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honestsycrets · 11 months

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Amor y Respeto I: Mi Alma || [Miguel O’Hara x Latina!Reader]

Chapter II: Corazón

❛ pairing | Miguel O’Hara x FB!Reader, platonic Hobie x Reader

❛ type | oneshot

❛ summary | the moment you want a sign of love from Miguel is the moment that your relationship is fucked.

❛ tags | fuckbuddies, a very latinx piece, jealousy, jealous Miguel O’Hara, a sparse hobie appearance, spidey!reader, latina!reader, no translations of the spanish included, gif credit to the original owner, nsfw, female reader, some mention of blood and wounds, some creative liberties, slight spoilers.

❛ sy’s notes | not my usual fanfare and i’m a little rusty but miguel hit me straight in my heart. i consciously omitted spanish translations in this work. consistent pet names include mi alma (my soul) & muñeca (doll). this is not my usual fandom and i may have missed some fandom nuances, so i apologize in advance for creative liberties. lastly, emotions impact the reader’s healing capabilities, hope that's clear enough. thank you @lisinfleur and @ivarsrideordie for your help. i’ll be dropping an ivar fic soon, see you then!

In your cultura, disrespect was unacceptable.

You knew it. Your lover knew you knew it: but for you, there was something greater than respect. Amor. If he knew that you knew about her little escapade, oh, it would be unforgivable. It undercut the very foundation of what he did at HQ. But even between lovers, where the time you spent was fleeting and unstable, there were things you could not share. Besides... how would he know?

The day had been long. Your body ached with the dizzying speed of patrols past the vine-covered high-rise apartments of your beautiful city. Your room was stuffy with the tropical air struggling against humidity. With dried blood on your skin, the perfect remedy was a shower. Its warmth soothed your aching muscles after a long day. You found your mind wandering to problems that didn’t immediately demand a solution. How you’d avoid cotton mouth the next time you saw him. Sooner than you thought.

The shower door whizzed aside, plumes of steam fading into the cool air. “Shit!” you shouted, reaching to cover your body. Miguel bent his head as he stepped into your cramped shower and cupped the frame. He shut the shower door. Did he already know? You nipped your lower lip raw and the taste of blood turned your tastebuds. Somehow, you knew that he hadn’t slipped off from HQ just to have you. Not tonight. He had that glazed-over look in his sharp eyes, considering you the same way he might consider anyone else.

“Miguel?” you fluttered your lashes at him which winked off plump droplets of water. “Mi alma, que paso?”

“Did you know?”

You reached out to turn the knob of the water off. It creaked to a stop. Despite tracing the droplets that coasted down your curves, he watched you with otherwise uninterested eyes. When you failed to respond, he stomped closer, kicking up the water that swirled under your bare feet.

“Did you know?” His fist pounded the side of the shower wall. Your heart leapt into your chest where it fluttered painfully, encased in your chest. Miguel bared his angular teeth at you. Teeth that usually marred your neck with possessive bites, loving kisses, and teasing scrapes. He never bared them at you like this. It was always a possibility, never the reality.

You met his eyes. The certainty you had moments earlier that oh, he wouldn’t find out, was gone. Of course, he found out. Your Miguel always found out. With that dead, blank expression, you knew the gravity of your situation.

“Of course, I knew.” His chest swelled with forceful inhalation of air as you spoke. “But Gwen… I, they’re only kids. Kids who--”

“Kids? They are not just kids. Coño, I’d expect this of them,” he prompted your name and took a step forward. You took one back. Then another, knocking your back into the shower walls. You were like a small bird in an even smaller cage. Nowhere to run and still, he wasn’t about to give you the luxury of personal space. You were pinned between his firm chest and the two stony walls against your back. His voice lowered dangerously low, barely a murmur against the shell of your ear. “But you? You know what’s at risk.”

“They love--”

“Y que?” he snapped your name out again. “Tell me, when those kids destroy thousands of lives, what does that change? Have you ever stopped to think of that? Of the lives this will ruin?”

“I just... wanted them happy. If even for an instant.” You hung your head. He set his clawed hand to the side of your head, combing through the stringy strands of your hair down with a false care that you wanted to believe in. But it was entangled in the strings of his manipulation. “Of course, you have, muñequita.”

“Then can’t they--” His hand balled up into a fist and careened with the wall behind you. Your head snapped away as his claws unfurled and released crumbling bits of the wall by your naked toes. You’d have to clean that up-- later. You took a deep breath and exhaled the frustration that packed away in your belly. “Sabes qué? I am sorry that love isn’t enough for you, I am sorry that I have never been enough for you.”

“No. No puedo con esto,” he looked down at you. As he leaned in, his forearm above your head supported his body weight. “Muñeca, por favor. This isn’t about us.”

“Why can’t it be?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I just want to be with you, but you won’t let me in,” you reached out. The soft pads of your fingertips hovered by his sharp jawline eased past his ear and into his ruffled hair. For a second, brief as it were, his eyes softened. He leaned into the touch. You had your window. “Why won’t you let me in?”

Whether or not he was past the anger, the disrespect, his thick arms wound around the small of your waist. In some bid to bring you back to your senses-- to him, he set his forehead against your own, dwelling in the soft scent of your floral soap that filled his nose. You tilted your head, capturing his lips in a kiss. His body became as sturdy: unmoving and guarded.

“I can’t give you what you need.” He reached back to remove your hands from his hair and with care settled them back on your moist chest. As he made his way out of your bathroom, his warning echoed through your mind. “Stay out of my way.”

Miguel’s love was unstable. Affection, not love. If you were honest with yourself, you would admit that you always knew it was bound to fail. You were lucky for what time you had with him. It made subsequent missions all the harder, wrapped up in this innate desire to be loved by a man who allowed himself to be loved by none. Without his affection, HQ felt barren. Its many corridors held no life, no love, and no prospect of a better future. Yet, for Miguel, there you were. Your ballet flats tapped furiously alongside the ringing stomps of your partner’s steel-toed boots.

“Ay bendito, this isn’t healing,” you dabbed your fingers in the blood at your shoulder, storming past a sea of red and blue that parted for the pair of you. Your neck was oozing-- well, not oozing so much as soaking your outfit. The mission could have gone better. Sometimes your mind wandered at the worst of times. It didn’t matter, not now. It was done, he would be happy, and it would be enough for today. All that you did you did for him-- and he knew it.

“Your man won’t be happy about that,” Hobie cut through the crowd while walking backward. He made it look so easy. Conviction, you guessed, made life much easier.

“No,” you took the end of your silky rebozo and held it to your shoulder. “He only cares about results. We have good results. What does he have to be angry about? He has everything he wants.”

“Hm.” Hobie hummed, span around, and leaned over your shoulder. He was on your tail with his aggravatingly long legs no matter how quickly you walked.

“Hobie, por dios.”

“He broke up with you, didn’e?”

You didn’t have to answer him. You didn’t even need to talk to him. You could just keep walking and leave it to his imagination. Yet, your face faltered. The perceptive man he was, Hobie twisted in front of your path. He leaned his hips back and sank his face inches apart from yours. Hobie quirked a smile in his lazy eyes and an adorable lip pout. Your eye centered on his piercing to avert your focus from his words.

“Yeah,” he answered his own question. “Bet he did.”

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” you swerved around him.

“Maybe.” Hobie shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and sped after you. “But I’m with you.”

“How sweet.”

You knew your Miguel would be there: on that stupid platform, staring at multiple screens, at a lost life, departed from his reality in any other capacity but maintaining the happiness of others. Well, others that weren’t like you. You found him in that very same position when you pressed into his lab.

“What is it now?”

“We’ve taken care of it-- Hobie and I.”

“Good,” came his dry response. “Is that all?”

“Not in the mood to talk to your girl, eh?” Hobie clicked, throwing his arm over your shoulder: not out of care, or friendship, but spite. No matter the institution, Hobie always seemed to harbor harsh feelings for those in charge. If it meant pissing him off a little, rattling up the flow of HQ, Hobie was always an eager volunteer. Hobie turned his lips to your ear and prompted your name, “C’mon, leave him. Let's go get a drinky drink.”

You bit out a cry at the pressure on your neck, the damn thing wasn’t healing nearly as fast as it needed to be. You blamed the bundles of anxiety that rattled up emotions low in your belly. It was still open, soaking Hobie too. He didn’t mind a little blood on his shorn uniform. Good for the image, and all that.

“That hurt, Hobie!”

Miguel threw a glance over his shoulder. Just a moment, but enough to spot something else that agitated him. Your normally white outfit, fluttery and light, splattered with the blood that painted your red rebozo a little redder. Or maybe it was Hobie’s lips on your ear, making remarks about beer-- or whiskey-- or-- Molotov--

“Get off,” Miguel pounced down from his kingly stoop and flicked Hobie’s wrist. He snaked his wrist away, shoving his palms back into his pants. You threw him a look knowing that it was not because Miguel told him to but because he felt like it. The devil’s advocate that he was. Miguel unraveled the rebozo from your neck. His hand grasped your chin and angled it one way, then the other, rumbling in clear agitation “You’re wounded.”

“Déjame quieta. Don’t touch me.”

“And you?” Miguel rocked back on his heels, setting his well-corded arms on his hips. Then, he angled his body toward Hobie. “Where were you?”

Hobie lifted his pierced eyebrow. “He serious?”

“I can handle myself.”

“Can you? And you-- why are you still here?” Though Miguel asked the question, it was a statement. Hobie held his palms up, fluttering his fingers in mockery. You watched Miguel run his fingers down the bloody rebozo, counting its bloodied inches.

“Vente conmigo.” He leaned into your ear. The trill of his voice danced down your spine, low and husky. Your mind wandered to the many nights he whispered just the same in your ear. You suppressed the shiver, your heartbeat trembling so violently you were sure you could hear its pathetic thumping, nearly a cry. It hadn’t been long but... you missed this.

“You told me to stay out of your way. I am staying out of your way. Give me--”

“I won’t ask again. Either you come or I’ll make you.” That was it then. A flash of disbelief snapped across your face. The gall of this man. Even though he told you to stay out of the way, he demanded that you leave the lab with him? You caught Hobie perking up to look your way with shiny curious eyes. He pointed to his chest and then yours, suggesting… something you’d ignore. Hobie slipped out a smug hum.

“I’ll catch up with you later, Hobie.”

There were no good alternatives. You knew he would make good on his threat. Not that you particularly would want to fight him anyway. Whether it was respect or obligation, you ran after your Miguel, who already walked away. You snatched the rebozo from his waiting hand, suspended in the air.

Yes, your life was a delicate balance between love and respect. You weren’t sure which of those guided you back to Miguel’s dimly lit room. Only that as you sat on his bed, your once-was lover was behind you. His fingers worked swiftly on your neck, furiously tugging at your sore neck with what felt like a needle. No point complaining. It would eventually end. You could go find the boys. They could rail you about your dating choices as they always did.

“Lyla will find you another backup partner,” he broke the silence. You rathered he didn’t operate in this limbo of false intimacy. Your lips parted into a sigh rife with agitation. The drawback of fucking your boss was this, you supposed. He controlled your life.

“No, she won’t. I like working with Hobie. I want him.”

Miguel paused short of dipping the needle back into your skin. “What do you mean-- you want him?”

“What does it sound like? I like working with Hobie. I trust Hobie. So I want Hobie by my side.” You slapped your lacey thighs and turned to gaze into those familiar eyes. “Así que, no, I do not need another backup. I don’t need you controlling every inch of my work life. I need you to hurry up.”

“Muñeca. If you’re emotional, you’ll heal slower.”

“Do not call me that,” you jumped from his lush bed. Your neck squealed for you to stop and let him fix what was clearly broken with the slack thread that connected your body to his. Oh, and what a metaphor it felt like. Your life was sewn together by a man who held all the strings in his hands. “You don’t get to call me that. Not anymore. You made it clear how little you feel about me-- and my feelings.”

He lifted his eyes to yours. A long, slow look. The sort of look that made you question it all. As if the things you said weren’t really from your lips, no matter how sure you were of them. You broke the exchange first and grasped the long strand embedded deep in your neck.

“Your feelings,” he held out his hand and tugged the line, “tend to get in the way of what needs to be done.”

Startled, you looked down at his open palm. You slipped your smaller fingers into the middle of his palm and sat back on the bed. He slid behind you, pressing his core against your backside-- because that was completely necessary. With soft care, he shifted your hair over the opposing shoulder and continued his work.

“Apart from that, you shouldn’t have gone on that mission. You were distracted. If you weren’t so emotional,” Miguel murmured. “We wouldn’t be here.”

If you weren’t emotional? You screwed your eyebrows together in a pathetic attempt to ignore what he just said. To ignore the way that he demeaned the fuel of your abilities, what guided you through this traumatic thing called life. Meanwhile, Miguel functioned on minimal emotion-- the suppression of what he’d lost by protecting what he was.

“It’s your fault I was distracted in the first place.”

“You should be able to control your own feelings.”

“Fine. Apúrate. I’ll get out of your way.”

Miguel snapped the healing aid thread and ran his clawed fingertips across the long streaks on your neck and shoulder. It was mere moments that he lingered there circling your neck. As your breathing evened out, you felt your body pull together fibrous strands of tissue and heal. Yet, you couldn’t care.

“Done.” Miguel refused to address your gaze but opted to draw your top back into place to over your breasts. You stood and secured the buttons of your halter top behind your neck. That was it. You’d return to your duties, healed half by your emotions and half by Miguel. You would need to learn to ignore the love you had for him. One day, all this would be well. Miguel rolled up the excess thread around his reel.

Fine. If he was going to ignore you--

“Do you think,” you paused long enough to debate your words. Enough for Miguel to glance up with his stoic red eyes and lift an eyebrow at you. It irritated you how unemotional and consistently unbothered he could be when you stood there just the opposite. Always desperate for a sign of his feelings. “Hobie wants to fuck?”

There were some lines you should never cross. While you would never actually fuck your partner, the mere mention of the thought ever crossing your mind was one step too far. It was terribly disrespectful. Miguel’s reel plopped onto the floor and rolled short of your feet.

You slid your palms over your hips before hooking at the bend in your waist. His gaze focused on the glide of your hands trailing slowly down your sides. Sides that he often snatched in the dead of night after a warm shower. Or that he’d cling to during lovemaking. Your following words caused him to lurch off the bed. “Qué piensas? He might still be in HQ, no?”

“What,” His hand fit along your neck like a tight collar. The next moment, pain radiated from your skull and blurred your vision. The pain licked flames of excitement to life in your belly. A gasp slipped from your lips. Instead of shock, your cry was tinged with delight. With his wild brown hair slumping forward over his scarlet eyes, he was more beautiful than ever. His claws squeezed your neck, jerking and slamming your head once more. His breath tickled your cheek. “What did you say?”

Of course, he couldn’t help himself: the control freak. He was a genius. You knew he knew it was bait. He had to. But your looming threat was enough for him to take the risk. Your lips curled, laughing your words rather flippantly. “I said-- do you think Hobie wants to fuck?”

You eviscerated his already thin patience. The searing pain of his fangs piercing your battered neck seared all thoughts of Hobie from your mind. Your hands choked out a pitiful cry. “Miguel, Miguel, Miguel-- calma.”

The familiar burn of his frantic biting, his violent ownership of your body, made your body slick. He lifted your hips onto his, legs dangling over his slim thighs. Crunched up against his massive body, you felt small but as if you were the focus of his world. Just how you loved to feel when you were encased in his arms.

“You think he could fuck you like I can?” His gravelly voice rumbled. His face pinched tight, daring your response. “That you can replace me— so easily?”

No, the answer was a resounding no. But he didn’t need to know that. If Miguel thought he could play games with you, you’d play games with him. The last forty-eight hours had been a blur of his rejection. It was only fair that Miguel felt the same.

Blood seeped down from your neck, a feeling you were accustomed to today. On the other hand, you weren’t accustomed to how he tore into your uniform as if it were as offensive as your harsh words. You calmly noted that you were glad to have multiple: a consequence of doing this work too long.

That was it. You slid your hands up his forearms, around his firm biceps, to his broad shoulders. There you rested your arms, knocking your foreheads gently together. Past the rage, you recognized the slightest hint of fear in his eyes. The promise that you were lying. For security under another name. You refused to give it to him: he never gave it to you.

“He is Spiderman, isn’t he?”

He shifted the pad of his finger between your lips. Your tongue slid over his thumb, crooked in your mouth to suppress any more words that he may regret hearing or that you may regret saying.

“He may be,” Miguel rasped. His lips quirked into a wicked grin. With Miguel’s sudden sharpness, you weren’t expecting to see his smile. You welcomed it, a rare delight that you found yourself loathing the more he spoke. “But you’re mine.”

His. The inklings of fear you previously spotted in the depth of Miguel’s eyes seemed to weaken, sliding his thumb from your lips, rolling past your nipple, and the muscles of your stomach. He slid past your vulva, trailing with expert care along your slit. It was barely a touch if even a graze. Words failed to form. They were a thick bolus in your throat, congealed and thick.

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “I thought so.”

Your eyes trailed Miguel’s strong jawline and ambled up toward his lips. Your gaze lingered there as his fingers slipped between your lips, finding your cunt soft and wet. His eyes flickered toward your shy gaze and danced his lips against yours by virtue of his words. “It doesn’t seem like you’re that interested in finding him.”

“How would you know?” you cried out when one of his clawed fingers dipped inside your body. Your hips jerked onto his hand to seek out more of him. Your traitorous, awful body. It wasn’t comfortable when he scratched you while stroking your velvety inner walls. But you always needed more of his touch.

“Oh,” Miguel hummed. He bent close-- your eyes now focused on his high cheekbones. You couldn’t look him in the eyes and know that he knew how weak you were for him. “I know. It’s the way you look at me.”

“As if--” You dropped your eyes, reveling in the pressure of his prodding fingers, the delight in having him here, with you, once again. It shouldn’t have felt as intimate, as comforting as it did, but it did. His fingers withdrew, pleased with his work. “You know I can give you what you need.”

“You said you couldn’t,” Miguel slipped his fingers into your mouth: sweet and sour with your own excitement and the scratches of blood. His hands worked at the waist as you secured yourself on the wall with your hands, knowing what was next-- and expecting it.

“I lied.” he drawled out, a long hum. He spat on his hand and rubbed himself as you watched, anticipating the soft prod of his cock’s head at your entrance. It hadn’t been long. Yet, as he buried himself in the warmth of your body, you inhaled a wealth of air into your chest, exhaling it in soft shudders. Perhaps it was the fear of never having this again.

His large hands shifted underneath your ass and pinned you square against the wall. His claws drew blood to the surface of superficial cuts. Your hands snapped to his shoulders and clung onto him for some security. You found no rest between the wall chafing your back and Miguel’s long, pointed strokes into your body. Your body burned with the pull of his dick dragging in and out of your cunt, fighting to keep him inside with every squeeze and pull. He wasn’t lying, you knew. But it didn’t matter. Not when you were his complete and utter focus.

Miguel let a word of praise slip free as he ground into you. With a wall of muscle before you and the sturdy wall behind, breathing was slight and hard to come by. It had to be what he wanted-- to make you focus on him and him alone. It’s what you deserved after antagonizing the man. Your hands found his hair, knotting your fingers in it, and accepting the ferocity of his deep, then shallow strokes into your core. Your eyes flitted shut as he bottomed out, grinding his hips in tight circles. As you came, your body furiously clenched onto his cock, slowing his sweeping thrusts.

You craved it: the moment of Miguel’s weakness. Your body urged out his orgasm with a noise tempered by pleasure and annoyance. Your cunt milking earned you a particularly firm slam of his hips. Miguel would drag you down to take it all. He spilled into you with a deliciously unique warmth, grinding his hips until spent. His forehead rested on the crook of your neck. In place of another hard bite, he gently kissed your collarbone and throat. After he finished, he settled you down onto the floor. But your legs were sloppy, weak shaky things. Miguel snatched your hand as you swayed to keep yourself upright.

“I have to go,” you held his hand begrudgingly for support. Then bent down to pick up strips of your clothes. Yet another victim of your relationship with him. You would have to... mend this. Somehow. Probably not. “They’re expecting me--”

“Muñeca,”

“Cálmate, Miguel. You know I’m not going to fuck him,” you swiped the coursing fluids down your thigh. You dragged your hand down Miguel’s firm chest and danced your finger up his chest to flip up his chin. He glanced down, puffing air from his nostrils in protest. His eyes rolled, oh so slightly. “He’s not my type. I like them big, mm?”

“You would if he was?” he bristled.

“I never said that.” You said. Despite this fact, certain needs needed to be met. Ones that if he didn’t fill, someone else would. You both knew this. Your work was long and stressful and done in the name of the man who was before you. If for nothing but that love, you knew you would keep going. You believed in Miguel: his choices and his heart.

“You didn’t need to.”

“Mi alma--” you stopped, waving your hand at his pet name. “All this is fleeting. I need someone that will meet my needs. To tell me they love me. Can you?”

He pressed his lips together and stewed on your request. You knew without a question in your mind what that answer was. In the aftermath of sex with Miguel, he was closer to you than ever. And yet, it was impossible to convince him of an actual connection. For him, it was easier to leave you than love you.

He didn’t need to say it.

“I know you, Miguel. You didn’t lie. It was the truth,” you slipped your hand from his. Instead, you opted to set a fleeting kiss on the side of his lip. For better or worse, he didn’t reciprocate. Your steps carried you backward. Then, you afforded him a small deprecating smile. “Other than sex, you can’t give me what I need.”

#Miguel O'Hara x Reader #miguel ohara x reader #spiderman imagines #spiderman imagine #spider 2099 x reader #sy writes #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara oneshot #miguel ohara oneshot #across the spiderverse imagine #marvel imagines

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cirilla-fiona-riannon · 7 months

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Absolute Submission to the Queen

Translations may not always capture the exact nuances or tone of the original text. Expect grammatical errors.

Blank, and ageless blogs will be blocked.

To prevent Silvio from being treated like a dog any longer, I needed him to stop being overprotective.

(I'm glad he feels the way he does, but this is really painful to see.)

Rio and Silvio went in opposite directions, turning their backs on each other.

Even after hearing the rumors, he didn't put me down.

Emma: "Prince Silvio, I have a favor to ask."

Silvio: "Denied."

Emma: "I haven't said anything yet."

Silvio: "You're probably going to say something about wanting to walk on your own."

(He's sharp.)

Emma: "Then, please take me to the doctor."

Silvio: "Is something wrong with you?"

Emma: "No. I just think it's about time to remove the bandages."

(If there's no reason for him to take care of me, then maybe...)

Silvio: "Denied."

Emma: "Why not!?"

Silvio: "If you take them off, you'll definitely want to walk."

Emma: "Isn't that a good thing?"

Silvio: "........."

Emma: "Huh? Why are you suddenly silent?"

Silvio: "You've been yapping nonstop since earlier."

I still had so much to say, but Silvio silenced me by stealing my words with a kiss.

Silvio: "Just let me spoil you while I can."

(It doesn't seem like he's going to give up.)

It was pretty tough to get a tyrant to change his decision once he made up his mind.

(I guess I'll see how things go until my foot fully heals.)

A week later, I was once again being carried by him.

Emma: "Put me down!"

Silvio: "I ain't putting you down."

Emma: "My leg has already healed a long time ago!"

Emma: "Even the doctor said I could walk."

Silvio: "I don't care."

(Something's wrong.)

His overprotectiveness had always been there, but this time, it felt like it had gone beyond the usual level.

(At first, I thought he was just worried about me, but now I suspect there might be something else.)

No matter how much I looked at him, I still couldn't find the answer.

The only thing I was sure of was that he had no intention of giving up being like a dog.

(What should I do?)

The rumors were still circulating in Benitoite, and every time I went outside, I wanted to cover my face with my hand because of the gazes directed at me.

(And day by day, he's becoming less and less responsive to my requests.)

I could still feel his agitation when I tried hugging his neck, but that's it.

Emma: "Prince Silvio."

Silvio: "That won't work."

(I need to think of another plan.)

(A special plan that will make him listen to my request.)

Emma: "………."

Silvio: "How long are you going to sulk?"

That night, Silvio tried to feed me again, but I averted my gaze.

It might be a straightforward approach, but I'd decided to maintain a defiant attitude for a while.

(He seems restless lately, so this should have an effect.)

Silvio: "Geez, you're such a handful."

However, he sighed in exasperation and circled around in front of me.

I tried to turn my face away again, but he firmly grabbed my chin.

Silvio: "I can see through your intentions."

(If you can see through them, why not just stop?)

He took a nearby drink, kissed me, and forcibly opened my lips with his thumb, allowing the drink to flow down my throat.

I couldn't finish it all, and some spilled from the corner of my lips, which he wiped away with his tongue.

His sudden actions made my defiant attitude fade away.

Emma: "What do you think you're doing!?"

Silvio: "I'm trying to feed you."

Emma: "I'll eat by myself!"

Silvio: "Denied."

Emma: "Aren't you the one being stubborn?"

Silvio: "Ha? I'm not being stubborn."

Emma: "You're being stubborn. You're not even listening to a word I'm saying."

Silvio: ".........."

Emma: "What's really wrong with you?"

Silvio: "Nothing."

Silvio: "I just don't understand why you're so against it."

Silvio: "Do you dislike being taken care of?"

Emma: "I do. Because you're not just some random guy; you're my fiancé. You're not a dog."

Emma: "Or maybe you really want to become a dog?"

There was a brief silence after I provocatively said that.

Silvio: “Maybe that’s not a bad idea.”

(Really!?)

Emma: “Prince Silvio, are you sure you’re not sick?”

Silvio: “No, I’m not.”

I could feel a hint of heat from the hand resting on my forehead.

(This must have been some kind of joke for that tyrant to say he wants to be a dog.)

Silvio: “If I were to be a dog, you would be...”

Silvio: “No, forget it.”

Emma: “Is something bothering you?”

Silvio: “Don’t worry about it.”

Silvio let go of me and flopped back onto the chair across from me.

While his behavior didn’t resemble that of a dog, his eyes seemed quite serious.

Emma: “Tell me.”

(If I back down here, I feel like this overly protective issue will never be resolved.)

I stood up from the chair and embraced him.

I moved my hands in front to prevent him from escaping and brought my lips close to his blushing ear.

Emma: “If you tell me, I’ll play along.”

Silvio: “You’re getting carried away.”

Silvio: “...........”

Silvio grabbed the hand I had placed in front of him.

Silvio: “When you hurt your leg, you tried to hide it from me, but I happened to notice it by chance.”

Silvio: “I don't want you to rely on others, so I just thought I’d train you so that you could only rely on me.”

(Ah...)

(So that’s what it was.)

(He’s already overly protective, so he didn’t want to worry me.)

(But it looks like it backfired.)

Silvio: “If you’re not gonna rely on me, I’d rather become a dog.”

Silvio: "Lean only on me."

He lifted my hand that he had been holding and pressed his lips against it.

Then he sucked my wrist, leaving behind a faint pain and a mark.

There seemed to be a sense of earnestness in that mark, making my chest tighten.

Emma: "I understand."

(This is my fault.)

(So I'll rely on him as much as it takes to reassure him.)

Emma: "If that's the case, I want you to remove my shoes."

Silvio: "Didn't you just tell me you didn't want to be taken care of?"

Emma: "That's because I didn't understand your intentions."

Emma: "This is what you wanted, right?"

Silvio: "Well, yeah."

(To be honest, it's a bit... no, it’s really embarrassing.)

He stood up and made me sit on the chair.

Then he knelt in front of me and used his mouth to untie the ribbon of my shoes.

Although kneeling in front of someone to remove their shoes wasn't something a prince would normally do, it looked like he didn't mind it as long as it wasn't an order he disliked.

His clumsy affection that showed through was so endearing.

(Still...)

It seemed like he was a bit embarrassed by the current situation, as there was a slight blush on his cheeks.

Watching him like that, the mischievous side of me peeked out.

(He might scold me for this, but...)

I gently stroked his head, and he reacted quite noticeably.

Silvio: "Cut it out."

Emma: "I suddenly felt like petting you. Am I not allowed?"

Silvio: "You're grinning."

Emma: "If you don't like it, you can shake me off."

I continued to pet him, and he remained calm.

Silvio: "Tch, why am I even doing this?"

Emma: "It's my way of saying thank you."

Emma: "Besides, you mentioned letting me experience what it's like to be a queen."

(If that's the case, I should be able to do as I please. I don't need to hold back with him.)

I brought up the words he had said to me before, and Silvio burst out laughing.

Silvio: "Ah, damn it. Feel free to give me any orders, Your Majesty."

Emma: "Then, after removing my shoes, I'd like you to put me to bed."

Silvio: "So, that means you want me to take you to the bath, help you change clothes, and then carry you to bed?"

Emma: "Not all of that..."

He suddenly lifted me and started unbuttoning my dress.

His actions were unreserved and relentless, making the situation more intense than I’d anticipated.

(I want him to spoil me, but this is...!)

The dress fell to the floor, and in an instant, I found myself in my underwear.

I was so embarrassed that my fingertips trembled.

Emma: "I'll do it...Nnn..."

Before I could finish my sentence, he silenced me with a kiss and swiftly removed my underwear.

The tyrant, who had been blushing and had his head petted just a while ago, was nowhere to be found.

He held me close with one arm, his fingers sliding over my skin.

Silvio: "You gave the order, right? I'll serve you wholeheartedly throughout the night."

Part 1╎Part 2╎Premium╎Epilogue╎Special Story

#ikemen prince #ikepri silvio #silvio ricci #ikepri #ikepri jp #ikepri translations #cybird #ikepri spoilers

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goblins-riddles-or-frocks · 1 year

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Overall I’m glad AMC IWTV exists and I enjoy the new things it brings to the table. But I think it simply didn’t linger on the themes and emotional beats I personally loved most in the original story? It barely had them at all tbh.

As I’ve complained previously, I do feel really strongly about Claudia and Lestat’s dynamic and how Lestat turns Claudia into a vampire to trap Louis. And just how involved he is and how complicated all three of their relationships become.

The show I feel chose to focus on the messy *romantic* relationship Lestat and Louis have. Once Claudia and Lestat hate each other, that is that and there doesn’t appear to be much more nuance there. What matters is that Louis has an abusive spouse that he can’t decide whether he loves or hated.

Meanwhile I felt that the 1:1 depiction of domestic violence flattens the metaphor for a fledgling vampire and maker in a way that’s just not as interesting to me. The very conceit of a maker and fledgling can be so interesting as a vehicle for exploring suffocating dynamics, abuse, codependency, and various sorts of complexities, in stark stylized contrast. But the introduction of bluntly framed domestic violence feels like it collapses all of that potential into the simple metaphor of a violent spouse. I also just generally didn’t like how it chose to explore this, and I would admittedly likely feel much more generously if I had thought its take was incredibly compelling on its own. But I didn’t really.

I don’t know. The show generally felt like a mixed bag. I think it had a very strong opening, and likewise strong finale. The middle dragged on, exacerbated by the simplification imo because it frankly started to feel like they didn’t have enough content. Claudia and Lestat’s animosity, particularly, began to feel one note and her later choice to kill him much less emotionally effective as a result, because when even was the last time they gave a shit about each other? It doesn’t feel like a difficult choice. Once again it only matters from the perspective of Louis’ turmoil. Which is itself an interesting one! But losing complexity here doesn’t really feel like streamlining to me, and there was plenty of lingering on the drawn out feud itself.

So idk. I enjoyed the show. I think it’s good. I really appreciate a big budget vampire series that’s dedicated to the tone and aesthetic even being out there in the current, very barren, genre landscape. I’m also really happy to see renewed interest in the general series and characters. I respect a lot of the writing choices. And simply having black vampires, who are protagonists is itself really cool and necessary! Vampire fiction tends to be a very white and racist genre! And like it’s awesome to see it be so openly queer and casual. We’re told point blank that these characters are in love and we get to see them kissing and being casually romantic without any narrative balking. That’s fantastic! I’m so glad we have it! Its amazing that this adaptation exists.

But also yeah at the end of the day it did very much gloss over the dynamics and themes that personally drew me to the story in the first place. So at this point, I’m honestly more excited to see future seasons, once its finished with the first book’s storyline and delving more into the rest of the world and the characters.

I really loved the dedication to all the easter eggs and breadcrumb trails to future VC stuff. And it’s cool that they’re clearly already approaching the story with the rest of the world and future plot developments in mind — something I honestly doubt Rice did lol. So idk I think it’s going to be a fun, wild ride going forward! But I’m also mildly lukewarm about where we are with it now.

I’m hoping I’ll feel differently on a later rewatch where I know exactly what to expect from the story and where it’s going.

#amc iwtv spoilers #interview with the vampire #vampire chronicles #amc interview with the vampire #lol is putting this in the main tags a mistake? hopefully I won’t get yelled at!#i ramble sometimes

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archer3-13 · 1 year

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"people i've noticed have a tendency to overcomplicate things, which outside of looking for hidden meaning where they dont actually exist [thereby 'missing the forest through the trees'], also tends to result in fans seeing shadows that dont actually exist. so instead of just taking the explanation for what it is and running from their in their analysis and deconstruction of the narrative and characters, they're working backwards from an assumption and filling in the blanks. and everyone's guilty of this to some extent, fandoms just happen to be good breeding grounds for these kinda assumptions to spin wildly out of control. hence they bring in complications in the form of knowledge on different styles of multiverse and diverging timelines despite what the text is actually saying and implying."

Honestly, it's not a fandom thing, it's common to literaly everything. As a literary student, I can tell you I face this every time. It's called the "danger of interpretation". When despite what the text say and don't say, people try to make it say what it doesn' without respecting the habitual method : 1) semantic sense 2) literal sense 3) comprehension 4) interpretation (regulated by the 3 first reading). This creates a lot of screen and complications in the studying of a book or a text of any kind as guiding the interpretation rewrite the reality of what the text says in the mind of the reader. Hence why so many high schoolers believe what their books edition of some of Baudelaire's poetry says about the story behind a poem when it actually has 0 factual evidences from the text itself and loosely relies on a certain interpretation that is made to coincide with said or said episode in the life of the writers. Or even Rousseau reading Molière's Misanthrope to be a tragedy when it's a comedy making fun of the character Rousseau thought was a tragic hero. That kind of reading maintains a fake impression that becomes the reading grind of a vast majority that nevers questions what the editorial notes might say, which is a problem as it varies between the editorial houses for the more the reader is expected to be mature, the less the editorial notes will affirms those interpretations it has, and will try to be more nuanced about this. It's the small elements that create the sense of said text and therfore guiding the interpretation in a certain way changes the sense of the original media. For example, when Hamlet says " you are a fishmonger" to Polonius in Shakespeare play, a reader anware of the double meaning will only understand the literal sense. Only if someone explain the double meaning will the reader understand that Hamlet implied something darker throught this metaphor/comparision. However, and i keep up with Hamlet, if the editor leaves notes where he assure as if it was the case that Ophelia did killed herself, than it creates a screen and changes the sense : from the ambuiguity of Ophelia having ended her life or not, the reader will become convinced she did it, despite the text trying to be ambiguous about it. It can be said the same about any editor trying to prouve that in Hamlet, there is no ambiguity on his feelings for Ophelia, some claimming it's obvious he lover her while other claimming it's obvious he wasn't, despite it being left rather ambiguous. And that's not even a literary field phenomenon. Historians have the same problem as they need to understand how to read properly the data they discovered in order to understanf what happened in the past. This recently happen again with the Netflix show " Cleopatra" where people argue whether or not was Cleopatra was black since she was a descendant of Ptolémeus, hence greek bloodline, arguing that she might have been black due to her mother being a slave. (the only moment where I would accuse them of rewriting history if they make Cleopatra boring when the woman drink a pearl diluted in vinegar) Not even the domain of science are save from this "danger of interpretation", but really nothing really is unless you rely on a literal interpretation of things.

(Sorry for this whole essay and dragging things off topic, but it surely is more interesting than let's say ? people arguing over the fictional relationship of 2 characters in a video game, which is probably a low standard version of academicians writing their own commentary of a classical and arguing over it except they do it to understand the meaning of the work, not to know if they have the permission to click on the "will you give Nel/Rafal the pact ring" button. All I can say to those who don't get it is that the sole fact they belong to this special category of S support we have since Awakening should be enough to get that in canon they aren't or at least are not supposed to if this really matters that is, but considering that Engage's main theme is supposed to be "who you are and blood relation doesn't matter to be a family", I am sure it's not just the xenologue logic that they missed but also one of the game's main theme. )

Admittedly I get enough of the deeper philosophy/textual analysis and argumentations at family dinners and get togethers, so i do tend to turn my brain off a bit when im just relaxin. But that all said, thank you for the academic response to bring this all back a bit more into perspective, I dont have much to add outside of a limp 'it happens in the visual arts as well'.

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lyrebirdswrites · 3 years

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Shrödinger’s Nobara

So we got an update on how Nobara is doing. It was not the update I wanted to see.

My first impulse was to consider this a point blank confirmation of her death. I still think there’s a high chance she will not be recovering, and I would advise all Nobara stans to prepare emotionally for the possibility that she really is dead if you have not done so already. However, I also think it’s possible to make a case for her survival based on the information in this scene and the context from previous chapters, and I’m going to do my best to do so. Hopefully I can provide some comfort to anyone who might be freaking out over the implications here like I was at first.

Megumi doesn’t say she’s breathing or we don’t know or even it doesn’t look good - he says nothing at all. That does not fill me with confidence. But he doesn’t directly say she is gone either. This is a good time to remember the cardinal rule of character death; it’s not confirmed until we see the body. I think until we actually have indisputable proof of her death, we should continue operating under the assessment Nitta gave when he halted the damage caused by her wounds - don’t get your hopes up, but it’s not a zero percent chance.

I don’t consider Megumi’s pessimism to be indisputable proof. It’s damning, yes. But he is also highly subjective, inclined to assume the worst, and not an omnipotent force in the narrative. This isn’t me saying that the only reason there’s ambiguity is because she’s definitely still alive—that would be a wrong assumption to make. But if Akutami is still in two minds about what to do about her, or if he knows but doesn’t want to tell us, this scene is a neat way of sidestepping the need for a definitive answer right now. There’s enough plausible deniability in the framing of this exchange for Megumi’s answer to be read as she’s 100% dead, OR as she’s alive but in super fucking bad shape and it doesn’t look good. Whichever result it turns out to be, the scene can work in retrospect either way.

Which brings me to my not-retroactive interpretation of Yuuji’s immediate reaction. I think he would have been way more distressed if he perceived megumi’s silence as confirmation that she was without a doubt dead. He pulls himself together remarkably quickly for someone who full on had a mental breakdown mid fight at the sight of her injury. In the comments section over on readjujutsukaisen (credit where credit is due, not my analysis) commenter Asinine said “I think Megumi's non-response indicated the severity of her condition. I think Yuji's reaction revealed his pain followed by hope (clenched fist) she'll pull through.” That makes more sense to me than Yuuji thinking she’s actually dead and only having I get it!! to say about it before we rush on with the plot.

I’d really like to read the original raw version of this chapter, because it’s worth noting that the unofficial fan translation phrased Yuuji’s question like this: how is Kugisaki’s condition? It matters whether his question is past tense or present tense, because that positions Megumi’s answer as either past tense or present tense too. Megumi could be looking sad because, past tense, what happened to her was bad. Or he could be looking sad because, present tense, her condition is bad. I think the nuance there definitely affects how we as the audience should interpret this exchange and consequently Nobara’s chances. If anyone knows where I can read the raw scans please tell me.

Speaking of Nobara’s chances—structurally and narratively there is still more than enough room for her in the plot. When she was first taken out by Mahito, I figured she’d be fine because I thought her frequent references to people ‘messing up her beautiful face’ and her argument with Momo about scars on female jujutsu sorcerers/sexism in the jujutsu world were foreshadowing her having to live with that massive scar and a missing eye. If Akutami wants to continue exploring themes of feminism and sexism, as he has indicated through his characterisation of the broader zenin clan, Nobara now has a unique role to play in that aspect of the story: being treated differently after getting scarred.

Similarly, there are some interesting implications when it comes to her cursed technique and the current arc. Theoretically, she could use resonance on any of the newly awakened sorcerers/vessels and do some serious damage to The Brain, because they’re all strongly linked to him through the powers he gave them. She might provide an avenue to attack him later via that method—or Akutami might be deliberately sidelining her for the duration of this arc with the intent to have her recover later, because he saw this massive plot hole coming and he needs to thin out (cull) the crowd of awakened sorcerers first so she doesn’t have such easy access to a really powerful weakness in a major antagonist.

It’s also possible that he saw the plot hole coming and is killing her to fix it. But if that was the case, he wouldn’t have said in one of his interviews that he hadn’t made up his mind yet whether she was dead or not (?? That’s the translation I saw iirc, but I can’t vouch for its accuracy because I didn’t personally translate or cross check it myself).

Every other character’s death has been clear in a very gut punch kind of way, but ever since Nitta showed up this one has been SO ambiguous the whole way through. In my opinion, this scene does far more to increase the ambiguous tension than release it. It’s too vague. Akutami has been pretty good about giving his characters a fitting send off up to this point. I would be genuinely surprised if he broke the news about one of the main trio officially dying via one page in one chapter which doesn’t even give a status update though words, let alone through an actual drawing of her corpse/grave/ashes/funeral. Which loops me back to the cardinal rule of character death: it’s not confirmed until we see the body.

And let’s face it—if Akutami plans to keep Nobara alive, I am 100% sure he would drag the reveal out as long as possible and make it look as unlikely as possible in order to inflict Pain™ on his audience. Of course, if he plans to kill her off, the situation would look equally grim. But you know he wouldn’t hand us her recovery on a silver platter. Things seem bad (and like I said nobara stans this is your wake up call to start preparing for the worst case scenario now) but that doesn’t automatically mean that they are as bad as they seem.

In summary:

#jjk manga spoilers #jjk spoilers #jjk meta #jjk 144 #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #kugusaki nobara #nobara kugusaki #mangablogging #originalcontent

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ruiyuki · 3 years

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"Vanitas": The Name and Legacy

Vanitas declares early on that his motive for using the Book of Vanitas to save vampires of the Red Moon is to take "revenge against the Vampire of the Blue Moon". But some of his actions, reactions and expressions seem to contradict a conventional interpretation of "revenge". Seeing how MochiJun is a master of conveying things through facial expressions, nondescript panels, and double meanings, here's my stab at trying to figure out a bit of Vanitas' complexity and his (??hidden??) motives.

⚠️⚠️⚠️ MANGA SPOILERS, obv ⚠️⚠️⚠️

Also this analysis is really long. ‼Continuation in reblogs.‼

For the sake of minimizing confusion I'm going to refer to our!Vanitas as "Vani", Vampire of the Blue Moon (VotBM) as "Luna", and the name "Vanitas"/"Vanitas of the Blue Moon" as a title in this analysis.

0. "Revenge" against the VotBM

Now, what kicked me into this train of thought initially was watching the scene where Vani announces his revenge plot to all during the Bal Masque. Ofc Bones is doing quite a good job with the anime (I can honestly forgive them for leaving out some scenes knowing budget constraints and that this was probably produced during COVID; it's just more reason to get viewers to read the manga) but there are still some subtle nuances that MochiJun puts in her work that don't get translated into the adaptation. So I revisited Memoire 7 and something just didn't sit right upon looking at that scene retrospectively – which I'll get to that in a bit – but first let me recap what is my interpretation of Vani's proclamation:

The origin story we were told at the start of the series illustrates that vampires are typically born under the Red Moon, except for the one born under the Blue Moon. VotBM, given the moniker "Vanitas of the Blue Moon" by others at the time, is said to have created the Book of Vanitas capable of manipulating the World Formulas in order to curse all the RM vampires that casted them out of vampire society. Cursing the RM vampires = turning them into curse-bearers inflicted with malnomen.

Vani's "revenge" against the VotBM is to use their name "Vanitas" and the Book to cure all RM vampires of their curses and malnomen. In that sense, Vani saving the vampires is directly opposing the vow to curse all RM vampires as told in the VotBM origin story.

Vani's revenge claim seems pretty straight forward. There is nothing of the sort as to claiming he will turn the vampires into humans, or rewrite their existence into something they are not, etc. It is literally just "I will heal you from your sickness out of spite towards the thing that wants you to suffer". His feral revenge proclamation on top of the chandelier lines up with his feral "I will save you no matter what, using whatever method I choose" at the end of Memoire 1 as Noé points out:

So here's the thing that felt a little out of place upon my rereading of Memoire 7:

This panel. Idk about you but as a long time reader of Pandora Hearts, imo one thing that makes MochiJun such a talented artist and great storyteller of plot twists and angst is how she depicts emotions in facial expressions – it is very subtle with a certain finesse. With the above panel, Vani's expression doesn't necessarily look like "anger" or "vengeance" to me. Rather (and it took me a while to place it actually, flipping back and forth between newer and older chapters) his expression looks... melancholic? Melancholy with sense of conviction.

It's noteworthy that MochiJun has made an intentional choice to emphasize Vani gripping his closed fist and his distant stare here, so it has to be important. So, what could Vani be thinking of in this moment? And why?

I. Vani's hidden expressions and feelings towards Luna

To (attempt to) figure out what might be going through Vani's mind in this moment, let's take a look at some moments we've seen Vani making different expressions and when he's thinking back to the VotBM – or really, his time with Luna. Vani claims he hates vampires, but there are obvious exceptions (Jeanne, Noé). What's interesting though is that, despite claiming to hate the VotBM, I don't think he hates Luna. He may hate the being that Luna is but I don't think he hates Luna as a person.

We can see the difference between his hatred and active desire to kill Moreau, as well as his completely blank, no-remorse kinda expression toward the Chasseur's cross in the Catacombes arc vs the above panel after his revenge proclamation:

Also contrast the above chandelier expression to Vani's empty look of distain in Dante's flashback when they first meet:

I would say none of these Vani expressions look very similar to the chandelier one — the empty or blank stares are missing a sense of resolve and the teeth-gritting smirk lacks any bit of sadness felt in the scene. Now, when do we ever see Vani make another expression of what I would call melancholy?

Ughghgh these panels break my heart every time bc there is such a sense of sadness, it's distant but palpable and it is t r a g i c... but I digress.

We have no way of knowing what Vani is thinking in these panels but I have a few ideas:

Vani thinks back to something Luna said about how one should use the Book of Vanitas when Noé says using the Book's power to cure curse-bearers is "overwhelmingly right". What Luna said? Who knows, but it may be along the same lines of "despite its power" and "doing the right thing".

Vani realizes the reason Misha wants Noé to drink his blood is bc Misha doesn't remember what happened That Day. He repeats "... I see." twice as if he's reaffirming to himself that he's the only one left that remembers what happened. If Misha did remember, there would be another person to share the memory but Misha doesn't and Vani is alone in the world in that sense.

If we are to assume that this is what's going through Vani's mind in these moments, then we have to ask why? Vani thinking back to his time with Misha and Luna elicits this sadness (possibly likely?) bc Vani did truly enjoy his time with them and didn't actually hate Luna. In his own flashbacks of Luna teaching he and Misha about malnomen (first being Malnomen Prèdateur in the Catacombes arc, second of Chloé's Malnomen Millie) and the flashback of "love" during the Gevaudan Arc, we see that Vani may be grumpy or indifferent while being with Luna, but he is still attentively listening and comfortable enough around them for them to hug him:

Ofc, we can't forget that Vani, in his fever and poison-induced delirium, even mumbles to himself ".. didn't actually hate... I didn't... Lou..—" while recovering in the cabin with Jeanne. Given that just before this he asks "Is that what you really want? Truly?" in response to Jeanne saying "This time for sure, I'll kill the beast", perhaps we can even posit that Vani didn't actually hate Luna and didn't actually want to kill them? (I have another theory on what could have happened on That Day but let's get through this one first *wheeze*).

So let's summarize:

Vani claims he will cure RM vampires of their malnomen as revenge toward the VotBM, who is said to have created the Book of Vanitas to curse RM vampires that made them an outcast.

Curing RM vampires of malnomen = revenge since it is directly opposing using the Book to inflict curses

But Vani shows a look of sadness mixed with conviction that contradicts what would be thought of when claiming "revenge", which could possibly be him thinking back to his time with Luna, whom he did not actually hate and possibly did not want to kill but had to anyway.

So here's my theory: the reason why Vani has assumed the name "Vanitas" and is on a quest to cure RM vampires of their malnomen with the Book of Vanitas is to "rewrite" the reputation behind the name Vanitas of the Blue Moon.

... And I will continue explaining this in the reblogs ⤵️⤵️⤵️ bc holy fuck this meta is so long I have reached the image limit per post asjfklgs

#vanitas no carte #the case study of vanitas #vnc meta #vnc theory #vnc manga #vnc spoilers #vanitas of the blue moon #pls read the continuation before rb #long post #like i mean REALLY long post #w h e e z e

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cyokie · 3 years

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Jack Vessalius as a Symbol for Depression

Ever since I first read PandoraHearts, I have interpreted Jack Vessalius as at least a partial symbolic representation of depression, especially in his relationship with Oz.

(Skip to “keep reading” to go straight to the analysis; this beginning portion is little more than a disclaimer.)

Jack is a complex, fascinating character, and it is precisely due to this that I believe any number of interpretations regarding him contain merit. Whether you view Jack as an abuser, a manifestation of mental illness, or an extraordinarily-written character that does not require a figurative understanding to be interesting, I think this is valid.

I am saying this first and foremost because I want to be clear: this is not a persuasive essay. I am not trying to change anybody’s minds about liking or disliking Jack Vessalius, nor am I trying to devalue any other interpretations of this extremely nuanced character. Some points may be a bit vague and connections disjointed, though I attempted to minimize this. Any discussion of mental illness and abuse is based on either my personal experiences or those of people I know. I do not intend to offend anybody.

This post is simply the product of years of disorganized yet in-depth thoughts about this concept. I hope some of you will be interested.

Major spoilers for the entire manga below the cut. Manga panels are from the Fallen Syndicate fan translation. This...is going to get very long.

Emotional Abuse

Jack exists within Oz’s mind. When these two interact, it almost always occurs within Oz’s head, providing every conversation with an inherently emotional and symbolic element.

Jack initially appears to Oz as an unknown but crucial figure. Whether he is trustworthy or even harmful remains to be seen, but his input is necessary. He is the only insight Oz has into his lost memories; he knows something Oz does not. Oz is suffering an identity crisis, realizing he has endured something he does not completely understand, something that could potentially change his entire life once he does understand it. And yet, this mysterious voice within his head understands it.

This desperation makes it almost irrelevant whether Jack is credible, whether his advice is well-intentioned. Normally a rather cynical and distrusting young man, Oz follows Jack from the beginning despite wanting answers. He does indeed receive answers, but they are perhaps not quite what he bargained for, in more ways than one.

Once Jack’s true nature is revealed, the extent to which he has used Oz’s memories and emotions against him becomes apparent. Jack does present Oz with new insights into his experiences, but he only ever provides Oz with enough information to convince him to act a certain way. He never willingly gives a fair, all-encompassing portrayal of an event from Oz’s past. He manipulates Oz’s perceptions of his memories to fit a particular emotional narrative, one that is inevitably perplexing and demeaning to Oz.

This bears a resemblance to the way depression warps how we view past events. When we look back at our experiences, we don’t see the entire picture--though we are convinced that we may. We see a skewed version of an incident that actually occurred. Perhaps this incident proves little to nothing about ourselves in reality, but viewed through the lens of depression, everything about it seems to scream that we are useless. And it is nearly impossible to try and perceive these events any differently, because when depression overtakes our minds, this perspective appears to be the only one through which it is possible to examine any of our pasts.

By the time Jack’s intentions have been exposed, he is also explicitly emotionally abusive towards Oz. It is easy to recognize Jack’s statements as not only psychologically damaging, but disturbingly similar to what we hear in our own heads when suffering depression. Think about these assertions without the very literal plot elements that support them: Jack declares Oz less than human, insists that nobody loves him, and claims that he has no future because the only thing he’s good for is hurting those around him. He convinces Oz that he is useless, hopeless, and worthless.

Jack drills these ideas into Oz’s head when he is at his most vulnerable. This is when Oz breaks down and becomes convinced that all of Jack’s statements are true. He is not who he thought he was; he never has been, and so his life is meaningless.

This is arguably when Oz reaches his all-time emotional low. While it was already addressed that he had been struggling intensely with his mental health and was probably suicidal, up to this point, he always retained some level of self-preservation (however slight). Now, he silently accepts that the world would be better off without him and offers no physical or emotional resistance to his own execution. Jack’s words worm their way into his heart and corrupt his self-image to the point where his only reaction to Oswald’s sword swinging towards him is a blank, unflinching stare.

Trauma Response

It’s not uncommon for Jack to manifest during catastrophic moments--that is, whenever a situation triggers (or comes close to triggering) overwhelming memories of Oz’s trauma. When Oz is losing control over his emotional and physical faculties, Jack often encourages him to make the trigger disappear using the quickest and easiest method available. Unsurprisingly, this method generally takes advantage of Oz’s extraordinary powers. In other words, the “tactic” Jack advises Oz to use is simply mindless destruction.

In the second half of the manga, Oz is at his least emotionally stable. It is not a coincidence that this is also the point during which Jack gains the ability to completely hijack Oz’s body. This development allows Jack to commit impulsive acts of aggression through Oz, while Oz himself retains little to no control.

Jack overwhelms Oz with unnecessary flashbacks to traumatic events and makes an excess of harmful connections between past and present circumstances. Oz’s panicked, distressed responses to this are tools he uses to further coax Oz into acting in a self-destructive manner. These tendencies may not only connect Jack to the concept of depression, but the concept of post-traumatic stress disorder as well.

Identity Crisis

Although Jack is introduced extremely early in the manga, one of the story’s main mysteries is the exact nature of his connection to Oz. This relationship shifts several times, especially with regards to who is “in control” and who is the true “owner” of the physical body.

Once it becomes public knowledge that Jack is “within” Oz, the identity of the former overcomes the identity of the latter in the eyes of the general populace. Figures who never before gave Oz a second glance begin to pay incredibly close attention to him; many directly address him through his connection to Jack rather than as a separate entity.

Oz is deeply troubled by the way others ignore him in favor of an aspect of his identity that he feels does not truly represent him--an aspect of his identity that is at least partially out of his control. However, he is also relatively resigned to being judged in this manner. He lacks knowledge of how to change this circumstance because even he does not truly understand the extent to which he and Jack are connected.

It is true that at this point in the story, Jack is practically worshipped. His destructive actions and devastatingly selfish nature have not yet been exposed. Because of this, Oz as Jack’s “vessel” is typically viewed through a positive lens. Still, this situation reflects how people with depression are sometimes reduced to nothing more than a mental illness by their peers. Because others do not understand (and mental illness is stigmatized), they start to see us as “different” in some indefinable but undeniable way, and our existence becomes that particular part of ourselves in their eyes.

As time passes, the line between Jack and Oz becomes more and more blurred. Questions are raised about whether they are the same person or, on the contrary, whether they are similar at all. At what is arguably the climax of the manga, Jack declares that Oz’s body is, was, and will always be his possession; he claims that in reality, there is no “Oz,” only “Jack.”

This thought haunts Oz intensely and sends him into a rapid downward spiral. Like the sentiments expressed near the end of the “emotional abuse” section of this analysis, the idea that Oz’s body belongs to Jack is backed up by rigid, literal plot elements. However, if we view this emotional catastrophe using a symbolic perspective, it is a representation of yet another common struggle endured by those with depression.

We come to ask ourselves who we really are. Was there truly a time when we weren’t “like this?” Could we truly escape this misery in the future? Who would we be if we were to stop feeling this way? Do we even exist without depression? Does Oz even exist without Jack?

Visual Symbolism

It is a classic literary device to represent hope through light and despair through darkness. The manga is rife with this exact type of symbolism, utilizing it to describe how the Abyss has changed throughout time, Break’s dwindling eyesight, and the oscillating emotional states of various characters.

As I stated previously, Jack and Oz interact almost exclusively within the latter’s mind. The landscape drawn in the background of these conversations initially possesses a watery, clear appearance. However, as it becomes increasingly clear that Jack’s presence is deeply damaging to Oz’s psyche, this same landscape becomes overwhelmingly tainted by dark, ink-like shadows.

Closer examination reveals that this “pollution” originates directly from Jack--and it reaches its peak once Jack’s intentions have been fully disclosed. Not only is Oz’s mind visibly corrupted by darkness, but Jack himself appears as an almost inhuman figure composed of these shadows.

There is another level of visual symbolism as well--namely, the fact that Jack becomes increasingly physically aggressive and disrespectful towards Oz. In the first half of the manga, he primarily speaks to Oz from a distance, occasionally reaching out a hand in his direction. This is clearly not so in the second half of the manga, at which point Oz begins to defy his influence and it becomes vital that he subjugate him as quickly as possible.

By this time, Jack is almost always seen either restraining or caressing Oz. Even in the latter situation, when his touches are lingering and vaguely affectionate, they are possessive and constraining. In other words, though they appear different on the surface, both actions are ultimately methods of forcing Oz’s submission. It can be said that this represents his desire to gain complete control over all aspects of Oz’s being, as well as his total lack of respect for Oz’s physical and emotional autonomy.

It can be argued that both of these aspects of symbolism reach their pinnacle even before this point. Oz realizes his own worth when Oscar says he loves him and reveals that his greatest desire is for him to be happy. When Oz is at last able to grasp that he is loved and there is hope within his life, Jack immediately reaches out to grab him. And in one of the manga’s subtlest but most poignant moments, his hand crumbles to dust upon touching Oz.

What follows is an extremely impactful display of Oz’s character development. He recalls Jack’s previous statements declaring his achievements worthless, denouncing the love he received from others as fake, and degrading his worth. Then he furiously rejects all of them, thrusting out a hand to push Jack away from him and consuming Jack in an explosion of light.

The conclusion to be drawn from this is that Jack essentially lives off Oz’s misery. When Oz understands and is able to accept that he is not worthless, Jack is suddenly rendered utterly powerless.

The manga culminates in a scene that coincides with this symbolism. This late into the story, Oz has succeeded in transcending Jack’s influence almost entirely, but Jack is not quite ready to let go. Though they stand together within a void, glimmers of light linger around Oz--despite everything, his life has come to be surrounded by hope and love.

As Oz floats towards the path of light above, Jack reaches out and takes hold of his wrist. But his grip is feeble and hesitant, representing how little control he truly holds over Oz at this point. Perhaps attempting to provoke guilt or regret, Jack asks Oz if he is certain that he is prepared to move on without him, but Oz has grown too much to succumb to this manipulation.

Without delay, Oz replies that there is no reason for him to stay, and Jack finally releases him. He escapes into the light--into a world full of people who care about him, into a life where he is happy to be alive.

#PandoraHearts #Pandora Hearts #Jack Vessalius #character analysis #Oz Vessalius #analysis #Cyokie's thoughts

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artie5o5 · 2 years

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I am finally writing(!!) - A Short Story Collection “Overture”

I've writing stories for almost all my life, since I learned how to string words together and form a sentence. My first ever memory is crying on the floor of my childhood home, complaining to my mother that I can’t write in the notebook she gave me because it’s not lined (I wasn’t old enough to write in blank paper yet)

And yet, if you asked me to produce a body of my work, all I’d have to show for the years of my writing is one(1) novella I wrote when I was 14 and a thousand unfinished novels that I abandoned after 10 pages.

I had resolved in 2020 that I would commit to finishing things as Neil Gaiman had so wisely adviced. But the only thing I finished in 2020 was a 10k word short story called “Nathaniel O’Neal and the Death of Jenny” I started that story on March 9, 2020 and finished on December 6, 2020. Stephan would’ve had written three whole novels in that timeframe

In 2021, I did not finish anything. I did write parts of short story. In my defence, I had a pretty bad year. (So did everyone, get over yourself)

But... (!!!)... at the end of 2021, I saw this video from Rachel

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And this was literally godsend.

I had so many short story ideas just whirling in my mind, I had them scattered between my notion and my google keeps notes. But after watching Rachel's video I decided to finally, actually, dedicate myself to writing something I think I can actually finish.

Writing a novel is a monumental task, and I shall never again dunk on Stephanie Meyer cause she at least finished the Twilight books. I really don't think I have it in me to finish any work of fiction over 20k words.

But short stories I can do.

And I have decided to do it. Below is my notion page of short story ideas that I had accumulated over the last two years. The 2 shorts that I actually did finish, I've choses not to include in this post. These are 11 shorts that I currently think are workable. I have more ideas stored in google keeps - I will only touch that pile once I've finished all these. And and the end of the year, hopefully, we will have a short story collection

Why "Overture"?

Well, my go to mental breakdown song is "Achilles Come Down" by gangs of youth and there is a line there "Overture bold and beyond" and I just like the melody of that line. It's kinda stuck in my head

"Overture" also means "an introduction to something more substantial"

And I would like to imagine, rather arrogantly, that after I've finished this collection - I would emerge out of the other end a better writer and perhaps go on to write more substantial work. Amen.

I would like to just briefly talk about each story and what they're about. I would make individual writing updates in the future. Just to capture my thoughts and process, more like a journal.

1. I See You in every shard of glass

A 19 year old girl who stayed home after high school while all of her cool friends went to fancy east coast school goes on a long drive at midnight with her high school on-again-off-again, currently ex-boyfriend - and realises she might have overly romanticised her entire relationship with him

Originally inspired by Taylor Swift's iconic song "Style". The opening image to me was that of a dreamy James Dean-y boy stopping outside of her house at midnight and from then on I was just gonna write down the plot of the song in fiction. But as I went on writing it kinda got out of hand and became reaally fucked up

I would really love to tell you this has a flimsy, dreamy vibe because I really wanted this piece to have flimsy-dreamy vibes - but girl the vibes are off

CW: Date rape (??!!)

I really don't know if I can write it as respectfully as the subject material demands. I'm really afraid of giving off the wrong message or accidentally ending up victim blaming but there's a lot of nuance to the events that I'm just not a good enough writer to do justice

I've been struggling to write this story for a whole year now (2021 was baaaad). The prose doesn't have the dreamy quality I wanted it to have. The subject matter seems too heavy on my chest like a boulder from hell. But I've decided to just finish in before January 31st. Things could be changed to my liking in edits (hopefully 🤞)

2. Work Song (Working Title)

I don't have a title for it yet, but as you can clearly see - it was inspired by Hozier's work song.

I was just gonna follow the plot beats of the song but again, as I went on the story got progressively fucked up.

The vague foggy image of the story now in my head is this:

A very beautiful young man in his early to mid 20s is rescued by a woman who had very recently lost a child (the child's father never mentioned)

The first few paragraphs is just basically the protagonist telling his buddies (who he now works on a farm/field with) about the hazy fever dreams through which he saw her caring for him after. She never asks him about the drunken state she found him in or how he had gotten there, she never asks him about his past and all that Hozier Work song stuff

But then the plot deviates from the song - he starts to internally think about things that he doesn't say to the audience

There's the church, and she's church going though not strictly a believer so he goes to church with him. Big Shaelin-Hold-Me-Under-Till-I-See-The-Light Vibes

The church talks about the sins of adultery and homosexuality, talks about Soddom and Gomorrah and he clearly gets super agitated

So, Spoiler Alert: the past that his "baby" never asks him about is that he used to be a street hustler. (Trying to channel My Own Private Idaho but can we ever)

Kinda gothic????

The story basically ends on

If the Lord don't forgive me

I'd still have my baby and my babe would have me

When I was kissing on my baby

And she put her love down soft and sweet

In the low lamp light I was free

Heaven and hell were words to me

3. Drown my woes in a lake of fire

Title borrowed from that one Elle King song

I don't know much plot wise - but I want to achieve that History of Wolves vibes

The protagonist is a tween girl, the youngest in her family of 7. Her parents. Her oldest sister, then a brother one year junior, then the twin girls and finally her

She is hella lonely because the twins always gang up on her and exclude her, her olderst sister and brother are close too. But she has no one and nothing but her siblings hand me downs.

I don't know what the catalyst is yet but she drowns her family's pack of dogs, all 5 of them, in a lake that's turned into ice. But she knows where the ice is thin.

4. A girl accidentally kills her parents and her addict older brother gets framed, also accidentally

It's probably gonna be an accidental gas leak. Like she forgets to turn the stove off or something

Her older brother becomes a suspect in the investigation and gets convicted on double homicide

She feels guilty for not speaking up, but she's also unhinged so there's that

5. A PhD student goes to meet a homeless person

I don't have a title for this. Can you tell?

This one came to me in a dream.

I'm not kidding.

There's was a 2nd person narration going on inside my head and I wrote down as much as I remembered upon waking up.

But the material I got was so scattered and meaningless that I had to keep digging at it - like I didn't even brush my teeth, just kept typing on my phone like a maniac

Logline: The story starts with a PhD student taking a cng towards an impoverish area - he struggles with the power hierarchy of his highly beaurocratic world, the mindless selfishness of his fellows and superiors and reaches out to find a human connection

It is the tamest of all my stories. So much so that it feels like it doesn't belong with the rest

6. A 20 something boy goes to a whorehouse and pays a prostitute to pretend to be his sister for one night

Shaelin's Zugzwang meets George Martin's Meathouse man

I only have vibes no plot

7. Let me drown slowly

Another song inspired story. (Thank Dionysius for Alec Benjamin)

I've written like the beginning of it in Google Keeps

Basically the inner monologue of a guy who knows his girlfriend is about to break up with him waiting for it to happen

I haven't started writing yet but I can't wait to see how this innocent song turns into something extremely fucked up, yet again

8. Grave of Bird

A girl has been burying the birds that her cat catches under a tree for years

The tree was a little sapling the same height as her when she was 6, now that she's 16 the tree has far outgrown her

The catch is.... it's not only the birds that are being buried there.

9. Dear Charlotte

I've actually written some parts of it

2nd person, accusatory

Basically Isabel is writing an apology letter to her older sister Charlotte but instead of an apology the letter is bloated with why everything was Charlotte's fault and Charlotte is a horrible human being

18th century Feudal Europe

A Gothic Manor, a pausible ghost of a dead brother

Scandals (!!!)

Painters and Scuptors and rumors of incest

Isabel is jealous and bitter but god is Charlotte unreadable

10. My Immortal

I'm gonna write this in October. (Halloween!!)

Gothic. Supernatural

A human being (pet?) is in love with their vampire but not in a twilight way

More like the vampire needs a human to run their errands through the day until they come alive at midnight

The errand boy/girl serves the vampire in exchange of their supernatural favors and a dim, dim hope that maybe someday the vampire would turn them into a vampire too (A bit like a witch's familiar??)

Again, just vibes, no plot

11.

12. Children in Snow (Working Title)

I was trying to write that half heartedly in 2019. But then last year in 2021 I tried to actually finish it but lol

Sci-fi

A heavily beaurocratic world sends off their unwanted children to be raised by 18-20 year olds (Basically other childrens) in government funded facilities

They have robotic doctors at their disposal, a mechanic robot to repair heaters and stuff like that, a vast physical and digital library, a curriculum to study and artificial robotc teachers, so that when they finally get out into the world world at age 21 they have enough marketable skills to earn a living- everything except human contant

Those who want to persue a University education can sit for a test at 18 and if they pass can then be admitted public unis

Once a month, their supplies are dropped of at a watchtower that is directly in the middle of all 10 such facilities in the area (each facility housing about 50 children)

The oldest in Garfield's facility who chose to stay instead of go to uni go out to gather their monthly supply as usual, but get stuck in a snow storm

Low magic

The characters are ✨ immaculate ✨

But alas no plot- so every time I attempt to write it, it keeps on stretching and stretching but there isn't enough material here for it to be a novel

I want to write this in December. So I'll have to find a new short story idea to write in November

That is All!

I would post writing updates as I write and hopefully, finish stories. If you made it this far, then Thank You Very Much for your time!! I'm really happy you're here..

#unhinged #fucked up #please send help #author #writers #writing #wip #writeblr #wip intro #current wip #short story #prelude

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bigskydreaming · 3 years

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About that last Cass meta, I wanted to correct or elaborate on something I realized in hindsight lends the wrong impression. This happens a lot with me, especially the longer a post gets, because I’m just trying to cram SO MUCH stuff in a post as is that I leave stuff by the wayside, and it typically tends to be the stuff I think is so matter-of-factly obvious to me personally, that in the moment it seems to be the most obvious thing TO leave out, as I instinctively think of it as the thing most people would figure out or connect the dots on themselves. Most of my posts I tend to write stream of consciousness as though I’m literally just speaking to anyone who follows me, and aren’t like, made with either the intention of gaining new followers or even REACHING people who don’t follow me, so like, just because I’m thinking ‘oh anyone who follows me would already know I think this’ like....that isn’t a valid assumption to make about anyone who just might read a particular post. And like, this isn’t reasonable on my part and does tend to lead to a lot of misunderstandings. So.....that’s a thing and its also a mea culpa.

In this particular case, the thing I need to elaborate on is my stance on how Cass is written speaking. When I spoke of the racist tropes I think are evident in a number of Cass’ depictions, even if unintentionally, this was NOT meant to reference or invalidate peoples’ conscious choice to make Cass have trouble with the spoken word due to various disabilities that might stem from the way her brain’s very wiring has been messed with in her backstory and appearances.

Writing Cass as disabled and having various speech impediments or trouble translating her thoughts into speech for neurological reasons is one hundred percent valid, and I should have used more nuance when describing my issue there. Personally, I tend to write her as being dyslexic and having aphasia, but she hasn’t had a specific speech or learning disability NAMED in canon as far as I’m aware, and there’s plenty that could feasibly apply.

But what I was talking about specifically is like......for instance, some people write Cass as struggling with ENGLISH, specifically, but fluent in not just sign....but say, Cantonese or another Chinese dialect as well. This is when red flags go up for me because I’m like, hmm, that’s an interesting choice that doesn’t seem to have anything to do with story logic, because see, Cassandra’s only issues with language are due to something that affects her equally with ALL languages. She only BEGAN learning languages not long after her first appearances, and the barrier that kept her from doing so previously like.....it went down in regards to ALL languages at the exact same time.

So while it definitely is reasonable to have Cass being more comfortable signing than speaking out loud due to the fact that she prioritized learning sign language first, is less familiar and thus potentially comfortable with being part of spoken and verbal conversations period, and perhaps depending on what specific speech or neurological disabilities you write her as having is physiologically more adept at translating her thoughts into sign language without any trouble than she is selecting verbal words......what DOESN’T make sense is Cass having somehow picked up Chinese over the past several in-universe years, but its English specifically she struggles with and has a barrier conversing with her siblings in it. THAT specifically is where I would say hey maybe if this is a choice you’ve made in your own writing, this is one where you should look at what made you make that choice and second guess it like mmmm what WAS I thinking there precisely, and was that thought something I want to stand by, upon reflection.

Similarly......there is a certain WAY that people go about writing Cass struggling with speech that raises red flags for me......and that’s when they write Cass speaking the broken English I referred to specifically in that post, as in, the way Hollywood depicts caricatures of Chinese characters speaking non-fluent English. There’s a very familiar and evident cadence to that, which I believe a lot of people simply default to when writing an Asian character who has speech issues, but again, this is something that you should probably subject to more self-scrutiny. Because a Cass who has speech issues due to a neurological disability is going to display those issues in a fairly consistent way no matter how long its been since she started learning whatever language it is she’s speaking, albeit with some variance that accounts for workarounds she might have developed or learned to compensate for any issues she has there. But what she’s not going to do, IMO, is perpetually speak English in a cadence that lends the impression that she’s just not familiar with the language or struggles learning it or just hasn’t become proficient with it regardless of however many years she’s supposedly been learning or using it at this point. I’ve heard a lot of people with various speech or neurological disorders speak, but personally? I’ve never heard someone speak with a speech or neurological disorder that manifests in them speaking like a racist caricature of a Chinese character according to Hollywood depictions. THAT, specifically, is my issue there.

(And related, my reference to Cass being as much a genius as anyone in her family in that last post was meant to specifically highlight how well and how quickly Cass DOES adapt to a society she was not at all raised to be a part of, once she’s given resources and support in order to enable her to do so. Cass picks things up with TREMENDOUS speed in the comics, and so part of my ire about that last trope in particular is how often I come across fics where by their DEPICTION of Cass’ speech issues, it seems a lot more like she just hasn’t become fluent in English yet. And although its of course true that she had a very late start, if she’s been a member of the family for years at this point in your fic and you’re not bringing up any specific speech or learning disability affecting her ability to learn English, and thus it basically looks like despite years of practice Cass simply hasn’t managed to attain enough of a command of this particular language to comfortably converse in it with her family.....that’s when I go scrunchy-eyebrowed. Because like I said, Cass is SMART and she picks things up damn fast, and without any other explanation provided in narrative for why she’s struggling here specifically, I AM going to draw my own conclusions about why you’re writing her speech the way you are, and you probably aren’t gonna like my conclusions but that’s really more of a you problem at that point, IMO).

And finally, I think but don’t quote me on that, I’m a mind changer, I change my mind a lot......the last issue I have where I see red flags go up when it comes to Cass and communication is when Cass is struggling with speaking English but without direct reference made to her doing so because of a specific speech or learning disability....and at the same time, the author of the fic shows no acknowledgment of any other character’s disability or any desire or intention to depict any of the other characters with some canon disability or another as actually disabled. I’m not gonna lie, although Babs is able-bodied in canon at the moment, if someone’s writing Babs that way while writing a Cass that seems plucked out of pre-Flashpoint continuity rather than based specifically in her Batman and Robin Eternal origin......I’m not gonna be all that inclined to give the author the benefit of the doubt there and assume their depiction of Cass’ speech issues is due to an actual desire to write her as disability rep. I mean, it could be that I’m wrong and they are! I don’t actually know! I’ve been wrong before, I’ll be wrong again, either way the world WILL go on! I’m just saying it like it is.....point blank, if there’s no sign of a single other disabled character in your work and Cass just so happens to visibly struggle with speaking English, I’m just not gonna automatically assume its because you’re writing her as disabled rather than just writing her while racist. And if you ever do end up called out for that and its only after the fact that you suddenly seem to backpedal and insist you were just writing her as disabled all along, my skepticism, it will still abound. *Shrugs* It just is what it is. Do with that what you will. Literally just like, my opinion dude.

But anyway! That is the nuance I should have included at that part in my already behemoth-esque post but didn’t, but that is very much a mea culpa and so please take this as a wholly necessary post script. Disabled Cass one hundred percent has my support and I should have been more conscious about implying otherwise, no matter the point I was trying to raise at the moment there.

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cirilla-fiona-riannon · 6 months

Text

My Beloved - Galileo Galilei

Translations may not always capture the exact nuances or tone of the original text. Expect grammatical errors.

Blank, ageless, and suspicious blogs will be blocked.

The casual conversation with Mitsuki unexpectedly brought back memories of the past and irreparable despair.

Galileo: "Sagredo."

Returning to my hideout on the outskirts of town, I murmured my friend's name without turning on the lights in my room.

Every time I recalled the past, a hatred toward humanity nested in my chest, and I clenched my fist, not minding my nails digging into my palm.

(Those days were destroyed all because of me.)

(If I hadn't accepted that girl's invitation, I wouldn't have remembered anything.)

Since we met, that girl, Mitsuki, has been trying to get closer to me in different ways.

And every time I met her searching gaze, I felt as if something had touched the depths of my heart.

(I shouldn't get involved with her anymore.)

I closed my eyes and whispered that in my heart, but then一

Mitsuki: "Excuse me, Galileo. Are you here? It's Mitsuki."

Galileo: ".........."

I turned toward the voice and saw Mitsuki standing there, looking lost.

(Why...?)

Galileo: "Why are you here?"

I was so angry that someone had intruded on my hideout without permission that my voice naturally became low.

She sensed this, and her shoulder twitched.

Mitsuki: "You dropped this bookmark at the cafe. I came all the way here to give it to you."

Galileo: "........"

I accepted the bookmark that she offered.

It was indeed mine, but I didn't treat it as anything special.

(She should've just discarded this.)

(No. This girl was the type who would bother with such things.)

She always faced the other person, even for trivial things.

Even in the few times we'd met, it was clear that Mitsuki had a strong sense of duty.

Galileo: "You went through the trouble. Thank you."

Galileo: "If you're done, leave."

Mitsuki: "Okay. Sorry for following you without permission."

Mitsuki lowered her head, looking apologetic.

As I watched her small figure leave一

Galileo: "Mitsuki."

Galileo: "Stop trying to get involved with me anymore."

When I finally said this, she took a small gulp and left the hideout without saying anything.

(I have a purpose to fulfill. I don't have time to pay attention to others.)

(Even if it's just a slight hesitation, I should eliminate any distractions.)

By pushing her away like this, I thought she would never appear in front of me again.

That's what I believed, but...

Galileo: "Were you not listening to my words?"

Mitsuki: "I'm sorry for coming again!"

Just a few days later, Mitsuki visited once more.

(Unbelievable. What's going on in this girl's mind?)

The complex emotions of surprise and irritation toward this unrelenting girl welled up in me.

Galileo: "So, what did you come here for?"

Mitsuki: "I finished reading the book from the other day, so if you still haven't bought it, I thought I'd give it to you."

Mitsuki: "Also, I heard from Professor Ayscough that today is your birthday. So, please take this as well!"

Along with the book, she handed me a bottle of wine.

Mitsuki: "I was worried about you drinking in public, but I thought it would be fine at home."

Mitsuki: "Happy birthday!"

Galileo: "..........."

(She went out of her way to give me a book?)

(And why does she feel the need to go to such lengths for my birthday?)

I'd forgotten today was my birthday, and I couldn't even remember the last time I celebrated it.

For me, it was just another day, so the unexpected gesture from Mitsuki slightly unsettled me.

I thought I eliminated all distractions, and yet一

Mitsuki: "Well then, I'll be going now. I'm really sorry for intruding."

(I need to let her go like this. I shouldn't get involved with her again.)

Even though I thought that一

Galileo: "Wait."

I instinctively stopped her from leaving.

Confused, she turned to me, and I sighed.

Galileo: "If you have the time, you should have a drink too."

Mitsuki: "Huh? Um, why?"

Galileo: "As a token of my gratitude for the book, it's the least I can do."

Despite pushing her away last time, she nodded with a shy smile.

(What the hell am I doing...?)

With those thoughts, I gestured for her to sit on the sofa and poured the wine into the glasses I'd prepared.

The wine she had brought had a pleasant aroma and tasted delicious.

Galileo: "Did you choose this brand?"

Mitsuki: "Yes. I wasn't sure if it would suit your taste, though."

Galileo: "I see. It has a smooth taste. Not bad."

Mitsuki: "Really? I'm glad!"

(She's so innocent.)

(Allowing this kind of moment is foolish of me, but一)

Mitsuki: "You know, that astronomy book was really interesting."

Mitsuki: "The scientific explanations were a bit challenging for me, but the history and anecdotes about the stars were fascinating."

Galileo: "........."

She began to share her thoughts on the book, speaking a bit rapidly.

She looked like she was enjoying herself, and the way her eyes shone reminded me of the stars shining in the sky.

(Why am I thinking this way? Have I had a bit too much to drink?)

Galileo: "You're a bit too passionate."

I left my seat for a moment and took off the cloak I was wearing in my room.

When I returned, Mitsuki looked at me curiously.

Galileo: "What is it?"

Mitsuki: "S-Sorry!"

She got flustered, and after a moment, she hesitantly brought up a question.

Mitsuki: "By the way, I have something I want to ask. Is your real name Alinbert Maury?"

Galileo: "Did someone tell you that?"

Mitsuki: "Professor Ayscough did. I always thought 'Galileo' was your real name, so I was really surprised."

Galileo: "No, you're right."

Mitsuki: "Huh?"

Galileo: "Due to certain circumstances, I usually go by 'Maury,' but 'Galileo' is my real name."

Mitsuki: "Oh, I see."

For some reason, she breathed a sigh of relief.

(I don't really understand how my name can bring relief.)

(No, I don't understand it myself either.)

Galileo: "I feel strange about it myself, but for some reason, on the day we met, I revealed my true name to you, no matter how trivial it may be."

Mitsuki: "Why is that?"

She looked at me with a sincere gaze, seeking an answer.

(Even when we first met, she looked at me with those same eyes.)

Receiving that gaze, I felt a slight warmth deep in my heart.

Galileo: "I wonder why?"

(Sagredo, my dear friend. This girl's straightforwardness somehow reminds me of you.)

(Perhaps Mitsuki, too, is pursuing the truth.)

I muttered that in my heart and smiled.

Part 1 ╎ Part 2 ╎ Premium ╎ Epilogue

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp galileo #ikevamp #ikevamp jp #galileo galilei #ikevamp translations #cybird

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intimidatingpuffinstudios · 4 years

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I’m releasing an old Patreon story publicly!

This here, folks, is a fic about Morkai and Straasa shenanigans from when they were teenagers!

Straasa even references this incident in-game if you pick that drawing is your hobby!

Hope you like it! Enjoy!

~*~

The paints are arranged beautifully in front of him, waiting to be combined in a pandemonium of colors and vibrancy. New worlds are waiting to be birthed on his command, starry skies and green fields waiting to be unleashed.

Straasa stares at the blank canvas, and the vast emptiness stares back. Not even a single line of color mars its snowy surface, and while he could probably spin some wild tale about life and its meaninglessness being depicted on this very piece of paper, he doubts his father would appreciate the philosophical musings.

Or even if he did, then Miriel certainly wouldn’t. She spent a fortune to get all these wildly expensive paints for him. He had mentioned once that he would like to try it out, and now he was suddenly expected to create a masterpiece breath-taking enough to compete with the masters.

And that masterpiece will, of course, be an utterly life-like portrait of Miriel’s likeness, every single nuance captured to depict her profound and inimitable beauty. He’d be lucky if he could paint a realistic stick figure at this point.

He slowly puts down the palette, all 16 of the years of his life weighing down on him. She’s going to be so disappointed. He hates it when she looks at him with that look—the look that says that he didn’t try enough, didn’t love her enough, wasn’t good enough. In anything at all.

“I have to say, what you’ve created portrays Miriel’s vapidness quite well, I’m proud of you, man.”

Straasa springs up from his stool as swiftly as a snake springs from the sand, his heart beating like mad in his chest. His stares at Morkai with eyes wide open, a hand clutched over his chest. What is he doing here? He wasn’t supposed to come in today! Miriel would have a fit!

“Morkai,” he hisses, trying to keep his voice down in case someone is passing by outside his room.

“What are you doing here? Miriel said that you can’t come by until I’m done with her portrait! She’ll skin us both if she finds you here! And how did you get in without me hearing you?!” the blue-eyed teen whispers furiously, grabbing his friend’s arm and trying to lead him out.

Morkai, of course, doesn’t budge, looking at the blank canvas with an air of snobbish evaluation. He nods his head sagely, pointing to an indeterminate point.

“This part particularly, where her heart should be, I think you’ve captured that part to perfection. Yes, I’m quite pleased. I will hang this above your bedroom door,” the redhead keeps on going, acting for all intents and purposes like this is a fabulous piece of art that he is critiquing with his sharp eye.

Straasa exhales loudly in frustration and stops trying to move his stubborn friend. No one can make Morkai budge if he doesn’t want to be moved. He is already almost as tall as his father and Rhaygan is nothing to scoff at, towering over everyone at 6’2”.

But then Straasa notices a sweet smell coming off of Morkai, something that reminds him suspiciously of… His eyes zoom in on the satchel hanging from his friend’s waist, and his hands swoop in to open it greedily.

The redhead grins at him roguishly as Straasa finds what he was looking for— a small, cloth-wrapped bundle containing nothing but… lemon cakes! His favorite! He didn’t think the kitchens would make that today!

“How did you get these?!” he exclaims in glee, immediately snatching one of the pastries up and bringing it to his mouth. Morkai’s grin gets even wider, like a cat that has just gotten the cream.

“You know Ilya likes me. I promised her a moonlit walk in the gardens tomorrow night if she would make these for me,” Morkai informs him smugly. Ilya, the cook in training in their mansion. She thinks Morkai has hung the sun and stars, the poor girl.

“You’ll keep your word to her, right?” the blue-eyed teen asks a bit uneasily. He knows that Morkai doesn’t particularly care for the girl. His friend has at least the grace to look completely affronted.

“Of course I will! Who do you take me for, man?! That’s insulting! I’m a man of my word! Trust me, I’ll give her a night she’ll never forget,” the redhead reassures him, his smirk turning lecherous, and Straasa rolls his eyes in response.

He instead turns his attention to the delicious cakes, leaving Morkai to his thorough examination of the snow-white canvas. The red-haired boy makes a small “Ah,” sound like he has just figured something out, but Straasa doesn’t turn to look at what his friend is doing.

A mistake in hindsight. A huge one at that, too. Once he’s done demolishing the sugary treats, Straasa finally raises his eyes and immediately freezes, his mind refusing to take in the devastation right in front of him.

He can feel the cakes coming up as he stares horrified at the huge boobs Morkai has drawn on the canvas, complete with a donkey’s head attached to them. Because it’s certainly the breasts that take the place of honor in this ‘painting,’ they’re twice the size of the equine head.

“Shit, no!” Straasa shrieks in desperation, covering his eyes with sticky fingers. He lifts his hand after a moment as if time might have erased the abomination from existence, but no, it’s still there, still glaring at him accusingly.

Morkai, for his part, looks exceedingly satisfied with himself, not realizing that Straasa was given no spare canvases in case he messed up. He was supposed to get it at first try. There is no way to hide this from his step-mother.

He is doomed. Absolutely freaking doomed. Morkai seems to register that his friend has gone pale as a sheet, almost shaking in front of him. He quickly sets the palette down and grabs Straasa by the shoulders, making him look at him.

“Hey, man, it was just a joke. We’ll tell her I did it, since it’s the truth and also because she can do absolutely nothing to me,” the green-eyed teen tries to comfort his distraught friend, having no idea what exactly Miriel could do to punish them both.

She could deny Morkai visits and the other way around. She could keep them apart and had already threatened to do so many times. This would surely be the last straw, causing the threat to become a reality.

“And if she tries to separate us, I have Ilya to sneak me in whenever I want.”

Straasa’s eyes snap to Morkai’s, surprised, hopeful. How had Morkai figured this out? Straasa had never told him of Miriel’s threats. And was this the reason his friend kept on indulging Ilya when he wasn’t all that interested in her?

The redhead was a lot more devious than Straasa originally thought. Also, kind of ruthless, using people to get what he wants. But Straasa can’t help but feel grateful to him. For making the situation at least sort of bearable. Even if it was him that created the problem in the first place.

The hands on his shoulders suddenly grip him tightly, and Morkai’s gaze turns far-away and distant, then an unholy light enters his eyes. It’s like a candle has been lit behind them, and Straasa knows that he is in serious trouble. When the redhead gets this excited, it means disaster is at hand.

“Morkai, no! Whatever you’re thinking…!” Straasa tries to caution, but his warning is cut short by a colorful missile hitting him straight on the mouth. Paint. It’s a glob of red, incredibly expensive paint that Morkai has scooped up from the palette and launched right at his face.

It dribbles down the blue-eyed teen's chin, and Straasa can taste it in his mouth. He wonders in a panicky sort of way if he can get poisoned from this. Morkai, having efficiently shut his friend up, turns his attention to his short-lived masterpiece.

His large hand scoops up more of the paint, and he slathers it over the breasted donkey in wide strokes, erasing all evidence of Miriel’s supposed likeness under a mountain of mismatched colors.

Once he’s done, he looks at the canvas with a forlorn look, like he regrets erasing the monstrosity from existence.

“It’s a pity, really. I believe I captured her essence perfectly,” he mourns, the palette still held in his hand. Straasa wipes his mouth and takes the weapon of destruction away from his friend.

“She doesn’t look like a donkey, Morkai, she’s beautiful,” he chastises the redhead, taking one of the brushes in his hand and swirling it through the remaining paint. Morkai shrugs his shoulders in response, not interested in debating Miriel’s beauty.

“Who cares? She behaves like an arse, that’s all that matters. An arse with boobs,” he snickers gleefully, and Straasa seizes the perfect chance as Morkai’s eyes briefly close.

He lunges forward, the brush held like a sword heading straight at his impossible friend’s face. His aim proves true, getting his friend’s nose and part of his cheek. Morkai squawks in outrage and ducks, trying to get the palette away from Straasa. The two grapple for a few minutes, loud laughter and curses echoing in the air around them.

By the time an infuriated “Boys!” slices through the moment, the teens have managed to get their clothes and faces, even their hair covered in remnants of paint. Straasa is laying down on the ground, wheezing, and Morkai is sitting down next to him, still chortling, his leg over Straasa’s calf.

Furious footsteps head straight for them, and Straasa doesn’t sit up to look who it is. He’d recognize Miriel’s gait anywhere. He instead turns his gaze to look at his friend instead.

Morkai’s eyes are glimmering as he flicks his attention at his friend, shooting him a mischievous grin before he gets up, holding his hands out in surrender in front of him, trying to calm down Miriel’s explosive fury.

Straasa takes a deep breath and gets up to join him. Yet as he looks at his clothes, at Morkai’s, at the mess their grappling has made, at the ruined canvas that held his step-mother’s likeness done Morkai-style…

He chuckles despite knowing it will piss off Miriel even more. He regrets nothing.

~*~

#the soul stone war #tssw #snippet #background story #Morkai #Straasa #Patreon

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luna-almighty-god · 4 years

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Guardian Angel N°7 [These links are invisible, but they're not nothing]

Hello everyone, this is chapter seven !

This story is obviously not canonical, please do not refer to it if you are looking for canonical information.

The music used is not from me, it's a cover found on youtube, I invite you to listen to it here !

===

First Chapter

Previous Chapter

===

He looked at length at the grass that stretched out in front of him, the blue sky without any clouds above him. He sniffed the air, that sweet floral fragrance of softness and freedom, and as he sat more comfortably against the stump of tree he had found, he took out his notebook to slide the tip of his pen over the blank paper, as he gently whispered this melody whose origin he no longer knew:

“Mon trésor, prends ma main ..”

The sound of the pencil in action, the sweet smell of ink mixed with the bluish colour ...

“Serre-la fort, tout ira bien ...”

He drew a first face, his hand waving by automatism, his memories as the only model for his work.

“Je suis là, ne crains rien...”

Two silhouettes, the shape of a soul between the two beings, then the more fleeting trace of a third person, a smaller silhouette than the first two.

“Mon cœur bat contre le tien...”

He forsook the third being to concentrate on the two larger ones, bringing them details, relief, playing with shadows, contrasts, the nuances of his unique colour.

“Et si l'avenir te fait peur, tourne la page ... Dessine un ciel plein de couleurs, un nouveau pays... “

His pen ceased all movement as he hesitantly ran through his barely finished drawing. Not the slightest landscape, he did not feel capable of making one, did not have the slightest idea of which to transcribe on paper. The trio of skeletons in front of his eyes seemed too false to him, like a terrible lie he was trying to swallow.

“... sache que l'encre des souvenirs ne sèche pas ...”

He closed his eyes, clutching his modest work to his chest, ignoring the barely dry ink that stained his clothes and the paper he crumpled gently.

“Qu'entre tes mains peuvent s'écrire d'autres "il était une fois" ...”

He was silent, with a heavy heart, ready to cry.

A familiar hand rested gently on his shoulder, delicate and comforting. Nyx reopened his eyes, turned his head to meet the gaze of his beloved uncle:

"Dream... ?”

The Dream Keeper gave him a smile:

"It's nice what you were singing... What was it?”

Nyx lowered his eyes, a poor sneer came to be born on his face:

"I don't know... I could hear Plum singing it sometimes...”

He felt his uncle tensing up.

“... Nyx... I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

- Why my uncle?”

The black-boned skeleton raised his eyes, giving the adult a heart-rending smile:

"It wasn't you who killed him.”

*** ***

Nyx opened his eyes. For a brief moment he looked up at the ceiling above him, in that near-darkness that made him shudder. Only the light coming from the corridor prevented him from giving in to a panic attack, even though his mind was still too overwhelmed by the memory that had assailed him.

He didn't like the past playing tricks on him.

He breathed, realizing that to relive such a realistic memory, he must have been in a semi-somnolent state. And that was not acceptable, not at all. Because he was no longer supposed to be able to sleep, rejected by the world of dreams that did not accept his presence.

And anyway, he didn't need to sleep anymore. His body was going without without a problem at all.

Another sigh. He wanted to straighten up, but refrained from doing so, feeling a weight against him. Perplexed, he lowered his eyes and managed to discern, thanks to the little light, the shape of a small skeleton drowsing against his chest.

PaperJam.

Nyx had a tender smile, came to slide his hand behind the little one's back to gently caress him.

It was a bit embarrassing for the older one: at first, he didn't want to be here. But Ink, too happy to see him again and convinced that Nyx didn't have a home of his own - which wasn't wrong - had insisted like a madman to take him in for the night.

So Nyx found himself in the guest room without really having a choice. Even so... He could have teleported away from here, started running away from Ink again, and concealed his presence from everyone. But ... he didn't want to risk hurting the painter, nor PaperJam who seemed - for some strange reason - to have become attached to him.

And Nyx felt bad. It was wrong to hide so much from those two. Bad for giving up Ink. Bad to be so jealous of PaperJam who hadn't done anything...

He covered the child with a tender glance, continuing not to reflex to caress his back, while letting himself go to his dark thoughts.

Error had not returned this evening. Apparently he had left after an argument with Ink and, according to the artist, he would not return until the next day.

Nyx knew it was his fault.

[It was always his fault]

His hand stopped caressing, he swallowed.

His body vibrated.

An icy blade seemed to pierce him, as terror and anguish took hold of his limbs, his soul began to pulse with force.

He teleported himself by reflex, but his magic did not allow him to go far enough. He collapsed right next to the bed, barely made it to the bedside table, cold sweats running through his whole being.

He clenched his teeth, barely holding back a plaintive groan, trying to keep control of the pain that made him shake, and, as every time, as every fucking time, he was seized with convulsions and a frightening urge to cry.

His complete will could only allow him to scan the room with his eyes ... before he saw his bag, abandoned on the desk.

He squealed, tried to get up, but his legs suddenly flew away, causing him to fall, falling to his knees.

[No]

He tried again, leaning on his hands, on his palms and phalanges which were no longer even able to stay still.

[No no no no no !]

He hiccuped, tapped into its magic, but its instability only brought him one more pain, a throbbing, heart-rending pain that emitted a sinister crack from his soul.

[He needed it]

[HE NEEDED IT NOW]

“... Nyx?”

He petrified, alerted by the little voice of PaperJam. He raised his head, saw that the child had straightened up by rubbing his eyes. And if the little one was still half asleep, it was quite different when he saw the state of the older one.

"Wh- Nyx?!”

He climbed down from the bed in panic, rushing to the collapsed skeleton ... before hiccupping when Nyx grabbed his wrist, with a violence he didn't know.

"Jammy, shut up, I beg you, shut up... !”

He had whispered loudly, his tremors redoubling in intensity. Ink shouldn't hear them, shouldn't see him like that!

PaperJam, confused and frightened, had however no difficulty to execute himself and gently nodded his head, before Nyx, who let out a sob, begged him again, close to losing consciousness:

"My bag ... I need my bag ... !”

The child didn't understand why, but nodded his head again, hastily retrieving the bag that was too big for him, which he led to Nyx with difficulty. Because he was afraid, afraid to see his new friend in such a disastrous state. His friend who seemed to be suffering so much...

Nyx grasped the bag without a shadow of relief, plunging his hands inside, searching with dull anguish for the source of his relief.

And he found him.

PaperJam widened his eyes, unbelievingly observing the dark apple that was pulled out of the bag, but what made him shudder was the way Nyx threw himself on it, devouring it with a great bite, not trying to savour it but to swallow it, to swallow it as quickly as possible, without leaving a single trace of it.

The child retreated, livid, feverish in the face of this spectacle that he found atrocious. How could it have been otherwise when he saw Nyx, usually so calm, twisting and groaning painfully, unable to hide his terror and his pain?

But it all stopped abruptly, as suddenly as it had happened. Nyx calmed down suddenly, his body stopped shaking. For a few minutes, he remained on the ground in silence, as if he was coming to his senses, that he was coming to.

He blinked his eyes, turned his head towards PaperJam.

Once again, Jammy saw him. He saw behind this marble mask, this false face that Nyx stubbornly wore without understanding why. He saw all the guilt and sadness in the older man's eyes.

"J-Jammy... Sorry, you shouldn't have seen that...

- ... Why should I?"

Nyx didn't answer, looked away feverishly.

The child felt his soul clench. Before Nyx could react, he came to throw himself into his arms, imprisoning him in an embrace that was meant to be tender and comforting:

“... It's going to be all right, Nyx ... It's all right, Nyx ... okay? It's going to be okay...”

The one with the black bones remained forbidden, before delicately responding to the hug ... then to bury his face in the neck of the youngest one, to start shaking once again, feeling the tension fall back, his panic disappear ...

"Don't tell daddy... ! cracked Nyx who started sobbing. Don't tell anyone...

- ... Yes, I promise...”

PaperJam squeezed the larger one a little harder, welcoming his distress with the slightest hesitation. But even as he focused on his friend's condition, the child didn't fail to notice one thing. He had not failed to hear the way Nyx spoke of his father.

Nyx who had clearly called Ink "Dad". But that too was a secret he should keep, wasn't it?

*** ***

The adorable chirping of a young baby echoed like a sweet melody in the huge salon of the castle. The chirping followed by a pretty childish laugh, before the tiny being who was playing on the carpet fell backwards, losing its little balance to be received by carefully placed cushions so that it would not get hurt.

“He's still cute, commented Dust, who watched the little one from the couch.

- What do you mean 'still'? Killer grunted and elbowed him.

- Aha, you're getting offended too quickly, Kil'!”

Horror put his head through the kitchen door:

“It's his son Dust, no wonder he's so protective!

- We didn't ask you!” replied the skeleton of dust.

And the baby started chirping again, flapping his legs and hands in an attempt to stand up. Waiting, Killer came to his son's aid, gently reassured him:

“That's it, Insomnia, you're doing great!”

At that moment, Nightmare and Cross entered the room. The baby's smile grew bigger as he reached out his arms towards the nightmare master, still laughing innocently, his left eye shining with a lovely bluish glow.

Nightmare stopped dead in its tracks, staring hesitantly at the child. Finally, after a few seconds, he sighed and his tentacles came to seize the child, before carrying him to his arms. Since Insomnia's birth, the Nightmare Keeper had been confused: he didn't know how to raise a child properly and felt unfit to fulfill his role as a father. The proof was that he was most uncomfortable holding his son in his arms. But fortunately, his lover was there to support him and the rest of his team of broken arms.

“How was your day?” Killer asked as he joined the master of the house, kissing him chastely to welcome him.

Nightmare nearly blushed and simply grumbled:

“Still nothing. He's nowhere to be found.

- Ink hasn't given any news either?

- No, he hasn't.”

The tentacle skeleton went off to the couch while gently holding his son in his arms. Cross exchanged glances with Killer and Dust, before nervously twitching his fingers. Finally he took his courage in both hands and looked at his superior:

“... Nightmare ... That 'Nyx' that you and Ink talk so much about... Maybe we should stop looking for it?”

He petrified at the sudden emanation of negative emotions. Nightmare was angry, very angry, and his hoarse voice shook each of his subordinates:

“Say that again?

- ... I'm sorry, it's just... We've been looking for three months. Maybe he's... I mean, he's... ?”

Nightmare rose abruptly, too abruptly. For some reason, which he could not explain, the absence of Nyx irritated him greatly. This instructive skeleton, who had been squatting in his house for weeks before disappearing like that, in a snap of his fingers! We did not make such a blow to the masters of nightmares, not without assuming the consequences... !

He suddenly froze, taken by Insmonia who started to cry. The poor baby couldn't understand why his father was screaming, nor why everyone seemed so scared. Large salty drops came pouring down his face as his sobs had replaced his pretty laugh.

“In... Insomnia...” stuttered Nightmare, feeling a terrible panic take hold of him when he didn't know how to react, like calming his child.

Killer quickly joined him, kissing his son on the forehead, caressing his face with the tips of his fingers while whispering words to calm him down.

But Insomnia did not calm down, not at all.

Until the understanding of a voice full of gentleness, a voice coming out of the shadows that sang a melody:

“Mon trésor, prends ma main ...

Serre-la fort, tout ira bien.

Je suis là, ne crains rien.

Mon coeur bat contre le tien.

Et si l'avenir te fait peur, tourne la page.

Dessine un ciel plein de couleurs, un nouveau pays, sache

Que l'encre des souvenirs ne sèche pas ...

Qu'entre tes mains peuvent s'écrire d'autres "il était une fois" ...”

Insomnia slowly softened, ceasing to cry in favour of listening to this unknown song, this song that insinuated itself into him, that cradled him tenderly as he began to babble again. Surprised, the Bad Sanses and their leader scanned the room, looking for the source of this music ... Only to come across Ink and PaperJam standing quietly in the doorway.

“Wha... Ink! growled Nightmare, still holding back from screaming so as not to scare Insomnia. I told you before not to go in unannounced.

- That doesn't stop you from leaving your door open every time I want to come in!” replied the artist, sticking out his tongue.

The master grumbled, but said nothing back. Killer raised a perplexed eyebrow:

“Ink, was that you singing?

- Ahah, no, not at all! It was him!”

The locals followed Ink's finger pointing to the shadow of the couch, before that same shadow was lifted off the floor to swirl and take on the appearance of a skeleton. A skeleton that Nightmare recognized immediately, making his eyes widen:

“Nyx?!”

Then he looked at Ink:

“You found him and you didn't tell me?!”

Then turned again to Nyx:

“And you little bastard, you dare to reappear like that ... ?!”

Insomnia's new sobs interrupted him again, and he received the accusing looks of his comrades.

Nyx giggled and approached:

“You can argue with me all you want, but afterwards if you want to.”

He leaned gently over Insomnia. The baby immediately stopped crying, intrigued by this newcomer who gave him a little smile ... and made him burst out laughing with a ridiculous grin.

Nightmare and Ink blinked, blissfully, while PaperJam also started to laugh. Nyx stopped his grimace to pouffe in his turn, tearing a smile from the bad guys.

Killer came to recover his son before his lover had another tantrum:

“Gentlemen, if you have anything to say, don't say it in front of the baby!”

Nightmare pouting but listened to his lover, brutally grabbing Nyx and Ink with his tentacles before taking them to his office.

*** ***

The door slammed brutally. Nyx held a shiver as he felt the tentacle release it. He cleared his throat, dusted off his clothes to hide his discomfort as he felt the eyes of the other two skeletons on him.

“Insomnia is very cute,” he commented to break the ice.

Nightmare snapped his tongue, deeply annoyed.

“I don't care what you say. Where the hell have you been?

- Here and there, sailing the multiverse.”

He held back a squeak when an appendix brushed against his cheek, narrowly missing to skewer it. But Nightmare had dodged it on purpose, not wanting to hurt him despite what he let on.

“I warned you... he growled. I told you to always warn me when you left my house, you cheeky little man!”

But the master of the place froze in contact with Ink's hand on his shoulder:

“Come on come on, we've yelled at him enough, he understands!

- Wha... Don't you interfere!

- Oh, come on Night, say it frankly that you were worried instead of making your bad face!

- Don't call me that! And I wasn't worried !!

- Oh, I knew you were a tsundere at heart !

- Damnit Ink!!”

Nyx felt a gentle warmth take possession of his body as he watched the two skeletons squabble with complicity. The two really liked each other in the end, having become good friends, and the black-boned skeleton didn't know how to react, except to feel immense relief.

He really didn't think it would turn out so well.

He smiled:

“Well, now... So I'm warning you that I'm leaving this step.”

He turned around... only to be suddenly grabbed with both arms. Ink and Nightmare had grabbed him at the same time, puckering the arches:

“Is this a joke? said the nightmare master.

- I'm sure you don't even know where to go! continued the painter.

- Are you at least eating properly? You look like you're ready to fall apart at any moment!

- It's true, it seems you're even more tired than when we met!”

Nyx swallows, looking at the other two with incomprehension while starting to curse himself: he was acting so badly that his weakness was so easily perceived?

"It's just that ... I don't want to impose myself ...

- Are you kidding me?! Nightmare exploded. You came into your own the first time we met! You've been crashing into our lives and into MY castle without letting us get a word in edgewise! You even managed to manipulate us at will! So now you shut up and listen to us!

- But... (laughs)

- Your fucking room is still empty and we've been cleaning it up since you left! So now you put down your bags and relax, because we're not about to let you go!”

Nyx, with his throat tied by emotion, vainly hid his joy behind his mischievous smile:

“So you're sequestering me?”

The tentacles fluttered as the guard grunted:

"Exactly! I'll take you in the Bad Sanses, you're going to pay me the rent you owe me!”

Ink looked up at the sky:

“A real tsundere.

- We didn't ask your opinion !”

The painter gave him the finger of honor, Nightmare did the same, and Nyx was about to cry.

All this was very much like the family life he had dreamed of.

===

Next Chapter

You can support me on my Utip or on my Ko-fi account !

===

Credits =

Dreamtale-> Joku

Error -> LoverOfPiggies

Ink -> Myebi

Killer -> Rahafwabas

Cross -> Jakei

Dust -> Ask DustTale

Paperjam -> 7GoodAngel

Insomnia -> EnaPouyou

#Guardian Angel #nyx #undertale #errink #nightkiller #fanfiction #sans #nightmare #cross #dust #bad sanses #error #ink #inkmare #vantablack child #nightkillerchild #insomnia

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years

Text

Husband, Guardian, Muse - Chapter 1/3 (Rated NC17)

Summary: After the untimely death of his husband and muse, Crowley tries to find the simplest, most foolproof way to join him. But in the days that follow, he discovers that sometimes what looks like an ending can turn out to be a beginning, and that no one is ever really gone if we find a way to remember them.

Notes: This was the piece I wrote for Celestial Harmonies Zine :) Go check it out. Human au. Warning for heavy angst, death, alcohol abuse and thoughts of suicide. But it does have a happy ending :)

Crowley hated working over his vacations.

Wasn’t the point of being a semi-famous artist that he got to make his own hours, work alone, and spend as much time at home with his husband as he wanted?

Not this time, apparently. Not since Alciston & Selmeston Village Hall decided to do a complete renovation, including replacing their hospitality-grade art with original work from local artists, he had been stuck in meetings and consultations all week while his husband occupied himself at their cottage.

Aziraphale said he didn’t mind since he was doing renovations of his own – a new work space for Crowley, an extension to his library, expanding the wine cellar. Being alone gave Aziraphale the opportunity to putter over fabric samples and color swatches in peace without his husband intervening every five minutes with his supposed “expert eye for nuance”.

But Crowley had enough of forgoing lunches with his husband (as well as afternoon delights) in favor of another discussion over whether or not a Monet-inspired acrylic of waterlilies would be appropriate for the treasurer’s office. He launched his escape when an argument over abstract sculptures for public spaces broke out. He grabbed a blank canvas under the guise of starting a new piece and slipped away in his Bentley. He hit the interstate and sped off like a bat out of hell, making it to their cottage in record time.

Crowley loved how secluded it was in their small patch of heaven. Tucked far and away from any other living souls, no one complained about their activities – amorous or otherwise - be it at three in the afternoon or three in the morning.

Crowley shed his jacket, his keys, and his phone at the front door, then he wandered the rooms, the canvas from earlier tucked beneath his arm, making as much noise as possible to alert his husband of his arrival.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley called, walking through the kitchen in search of his muse. “Aziraphale! Where are you, angel? I miss your ass!”

“I thought you had to work this afternoon.”

Crowley smiled. “I am working. I’m doing a portrait of a gorgeous man, as soon as I find him.”

“No …” Aziraphale chuckled. “You’re supposed to be doing a landscape for the city planner’s office.”

“No,” Crowley insisted, inspecting another empty room. “I’m painting you. Naked if I have my way.”

“You just want to snog,” Aziraphale teased.

“Nothin’ wrong with that. Now where are you? This cottage i’n’t that big.”

“Out here, installing the track lighting.”

Crowley turned the corner to the patio – a space they’d recently added to give Crowley a protected outdoor area to work. There was Aziraphale – his intrepid Aziraphale – braving their rickety, eighty-year-old ladder to install a row of lights. The chrome runner and bonnets gleamed in the midday sun, right in Aziraphale’s eyes, so he was installing them blind, his eyes shut against the reflected light, feeling around for the holes to put the screws in. Crowley winced when the ladder shivered beneath Aziraphale’s weight, but Aziraphale seemed oblivious, balancing precariously on his toes to screw the fixture to the wall.

Crowley put the canvas down and held the ladder secure beneath his husband. “I really wish you’d let me do that. Or wait till we buy a new ladder.”

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley with playful blue eyes. “This ladder is fine. Besides, I don’t have much more to do. It’ll only take a ---” Aziraphale leaned sideways. The ladder lurched. Luckily, Crowley reacted in time to keep Aziraphale from toppling head first into the retaining wall.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Crowley said, pulling on Aziraphale’s pant leg. “Get down now.”

“But I only have one screw left!”

That’s an understatement, Crowley thought bitterly in reference to the dozen or so times he’d asked Aziraphale to wait on this project. “I don’t care. Get your ass down off that ladder.”

“Geez,” Aziraphale huffed, carefully navigating the rungs. “You certainly have a fondness for my rear.”

“It happens to be a glorious rear.” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s behind and squeezed for emphasis. “I don’t want anything happening to it.” He drew Aziraphale close, relishing the way their bodies fit together, as if some higher power had carved them both from the same slab of stone.

Like they’d been made specifically for each other.

Aziraphale tilted his head, pouting in mock offense. “So, you only care about my rear?”

“Among other things.” Crowley captured Aziraphale’s lips, not waiting for an invitation, trying his best to kiss the pout from Aziraphale’s face.

If Aziraphale’s whimpers were any indication, Crowley was winning.

But Crowley’s cellphone, ringing where he’d left it, called a foul on his game. He had no intention of stopping, but Aziraphale annoyingly felt that job and responsibility came before snogging.

“You should get that,” he struggled to say, voice muffled by Crowley’s lips pressing insistently against his.

“Nope.”

“But it’s probably village hall, wondering where their artist is.”

Crowley frowned as his husband squirmed out of his arms while laughing at what Aziraphale called Crowley’s “sour mug”. Crowley narrowed his eyes at his husband.

“I’m going to go answer that, but just to tell them to get lost, and then I’m getting you naked.”

Crowley peppered Aziraphale’s cheeks with kisses to a symphony of his giggles. Then, with a heavy-handed swat to his backside, he reluctantly released his husband and ran inside to answer the phone.

Despite his frustration at having to put his escapades with his husband on hold, Crowley couldn’t help smiling. He loved his life. He loved his marriage. He especially loved the time they spent at their cottage in the South Downs. He’d always be a city dweller, but this place was paradise. He loved bringing his husband here and having him all to himself.

Crowley and Aziraphale had been blessed with a wonderful five-year-long honeymoon, and he didn’t see that ending anytime soon.

“Coming, coming,” he yelled at his insufferable phone, but he wasn’t exactly rushing to get it. By the time he reached it, it stopped ringing.

“Oh, no,” he joked. “I didn’t get here in time. Whatever shall I do?”

It didn’t matter to him anyway since no power on heaven or earth could have convinced him to leave his husband right as he was preparing to ravish him.

And to make sure they weren’t interrupted again, he turned his ringer off.

“Well, now that that’s settled …”

A sharp noise pricked at Crowley’s ears. Nothing too alarming. In fact, it could have been a bird chirping. But it filled him from head to toe with dread.

He didn’t know how he could possibly feel the ladder tilt from inside the cottage, but he felt the sway of it as if he was standing on it instead of Aziraphale. After a swoop of sudden and inexplicable nausea hit him, everything happened absurdly fast. He heard Aziraphale yelp, a loud metallic clatter, then a horrifying crack, like pottery hitting pavement.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley called, and then he waited. When his husband didn’t answer, he started to panic. “Aziraphale!” He ran for the patio, having the sense of mind to start dialing 9-9-9, knowing in his heart that his husband would need an ambulance. “Aziraphale! Are you alri---?”

Crowley got his answer the second he burst through the patio door.

No, Aziraphale wasn’t alright.

Aziraphale definitely wasn’t alright.

***

It rained the day they buried Aziraphale.

This weather was such a marked change from the weeks of sunny skies and no clouds. Aziraphale had mentioned how they needed a good, all-day rainstorm to trap them indoors where they could snuggle together on the sofa with mugs of cocoa and listen to the drops fall. Aziraphale was a quintessential pluviophile. He found peace in the rain.

Crowley hated the rain. He hated getting wet. He hated when his soaked clothes stuck to his skin and cold water ran into his socks. He hated sloshing inside his shoes, and the way they never completely dried. But as much as he hated the rain, he loved Aziraphale, and the rain made Aziraphale happy.

So Crowley became a pluviophile for Aziraphale.

Crowley stood by Aziraphale’s casket beside his open grave and waited in the rain. He waited while the mourners paid their respects. He waited while everyone hugged and cried. He waited until the final mourner wandered somberly away. He waited until they lowered Aziraphale into the ground, and even after there was nothing left to witness, he waited until nightfall, when the rain stopped, the clouds parted, and the stars came out.

Crowley had painted stars hundreds of times. They were one of his favorite subjects to paint.

Now, he didn’t want to look at them.

Tracy, one of Aziraphale’s dearest friends, and her husband Sergeant Shadwell, returned to the cemetery a little before midnight in search of their missing friend, convince him to go home, but Crowley refused to leave. So they waited with him, not pressing the issue even though Crowley was sopping wet and stifling sniffles he knew would bloom into a full-blown cold later on.

At some point, Crowley finally came to the conclusion that Aziraphale wasn’t going to magically return, so he took Tracy’s hand and let himself be led away from his husband’s final resting place. Crowley’s forehead burned with fever by the time the couple got him back to the cottage, but Crowley turned down Tracy’s offer to stay. As much as Tracy objected, in the end, she didn’t have the strength to battle her own grief and Crowley’s, and they left the man alone.

Crowley walked through the unlit cottage, straight out back to the patio, shoving aside a morbid sense of déjà vu. He dropped heavily into a wicker chaise and looked up at the clear night sky, but his vision was obscured by something shiny hanging a few feet above his head.

The light fixture.

That stupid track lighting.

Crowley stared at it in shock as it dangled on its two screws.

The fixture was there, brand new out-of-the-box, installed except for one damn screw, but because of it, Aziraphale was dead.

Crowley snapped.

He spotted an abandoned hoe over by the retaining wall, a few feet from where Aziraphale had fallen. He grabbed it and, with a renewed vigor, attacked the lights.

“Goddamned lights!” he screamed. “What the fuck did we need these for, Aziraphale? Why did you have to put them up when I asked you to wait!? Why didn’t you wait, Aziraphale!? Why couldn’t you just sit on your ass and fucking wait!?”

The sound of the hoe hitting the lights and the brick behind it echoed. The force of the blows caused the hoe to vibrate painfully in Crowley’s hands, but he only tightened his grip and struck harder.

“Fuck you, Aziraphale! Why did you have to put up these stupid lights!?” Crowley screamed, shattering the bulbs and sending a spray of glass falling over his hair and clothes. “I told you to wait! I told you I’d do it! I don’t need the lights, Aziraphale! I need you, Aziraphale!”

He pounded the bonnets flat, chipped away a good portion of the brick wall, but it didn’t make him feel better. He didn’t feel avenged. He could pick those lights apart piece by piece, chop them up until they became dust, but that wouldn’t bring his husband back. And why was he taking out his anger on the lights? He should turn that hoe on himself. Why the fuck hadn’t he held the ladder till Aziraphale finished? He knew how stubborn his husband was, how determined he’d be to finish something he’d started. Why didn’t he take Aziraphale’s place and screw in the lights himself, get it over and done with once and for all? Those lights didn’t kill his husband, nor the ladder. And it wasn’t Aziraphale.

It was Crowley.

He was the only one to blame.

Panting hard and with blistered palms, he dropped the hoe on the ground at his feet.

He’s the one. He did this. He killed his husband.

He destroyed his muse.

He stumbled into the cottage and rifled through the cabinets, searching for a fresh bottle of whiskey. He couldn’t stand being sober any longer. His hand came in contact with a bottle that felt mostly full. He grabbed it and pulled it down. Except this bottle wasn’t his spare bottle of Jack.

It was a lone bottle of Hennessy … and it had belonged to Aziraphale.

Crowley’s first instinct was to toss the bottle up against the wall and smash it. He looked around for an open space to hurl it when he caught sight of his paintings - a new crop he had started working on for a show in the fall, all of them featuring his muse.

Aziraphale.

Crowley hadn’t set them up in here. Aziraphale had. He was so proud of them, he’d displayed them. That way he could look at them while Crowley toiled down at the village hall, wasting his talents painting hillsides and sunsets.

But Crowley couldn’t look at them. They represented everything he’d had and lost in an instant. Being in their presence made him realize that he couldn’t go on this way. He couldn’t keep being the artist he was when the only subject he enjoyed painting was gone.

He didn’t want to keep existing when the only man he’d ever loved was dead.

He took a swig of the Hennessy to steady his nerves. With his body burning hot and fire in his veins, he grabbed up the paintings, every last one, and carried them outside, dropping them in an undignified pile on a patch of bare earth a distance from the cottage. He doused them with the cognac, gritting his teeth as the liquid assaulted the paint, causing it to bleed, distorting Aziraphale’s face, twisting it, like Aziraphale’s body would eventually be, decaying inside his coffin.

When the bottle was just about empty, he rummaged through his pockets for his silver Zippo. He didn’t smoke, but he liked keeping a lighter on hand for emergencies. And why carry around a common plastic BIC when he could spend over a hundred dollars on something he only used once or twice a year? But that was the man Crowley was.

Frivolous.

Over-the-top.

Who in their right mind chooses to make a living as an artist anyway? He didn’t even want to be a painter initially. But when his trust fund matured and he gained control of it, he realized that he had more than enough money to live the life of a rock star and never work a day in his life. On a whim, he began to dally with watercolors and voila! He unlocked a secret talent.

But he should have done something respectable - gone to law school, or medical school. If he’d done either of those, Aziraphale might still be alive.

He’d give it all away, call a complete do over on his life, to get Aziraphale back.

He flipped the lighter open and an orange flame sprang to life. Crowley tossed the lighter into the pile. The flame barely touched the heap before the whole thing went up in a blaze. Crowley stood back and watched it burn, watched the past three months of his life go up in smoke. The paint melted, the canvas crackled, sparks of color went flying into the sky.

“There, Aziraphale,” Crowley grumbled, his throat raw from screaming. “It’s done. All of it. No more muse … no more you … no more paintings. I’ve buried it all with you. I’m done!”

Weak, tired, and sick, Crowley drank the dregs of Aziraphale’s cognac while fire devoured his paintings … and the love of his life.

It seemed too much work to trudge back to the cottage and climb into bed, so he lay down on the hard-packed earth next to the destroyed canvases. They maintained a slow burn, the air around him reeking of chemical smoke. Crowley hoped it would seep into his sinuses and suffocate his brain. Or maybe an errant cinder would jump onto his alcohol-soaked clothes and he would burn to death in his sleep; a sudden temperature drop freeze him to the ground where he lay. Either way, without Aziraphale, his bed wasn’t his bed, his home wasn’t a home, and Crowley wished more than anything that he could find the quickest and most efficient way to die.

Crowley had prayed that he would black out, surrender to an unconsciousness where time passed outside of memory, but he had no such luck. Locked inside sleep, he had the same dream over and over - Aziraphale falling from the ladder and cracking his head on the wall. And no matter what Crowley did, no matter how fast he ran, no matter if he didn’t go into the cottage to answer the phone, Aziraphale still died.

That was an absolute. It never changed.

Which meant that doctor, lawyer, or artist, Aziraphale would still die.

Before dawn, Crowley had no idea when, he heard a rustle, followed by footfalls on the ground, and he wrestled through the fog in his brain to open his eyes. If he was about to be mauled by wild animals, he wanted to know. But what he saw was a man – a beautiful man - approaching the charred pile, focused on it as if a sick, drunk, and urine-smelling Crowley wasn’t lying mere feet away. The man bent over the burnt canvases, a trembling hand pressed to his lips, and a gasp escaped his mouth.

Crowley had an overwhelming urge to reach out to the man, apologize for setting the paintings on fire, but why, he couldn’t explain. Crowley groaned, trying to form words with his sticky tongue. He rolled slightly, blinking to get a better look at his paintings’ solitary mourner, but when he opened his eyes, the man was gone, and Crowley fell asleep once again.

Crowley awoke after sunrise to the sound of laughter breaking through the haze of his fever-induced stupor. It was high-pitched, familiar. It sounded like heaven and home and the future Crowley had always dreamed of having, starting during those days when Aziraphale was completely clueless that Crowley had a crush on him. He could punch himself in the eye for the time he’d wasted not outright saying, “Aziraphale, I’m in love with you!”

Time he could use now.

Time he would never get back.

Back then, it took him longer than necessary to realize what he’d known from the beginning, from the first moment they met.

He wanted Aziraphale. Just Aziraphale.

Crowley peeled open his eyes and craned his head in search of the laughter, fixing his gaze on the cottage, and the patio he planned to tear out brick by brick by hand as soon as he was physically able. Somewhere in the midst of his pounding headache and the fog that refused to lift, he spotted piercing blue eyes – blue like the sky in summer – staring at him from behind a golden hibiscus. It was that exact spot Crowley had planned for his painting - the one he’d rushed home to start, of Aziraphale lounging on a chaise in front of the outdoor fireplace, the hibiscus behind him, its golden hue mimicking the highlights in his hair.

Crowley sat up too quickly to see who the eyes belonged to. His head swam, his stomach flipped, and before he knew it, he was on his hands and knees, vomiting over the ground. Crowley heaved until there was nothing left, eyes squeezed shut as his body wrung the past several hours’ worth of alcohol from him. As quickly as he could, he looked back at the cottage with watery eyes, but this time, he saw nothing. He dropped his head. It felt too heavy for his neck so he let it hang while he blinked what remained of his tears from his eyes. He caught a glimpse of his hands, filthy and paint-stained; the ruined cuffs of his suit reminding him that he still wore it. He pictured himself covered in dirt and vomit and knew that if Aziraphale could see him, he would be sorely disappointed.

Slowly, ever so slowly, with that thought lodged in his mind giving him an impetus to move, he crawled back to the cottage on his hands and knees. He felt lousy with fever, but his head began to clear. Small pebbles cut into the palms of his hands, but, unable to get to his feet, he continued to crawl, distracting himself by considering his options.

By the time he made it to the patio, his path seemed certain.

Crowley didn’t want to live, not without Aziraphale. His mind was made up.

He would settle his affairs.

He would finish his commissions, complete his obligations.

And when the cottage and his flat were put up on the market, and all was said and done, he would find the quickest, most foolproof way of being reunited with his husband again.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale

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parentingfeature · 3 years

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HOW TO TALK TO KIDS ABOUT RACE AND RACISM

It's never too early to start lecture kids about race and racism. The following pointers will assist you in getting the conversation started.

Sara D. Lee, MSW, LCSW, shares her tips for talking about race with our youngsters. Inspect her website Pacific Burnout Therapy or on Facebook.

Conversations about race are always happening around us. Always. Of media, and each person participates in the least times. A bit like during a painting, where the filled and blank spaces close to doing the whole work, both what's said and what's left unsaid matter. For instance, I adore Mr. Rodgers. Still, the absence of 1 or more celebrated paternal figures of color in children's media is an example of racism shaping the children's conversation on race. An Asian-American, Latinx, Native-American, or African-American father figure could have filled that role if it didn't require a singular blend of access and privilege that our society exclusively extends to the White race.

I'll share a scene from my very own life as another example of how parents and youngsters participate within the discourse on race, whether we would like to or not. Last fall, my 2-year-old daughter pointed to an African American man on TV and said, "I don't like that black guy." We were watching a political chat show, which may be stressful sometimes for anyone. I understood her not liking the show, but I used to be bothered by how she singled out the Black man because of the source of her distress. I used to be additionally stunned by her language. She chose to mention "Black" (racial identity) rather than "brown" (observed skin color). She also said "guy," which may be a term I never use to ask Black men because it indicates discomfort with black masculinity, which is a component of the history of anti-blackness during this country. Other men are "men," but this one was a "guy." This was a term she had absorbed from someone/somewhere else. To drive the purpose home, she also began to cry whenever our cousin would come by to go to us. He's a large and dark-skinned teenager who she also began to mention she didn't like.

At the time, I used to be a stay-at-home mother seeing a small number of clients in my virtual private practice from home. I used to be together with her 24/7. We also didn't watch TV outside of some select shows via laptop. I chose to be silent on race because I assumed that she was safe. I assumed she would have enough implicit messages about black love, value, and wonder from her life. I'm a brown-skinned Black woman, and her father may be a light-skinned bi-racial Black man (whose father may be a very woke White man). Our family (both blood and chosen) is crammed with people whose origins span the world. I assumed that I had much time only to let her enjoy being a toddler before discussing race. Unfortunately, my silence on race left much space within my little daughter's mind to be filled by racist and supremacist narratives about Black people (particularly men) and how she should feel about them.

TALKING TO KIDS ABOUT RACE

My guidance is that we'd like to be mindful, proactive, and begin very early identifying and celebrating race. Even babies notice race since complexion, countenance, and hair are pretty helpful tools for identifying people. To ignore race allows room for the kid to internalize bias, including something shameful about noticing or having phenotypical differences. Please do start as early as possible, but remember that today is as good as any urge started. Accept the reality of where you're and go! Be certain to spot White as a racial category and name whiteness as often as you'll to disrupt White's narrative as "normal" or "default." Parents should work to clear that there's no inherent non-phenotypic biological difference that justifies "race" but that we still use it to explain the recent or distant ancestral origin. The thought of "race" as an enormous family group works well and is accurate. Also mention the humanity generally and how people close to making families, to be happy and to measure also as possible. Within this context, identify how different cultures have their unique methods – and specialize in their joys. Make these conversations relatable by identifying examples from your child's world.

OTHER TIPS FOR YOUR CHILD ABOUT RACE:

Identify and describe people by a variety of things, including complexion or hair. Don't avoid phenotype, but also don't use it to the label. We don't know a person's race, leaving space to model that race is nuanced. Say: "the person is African American/Asian-American/Latino/Indigenous/White, etc.…, but we don't skills they identify with. "Do some reading and google searching to seek a positive race language of phenotype, so you don't skip a hammer in noticing and embracing differences. Words like: chocolate, tan, brown, epicanthic folds, curled, wavy, round eyes, rounded nose, slender, curvy. This helps children to try to an equivalent. They're going to learn to talk and appreciate differences. When you see a negative stereotype, signalize it and debunk it immediately to counter implicit racist messages. Do an equivalent for the White privilege. Immediately notice when an individual is given preferential treatment thanks to race and signalize to it, especially if you're white and it's happening to you or your child. Model using your white privilege to form social change. For families of color, do an equivalent if you or your child has light-skinned privilege. Choose diverse books, shows, and other media – during which non-white characters are the most characters –, not on special occasions. Notice and compliment the difference. Fill in space where you're tempted to be "color blind." If you see your child struggling, help them voice what they notice to supply them with healthy and positive language to debate racial differences. Be anti-racist in fact and action, and your child will absorb all of your accompanying actions, verbal and non-verbal communications. Make certain that you also are reading books and learning from people of all races. Let your child see you advocating for social justice and racial equity – and invite them to participate! This one is complicated but necessary: ask your child to look at their choices. For instance, if the kid chooses a White doll over a brown-skinned doll, ask: "What does one like most about this doll?" this is often a chance to supply a positive note about the doll of color. I do that with my child all the time. If she chooses the white doll because "she looks happy," there's a chance to mention something like: "Thank you for sharing. This other Dollie also seems very happy, so I'll choose her!" Then play. This isn't to invalidate her perception, but to use play to make sure that she internalizes the very fact that positive characteristics can apply to anyone of any race. It's hard, but we'd like to figure to remain involved within the constant racial conversation that society has with our youngsters. Silence is enabling because it fills the passive space during a world that allows people to be singled out and dehumanized due to their perceived racial category. Take tons of deep breaths, and be comfortable saying "I don't know" to your children. But also model taking time to find out. You don't need to be perfected, but your participation must be anti-racist (which includes being anti-colorist).

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