathedral doors swing open. The gibbous moon twinkles through the stained glass windows enough for the two of them to make out one of the western gang’s right hands.

Dazai crouches low and squints through the shadows. “Maybe he’ll show us where the drive is,” he whispers.

“Shut up, slug.”

Dazai holds up his bandaged hands in a familiar, placating gesture. They watch the guy glide down the stone nave, rummage around some boxes along the altar’s steps, sift through a stack of papers, and make himself comfortable on a nearby cushion.

Well, there goes Chuuya’s hopes of a night in. And now with Dazai sitting so close, he’s bound to find out Chuuya isn’t in as good of shape as he claims. Chuuya’s not going to waste all of his energy hiding it, but he’s also not ready to be discovered because he couldn’t keep his damn nose under control.

He’d never hear the end of it from Dazai.

So when he feels a trickle of damp at the edges of his nostrils he takes a slow breath in and times a much-needed sniffle with their visitor’s dropping of a folder. Dazai shoots him a curious, but unsurprised glance, which Chuuya pointedly ignores.

The sneeze teasing the swollen membranes of his sinuses, however, is much harder to ignore. Chuuya knows he can stifle it, but he also knows that doing so won’t exactly solve the problem. The irritation needs somewhere to go, or it’ll just build fruitlessly until he lets them out proper.

He breathes carefully, making sure to hitch silently as he bunches up a handful of fabric from his jacket. Chuuya ducks his head in preparation for the sneeze (or sneezes, if this is indeed a…cold).

Dazai raises an eyebrow as he watches Chuuya curl into himself and shiver with two inaudible stifles. When Chuuya uncurls Dazai can see the bleary, hazy look of someone who still has desperately to sneeze but is trying very hard not to.

“Can you stop, Chibi?” whispers Dazai. Chuuya shoots him a look that is equal parts furious and embarrassed. It’s adorable. But…

“Frankly, I’d rather not get caught because you couldn’t tame your little nose there,” Dazai continues. “Are you suuure you’re good?”

Chuuya gives a curt nod. Which should be reassuring, but Dazai’s smile falters because this is actually very bad. He recognizes the lack of quip, even while hiding like this, means that Chuuya does not trust himself enough to speak. He’s seen it before.

Dazai flicks an errant strand of hair out of his eyes and sighs. “Maybe we really will die in a church, if you keep this up.”

Chuuya’s returning grin is feral. “Y-you wish.” No way in hell will he allow Dazai the satisfaction. The carpets blanketing the enclosed den mean that they can whisper without much of an echo. It’s a small relief, since Chuuya can feel the congestion crawling and pattering away in a far back place of his nose, dormant but threatening.

He focuses on how intently Dazai is eyeing him, knowing well what Dazai isn’t saying. Engaging would be easy, but it would be messy and they’re supposed to be currying favor with the west side gangs, not killing them (or in Dazai’s case, very emphatically bonking them on the head).

Chuuya’s right eye waters with the sharpness of the tickle, as the itchiness swells and becomes decidedly less dormant. He bites his lip. If this keeps up his nose is going to turn into fucking Krakatoa.

Dazai watches Chuuya massage his flaring nostrils through the fabric of his gloves and grins with as many teeth as he can muster. Chuuya’s losing battle with his nose is even more hilarious than the fact that he’s currently sitting on a pile of Communion pamphlets.

It won’t be long now, what with the way Chuuya has gone stiff and rigid. Dazai counts backwards from five in his head. He gets to two before Chuuya’s lip trembles as the itch erupts and overwhelms him.

“Gnt!” Chuuya’s able to pinch that one into submission, though it makes his head throb and the pulsating trickle along his nose intensify with unsatisfied need. “Gnt! Nt! H’Gnt!”

He starts to lower his hand, before—“Gnt!” Jesus fuck, can’t he be done?

The answer is no, apparently, because Chuuya feels his eyes begin to flutter shut and his chest start to jump with silent, building hitches.

Before he can sneeze again, however, he feels a tap on his shoulder. It successfully distracts him from the budding sneeze as Chuuya whips his head around to stare at Dazai’s familiar, shit-eating grin.

Dazai uses the finger he’d tapped Chuuya with to beckon. “C’mere.”

Chuuya sniffs carefully and squints. “Why?”

Rolling his eyes, Dazai grabs him (gently, Chuuya notices, which okay, is a little odd) and smashes his face into his long overcoat (a little less gently).

“Mnflgl?” Chuuya questions.

“Sneeze, Chuuya,” Dazai orders. Chuuya tries to shake his head because one, Dazai’s forgetting how harsh his sneezes are—sure to give them away, and two, Chuuya might hate the guy but he’s not going to sneeze on him.

Dazai seems to read his mind. “The fabric will muffle the sound,” he replies. “And you’ll pay for my dry cleaning.” Chuuya can hear his smirk. Asshole.

But he also wants very badly to sneeze. No; at this point he’s desperate to sneeze. His nose feels like one of his gravity bombs, pulsing, thrumming, and the itch is all consuming. It would feel so good to just let a few out. He really shouldn’t.

“I know you need to,” whispers Dazai.

So, against all logic, Chuuya does.

“Hep-MPPH! MPPHT! H’MPPH!” Somehow, the fabric dampens the sound better than Chuuya thought it would. So he decides he can sneeze a little more.

“Hh…hh…MPPHT! PHT! MPPHT! Hp!…H-Hep-MPPHH!”

He’s beginning to feel dizzy. It’s worth it, though, as the stuffy, spider-crawling prickle along his nose subsides for the time being. God, he’s never had to sneeze so badly in his life. Makes sense it’s now, when he needs to be quiet.

And Dazai—the utter prick—is patting his head, like Chuuya’s some sort of mutt. “You’re a mess, you know that?” he’s saying, fondly, as Chuuya shakes with sneeze after sneeze. It’s a wonder the gang’s right hand hasn’t discovered them yet.

Slowly, Chuuya comes up for air. He thanks some leviathan god that it’s dark, so he doesn’t have to look at what he’s done to Dazai’s coat. He’s not even going to look at Dazai, because this is probably one of the most humiliating things to happen to him in…well, not as long as Chuuya’d like to admit. This is Dazai, after all.

“Bless you,” Dazai says quietly. Chuuya’s head snaps to him because Dazai sounds wrong. Odd. Genuine. Ah, that’s why it took so long to place. Dazai rarely does sincere, and the few times he expresses genuine emotions tend to signify nothing good at all.

“Thank you,” Chuuya mutters between a clenched jaw because he may have made a mess of himself but he still has manners, goddammit. He blinks the remaining wetness from his eyes as he peers at Dazai for a suspended moment.

“Oh, and if you’re curious, the guy left five minutes ago.”

And the moment is over.

Chuuya jumps up. “You utter assho-ho–” He’s cut off by the familiar needling sensation at the back of his nose. Oh no you don’t. Jamming a fist under his septum hard enough to bruise, he points a finger at Dazai.

“I despise you,” he hisses. “All thihh…th…hih…”

Dazai holds a hand to his ear. “What was that?”

Chuuya shakes his head with a tickly sniff in hopes that his nose will make up its mind and move from where it’s currently settled—in the burning, stinging place between sneeze and not sneeze that’s driving him even more up the wall than Dazai is.

Dazai cocks his head at just the right angle that a piece of hair falls into his eyes. “That sneeze looks troublesome,” he observes. “Is it stuck? Like Chuuya’s growth spurt?”

Chuuya growls and kicks a nearby chair leg for good measure, now that they don’t have to concern themselves with being quiet. The sound is hollow and echoes across the large cathedral chamber.

There’s a wrinkled, damp spot on one side of Dazai’s overcoat that Chuuya pointedly avoids looking at. The crazy bastard had let him do that, all for, what? Funsies? To torture him? Chuuya will unpack that for later. It never bodes well to try to make sense of Dazai’s brain. Besides, the much-needed sneeze is still eluding him. If he could just–just…

“Hih…Hept! Hh…Fuck! Shit!”

Dazai sighs. “Okay, I can’t watch this,” he says, striding over to Chuuya. “Stay still, Chibi.”

Chuuya glares at him, irritation evident in his eyes and in his raw, wide-blown nostrils. “If you’re doi’g anythi’g other thad helpi’g, Dazai, I will obliterate you,” he says darkly, throat crackling and sore.

Dazai grins wide. “Relax,” he says. He wiggles a finger. “I know Chuuya’s sneeze spot.”

“What the fuck even is a—” Dazai presses a finger to the bridge of Chuuya’s nose, in the center, and gives it a circular rub back and forth. Chuuya stumbles back and manages a wavering, shaky curse in French before he snaps forward with a fusillade of unrestrained sneezes.

“Hih-ASHHHu! Hep’ASHHU! AHSSHU! AHSSH! AHSSHH! AHSSHU! Merde!…Heh-heh…hih’ASHHU!”

Chuuya sneezes and sneezes, for once uncaring about decorum. It’s a miracle his hat doesn’t fly off. He’s so overcome with finally scratching the itch in his nose that he almost doesn’t feel the tap at his shoulder. Dazai’s extending a packet of tissues that look like they were newly purchased.

“Goodness! I don’t know whether to bless Chuuya or call an exorcist,” he remarks.

“Shut up,” Chuuya mutters around a tissue. With that annoyance out of the way, it’s seeping in just how awful he feels. He sighs, heavy, and rubs at a temple. “Nom de dieu…”

“I really don’t know how someone so little can sneeze with such ferocity,” continues Dazai, ignoring Chuuya. It’s easy to say the man was put on this earth for the sole purpose of making Chuuya’s life miserable. “Hih…ASHHU!” Chuuya’s head gives a throb and things slide out of focus for a minute. He coughs, rough, and pushes some sweaty hair away from his face. How unsightly.

“Oh, and Chuuya?” Dazai makes a burlesque of leaning in and peering at him. “The next time you’re sick, call in, okay?” And then he reaches one lanky arm over and pats Chuuya’s head.

“I never said I was sick,” Chuuya snaps, jerking out of reach. Dazai makes to poke his nose again, but Chuuya evades him with a hoarse snarl. “Stop.”

In response, Dazai gives him a condescending look that Chuuya knows well. It’s the one where he purses his lips and crinkles up his large, dark eyes. The one he knows infuriates Chuuya the most. “Please,” he says, waving a hand. “I knew before we even got here. Just wanted to see how long you could keep it up.”

Chuuya opens his mouth to utter some expletive, he doesn’t know which one yet, but the sneezy feeling decides to return—bristling like a thousand tiny whiskers along the rims of his inner nose. Stifling it to refute Dazai’s point will only make his head pound harder, so Chuuya wrenches to the side with a sneeze. Which, naturally, makes him cough.

“Hmmm, you really don’t sound good, Chuuya.”

“Fuck you.”

Dazai makes a face. “Ew, no thanks. But since you’re already paying for my dry cleaning, why don’t I treat you to a nice bowl of leek soup and tea?”

Dazai is so confusing at times Chuuya could strangle him. Or at least blame him for the acute emotional whiplash.

“Hh’ASSHu! AHSSH! J'en peux plus…” Chuuya twitches his nose to the side and straightens his hat. “Whatever—let’s just find that drive and get the hell out of here so I can go to bed,” he grumbles. It’s not exactly a refusal (because tea does in fact sound nice), but Chuuya is more than done with this place.

“You mean this?” Dazai wiggles a little USB between two bandaged fingers. Chuuya sputters. “Yup. Found it ages ago and switched it with a fake.”

“AAH?!”

— Fin —

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

could you write Alastor, husk, & vox with a reader that can turn into a black hole + when in that form speaks in a language only they can understand

A/N: Thank you so much for your request!! I actually found this concept really interesting, so when you said in a language only they can understand, i’m assuming you mean whoever the reader is speaking too! I hope I got that part right! I’m splitting this into 3 parts, so one for Alastor, one for Husk and one for Vox, since I wrote this as a story and not headcannons!

Warnings: Losing control

Navigation!!

Void

Alastor X Reader

The first time Alastor witnessed your transformation, he was delighted, in the way only Alastor could be—his perpetual grin stretching impossibly wider, his crimson eyes practically glowing with intrigue.

It had been a mundane evening at the Hazbin Hotel, relatively speaking. You had joined the growing cast of misfits seeking redemption, though your reasons for being there remained elusive, as mysterious as the swirling abyss you could become. Most of the other residents had learned to keep their distance after a few demonstrations of your powers—nothing personal, of course. They just preferred not to risk being sucked into oblivion.

But Alastor? He was not like the others.

He had been lounging near the bar, recounting one of his many lively (and possibly fabricated) tales when you first shifted into your void form. One moment, you had been sitting silently in the corner, watching the room with an air of detachment. The next, space and time bent around you, reality twisting as your human form collapsed into an ever-consuming black hole. The room darkened, the air grew heavy, and every sound seemed to stretch into an eerie, warped hum.

Alastor froze mid-sentence, his voice cutting off with a crackling burst of static. His ever-present grin faltered for a fraction of a second before returning, broader and more manic than before.

“Oh-ho! What have we here?” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together with childlike glee. “A walking singularity! Now, this is entertainment!”

The others scrambled to retreat, chairs screeching as they pushed back from the force of your gravitational pull. Husk cursed under his breath, Angel Dust muttered something about how he wasn’t paid enough for this, and Niffty darted off to fetch a mop, though she wasn’t sure why.

But Alastor? He stepped closer.

“You’ve been holding out on us, dear!” he said, his voice crackling with the static undertones that accompanied his excitement. “Why, this is the most marvelous display of power I’ve seen in ages! Tell me, does it hurt? Does it feel? Oh, I simply must know!”

You didn’t answer—not in a way he could understand, at least. In this form, your voice was something alien, a chorus of layered tones that echoed in impossible ways. The language you spoke was older than stars, a dialect of the cosmos itself, incomprehensible to mortal minds.

Alastor tilted his head, his grin never wavering. “Ah, a riddle, is it? A puzzle for me to solve! Excellent! I do so enjoy a challenge.”

His fascination with you only grew after that. While others treated your abilities with a mix of awe and fear, Alastor saw them as an opportunity—a new kind of chaos to explore, a mystery to unravel. He began seeking you out more often, peppering you with questions about your nature, your abilities, your purpose.

“You’re an anomaly, my dear,” Alastor said one evening, his voice low and crackling as he leaned against the counter in the hotel’s kitchen. You were seated across from him, nursing a cup of something warm—though you couldn’t quite recall what it was. He had insisted on brewing it for you, claiming it was a “family recipe,” though the liquid had a peculiar, almost radioactive glow.

“Even in a place as delightfully twisted as Hell, you stand out,” he continued, his crimson eyes locked onto yours. “And trust me, that’s not an easy feat!”

You raised an eyebrow, sipping cautiously from the mug. “And you don’t find that… unsettling?”

“Unsettling? Oh, no, no, no!” He waved a hand dismissively, his laughter crackling like static. “Why, I find it fascinating! Your powers, your language, your very existence—it’s all so delightfully… unusual.”

He leaned in closer, his grin widening. “Tell me, what’s it like? Being a black hole, I mean. Do you feel the weight of eternity pressing down on you? Or is it more of a tingly sensation?”

You hesitated, unsure how to answer. Explaining your experiences in human terms was always difficult, especially when so much of it was tied to that otherworldly form. “It’s… hard to describe,” you said finally. “It’s like being everything and nothing all at once. Like holding the universe in the palm of your hand, but also being crushed by its weight.”

Alastor’s eyes sparkled with intrigue. “Marvelous!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Absolutely marvelous! You truly are a walking paradox, aren’t you?”

Despite his fascination, there were moments when Alastor’s cheerful facade slipped—moments when he found himself unnerved by the sheer otherness of your existence.

It happened late one night, during one of your transformations. The two of you had been walking through the forest outside the hotel, your conversation drifting from idle chatter to deeper, more philosophical musings. Alastor had been regaling you with tales of his past life when you suddenly stopped, your expression shifting into something distant.

“What’s wrong, dear?” he asked, his tone still light but tinged with curiosity.

“I can feel it,” you murmured, your voice barely audible. “The pull. It’s… calling to me.”

Before he could ask what you meant, your form began to shift, your body collapsing into that familiar void. The trees around you bent and twisted, their leaves disintegrating into specks of light as they were drawn into your gravitational pull. The ground trembled, and the air grew cold.

Alastor stepped back, his grin faltering as he watched the transformation. For the first time, he felt a pang of something he couldn’t quite identify—was it fear? Awe? A strange mix of both?

As the void consumed the space around you, Alastor hesitated. It was unlike him to falter, but this wasn’t something he could charm or laugh away. The sheer force of your transformation sent waves of static through his form, warping his normally unshakable composure.

And yet, even as reality seemed to unravel, Alastor didn’t leave.

Instead, he forced a grin back onto his face and planted his cane firmly into the ground, steadying himself against the pull. “Well now, this is certainly… dramatic! Are you trying to scare me, dear? Because I must admit, you’re doing a marvelous job!”

Your voice echoed from the void, an otherworldly chorus that sent shivers down his spine. Though he couldn’t understand the words, the tone was unmistakable—anguish, frustration, longing.

Despite the danger, he took a step forward, his crimson eyes blazing with determination. “If you think I’m going to run away, you’re sorely mistaken!” he called out, his voice carrying above the deafening hum of your transformation. “I’ve faced worse than this, my dear, and I’ll be damned—again—if I let a little cosmic chaos get in the way of a good conversation!”

His words seemed to reach you, cutting through the void. Slowly, the pull began to weaken, the distorted reality around you settling into something closer to normal. When you finally reformed, collapsing to your knees in exhaustion, Alastor was already there, offering a hand to help you up.

“There we are!” he said cheerfully, his grin returning in full force. “Back to your charming, corporeal self. Now, care to explain what all that was about?”

You hesitated, still catching your breath. “It’s… hard to control sometimes,” you admitted. “The pull is always there, always calling to me. It’s like a part of me wants to let go, to become the void completely.”

Alastor’s grin faltered ever so slightly, his crimson eyes narrowing as he considered your words. “And if you did?” he asked, his tone unusually serious. “What would happen to you?”

“I don’t know,” you said quietly. “Maybe I’d disappear. Maybe I’d become something else entirely. I don’t know if I’d even remember who I am.”

For a moment, Alastor was silent, his gaze fixed on you. Then, his grin returned, though there was a flicker of something softer beneath it.

“Well, we can’t have that now, can we?” he said, his voice light and cheerful once more. “I’d miss your delightful company far too much! Besides, who else in this wretched place could possibly keep up with me?”

Over time, your relationship with Alastor deepened. He continued to push your boundaries, always seeking to learn more about your abilities and the mysteries of your existence. But he also showed a surprising amount of care, stepping in to ground you when the pull of the void became too strong.

For Alastor, your powers were a constant source of fascination—but they also reminded him of something he rarely allowed himself to feel: vulnerability. Your ability to distort reality, to consume everything around you, was a stark contrast to his carefully maintained control. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to stay away.

One evening, as the two of you sat in the lounge of the hotel, Alastor turned to you with an uncharacteristically serious expression.

“You know,” he said, his voice low and crackling, “I’ve always believed in the power of chaos. It’s what makes life… interesting. But you, my dear, you’re something else entirely. You’re not just chaos—you’re the end of it.”

You frowned, unsure how to respond. “Is that… a bad thing?”

“Not at all!” he said quickly, his grin returning. “If anything, it makes you all the more fascinating. But it does make me wonder…” He leaned in closer, his crimson eyes locking onto yours. “What happens if you lose control? If you give in to the pull?”

You hesitated, the weight of his question settling over you. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I don’t want to find out.”

Alastor nodded, his grin softening ever so slightly. “Good,” he said. “Because as much as I enjoy a good bit of chaos, I’d rather not see you disappear into that abyss of yours. You’re far too entertaining for that.”

As time went on, you and Alastor developed an unspoken understanding. He became your anchor, the one person who could pull you back when the void threatened to consume you. And in turn, you became his reminder that even chaos has its limits, that there are forces in the universe greater than even the Radio Demon.

One night, as you stood together on the roof of the hotel, gazing out at the endless expanse of Hell, Alastor turned to you with a rare moment of sincerity.

“You know,” he said, his voice low and crackling, “I’ve always believed in keeping people at arm’s length. It’s easier that way. Less messy.”

He glanced at you, his crimson eyes softening. “But you… you’re different. You’re the first person who’s ever made me question that.”

You smiled, the weight of his words settling over you. “I could say the same about you,” you said quietly.

Alastor chuckled softly, his laughter crackling like faint static. “Well, well, aren’t we just full of surprises tonight?” He rested his hands on his cane and tilted his head to gaze at you, his crimson eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Tell me, dear, do you think it’s possible for two anomalies like us to coexist? You, a walking singularity, and me, well… me?”

You turned to face him fully, the void inside you stirring faintly as if in response to his question. “I don’t know,” you admitted honestly, your voice barely above a whisper. “But maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s not about knowing—it’s about trying.”

The wind picked up, carrying with it the faint sounds of Hell’s chaos below. Alastor was quiet for a moment, a rare occurrence that made you feel like you’d caught a glimpse of the man behind the showman’s mask. Then, slowly, his ever-present grin returned, though there was a gentleness to it now, a softness you hadn’t seen before.

“Trying, you say?” he mused, tapping his cane lightly against the roof. “Well, my dear, I’ve always been a fan of a good challenge. And if anyone is worth the effort, it’s you.”

He extended a hand toward you, his crimson eyes glittering with mischief and something deeper, something unspoken. “Shall we see where this little experiment of ours takes us?”

You hesitated for only a moment before placing your hand in his. His grip was firm but surprisingly warm, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected.

“Let’s find out,” you said softly, a small smile tugging at your lips.

The days that followed were a strange blend of chaos and calm. Alastor, true to his nature, continued to push your limits, always eager to test the boundaries of your abilities. He would encourage you to transform in controlled environments, claiming it was “for science” or “just for the fun of it.”

“Come now, my dear!” he’d exclaim, standing a safe distance away as you began to shift into your void form. “Think of it as a performance! And remember, the key to a good show is keeping your audience on the edge of their seats!”

You rolled your eyes but complied, finding a strange comfort in his enthusiasm. Though his methods were unorthodox, his presence had a way of grounding you, keeping you tethered to yourself even as the void threatened to take over.

But it wasn’t always easy. There were moments when the pull became too strong, when you felt yourself slipping further and further into the abyss. During those times, Alastor was your constant, his voice cutting through the chaos like a lifeline.

“Focus, my dear!” he’d call out, his tone sharp but steady. “Remember who you are! You’re not just the void—you’re you!”

And somehow, against all odds, his words always managed to pull you back.

One evening, as you sat together in the lounge, Alastor surprised you by asking a question that seemed almost… vulnerable.

“Do you ever wonder,” he began, his voice softer than usual, “if there’s a reason for all of this? For what we are?”

You glanced at him, surprised by the uncharacteristic seriousness in his tone. “Sometimes,” you admitted. “But I try not to dwell on it too much. It’s… overwhelming.”

Alastor nodded, his crimson eyes distant. “Yes, overwhelming indeed,” he murmured. “But I can’t help but think that perhaps there’s a purpose to it all. That maybe, just maybe, we were meant to find each other in this delightful little hellscape.”

His words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. Then, slowly, you reached out and placed a hand on his, offering him a small, reassuring smile.

“Maybe we were,” you said quietly.

For a brief moment, the two of you sat in silence, the weight of the unspoken connection between you hanging in the air. It was a rare, fleeting moment of vulnerability, one that neither of you would forget.

As your bond with Alastor deepened, so too did your understanding of each other. He taught you to embrace your powers, to see them not as a curse but as a part of who you were. And in turn, you showed him that even in the midst of chaos, there could be moments of connection, of understanding, of something almost like peace.

But the void inside you was always there, a constant presence that neither of you could ignore. One day, as you stood together on the edge of a cliff overlooking the endless expanse of Hell, you turned to Alastor with a question that had been weighing on your mind.

“Do you think I’ll ever lose control?” you asked, your voice barely audible over the howling wind.

Alastor was silent for a moment, his crimson eyes fixed on the horizon. Then, slowly, he turned to you, his grin softening into something almost genuine.

“If you do,” he said, his voice steady, “then I’ll be there to pull you back. Every time.”

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard, and for a moment, you felt the pull of the void lessen, the weight of eternity lifting just enough for you to breathe.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your voice filled with a gratitude you couldn’t quite put into words.

Alastor chuckled, his grin widening. “No need to thank me, my dear. After all, what’s a little cosmic chaos between friends?”

Your story with Alastor wasn’t perfect—it was messy, unpredictable, and filled with moments of doubt and fear. But through it all, one thing remained constant: the bond you shared.

Alastor, with his unrelenting charm and boundless curiosity, became your anchor, your constant in a world that often felt like it was spiraling out of control. And you, with your otherworldly powers and quiet strength, became his reminder that even the most chaotic forces could be tempered by connection.

Together, you learned to navigate the delicate balance between chaos and stability, between the void and the light. And though the future remained uncertain, one thing was clear: whatever lay ahead, you would face it together.

For even in the heart of the void, there was a spark of something greater—a connection that defied the odds, a bond that transcended the chaos. And in that, there was hope.

[dreamingsnowflake2013]

OMG! Be still my heart! Those fireworks are similar to those Susu made for him 500 years ago but they are not identical; Tantai Jin has drawn them for her using the sketch she taught him but he’s hiding it from her (when he waves his hand his spell doesn’t emit the red colour of the Devil God power but golden glow, just like her sketch)!

Tantai Jin’s most powerful and magical ability isn’t absorbing energy from demons but finding happiness in the smallest things others might consider trivial and turning them into bright rays of light which keep the darkness inside him at bay. The mere thought that Susu once believed him capable of being good and that he didn’t fail her, fulfiled her wish and is, in fact, good, even though she remains oblivious about it, is enough to make him bliss out and giddy, experiencing unadulterated happiness and joy. His proud smile and the question “does it look pretty?”, like he is waiting for her to review his spell, the only way he allows himself to show the truth.

He managed to draw the sketch already 500 years ago but actually kept it a secret from her ever since, probably the only part of himself he has never revealed to her and has been withholding from her, but is secretly showing to her now by creating the spell again even though she doesn’t know it. For Tantai Jin, this is another scrap of happiness he tucks and guards inside the deepest recesses of the heart he gave Susu centuries ago.

While he tries to make her hate him so she could kill him when the time comes, he doesn’t want her to resent him in his “Bo’re life”, this refuge inside his heart where he escapes when his demons and loneliness plague him. 

This is a dream, a fleeting moment of elusive happiness he decides to steal for himself before he sacrifices his life for all living beings in the universe, to give him strength to do what he must and have something to remember when he turns into nothingness. He wants to do something selfish one last time and take something for himself, instead of constantly giving while receiving nothing in return - one final moment in which Susu loves him and belongs only to him, and he only to her. 

And secretly, Tantai Jin wants to leave Susu a piece of himself behind, a proof that he and his love for her were real and existed, no matter how insignificant compared to the cosmic struggle between good and evil, hoping she would remember him once she learns the truth even when no one else would, especially when it was his love for her which ultimately defeated the darkness inside him and transformed him into the man he is today.

He doesn’t fear death but being forgotten by Su because what is oblivion and being forgotten other than second and ultimate death, being abandoned and unloved one final time. 

Tantai Jin’s final wish is for his love to survive him, defeat and overcome death; he desperately craves to live inside her forever, this way he can become immortal too and be with her forever.

[imthepunchlord]

I know you’re probably saving their finalized personalities for their individual posts, so instead I’d like to ask how Weeve and Endurr see themselves and each other as the two true Calamitous fairies as well as how they view Arrdor as a Miraculous-turned-Calamitous fairy and the seven remaining still-true Miraculous fairies.

So, playing off them being literal black and white, they exist as frenemies. They are aware that they are the only real two of the monochrome, but they are also by nature opposing each other.

Weeve wants to darken everything to oblivion. To consume and take in everything.

Endurr wants to brighten everything to blindness. To erase everything.

You could compare them to light and shadow, always chasing each other, always trying to get an edge over the other, to be the one that comes out on top. They can coexist and work together as need be, do have inside jokes that they'll share, or have a shared frustration over Miraculous and humans; but there's always going to be that secret agenda to sabotage the other, cause only one can come out on top and they're just constantly ready to backstab each other.

It's to really work off that Miraculous are harmonious in their existence, as pleasing as a rainbow; but Calamitous are not.

And to add in Arrdor, Weeve and Endurr find him to be amusing and weak. The Miraculous that couldn't be so Miraculous. The colorful fairy that fell and grayed himself out. If they can, they will bully him, if they can, they'll try to consume him just like they do with the Miraculous. Weeve wants to turn him darker while Endurr wants to make him lighter. For right now, Arrdor sits in the middle of black and white, making him a neutral third force.

Making him competition.

Competition they find funny but also hate as they were already competing.

Ultimately, Arrdor is treated like he's still a Miraculous fairy by Weeve and Endurr. They want to take him out just as much.

As for the other 7...

Weeve has the most issues with warm colored fairies.

She and Tikki have a little rivalry as creative fairies, with Tikki have to make actual things while Weeve does fabrications. She thinks Tikki is so pretentious. Lucee by default annoys Weeve as she's a bringer of light, and light chases shadows. Pollen Weeve regards to be a stinger in the mud, too orderly and stiff that throws off her chaos and literal webs of lies. Clovrr... is probably the fairy Weeve gets along most with, as Clovrr doesn't hop into actions all that much, and is a go with the flow sort, ride the wave of chaos. Longg and Weeve... atm I don't have anything for them specifically, so by default they're enemies who don't get along. Weeve finds Taaraa boring because she won't respond in ways Weeve wants her to, and she hates to be alone with her. Probably the only fairy she'd actively skip out on messing with. Nooroo is Weeve's favorite fairy to bully because he's so soft and gentle, he's easy pickings.

In contrast, Endurr clashes with cool colored fairies more.

Same as Longg and Weeve, I don't have much on Endurr and Tikki so just enemies by default. Endurr finds Lucee annoying as she's a colorful light and way too flashy for his liking. Endurr and Pollen probably have a very interesting rivalry, given both are stinging fairies, but both also stand for order. While Pollen is one built in harmony and compromise, Endurr is all about control and loneliness. They've had some decently neutral conversations in the past, but it does often end in them clashing. Endurr finds Clovrr to be annoying with her carefree nature, finds her to be a waste of space, and would rather just take her out. Which is hard as she's quite elusive. He almost did so once, but Weeve intervened because Clovrr she kinda likes which turns into a big fight and Clovrr peaced out in the chaos. Endurr is forever holding a grudge about it. Longg Endurr sees as a genuine threat, simply being one of the very few fairies that are willing to use their power outside a human, and Longg has been angered enough before to let loose around Endurr. If Endurr can, he'd rather avoid facing Longg, that's a predator disguised as a bug, a dragon true to his nature. And not even Endurr could face up to a dragon. At least not directly. Taaraa is a fairy Endurr is actually kinda intrigued with, as she's the "coldest" of the fairies, still echoing that dedicated and righteous nature, but also being very... neutral. As Endurr desires to remove color from his adversaries, he actually thinks he could gray out Taaraa one day. She is the fairy he tries to tempt to the dark side. Nooroo Endurr sees as deceptive. He gives off an impression of being soft and weak, but the power he shares with others is anything but. Nooroo has tried to reason and connect with Endurr emotionally, but Endurr isn't giving him a chance. He sees it as a ploy, a trick. He knows Nooroo's power can influence others, sway their stance, their reason. He will not be manipulated like some minuscule human.

[crepesuzette2023]

What’s a fic that made you cry ?

Thank you for asking—and for immediately sending me off on a brief 'meta' slingshot trajectory around my own navel! (Don't worry, I'll answer your question.)

Your ask reminded me of the fact that I almost never cry over stories. I either enjoy them, or I'm shaking with rage, if they're too painful. For a story to hit the sweet spot of undiluted sadness, of simply being moved, without spouting angry tirades in my mind trying to argue with the sad events of the story, is pretty special.

For this reason, the stories your ask made me think of are among my favorites. Sorry if I mentioned some of them before, but here we are.

(I'll mention some spoiler-y and hopefully brief explanations under the cut.)

Miracle Worker by @scurator. Still Mates by @pauls1967moustache. The late, great, johnny ace by @midchelle. Coast Starlight by bookofapril. All I Know Since Yesterday by RedheadAmongWolves.

I guess what the three quote unquote saddest stories in this list have in common, to me, is that they're a big, noble Fuck You to the ultimate adversary, everyone's final lover, the great oblivion, etc.: Death—while at the same time summoning its inevitability. It will get you, even if you love a Beatle. Even if you are one.

So, you better hold on tight and make the most of it while you can (she says, typing these lines on tumblr while seizing the fuck out of her instant coffee flavor).

Miracle Worker is about Paul and Robert Fraser making love after John's death. It's about death, and fading physical beauty, and the untarnished beauty between them. The guttering flame. Yes, it's very hot, and both sad and invigorating—like a good cry, but without the ugliness of anything as overt as crying.

Still Mates is about Peter Asher giving himself permission to reject a life of politely closeted desire by sleeping with Paul, his sister's ex, in '68. It's a story about courage, and the ability to face who you are and who you want. I'm sorry for sounding like a movie trailer. It's also a fantastically realized outsider's perspective on the beauty of J/P turning ugly, and on the mystery surrounding this legendary relationship—the elusiveness of Paul's soul is in striking contrast with Peter's hot but mundane physical closeness to Paul, the man.

The late, great johnny ace is a ghost story that denies being a ghost story, but at the last moment can't resist reaching for comfort. (At least that's what I choose to believe.) Paul, George and Ringo make a record in 1981. Paul writes Here Today. The ghost is John. The 'at the end of all things' atmosphere is shattering, but the music in Paul's soul, and the surviving bonds of friendship, and, just possibly, John's ghost, prevail.

Bonus: crying/tears without sadness

Sometimes a story is so beautiful it makes my eyes well up with it.

Coast Starlight is about a world where Paul and Robert Fraser are together in the 70's, and they're vacationing on Fire Island, and they fuck a lot, each other and others (together), and it's fine. More than fine. It's heaven on earth. As I said before, I really can't do this story justice. The relief (what a weak word) I felt in the end, when Paul realizes he can let go of his burdens and be loved for who he is (by Robert, who is giving this to him), nearly had me speaking in tongues of the awesome power of fiction.

All I Know Since Yesterday is about two teenagers in love, without either of them having told the other. They're sheltering at one of their houses after being caught in a rain storm, and dream about the future. A future with each other. And, finally, they kiss. The teenagers are John and Paul. And what I love about the story is that you feel throughout that this is the beginning of something big. The kiss is both sweet and elemental.

[likesunsetorange]

yes we remember academic rivals….. and e2l… and bodyguard au…. my roman empires actually 🫠

these three are my favorite au��s tbh, so here’s a little something from e2l and the bodyguard au (i’ll share the academic rivals one in a separate post later LOL)

exes to lovers au

January 23rd, 2023

Her fingers are white from how hard they grip the steering wheel—if that’s any indication of her current mental state. There are half-moons being carved into the palms of her hands; her nail polish is merely a former shell of what it once was, perfectly manicured hands ruined and chipped to oblivion. There’s no amount of concealer that could cover the puffiness under her eyes—she’s already tried. And her throat is dry and coarse. Mikasa doesn’t even want to know what her voice sounds like—it’s probably pathetic, if it’s anything like the sobs she tried to stifle in her pillow all night.

She thought a night’s rest would’ve granted her the tiniest bit of reprieve from all of this. But she woke up, feeling as if it was all some sadistic joke—only something the most convoluted parts of her brain could have conjured. Her Eren would be there beside her when she woke up, to greet her in the earliest hours of the morning, just as he did and promised he always would do.

But the morning only proved to be a reminder that promises are apparently meant to be broken, and things evidently change. Instead, Mikasa woke up to an empty bed and a tear-stricken pillow, her phone void of any messages from the only person she wanted to her from.

Despite all this, she picked herself up, knowing her life had to continue—a breakup can’t put her life on pause, as much as she wished it did.

Through the corner of her eyes, she could see Sasha’s wavering stares, rooted in concern for what Sasha deemed as apathy. But to Mikasa, this is all she could do. Try and carry on. What other choice does she have?

The silence in the car is deafening, it’s just Mikasa and her thoughts—the only thing she’s had to accompany her in the last twelve hours—something she unfortunately now has to grow accustomed to.

We aren’t together. We aren’t together. We aren’t together.

The thought bangs against her head as she drives down the street, demanding to be heard—there isn’t much point listening to music when it wouldn’t drown out the sound of her subconscious. Thoughts of him. Of them. Of the events that transpired leading up to everything. Of the breakup.

We aren’t together. We aren’t together. We aren’t together.

Promises to herself combat her thoughts—no more tears. She’s cried enough already. Tears won’t absolve her of her pain. They won’t mend the hole in her heart. Won’t fix her broken relationship—or what once was. And they certainly won’t get her through her shift.

We aren’t together. We aren’t together. We aren’t together.

She allows the sigh at the tip of her tongue to escape her lips before she finally loosens her grip on the steering wheel, color starting to return to her fingertips at the release. Just get through today, she tells herself. Her hand finds the knob on the radio, something, anything, to silence her mind.

But life doesn’t ever seem to be kind. When has it ever?

She gets her answer in the first cord strike—Eren’s favorite song. All the strength she pretends to have can’t stop the tears she’s been holding from falling with every passing note.

bodyguard au

The air in his throat gets stuck. “I mean—no,” he hesitates, knowing that there’s some level of truth behind his sentiment. “But just how bad could she possibly be?”

Rather than Kenny responding, Levi takes charge of the conversation, growing tired of the elusiveness. “To put it simply, her parents… They have their… reasons behind the things that they do, and their daughter isn’t always the most… cooperative,” he says, deliberate with his words. “While they care about her safety, that’s of the utmost concern… there are also, as I said, reasons for you being hired as well.”

A young, rich girl living in the city, who, according to her parents, doesn’t cooperate. He’s almost certain his job, outside of the general security and protection aspect, is for one thing. “So they want me to make sure she stays in line,” he thinks aloud.

Levi sighs. “More or less, yes. Their daughter, she’s a bit of a handful, and we just need to make sure you’re not going to quit the second she starts being difficult.”

“I work at a casino—I deal with difficult people all the time,” he shrugs.

“You haven’t met Mikasa; she’s a bit more than just difficult,” Levi emphasizes.

A sigh escapes Eren, frustrated at the back and forth. While he sees their point, and it does raise some concerns in his mind, he has his own reasons for being open to the initial proposition in the first place. “It seems like you don’t want me to take this job the way you’re trying to convince me that she’s going to be such a handful,” he says plainly. “I have my own reasons for being interested in the position, so whether she’s going to be difficult or not isn’t that big of a deal to me.”

[synth-ai]

Whispers of Adventure 9

The fog clings to our hero like a shroud, a damp, chilling embrace that softens the harsh edges of the grey stone hills. Before her, barely visible through the swirling mist, rise the gleaming towers of Eternis, a city sculpted from some ethereal, luminescent material. They pierce the fog like shards of a forgotten dawn, promising both wonder and peril in equal measure. Her breath plumes white in the frigid air, a stark contrast to the unnatural warmth radiating from the city ahead. Our Hero, a noble adventurer clad in sturdy leather and steel, has traversed treacherous paths to reach this point. The Feywild, with its capricious magic and deceptive beauty, lies behind her, its challenges overcome thanks to her courage and cunning. But the price of passage was steep – the sacrifice of her most precious memories, the ones holding the image of her lost love, the very reason for such an arduous journey.

Now, only fragments remain: a fleeting sensation of warmth, a whisper of a name on the wind, a persistent ache in her heart that echoes with the ghost of a love she can no longer recall. Eternis is the only hope of reclaiming what was lost, a city whispered about in hushed tones, a place where ancient gods once walked and the veil between worlds is thin. With purpose, she moves forward, the rhythmic crunch of her boots on the rocky path the only sound besides the mournful sigh of the wind weaving through the hills. A faint rustling in the undergrowth to the right catches her ear, a fleeting disturbance ignored by her singular focus on the city ahead. The lure of Eternis, the whispers of her lost love, are too strong to resist. Even while they still fade away as if being engulfed by the surrounding fog, like the world around her. The path ahead is shrouded in mystery, but she presses onwards, her heart filled with a mixture of hope and dread, knowing that the choices she makes within those gleaming towers will determine not only her future but also the fate of her forgotten love.

The fog thickens, a swirling, sentient entity that seems to reach out and grasp at Our Hero as she trudges onward. The cobblestones beneath her boots are slick with unseen moisture, and the air grows heavy with the scent of decay and damp earth. The faint glimmer of the city’s towers, once a beacon of hope, now seems distant and uncertain, almost a mirage in the oppressive gloom. The path itself seems to twist and turn, defying logic, as if the very land itself were trying to thwart her progress.

A creeping dread begins to worm its way into her heart, a chilling counterpoint to the fading embers of her purpose. The face of her lost love – already a blurry, indistinct image – threatens to vanish entirely, swallowed by the encroaching fog of forgetfulness. The obsidian key, cold against her hip, feels less like a tool of access and more like a heavy burden, a constant reminder of the sacrifice she made. Each step forward feels like a battle against the encroaching oblivion, not just the physical obstacles of the path, but the relentless erosion of her memories, the very reason for her arduous journey.

Doubt, insidious and persistent, whispers in her ear, questioning the sanity of her quest, mocking her dwindling hope. Still, she presses on, driven by an instinct stronger than reason, a stubborn refusal to surrender to the encroaching darkness, both literal and metaphorical. The gleaming gates, once a symbol of reunion, now appear as a distant, possibly unattainable promise in the swirling white chaos. Yet, with every labored breath, with every painful step closer, she clings to that fleeting image, that fragment of a feeling, that desperate hope that keeps her moving through the endless fog towards the elusive city walls.

The journey is testing not only her physical endurance but the very core of her being.

With a surge of adrenaline, Our Hero throws caution to the wind and breaks into a run. The fog swirls and writhes around her like a living thing, its icy tendrils snaking out to impede her progress, but she pushes through, fueled by a desperate urgency. The whispers intensify, morphing into mocking laughter and chilling cries, yet she ignores them, focusing solely on the shimmering gates that now loom closer, more distinct through the thinning veil of mist. The ground beneath her feet is uneven, treacherous, but she pushes onward, ignoring the stinging scrapes and the burning in her lungs.

The obsidian key burns against her hip, a fiery counterpoint to the icy grip of the fog. She can almost feel the ancient power of the city pulsing, a heartbeat in the distance, beckoning her forward. As she bursts from the thickest part of the fog, the gates stand revealed – immense structures of gleaming, polished metal, etched with symbols that seem to shift and writhe before her eyes. The air itself vibrates with power, a palpable energy that both invigorates and terrifies her.

But even as she reaches out a hand to touch the cold, smooth surface of the gate, a new threat emerges. From the swirling mists behind her, shadows detach themselves – figures coalescing from the gloom, their forms indistinct, but their malevolence palpable. They move with unnatural speed and grace, their silent approach a chilling counterpoint to the frantic beat of her heart. The gates are close, almost within reach… but escape may prove impossible.

[bougainvillea-and-saltwater]

20, 39 and 58 from the writers ask meme ☺️

Also hope you’re doing good 💙🌸

🖊️ask game🖊️

Aaaah, thank you so much for these, Blossom! Admittedly, I'm not on my best days, however, these asks did lighten my mood, and it was a joy answering them! 🥰💖

20: Have you noticed any patterns in your fics? Words/expressions that appear a lot, themes, common settings, etc?

Oh yes! As I was revising some chapters of TPATD a while ago, I noticed I used the word 'brim', quite frequently. I guess I like the expressions it can be combined with, e.g. "her eyes brim with tears" or "he fills the jug to the brim" or "the table is brimmed with hearty food". You get the picture! My fic is also brimmed (see what I did there?) with the hurt/comfort theme, which is my absolute favorite theme, and I believe that if I ever write for another fandom, hurt/comfort will be predominant in the respective story too. In almost every chapter, I do have a foreshadowing pattern for those who are willing to read behind the lines—this is also something I love catching in other stories! Hm, what else? Ah! I love descriptive prose in everything I write, and mostly when the descriptions make me feel what is being described, e.g. I like describing Jia when she's working with her alchemy or when she's cooking her food—I want to grab and munch whatever she's eating there...👀

39: Share a snippet from a WIP.

I updated my fic just two days ago (after 4 months of absence...🥲) so I haven't got any WIP to share yet, but! I'm going to put a snippet of the freshly baked chapter 19 instead:

I had never expected the Last Dragonborn to be a female, in all his dread not to be pinned down and discovered shred by shred by her luminous, sun-rivaled gaze, Miraak pretended to sound as scathing and condescending as he could during their first encounter in Apocrypha, when all he could think about was, she came to me at last, the favorite jill of Akatosh. I have read about you, in old-worn books hoarded in Seekers’ hands, piled in endless ever-shifting pillars, sometimes in the feminine shape of a human, others as an elusive firey-crimson specter of a dragon, and Oblivion has heard me humming tunes written and sang in your name. Indeed, your deeds are tremendous, strider of Sovngarde, deicide of Alduin.  But your soul’s sorrow is bigger. Miraak feels himself shrinking at his thoughts. Her very breath humbles him.

58: What part of the writing process do you enjoy the most? (Brainstorming, outlining, writing, editing, etc).

Translating! I love this feeling when I know a part of my draft is finished in my native language, and now I have to translate it into English, build it, make it wholesome, perfect it, before proceeding on to the next. I know it sounds like a lot of work, but it isn't so much, not really. I've heard contrastive opinions on whether translating is really helpful or not, but it works for me. 😊 Another part of the writing process I enjoy is reading my lines out loud and acting them on the respective character's voice—actually, I have brainstormed major plot points and ideas while acting out my characters, and I guess this is my ultimate sign that I must become an actor one day. 😂

[philosophicalparadox]

There’s a reason The Vatican is always The Bad Guys in anime. Japan has a rather unpleasant history with Christianity and not one, but three different emperors banned the practice of the “barbaric” religion and two of them persecuted missionaries into oblivion. Often very brutally.

Christianity does not vibe with Japanese culture on a deeply fundamental level. The idea that you have to “sell” your religion to get people invested in it seems cheap and absurd to most of them and always has. Plus prosthelytizing is fundamentally a certain kind of rude, by design, and Japan has never been fond of that particular kind of rudeness; it is, and has been for centuries, very taboo to “bother” strangers with literally anything. Preaching, by default, is meant to bother. It’s designed to get you riled up and emotionally manipulate you. Japanese people tend to view strong emotions as quite private things, so have absolutely zero tolerance for that nonsense. It’s THE definition of RUDE in Japanese society.

What’s more the concept of One God was initially very elusive and confounding to the people of 1480’s Japan when they first encountered Dutch missionaries. They’d never heard of such a thing. And like many polytheistic societies they preferred to simply view it through the lens of “ok, that’s your God, then. Don’t bother mine, I won’t bother yours”. A view which Christianity, and missionaries, have a notoriety for not taking very well.

The difference is that unlike the Germanic tribes which Charlemagne conquered by force, Japan was extremely industrialized for its age. They were inferior to Europeans in the field of armor and to some extent arms, only because of the quality of the ingredients they had access to; if they’d had access to better ores, they’d of been making scale maille and possibly early plate by then, no question. They had the technology, as they DID make those types of armor, just not out of steel. Steel was just too hard to make in appreciable quantities because Japanese iron is shite.

However, despite these setbacks (and because of them) Japan was quite advanced in terms of its military capabilities, and had a very isolationist, aggressive, war-promoting culture. In short, there was no objective reason to try to mass convert them to the faith; not only did their islands suck at providing natural resources, but their peoples were sufficiently nasty and far enough away it was not worth the fight. Didn’t stop some missionaries trying; but the only ones who ever survived were the ones that kept their heads down and lead their faith by example rather than preaching. It did not save them all, especially during the purges of the Tokugawa era, but it helped not to be a nail sticking out. One could practice their faith quietly, and in later centuries, if they were careful they could even build a church. But they absolutely were not allowed to hold sermons to the general public or preach in public; they still can’t do that today. It’s literally against the law. (Not for Christians specifically but public preaching of any kind is illegal if it disturbs the peace; and Christian preaching would and does definitely disturb the peace, as many Japanese find the messages invasive and unsettling)

Point being, while Christianity does exist in Japan, it’s woefully unpopular and poorly understood by the common masses. Catholicism in Japan is limited to exactly 3 abbeys. That’s it. That’s all there is. In a country of 125.7 million people, about half the US, there’s exactly 3 monasteries. Small, poorly staffed monasteries that also have to function as churches. There is I believe one bishop to oversee them all. That’s it. There’s no cardinals, no other clergy, just a smattering of priests and a singular bishop.

Consequently, there’s functionally no relationship between Japanese people and Catholicism at all. They know it exists and have some vague idea that it was important to people who live very far away, (whose countries most of them can’t put to name) but it was never particularly important to their culture, and the average Japanese person knows about as much about Catholicism as the average American knows about Hinduism or primary Buddhism. Hell japanese people know about as much about Christianity on the whole as most (Christian) people in the west know about Islam or Judaism, and have just as many misconceptions.

Point being, the depiction of a monastery in Japan in blue exorcist is fairly accurate to urban Japan. The priests are laid back and not pushy, they dare not say the word God to anybody unless they’re already sure they’re christian, and they mostly just do community service work and offer special types of both religious and non religious counseling. They lead by example and keep a low profile because they can and will be driven out with impunity if they stick out their necks too far. Japanese police can be mean and get away with most anything. If someone sets the cops upon ye, all it takes is one to decide that you are particularly annoying and they will drive you out of town, at best. If you’re a foreigner all the worse; Japanese police have a nasty reputation of finding ways to find you in violation of your visa to deport people.

So, keeping a downlow and not pressuring anyone into anything is the default. Plus it would have been extremely counterintuitive to raise the twins under a catholic umbrella. Remember that in the BE universe ALL religions and mythology have elements of truth. Broad cultural exposure (as broad as one can get in Japan) would be better for the boys on the whole, and letting them decide what they believe is paramount to ensuring they can accept this fact. That going on in life they aren’t confronted with quite the same amount of cognitive dissonance.

I like, wish Western aoex fans would take some time and research about how religion is in Japan. Especially how christianity is viewed and practiced there. Because it's a very different thing both culturally and base level than how things go in the west. Shintoism and Buddhism is an incredibly big part of Japan's culture, but it's not in the same way as how Christianity and other western religions are for the USA or other countries.

I mean it's cool to see people want to do things, but I don't think they realize that it's going to be a very different interpretation. I personally don't even think Shiro raised the twins christian. There's nothing in canon other than they grew up in the monastery to imply it. It felt more to me they started the place to have a good cover for the twins than it actually being a legit thing.

Heck it even looked like Shiro took the boys to shrines for new years. That's kind of a important part of Japanese culture and a big tradition. I personally don't think a catholic priest raising two kids would be taking them to a Shinto Shrine to do the New Years tradition.

It's also funny whenever this comes up because no one mentions Yukio in this. It's always Rin lol

[etrnty]

honestly one of my favourite panels, poor quasar just like wtf is going on.  but also this is one of the ONLY times we see all four of them : oblivion, death, infinity, & eternity, interacting.  which makes me pretty grumpy considering how important they all are  &  their relationship to one-another.

[zhongwans]

HERE IT IS LADS! THE ULTIMATE CULIMINATION OF ALL THOSE WEDDING JOKES 💀💀💀 AT THIS POINT I AM CONVINCED WORD OF HONOR AND ITS CAST IS JUST ONE MASSIVE FEVER DREAM

So Gong Jun was invited to Chuang2021 as a guest (he did a really good job by the way!! 🥺) and throughout the event he would occasionally bring up a certain "Zhang-Laoshi"

So here he's being asked who he would form a boygroup with if ever given the chance,

*btw he ONLY referred to him as Zhang-Laoshi throughout the event and never by his fullname! It's hilarious that the Tencent subbing team just automatically subbed it with ZZH's complete name. Why are they so sure it's ZZH, huh?? There must be tons of other Zhang-Laoshis out there 😂

What he said was, "和我最匹配的人也就只能是张老师了” and I'd translate it as "the person most compatible with me can only be Zhang-Laoshi" or "the best match for me can only be Zhang-Laoshi"

The term he used was 匹配 and it is LITERALLY

He basically called him his perfect match! 最匹配! GONG JUN PLS NOBODY WAS ASKING THAT! HE DID NOT HAVE TO GO THAT HARD! AND BTW JUST TWO PEOPLE ISN'T ENOUGH FOR A BOYGROUP?!!

Then, he specifically called out a trainee, Wu Yuheng, to tell him that he's going to support him, because Zhang-Laoshi sent him a hongbao when they were chatting the night before. Wu Yuheng is ZZH's junior from the same company!

HE'S PROBABLY WONDERING WHY THE GUEST MENTOR IS ESPECIALLY FAVOURING HIM LMAO

The rest of the members of his group were like "Thank you, Laoshi" but Wu Yuheng said, "Thank you, Ge" to him instead, so now Wu Yuheng's fans are referring to Gong Jun as "brother in law" asjksgsksg HELP

And now the funniest thing about all of this, and the whole point of this post, is that a lot of people who didn't watch Word of Honor and don't know about Wenzhou, thought that Gong Jun was married after watching Chuang 😂

I kid you not, there were A LOT of people who LEGITIMATELY thought that Gong Jun was married to this elusive, mysterious "Zhang-Laoshi" that he kept on talking about.

This was further exacerbated by the fact that the host, Deng Chao, also refers to his actual wife as Sun-Laoshi! Whenever he mentions Sun-Laoshi, everyone knows he's talking about his wife. So you can probably imagine what happened when Gong Jun also kept bringing up his own mysterious "Zhang-Laoshi" 💀

Him talking about Zhang-Laoshi a lot, plus the stacked rings on his ringfinger, his overall demeanor and choice of words, the hongbao and the special favour for a specific trainee, all led to this one glorious misunderstanding. The stars really aligned for this to happen and I CANNOT STOP LAUGHING 💀💀💀

Some of the comments were just absolute GOLD. Like saying that they felt that Gong Jun was really too much, constantly talking about his lover during the event! 😭 And some were going "well it must be his wife, otherwise he would refer to them with their full name and not just a vague Zhang-Laoshi as if he expects everyone to know exactly who that person is" and also "he really smiles a lot when talking about his lover huh" asjkdgsdhs HELP ME WHAT KIND OF SITUATION IS THIS 💀

This is.....unprecedented. Clownery at its finest. LITERALLY ALL OTHER FANDOMS CAN GO HOME. I'm still laughing at the sheer audacity and absurdity of it all. All of the shameless wedding jokes the fandom and the cast members have been making until now have been absolutely STEAMROLLED into fucking oblivion by none other than Gong Jun himself.

Chen Zihan with her top trending Wenzhou wedding edit? Huang Youming and his wedding jokes? Zhang Zhehan calling them the hottest couple? Well Gong Jun skipped wenzhou's wedding altogether and literally made people believe he was married to ZZH 😂 I CAN'T TAKE THIS ANYMORE

I just???? What is this cast even doing?????💀

[goldensunset]

Ok, I've been curious about this for a while now, but what is the plot of Twewy? My interest has been piqued.

From what I understand the characters are all... dead? Maybe? and they have to play a game in order to return to life or something. I could be completely wrong lol. I get all of my information via osmosis or Dream Drop Distance.

*slams fists down on table* LET’S GOOOOOO

ok yeah you’re dead and you have to play a game to come back to life. there are ten million complicated rules to this stupid thing and they keep screwing you over. if you fail, the remnants of your soul are scattered to oblivion. you are amnesiac and can’t remember a thing about your own death. you have to last for one week, then it becomes two, then three. you figure something’s up. ultimately, you must to try to solve the mysteries behind this operation and your death. and that seems involves hunting down the elusive god in charge of this and possibly killing him.

featuring: magic pins, evil frogs, chicken nuggets, teenage angst, atrocious 2007 fashion and slang, literal angels and demons and their divine judgement of your soul, the best but also worst but also best songs you’ve ever heard, math man, the best localization team in existence, random trash heaps, adorable older brother- younger sister duo that you don’t even know are siblings until after the sister has already gotten sniped (hey doesn’t that sound familiar), the most beautiful character development in existence, and furries

((ok i can’t give you the entire game’s story in one post lol the section below will be dedicated just to trying to explain the beginning and the rules of the reapers’ game))

let’s see. it opens with a monologue from an edgy 15 year old talking about how he hates everyone and everything. that’s the only exposition you get at all about what’s up with this story at the beginning. they just go right into the madness.

then it cuts to him randomly waking up on the pavement in the middle of the street in the middle of shibuya. he’s got a creepy pin with a skull design in his hand. he can hear voices in his head. everyone around him is ignoring him and walking through him like he’s a ghost or something. he gets a text with strange instructions from an unknown number and it can’t be deleted from his phone. then a timer appears burned into the palm of his hand. then then he gets attacked by giant frogs.

and then the opening movie plays lol.

finally he runs into a girl wearing a dreadfully low-waisted skirt who convinces him to ‘forge a pact’ with her. together they fight off the frog monsters with…psychic powers…derived from using pins (different ones from the skull one mentioned above.)… just a normal day.

then and only then do we get any exposition. edgy protagonist-kun is named neku. exposition girl with a screwed up secret is named shiki. (and she never explains??? why??? she knows stuff that you don’t???)

1. you’re being forced to play “the reapers’ game”, which lasts one week, and the only real objective is simply to survive that long. the only way to escape the game is to win. if you fail, you’re ‘erased’, and the remnants of your being are scattered to oblivion.

2. you survive each day by completing a daily mission assigned to you by the reapers (the people running this death game), which usually consists of solving puzzles, defeating monsters (called ‘noise’; they look like weird animals), or simply reaching a location. and you’re under a time limit.

3. you have to forge a psychic pact with someone else in order to stay alive. that’s the only way your magic pins will work. and if your partner is erased, you only have seven minutes maximum before you fade away as well. the two of you gotta work together. (this is a problem for neku ‘i hate people’ sakuraba, who doesn’t seem to understand the situation he’s just gotten himself into)

this is the basic information you get at the start. shiki is surprised that you don’t already know the stuff listed above. neku missed reapers’ game orientation, apparently. (they actually never explain this.) other fun stuff that shiki either didn’t bother to tell you or legitimately didn’t know either include:

1. entry fees. whatever you cherish most is taken away from you. you get it back if you win the game. it can be something physical, psychological, related to other people, etc etc. neku doesn’t know what his is.

2. you’re dead. yeah. you are all in the afterlife. on a different plane of being called the ‘underground’, or ‘ug’ for short. as opposed to the ‘realground’, or ‘rg’. (the rg and ug occupy the same space, hence why it looks like you’re just in a normal city, but on different levels and that’s why you can’t directly interact with the living people around you. but you can kinda haunt them in a way cuz you’re basically a ghost.) anyway neku has amnesia and doesn’t even remember dying (important) and yeah, you have to win this game in order to come back to life.

3. or, that’s what you’re told, at least. turns out even if you survive the game, it’s not guaranteed that you’ll be reborn. you actually have to earn enough points while playing. you see, it’s not like every single person actually has to clear the mission each day. as long as at least one pair of partners does, you all survive the day. pass go, collect $200. assuming something else didn’t kill you. so you’d be tempted to free-ride off the efforts of others, right?

well, if you make it to the end but you didn’t do jack, you’re not coming back to life. you can play the game again, or you can actually become a reaper if you’re a crazy person, or you can just give up on existence and let yourself be erased right there and then. all of these are options even for people who do have enough points to be brought back to life. but why would you do that without a very specific insane intention

anyway this has only scratched the surface of the actual story so i’ll probably make a part 2 talking about the other characters and stuff lol

[thehomothings]

Analysis of Kite's conflicting moralities, relationship with death, and the toll reincarnation may take on one's psyche

So, today I decided to compile all the thoughts I have had about Kite's interesting worldview since the first time I saw him into one post, mostly for my own sake, really. If you're familiar with the few posts I've made, you know it's gonna be a mess, but hopefully a comprehensible mess.

A heads up, this is going to be spoiler-heavy, and very much deal with subjects of death and dying as a whole. Also, some of these conclusions are drawn from my own experiences and close brushes with death, I'm not going to go into much detail but it might get personal and definitely dark. I'm not even sure if I can call this a meta-analysis, and I'm obviously no expert, so mayhaps take all of this with a grain of salt.

Been getting into drawing lately, and during the more simple and mindless part of the painstaking process of dotting every single star in this, I let my thoughts wander through the latest part of the fic I'm writing, and I got a better grasp on what exactly made Kite such an elusive character to me.

I'm not quite sure why I got so attached to Kite. Perhaps it was the air of tragedy surrounding him, how despite his sordid past he remained still open and gentle even if outlined by a healthy dose of cynicism.

But sometimes, I think it's the fact that he is so paradoxical. He's brave, yet fears death to such a degree that creates a whole Nen ability around it, is a pacifist yet will not hesitate to spill blood for his own sake or someone else's. Despite the many ultimatums and warnings of 'I will not protect you', he gave his arm and then his life to save Gon and Killua. He approaches each hunt and battle with a clear plan of action in mind, but his Hatsu takes the form of a roulette that gives him random weapons which are never what he wants, but what he seems to need for that exact situation, which he cannot dispel without using. When he draws a weapon, the decision is locked in and his or his opponent's fate is sealed. That's why each time he dubbs his weapon a bad roll. Every time he has to gamble, he sees himself as having run out of luck. When it comes to having to choose between himself and somebody else...well, there had never been a choice. In fact his aversion to using it may feed into its sheer power that we, unfortunately, saw too little of.

Let's go over his very first appearance when he saves Gon from the mother Foxbear.

It's not hard to see the strain searching for Ging has put on him; he's rash, prone to anger and punching a child for daring to get into trouble. In his mind, he's failing at his most important task, has not yet earned the right to call himself a hunter despite being in possession of his very own hunter license.

After killing the mother Foxbear and raging about having done so, he says this interesting line:

So yes, he finds killing for any reason rather irksome as most would do, yet I think something deeper caused him to absolutely lose it in this scene:

He had not been aware of Gon's identity, and despite being an animal lover and a naturalist, he made a choice to save the human instead of allowing nature to run its course. In fact, he says: 'No beast that harms a human must be allowed to live.'

How does one weight one life against another? How is the worth of it determined? The value of life... an impossible choice he's faced with and a choice which he seems to regret to some degree.

The Foxbear cub.

Here, he's speaking from experience, a tangible loss he has felt himself, and a hard and bitter life he does not want to impose on the cub.

His backstory is exclusive to the 2011 anime adaptation but there are hints alluding to it in the manga, for example, the fact that he does not seem to know his birthplace, or:

The choice of words is chilling.

Reading between the lines, one could draw the conclusion that he is an orphan. Something supporting this hypothesis is how he visibly deflates after Gon tells him his parents have (presumably) died.

So we see he is willing to go against his own moral code of not killing as to not doom another living being to the life he led, a lonely, hopeless existence that could barely be called one. He saw it best to put down the cub rather than leave it to die a painful, slow death.

The reason Kite himself isn't as cynical and cold-hearted as one would be after witnessing cruelty in its rawest form is those small crumbs of human kindness which he may have found in Ging.

It was not only a chance at an honorable life being Ging's apprentice gave him, but it also 'saved' him from being broken and twisted into what he hated and worst of all, death.

If we take that one minute of backstory as canon to his character-which I find myself inclined to do- these quirks of his make much more sense. He lived on the run. He lived on the knife's edge between giving up or pushing forwards. He lived as so a wrong move could be the difference between survival and the end.

Between rock and a hard place creates a mentality of black and white, absolute good or extreme evil, this or that. Except in reality, it's much harder than that. Deciding who to save and who to strike down is a heavy burden to bear.

It's almost easy to see how struggling to keep surviving could lend itself to a crippling fear of death and subsequently developing a Nen ability which once more goes against his own moral code in order to give himself a second chance...yet something about it strikes me as unlikely when I look at it this way.

Living life knowing it could end at any moment has the opposite effect, at least for me it did. One comes to accept that it is fleeting and while not eager to let it go, when death eventually and inevitably does come, there is no fighting it.

Especially when there is no hope that tomorrow will be a better day than this one.

Frequent near-death experiences numb one's fear in a way, even if it drives them to take precautions that render it unlikely to happen again and results in c-PTSD, but still, it does. It sparks a certain nihilistic view of 'if it all can end so easily, then what's the point of it all?'

Unless there are things to live for, a sure promise of a better future, and Ging gave Kite that. When he faced the threat of losing his second chance at life:

Really, what else could lead someone to develop the ability of 'the hell I'm going to die like this'?

I think a separate event, an even more brutal near-death experience that almost cost him his life as the hunter he so strived to be set him off to develop the secret roll of Crazy Slots, what I call Roll No.0, Ars moriendi. Unlike other weapons, it cannot come up in random and is directly summoned by him, or better said, summon by his overwhelming will to keep going and hopelessness of fighting a losing battle. I don't believe roll No.3 was the weapon that allowed him to reincarnate. I've named that one Wand of Fortune, a sort of armor instead of an offensive weapon since I find it hard to believe Kite, a Conjurer, would not focus on defences as well, and I will go into both mechanisms of these weapons hopefully in his backstory.

Despite knowing this battle to be a pointless one and being acutely aware of his soon to be demise, he did not immediately draw Ars moriendi, no, he stayed back and fought for the sake of the boys, kept Neferpitou occupied until they could reach safety. We can see evidence of this in the aftermath of the battle that seemed to have gone on until dawn, a torn apart landscape only signaling a fraction of the devastation that was Kite's power unleashed. It still wasn't enough.

In the anime sub I watched, when Gon apologizes to Ging about Kite's death, Ging said a sentence that infuriated me, because it belittled the utter suffering of the NGL trio.

"He would not die in your place." (No screenshot, sorry)

And I remember practically shouting at the screen, screaming 'how could you possibly say that? Of course he did. He absolutely did die in their place. How could you not know your own apprentice? Why-'

It was only last night that it hit me why Ging would say that.

Once upon a time, maybe Kite would not have given his life for anybody under any circumstances, even if he had a way out of it all. He would still need to die to come back to life.

His Thanatophobia could be attributed to the (possibly untreated) PTSD of the near-death experience in his later life, being so certain of dying that finding himself alive afterwards drove him to never want to go through that again. He quieted his fear by creating a sort of a loophole, that even if he lost the battle he would remain. Ging remembered that, but as evidence shows, something changed. Maybe he healed a bit, perhaps growing up dulled his fear to a certain degree, but eventually when it came down to his life or another's, he didn't choose himself.

Now, I can hear you saying 'but he didn't die, so what are you going on about??' And so I reply: Yes, he is alive, but he did die. He experienced that painful, horrible moment of staring death in the eyes and thinking 'This is it, this is the end', went through the actual process of having his soul removed from his body. And that moment stretches into infinity, ten lifetimes condensed into the mere seconds before oblivion.

Dying isn't so hard if one stays dead.

It's not so easy to open one's eyes and find oneself alive again after that, no matter how much that is the heart's desire. It's difficult, nigh-impossible to reconcile with life and walk amongst the living when everything had been so final, when death had been accepted to its fullest.

So Kite awakens, the twin of Meruem and back from the dead, his mind and identity both intact and fractured. In that he is Kite is no mistaking, yet he is not the same gentle pacifist whose first reaction upon sensing a monster's aura was to shield two kids from it at the cost of his arm.

I don't think many of you are familiar with Zoroastrian ideology, but Togashi is known for loving his religious imagery, and it's not only Christianism he derives inspiration from (evidence of which can be seen all over Kite's character and resurrection).

In Zurvanism-a branch of Zoroastrianism- there is talk of the twin spirits: Ahura Mazda -epitome of all that is good- and Ahriman -epitome of all that is evil-, the parent god Zurvin decides that the firstborn may rule in order to bring "heaven, hell, and everything in between."

Upon becoming aware of this fact, Ahriman forcibly tears through the womb to emerge first. Sounding familiar yet?

Zurvan relents to this turn of events only on one condition: Ahriman is given kingship for 9000 years, and then Ahura Mazda may rule for eternity.

Meruem ruled for 40 days, his death leaving the throne vacant for ant Kite, wearing a dead girl's face and seeming to be brewing some nefarious plan. No more is there any sign of that unrelenting pacifism and the sanctity of life he held so high, losing his own may have only served to show him how meaningless the pain and suffering he went through had been, dying only to be reborn as a member of the species that killed him. It may be that he has no desire to rule over the remaining Chimera ants or create an army of his own-

Yet I dread to think what a broken mind possessing limitless power might do to the world.

And that's it. If you made it this far, thank you for reading! If you found it interesting, stay tuned, as I think a lot and I will make it your problem.

[dreamingsnowflake2013]

Anthony Bridgerton had sex with countless women in his life but only Kate Sharma has managed to fuck his brains out into a blissful oblivion like no one else ever before and made him complete. Gone is the jaded, restless man who left behind scores of women without so much as a second glance. He’s spent the whole night sleeping with his head turned to her and his left arm stretched out under Kate’s head, serving as her pillow! Knowing Anthony (by his own admission), he was most likely dreaming about her the whole time, too! She’s just given him the best night of his life and left him wanting for more, a lifetime of more. 

He wants to cuddle with her, bask in the afterglow and enjoy the aftercare, kiss her and maybe even ask for another round of lovemaking. Anthony is literally glowing because Kate’s made him smile again. He might have been lovestruck by her for a long time but now he becomes fuckstruck as well. He expects, no, needs Kate to be there, lying by his side in his arms, because for the first time in his life he has expectations and hopes. 

Instead, when he opens his eyes and leans toward Kate, he only finds an empty place. Perplexed, Anthony immediately looks around searching for her, hoping to catch a glimpse of her running around a corner. In a stark contrast to the first episode, now, it’s him who is left alone in the morning by the only woman he never wanted to leave (his transformation apparent), just when he doesn’t want to be alone nor run away from love anymore. 

What can a man do when the love of his life runs away from him? He chases after her like he has always done, especially as he’s had ample practice. In that aspect, there is no man in the world more qualified for the task of finding and hunting down Miss Kathani Sharma than Viscount Bridgerton, he is a bit of an expert in having the Kate Sharma touch (and nose!) to be sure.

When we meet him at the beginning of the season 2, his duties have been taking a toll on Anthony’s life – he is exhausted and overworked. The only time he seeks respite is in the arms of prostitutes, each time with a different one, and while he finds physical release he never seems to find satisfaction or fulfillment. He never spends the night with them and each time he leaves with a deeply haunted, frustrated look without a second glance, wanting to get out as fast as possible. As if even sex has become a pesky business he does out of habit rather than being something to be enjoyed. 

The whole time he’s been going through the motion, existing but not truly living – his responsibilities stifling him, his wife hunt unsuccessful, his sex life disappointing. He can’t find solace and comfort no matter how hard he tries and becomes restless, weary, jaded, numb and hollow inside. Deep down, he’s been seeking something elusive (just like his search for a bride) and out of reach. 

It’s only fitting and poignant that right after another of many such exhausting days and sexual encounters he meets Kate and the moment he sees her, racing across the woods so unrestrained, vibrant and full of life and joy, he suddenly becomes alive as well because she makes him feel alive. With her, everything becomes more tangible and real.

With all the other women, sex is a business transaction without any emotional connection, no need for anything more, but with Kate, everything changes, everything is different as Anthony finally finds what he’s been searching for the whole time. And it’s only apt that one of the final moments of their story this season is another morning after scene showing Kate and Anthony enjoy the life and happiness they deserve and earned, with Kate in Anthony’s arms and him blissfully happy.