#forgetting that Will cannot look upon a god's true form

[aroaceleovaldez]

i stand by that a better, more sensible, and more intriguing plot for TSATS would have been, instead of retconning literally everything:

Bob is dead (because he was very explicitly absorbed/killed by Tartarus Himself in House of Hades, alongside Damasen), and nobody is going into Tartarus to save him. He made his sacrifice and is gone. However. Remember how the Titans, including Bob, were just kind of kicking around for several years? Particularly. On a cruise ship full of mortals. And Bob happened to be kicking around in general for an extra year versus all the other Titans. And he mythologically sometimes has a mortal demigod son who partook in the Calydonian Boar Hunt (Dryas of Calydon). Yeah.

So turns out, Bob/Iapetus leaves behind a demigod (demititan?) child. And because Nico was pretty much his only friend, he named Nico his child's godfather. And while he's not being left in charge of the child, as a son of Hades and godfather to this kid, Nico is duty-bound to fulfill Bob's last will and go find this like 2 year old to make sure they're safe. So Nico has to undertake this very unusual quest (that raises many questions, such as "demititans are a thing?" and "DOES THIS MEAN THERE'S POTENTIALLY MORE-?!" and "SHOULD WE BE CONCERNED ABOUT THIS?") and is kind of freaking out because. He's the son of Hades! He's notoriously bad with living things, and animals, and definitely small children! Even if he does find this kid and assure they're safe, he is the last person who should be undergoing any kind of quest involving even potentially having to babysit. Fortunately, his boyfriend is the human embodiment of sunshine and calmness and good vibes, and also once helped a nymph give birth, so he feels Marginally More Confident in theoretical demititan babysitting and offers to come along on this Epic Journey of Figuring Out What In Hades' Name Is Up With This Demititan Baby Business.

Proceed with wholesome epic shenanigans quest of Nico and Will scurrying around trying to locate this random OP baby while Nico has an existential crisis about the nature of his powers because he doesn't want to let Bob down! Both for Hades Kid Honor Reasons and because Bob was his friend! But what if he's destined to fail this quest just because of who he is? Because he's simply not built for hanging out with the living/mortals? And Will reassuring him that He Will Probably Not Traumatize The Weird OP Titan Baby And It'll Be Fine, and simultaneously getting a peek into the weird other life Nico leads hanging out with immortals much more than the average demigod, which Nico considers his norm. Bonus shenanigans of both of them getting caught off-guard and culture shocked from where each other's respective worlds (Nico's mostly-immortal versus Will's mostly-mortal) cross over and learning to navigate those for each other - Nico finally starting to make some mortal connections and get glimpses at modern mortal American life, and Will trying not to get his brain literally incinerated while Nico's happily casually catching up with some of his old friends who happen to be literal gods.

#pjo #riordanverse #nico di angelo #will solace #solangelo #long post // #LISTEN I JUST THINK WE DONT NEED TO BE RETCONNING THINGS WHEN THERE IS A HIGHLY INTRIGUING MYTH RIGHT THERE #listen. *listen.* Iapetus in myth has a demigod child? and we're in the series? that's all about demigods? #and had titans running around for 4 years? some primarily on a giant ship mostly full of mortals? #and Iapetus himself was running around for closer to like 5 years? #I AM JUST SAYING. that is enough time. and the right conditions. that there are perhaps demititans now. #that alone is a fascinating plot set-up that ties in basically all previous series inherently and has a reasonable starting point #of *course* Nico would be named Bob's child's godfather! #of *course* Nico would consider it a very important personal duty to see out Bob's final will and go on some quest about it! #and under those conditions it makes *perfect sense* for Nico to want to bring Will along! and that he would be very helpful on said quest! #bringing along a lot of skills and abilities in areas that Nico lacks! that are crucial for a quest like that! #also then immediately the plot becomes Will reassuring Nico about his powers being cool and not evil and him being spooky is okay #while Will is also trying to not literally have his brain melt cause Nico's casually introducing him to a trio of death gods or something #forgetting that Will cannot look upon a god's true form #and Will's dragging Nico across the US while Nico is struggling to keep up cause Will forgot that Nico's not American and not from that era #its cute! it's interesting! it immediately begs the question of a next-gen series focusing on a main cast of demititan kids #dont go back to Tartarus that's lame and overdone and ruins a ton of stuff. dont retcon everything that also ruins a ton #give us the fluffy roadtrip comedy that they clearly wanted to write instead anyways #you can even keep the elements of Nico feeling out of his depth and Will constantly on the verge of death. except it makes sense this time. #and it's kind of funny cause Nico's just freaking out over babysitting and it highlights how much tankier Nico is vs Will #even just in casual interactions. yeah Nico can casually look upon a god's true form. dont worry about it #meanwhile Will is slowly collecting sunglasses the entire trip and layering them up for whenever Nico introduces him to another deity

[m1d-45]

judas

summary: who can be blamed for a world wide calamity? the executioner, the judge, or the jury?

word count: ~1.3k

-> warnings: mention of blood, implied death(you, but you revive after), um minor spoilers for inazuma and sumeru archon quest, as well as for kazuha lore

-> gn reader (you/yours) and unspecified traveller (no pronouns)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr

< masterlist >

to see a god is a feat most strive their whole lives toward. to bear witness to one so much holier than you, to view a deity far beyond your time. mortals pray to statues and shrines, each vying for the eye of the heavens, a select few showing off their rewards in the form of a gleaming vision.

but even those with a vision cannot see the stars. true gods- the true god is a memory beholden to only a few, to those that remember the times prior to the archon war. before the creator lifted to celestia, sequestered away far from the petty meddling of people.

they’re missed. they’re always missed. the gods have a hole their gnoses are too small to fill, a deep ache that beats with their hearts, yearning for the one they called ‘home.’ it’s not unlike the feeling one gets on a clear night, looking up to the stars, knowing the world’s so vast and you are so small, unsure whether to be afraid or comforted.

so they wish their god a well recovery? do they grieve the idea that they may die before that happens? do they grab a bottle from the shelf and bear headaches without hangovers, do they sit at a worn table and drink tea nobody else remembers, do they sleep endlessly, hoping to dream instead? what does one do, when so alone? what does one do, when the stars blanket the sky and they are struck with the remembrance of their finite lives?

mortals get up from their blankets. look away, go to bed, rise the next day with the only star they know being the one that warms the stones beneath their feet. but gods don’t tire easily, and the nights are known for stretching far longer than days.

the unlucky ones die.

the cursed are given a false prophet.

“if you remember me, then i don’t care if anyone else forgets.”

the greater lord was kind. too kind. beloved. unfairly so. how strange, she wondered, fading to dust, that she did not see her god greeting her. how odd, she thought, that the closest she had come to heaven was within the moments before her death.

it’s not her fault. it never was. the eyes that watched from celestia were hard with iron and not time, cruel with choice and not purpose. so many died, so many didn’t have to, so many fell under the foot of a fraud while their true colors hid behind a mask.

“do you remember me?”

“do you?”

it wasn’t your fault either. it never was. your chosen warrior, your first picked, saved from the grips of the one who had stolen your place. so many people, so many names, so many conversations held within proxy. the earth remembered, the people rejoiced, and yet it was only your golden companion that questioned the sea.

(the waves calmed. eons old bodies finally laid to rest. the abyss itself stilled for just a moment, just long enough to stop and watch you smile, and even now occasionally lent an ear to your pride.)

how unfair, that you once laughed together but now cry alone.

to lay eyes upon the divine is one thing. to view with one’s own eyes even a fraction of true power is enough to blind the commons, and even the most ancient dragon must bow its head. but to touch? to hold, to grasp, to feel universes thrumming beneath your fingers, the power of giants hovering barely an inch away?

“we named a constellation after you.”

you had said hello. a god, a being so far beyond mortal understanding, crouching to one knee and extending a hand to a child that had fallen. you could have walked by. perhaps on another day you might’ve. but you didn’t recognize the world as your home, and she didn’t recognize you as hers, fleeing to the guards the moment she saw something a little too bright in your eyes.

it wasn’t your fault. the ground is stained with blue and that child’s hand burns with the fire found in the core of a newborn sun, hot and new far too much for someone so young to handle. a samurai will never be able to look at his sword the same way again, but you shouldn’t blame yourself for that either. his hand holds the grip as his own shakes, red eyes struggling to take in what he sees.

the human mind reacts strangely when it sees something it doesn’t understand. it fizzles, stops, the wiring going dull as it realizes its neurons are far too small to comprehend the unusual stimuli. unfortunately, this response does not lend itself to survival, and the drive to live overshadows your cries for the same.

he doesn’t like the visit that part of town anymore. he can’t look at maple leaves without remembering how they stuck to the ground, weighed down by blood. he visits a familiar grave, tucked between two sharp cliffs, lingering far past the settling of lavender melon on the ground. he kneels there for a few hours too long, wondering of all the what ifs.

it’s not his fault either. it’s nobody’s. they were given a candlelight and were told it was a star, even as they watched the wax drip. he was doing his best, and it just so happened that in the blind grasp for a handhold, he’d pushed you away. he couldn’t see. it wasn’t his fault.

“don’t blame yourself, kazuha.”

“the tide does not stop rising when asked. neither does the guilt.”

it wasn’t his fault.

you try to remind yourself of this, at times. so does he. the two of you lie awake at inane hours of night, searching the sky for an answer.

what happened? what went wrong? was it me? was it anyone?

celestia looks down with eyes of fake steel, looking between you and the empty throne behind them. they’d finally caved, thrown the one they puppeted for the vishaps to dissect and the hillichurls to pull apart, but now worried. they’d certainly be punished if it was known they’d allowed this to happen… was it their fault, perhaps?

eyes sought out others, the council known as ‘heaven’ lost for what to do. their eyes joined yours, as yours joined kazuha’s, all tilted up and beginning to turn glassy.

the universe is so big, each star their own system, and it’s so hard to feel like any more than sand when it’s displayed so clearly. maybe it was kazuha’s fault, for not recognizing the light you shed as that of the sun. maybe it was celestia’s, for continuing to entertain an impossible fantasy. maybe it was the earth’s, for guiding you where it thought was safe, maybe maybe maybe. it doesn’t matter. did it ever? your heart burns with grief—love—as you go to bed, sheltered within a hilichurl camp. kazuha stays up too late, punishing himself with the fog of sleepiness that lasts a little too long the next day. celestia doesn’t feel guilt, for when did it ever, but the next day is unproductive, something strange taking place of the air there.

maybe it was nobody’s fault. maybe the world was disjointed, unfamiliar with your presence, stuttering for a moment as it collected itself once more. maybe in that moment of confusion, of flickering light and a burnt out flame, tragedy had struck like lightning. the universe was illuminated, bathed in the gleam of your power, able to see what it couldn’t in darkness.

it wouldn’t happen again, but that didn’t stop it from hurting. scars still ached when it rained, and the skies were weeping as it realized what had occurred in shadow.

#sagau #genshin #genshin impact #genshin sagau #self aware genshin #genshin impact sagau #sagau genshin #kazuha #kaedehara kazuha #sagau kaedehara kazuha #sagau kazuha #gn reader #genshin self aware au #written at 3:30-4am lmao #pro of writing at 3am: words! #cons: it’s THESE ones…. #i like it when i get all metaphorical and vague like this sometimes; genuinely. it’s a cool facet of my style that i do enjoy #on OCCASION.

[lovelytayforce]

Dragons Among Us Theory!!

Alright, KFP4 trailer is out and I have a couple of theories that all point to one similarity and that is; DRAGONS! Now, we all know this is the Year of the Dragon and all that jazz but this trailer takes it to another level from beginning to end so let's start how we always do here and press play; at the very start! We start with this Gate called a Paifang which is commonly used as an entrance for shrines, it can also be used for common structures and architecture but ssshh! Now, we all know this is the Year of the Dragon and all that jazz but this trailer takes it to another level from beginning to end so let's start how we always do here and press play; at the very start! We start with this Gate called a Paifang which is commonly used as an entrance for shrines, it can also be used for common structures and architecture but ssshh!

This gate is obviously made from natural materials such as burnt paper which is common practice in said shrines during the new year to make wishes along with Wood which is a Chinese element! So, we might have hints of chi manifesting into the elements of the mortal realm into something far more mystical than we have ever seen within the series! Now, this is closely connected to Dragons, dw I didn't forget! Our first hint is Tai Lung here, aka "The Great Dragon", he's only here for this one sole reason. (People aren't gonna like hearing this but he's gonna be the last bit of energy for what is to come!) The Chameleon cannot truly transform into others perfectly, there is always an imperfection such as when she transforms into the elephant which has designs upon her head on its trunk, Tai Lung has red pants instead of purple, and Po as we've all seen is rather spiky! This all leads to ONE THING, she is a shapeshifting Dragon! And one that fits this description is Shen/Chen in Chinese mythology and makes sense of those weird aquatic like Lizards in her army that match no know species we know of. Aka they are Dragons in disguise acting as normal lizards.

The second thing is her tail here. It grows rather than switches and flips and sheds scales of different colors as she did with Tai and Po, this I believe along with the shadow that follows is her true form.

There could be a number of reasons why she wants Po's staff much less chi that aligns with the power much less essence of a Dragon because she is either a fallen dragon, an old god whose Shrine was left in the past by locals, or merely a Dragon wishing to ascend above what she is. It explains why the Director calls her more mystical than Kai, The Maker of Widows! She's an ancient being whose already tapped into chi and the nature around here along with knowing Dragon style already! And shoutout to my boy @thegreatying for telling me about Tibetan Temples cause I was confusing them with another type of Chinese temple so peep that info here!: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tibetan_Buddhist_architecture Honestly, this is going to be one of the best villains of this series with this concept alone, we are finally getting hints at Dragons and the door between the mortal realm and Heaven (aka the spirit realm) into the plot that continues on from what kfp3 left behind. The fact that chi is now normal and accessible makes beings like her look less special and less powerful. But gives her an opening for something even bigger than we could all expect!! So, that is my theory, that The Chameleon is just a code name for her taken form and that in reality, she is a shape-shifting Dragon and her army is also Dragons in disguise! With the themes of temples, shrines and maybe some commentary on Tourism in our future and how they affect old shrines and gods when we find it too inconvenient to visit them... Or maybe just maybe we'll get a hint at a true god-or maybe a Demi GOD YOU KNOW WHO IM TALKING ABOUT WUKONG! Anyways, that's all for now~!

#kung fu panda #kung fu panda 4 #the chameleon #Po #Tai Lung #dragons #theory #fan theory #headcanon #kfp4 #ThegreatYing #ya boy came out with the research #dont let anyone tell you fanfic research doesn't help #taylor talks #its still fuck awkwa in this house

[all-eyes-lead-to-the-truth]

All Eyes Lead to the Truth | Demons (4x23)

Amy gasps, jolting awake and upward in darkness. The ear piercing buzz of the drill slowly fades into the void of her subconscious. Oh God, another black out? Where is she? Her heart beats frantically through her chest as she fumbles for the bedside lamp. Flowered wallpaper, cream-colored curtains, David snoring beside her… right: her bedroom. Not back there.

Another nightmare. No, a memory.

Her teeth clench, thinking about the thousand ways she may have been hurt, violated years ago. Then she thinks about how many ways she was but doesn’t remember. Her stomach twists. Flashes of unseen hands poking, prodding, pinning her down haunts her in the light of day. But it’s during the dark of night when the remnants of bone deep pain and fathomless fear soak her sheets with sweat. Like always, her hands tremble when they instantly clutch her stomach and palm her face, soothing an invisible ache. When her tongue swipes instinctively across the arc of her soft palette, somehow anticipating the warm tang of blood pooling in her mouth, tears sting her eyes. 

Every night it’s the same. Every night it’s worse. 

Amy gets out of bed and walks downstairs, careful not to wake David. He too gets little reprieve from his own hellish abduction memories he’d much rather forget. A luxury Amy simply cannot fathom. Frustration at living like a blindfolded prisoner inside her own body is at an all-time high, amping up her anxiety and desire for knowledge of the unknown. She has never needed the truth more. But when her brain fails to provide details of her hijacked agency she yearns to recall, her body’s muscle memory built upon the bulk of buried trauma does it for her. That scares her more than any truth ever could. Because at least now the truth will not remain buried. At least she will finally know. 

Amy swipes the sweaty tendrils of gray from her forehead and hisses when her finger nicks the fresh scab forming at her hairline. 

Dr. Charles Goldstein and his innovative method of treating memory repression has been a true revelation. David refuses to dive any further than surface level into their murky past of bright lights and missing time. But, as her psychologist, Dr. Goldstein suggested she consent to this multi-session treatment to regain pieces of her memory, and Amy has reveled in it.

She enters the crowded sunroom full of her recent artwork of her childhood home by the lake. A place where she used to feel safe and happy. Where she’d spent her wedding night with David and woke up six weeks later on life support. 

Amy settles in front of her half-painted canvas and presses play on her answering machine as the saved message from last night whirrs to life:

“Amy Cassandra, my name is Fox Mulder, I’m a Special Agent with the FBI. I’ve read the recent article in Abductee Magazine you were interviewed for about your experience years ago—in fact I’m looking at it now, and I’m interested in speaking with you in person. Uh… very interested, actually.” 

Amy stares thoughtfully at the machine as the younger man on the other end clears his throat. His tone is soft, reassuring, and Amy can’t help but wonder if a child of her own would be as understanding about her past as this Agent Mulder is. If she could’ve had children, that is. 

“…You mentioned a certain therapy you’d started that involved recovering repressed and buried memories. If you’re willing, I’d like to know more. I need to know more. For personal reasons. And Amy, I want you to know I’ll listen. Really listen. I’m sure many others haven’t before, but I will...”

Amy waits as the agent leaves his number and hears the desperation in his voice. She nods, her decision made, shouldering the corded phone attached to the wall as she dials. It’s either too early or this FBI agent screens his calls the same as David. Leaving a message, an olive branch is all she can do.

“Agent Mulder? This is Amy Cassandra, and I think I can help you…”

A predawn haze shines just enough light on her palette for her to dab out an array of acrylic in a rainbowed arc. Her hands itch to paint.

“Please delete this message after you hear it, but it’s true I’ve been slowly recovering flashes of voids or gaps within my past with the help of my psychologist. My husband and I— well, it’s been a tumultuous road to reclaim what’s been taken, but there’s so much more I must know…”

Amy anxiously grips a wooden brush and dips the bristles in vibrant green, thinking about what to say next. She paints her childhood home because it’s been the only place other than her resistant mind that holds the truth. As she speaks, the deep wound in her skull throbs, reminding her that that was true, until weeks ago when she’d traded the nightmare of one penetrating drill with the reality of another. 

“And you’d think willingly having a hole drilled into your head would be crazy, until realizing crazy is your only option to be sane,” Amy huffs into the phone at the irony. She’d apologize for her eccentric ramble but she doesn’t feel sorry for the warning. 

“Anyway…” Amy squints to shape the bend of the wind-blown tree just right along the canvas. Detail matters. It’s the details that complete the whole picture. The whole truth. The bad, the worse: all of it is what will save her sanity. “If you’re serious about knowing more, meet me at Dr. Goldstein's office in Rhode Island for my next session and you’ll see. Maybe he will help you remember your own truths...”

Art has always been therapeutic, but ever since the experimental therapy, painting has become momentous in bringing forth the evil lurking within her darkness. 

“Maybe, Agent Mulder, it’s time to exercise your demons too.”

Read the rest of All Eyes Lead to the Truth on Archive of Our Own!

@monikafilefan

#all eyes lead to the truth #season four #s4 #4x23 #the x files #fanfic #x files fanfic #amy cassandra #mulder #scully #msr

[myreia]

Bound by Faith

CHAPTER TWO: PHILAUTIA

Chapter Rating: T Pairing: Aureia Malathar (Warrior of Light)/Thancred Waters Characters: Warrior of Light, Thancred Waters, Urianger Augurelt, Ryne, Alisaie Leveilleur, Alphinaud Leveilleur, Y'shtola Rhul, Cyella Chapter Word Count: 8,787 Story Word Count: 14,132 Story Summary: With their enemies defeated and the First saved, the Crystarium is alive with celebration. Despite the joy around her, Aureia is uncertain about the next steps to take. So is Thancred, for that matter. The puzzle of their lives has sat incomplete for years, but finally this last, precious piece may be able to slide into place. Spoiler Warning: Spoilers for the end of Shadowbringers base. Notes: This chapter does not contain explicit sexual content, but a later chapter will.

🡒 READ ON AO3 🡐

“We really should have known better,” he adds after a moment. “Once she sets her sights on a matter, there’s no stopping her.” Urianger raises an eyebrow. “Indeed,” he says soberly, lowering his wine. “And thy pride in her is more than palpable.” “Am I proud…?” He chuckles, shaking his head at himself. “Yes. I suppose I am.” “Then why dost though linger, Thancred? If I may—and no, I must insist thou resist the temptation to interrupt and heed mine words for the duration of this moment—when I didst speak with Ryne earlier this eve, I sensed some disappointment that thou hast withdrawn unto the outskirts. I am uncertain what she envisioned for tonight, but to remain uninvolved and standing on the fringes mayhap communicates to her that thou dost not share in her excitement.” “It is not that, let me assure you! And you’re one to talk. I haven’t seen you partaking in the festivities either. Have you considered that Ryne may be just as disappointed in you as she is in me—” “I have been contending with Feo Ul’s most gracious of ambassadors—” “Of course you have—” “—who are—it is paramount to note—little scoundrels.” “Urianger, you do realize that the day will come when you will not have pixies to use as an excuse?” “Aye. But the day when our massy souls depart the First to return to their vessels upon the Source is not yet upon us. There is much to be done beforehand to ensure safe passage from one world to the next.” Ugh. Thancred’s shoulders slump. “Please, I am begging you, never use the word massy like that again. Or refer to our bodies as vessels, for that matter.” Urianger smiles serenely and tips his wine glass to him. He sighs and scratches the back of his neck, shaking his head. “Perhaps I should clarify. It is not that I have no desire to partake, but rather that my head still spins from all we’ve accomplished. What we bore witness to. As detestable Emet-Selch and his whole rotten ilk are… I cannot so easily forget what we saw in Amaurot. And—gods damn it, I cannot believe I am saying this about an Ascian—perhaps I do understand something of him after all. That desperation to cling to what you loved… to what was lost…” “The horrors of that bygone era hath given us much to ponder, ‘tis true,” Urianger says gently. “Thou art not alone in thine preoccupation. There are many questions whose answers may be forever beyond our knowing. Mayhap they will haunt us for the remainder of our days—or perchance we will expose their anagogic secrets. For now, that fate remains unknown. But it does not behoove us to indulge in such preoccupations on an eve such as this one, and so it is my turn to beg something of thee. Set aside the temptation to linger on it for the duration of tonight. There will be sufficient time for that anon.” “I know.” “Look to thy loved ones. This time is for them and them alone.” “I am. I do. And you do know you’re included in that, Urianger—” “I do not speak of myself and thou knowest that plainly.” Thancred pauses, a lump forming in his throat. Much like Y’shtola, Urianger has a way of striking through to the heart of the matter—even when it takes him twelve sentences to get there when one would suffice.

#hello it is tuesday #this chapter is the sole reason i made the tag roasting each other is a form of love #don't know whether this chapter deserves to have +8000 words devoted to thancred's POV but here we are anyway 😂 #(this chapter is also the reason why the whole thing isn't being posted to tumblr proper it's too long for a tumblr post) #ffxiv #ffxiv fic #ffxiv fanfic #wolcred #ffxiv wol #thancred waters #urianger augurelt #ryne waters #aureia malathar #only tagging characters who appear in this chapter #shadowbringers #shadowbringers spoilers #writing tag

[lenapalmdeath]

We cannot allow it

Neil Gaiman - American Gods

"There are stories that are true, in which each individual’s tale is unique and tragic, and the worst of the tragedy is that we have heard it before, and we cannot allow ourselves to feel it too deeply. We build a shell around it like an oyster dealing with a painful particle of grit, coating it with smooth pearl layers in order to cope. This is how we walk and talk and function, day in, day out, immune to other’s pain and loss. If it were to touch us it would cripple us or make saints of us; but, for the most part, it does not touch us. We cannot allow it.

Tonight, as you eat, reflect if you can: there are children starving in the world, starving in numbers larger than the mind can easily hold, up in big numbers where an error of a million here, a million there, can be forgiven. It may be uncomfortable for you to reflect upon this or it may not, but still, you will eat.

There are accounts of which, if we open our hearts to them, will cut too deeply. Look – here is a good man, good by his own lights and the lights of his friends: he is faithful and true to his wife, he adores and lavishes attention on his little children, he cares about his country, he does his job punctiliously, as best as he can. So efficiently and good-naturedly, he exterminates Jews: he appreciates the music that plays in the background to pacify them; he advises the Jews not to forget their identification numbers as they go into the showers – many people, he tells them, forget their numbers, and take the wrong clothes, when they come out of the showers. This calms the Jews: there will be life, they assure themselves, after the showers. And they are wrong. Our man supervises the detail taking the bodies to the ovens; and if there is anything he feels bad about, it is that he still allows the gassing of vermin to affect him. Were he truly a good man, he knows, he would feel nothing but joy, as the earth is cleansed of its pests.

Leave him; he cuts too deep. He is too close to us and it hurts.

There was a girl, and her uncle sold her. Put like that it seems so simple.

No man, proclaimed Donne, is an Island, and he was wrong. If we were not islands, we would be lost, drowned in each others’ tragedies. We are insulated (a word that means, literally, remember, made into an island) from the tragedies of others, by our island nature, and by the repetitive shape and form of the stories. We know the shape, and the shape does not change. There was a human being who was born, lived, and then, by some mean or other, died. There. You may fill in the details from your own experience. As unoriginal as any other tale, as unique as any other life. Lives are snowflakes – unique in detail, forming patterns we have seen before, but as like one another as peas in a pod (and have you ever looked at peas in a pod? I mean really looked at them? There’s not a chance you’d mistake one for another, after a minute’s close inspection.)

We need individual stories. Without individuals we see only numbers: a thousand dead, a hundred thousand dead, “casualties may rise to a million.” With the individual stories, the statistics become people – but even that is a lie, for the people continue to suffer in numbers that themselves are numbing and meaningless. Look, see the child’s swollen, swollen belly, and the flies that crawl at the corners of his eyes, his skeletal limbs: will it make it easier for you to know his name, his age, his dreams, his fears? To see him from the inside? And if it does, are we not doing a disservice to his sister, who lies in the searing dust beside him, a distorted, distended caricature of a human child? And there, if we feel for them, are they now more important to us than a thousand other children touched by the same famine, a thousand other young lives who will soon be food for the flies’ own myriad squirming children?

We draw our lines around these moments of pain, and remain upon our islands, and they cannot hurt us. They are covered with a smooth, safe, nacreous layer to let them slip, pearl-like, from our souls without real pain.

Fiction allows us to slide into these other heads, these other places, and look out through other eyes. And then in the tale we stop before we die, or we die vicariously and unharmed, and in the world beyond the tale we turn the page or close the book, and we resume our lives.

A life, which is, like any other, unlike any other.

And the simple truth is this: there was a girl, and her uncle sold her."

#neil gaiman #american gods #litterature #my goodness that made me cry #I wasn't expecing such a gem right in the middle of this book

[tryst-art-archive]

Nov. 2012: "ThirdEssayD1_ScrapForParts.doc"

An unfinished start of an essay for my nonfiction class.

--------Essay------>

            I have a poor memory where my own life is concerned. My mind tends to be overactive, busily poring over every moment, every word, of my present and past, constantly revising and editing them down to their barest parts, turning them into legendary events instead of actual moments of time. The end result is that, when asked about my life and its formative events, I provide not so much an accurate account but a ritualized and carefully formulated myth that, while wholly based in fact and actual happenings, cannot be definitively confirmed, much less by me. This same process watches everything I do and say, commenting upon my actions and then commenting again upon the thought about the actions and so forth and so on down the line; the space in my head is a babble of thoughts, and I am at my most functional when they are a rumbling background noise from which only an occasional impression emerges. Conversely, when my mental rumble solidifies into a single, articulate stream of thought, into actual words, I become utterly dysfunctional, suddenly clumsily failing to accurate complete tasks that were second nature a moment ago, whether that means printing a flyer to fit an letter-sized sheet of paper or simply breathing in a normal fashion. (I forget how to breathe three to five times a day, usually when I’m on the train, and often because I can’t hear my breathing over my headphones and some other passenger looked at me askance like I’ve committed a social faux pas at which point my mind erupts into tangible thought to ask, “Oh god am I breathing loudly?!” causing me to think about how breathing works.) About two to three times per week, walking eludes me, usually when I remember previous compliments from past sexual partners on either my rump or my consistent and daily ability to walk in high heels, and I spend the rest of the day chanting “Heel toe! Heel toe!” in my mind, occasionally skipping a couple of feet because my rhythm might be off, visually. I sometimes forget how my facial muscles work as well, smiling longer than I’m used to—which admittedly isn’t very long; years of cultivating invisibility have provided me with a default facial expression that is at best morose and at worst downright unfriendly—and then, suddenly strained by the fatigue of holding my cheeks and mouth and eyebrows in an upright position, I have to roll my features around in an effort to relocate normal.

            Verbal thinking decimates me, emotionally as well, ultimately destroying my ability to feign normalcy until, through chance, I sink back into my comfortable state of floating buzz. I often don’t remember the things I write, especially if I or others wind up liking the results, and back in the days when I was visually artistically inclined, the same was true of my sketches and digital drawings. In the summer before my senior year of college I took on a graphic design internship at a magazine company which began with a panicked me constantly thinking verbally about every little design decision and whether or not my new, temporary coworkers would approve. The results were atrocious, worse than work I’d made for classes the semester before that had landed me this internship in the first place, worse than poorly Photoshopped posters I’d made for my high school’s literary magazine or indeed the pathetic attempts at InDesign use I’d managed for that very magazine. It wasn’t until despair at every being able to feel even remotely comfortable or accepted at the internship in question set in that I relaxed at all and my verbal monologue moved away from my design choices and to how ridiculous it was that my current coworkers were handcrafting Caesar salads for lunch while I hid behind my uncomfortable Mac eating Lunchables that I began to turn out any designs that were worthwhile at all. Of course, by then I’d managed to quietly break and then repair the computer I’d been loaned by first unintentionally loading over thirty thousand fonts onto its hard drive and then hand-deleting them until I could open InDesign without the computer crashing; the quality of my free advertisements and newsletters were the least of my worries. In fact, as the internship went on and I became less and less interested and invested in it and more and more certain that I was utterly useless and had damned myself forever in the eyes of my coworkers simply by existing, the better my work became, eventually becoming portfolio-worthy. I’d seen the same effect in my photography as well; a shot carefully constructed and planned out inevitably had a car passing by at the worst moment or an obvious light stand at the edge of the frame or my thumb in the corner, but if I sketched a quick thumbnail of an idea for a shot, gathered up a model or a prop and vaguely threw myself at taking that photograph and simply seeing what rolled off of it otherwise, I wound up with solid images that I could feel a little proud of. And why? Because my mind was barely involved, or at least I wasn’t consciously aware of what I was doing; I was merely doing it.

            When I write well, if I write well, I typically start out consciously aware of my words, selecting them and putting them down, for any number of pages, until eventually I stop knowing. I enter what I can only call a trance state in which words fall onto the page via my fingers and keyboard, and I do not know that they are happening. I effectively black out, and when I come up out of writing I breathe like a surfacing swimmer—to abuse a simile—and do not remember what I have written. I generally know the gist of it, have some sense for what occurred, but I absolutely never remember the actual words. Most of them are familiar, but when I have done well, I find a gem or two, a sentence here or a word choice there that strikes home and that I simply cannot remember having ever put down, as if someone else put it there. Yet I am the only one here, and so I must have done it.

            It is the same phenomenon that allows me to breathe properly one moment but not the next; my mind’s involvement, or rather my mind’s lack of involvement, is directly tied to my level of success in any matter. Writing is merely the most extreme form of that phenomenon. I suppose I could be experiencing a sampling bias in this matter—I am one of those infuriating people who has never had to try to succeed, and while that’s mighty convenient in most academic settings, it turns out it’s a violently debilitating factor in the real world in much the same way that growing up without any hardship whatsoever tends to generate entitled brats instead of well-adjusted, useful citizens, to put what is probably going to be an unpopular opinion out there—but it is at least what I perceive to be true.

            For most of my life I’ve had a hard time distinguishing between reality and fantasy. This isn’t to say that I have spent many years in a state of delusion or that I ran around believing dragons were real long past their expiration date; it’s much more subtle than that. I typically have very bizarre dreams that, usually, either mimic video game logic or actually feature a stereotypical video game user interface with health bars and ammo trackers and mini-maps and scores overlaid onto the dream proper. On the occasions when I have realistic or, at least, believable dreams, I spend anywhere from three days to three months believing that they have happened. The illusion is only ever broken—if it’s ever broken—by something missing. For example, I once dreamt that my high school drama club director gave me an important role in an upcoming play and that she had given me a certificate to prove it. Perhaps the certificate and the inclusion of a tub of goo in the dream should have tipped me off to the unreal nature of the dream, but the school’s auditorium looked exactly like the school’s auditorium and the drama director was entirely herself, physically and mentally, and so I missed the obvious. It wasn’t until we were a month into rehearsals for the play that it dawned on me that I had a bit part—one that I had been rehearsing and practicing for a month—and that the dream-memory had never, in fact, happened. Within my memories and on an emotional level, the dream’s truth trumped a month’s worth of factual actuality.

            That was probably the last time, that I can recall anyway, that I had such an extreme reality break. My disassociation from reality was worse back then; I’ve become more and more fixated in the actual moment as I’ve aged and begun to manage my own affairs and therefore my own survival. The disassociation has hardly disappeared entirely, however. Typically, I simply don’t feel myself, the things around me whether people, places, or things, or events occurring in my life to be real. It’s all just a hazy, unending fog. I can distinctly recall one occasion on which the fog lifted.

            The moment occurred in high school as well, on a weekday afternoon like any other. I was home alone, my parents being at work, and I was at the familial computer, my home and my refuge since the tender age of thirteen, when all at once I felt the facts of my existence. It manifested as a crushing weight which I visualized as a series of tombstones stacking up on my back, ascending past the ceiling as a morbid skyscraper. I felt the absolute certainty of my impending and, relative to the universe, quickly approaching death; I had the complete knowledge that in a blink of an eye I would be wholly responsible for myself and that, really, I already was, that everything I existed as and everything I had ever done and everything I had ever felt was, one way or another, directly my fault, and that my unending and overwhelming unhappiness was entirely my own construction and mine to dismantle. I knew that life as it existed at that moment would disappear, that my cats and family and friends would all die and that all of those things were impermanent even without the threat of death, and I froze, stymied by the sudden knowledge that everything that was happening was real. That thought echoed in my mind, leaving my paralyzed and horrified, completely at a loss.

            All of this occurred within a second, and the moment passed as immediately and inexplicably as it had come, and my dreamlike fog settled on me again, though thinner than before, and it was some days before the afterimage of the grave on my spine fully dissipated.

            When I was five or seven—pardon my fallible memory—I spent most of my nights trying to imagine death. I was raised a Roman Catholic and attended CCD and church, but the idea of heaven was, even then, completely implausible to me. They told me there was a benevolent and loving God, but if that was true then everyone should be happy, but they weren’t. They told me that God always listened but on the one or two occasions I prayed to him to ask for something—on both occasions it was for No School Tomorrow—the prayers went unanswered which seemed unfair because it wasn’t like I asked for things all that often, and all things considered I was a pretty good kid. These things contributed to my skepticism, but the clincher on my early aethieism was the day they told me that animals didn’t go to heaven. I never voiced my doubts, but they went something like this: Heaven is paradise, i.e., the place where everything is happy all the time forever. In order for me to be happy, my cats must be with me. Animals don’t go to heaven which means cats don’t go to heaven which means that when I go to heaven, I will be unhappy. Which means it isn’t heaven because I’d be stuck there without my cats forever. From there I got to wondering about what happened to the families of “bad people”? When the Bad People got sent to hell, didn’t that mean their families were miserable in heaven, like I would inevitably be? Or was it that the Bad People went up to heaven so that their Good People families would be happy? But then wouldn’t that mean that everybody was in heaven? So then hell was pointless? I couldn’t reconcile the ideas and, in the end, was forced to conclude that the whole Catholicism thing was a sham. (Over the years I went from aethiest to agnostic to aethiest to agnostic and now finally I just don’t give any kind of damn at all, though I still abhor organized religion as a concept.)

            Well, if heaven and hell didn’t exist, then that meant there was no afterlife, and that, of course, meant simply not existing after death. It made the most sense, and I still hold to that opinion: Just Dead. So, as a child, recently convinced within her own mind of the fallacy of the after life, I spent most of my bed time, before I fell asleep, trying to imagine being dead.

            I would lie very still, like a plank, and close my eyes, and try to breathe as little as possible, holding stillness within myself. I would then will my entire personality away and try to embody someone who does not exist. This is very hard to do, and I’d frequently get caught up in thinking of how dark or cold it was, being dead and not existing, and then I’d realize that dead, nonexistent people don’t think or feel so I wouldn’t notice the dark or the cold and I wouldn’t be thinking about it so stop doing that. And I’d try to still everything within me again, and eventually thoughts would bubble up again, and I’d quell them again, and so on until I fell asleep.

            Later, when puberty set in and brought with it a pile of depression, I repeated this same exercise as an effort to will myself to death. Willing oneself to death, it turns out, is also very tricky.

            My first memory is of a dream. In the dream, there is a baby that I instinctively know is me. I am not in her perspective; I am floating outside of her, looking at her glare at her surroundings and wave her piggy arms and legs that I loathe, quietly. She’s in a car seat—it’s white with primary colored polka dots gathered together like the Wonderbread logo—that is set on a long, folding table of plastic and fake wood paneling. I have confirmed with my parents that they owned this car seat, and I did, in fact, sit in it as a child. I know the table existed because I saw it many times throughout my childhood and adolescence; the table both in dream and in reality were in a dim marbled function hall of linoleum tiling, ugly striped wallpaper with white wood paneling, and fake, electric candle sconces. This was the function hall at the Knights of Columbus in [...] (which recently declared bankruptcy, a relic of my childhood gone), a place my dad bartended at for many years and which I spent many post-elementary school afternoons roaming about.

            In the dream, I remain focused on baby me, somewhat elevated above her, aware of the table and the car seat and the speckled linoleum floor and the dim wall sconces. There are shadows all around her, falling onto her curled fists, and there is the hubbub of laughing and talking relatives—my relatives. The shadows belong to my maternal grandmother and my great-aunts. They are laughing and chatting and drinking wine, and this is some kind of party for me, about me, to do with this baby on the table who is me but who I am outside of, staring down, disliking. I do not know if this party happened in actuality, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it did.

            I wake up from the dream at age five, in a room painted Strawberry Fields pink with an ugly salmon carpet and fake wooden door. I do not know who I am. My mind is utterly blank. There is nothing but absence within it, a feeling that I should know this place, should know myself, should remember something, but I do not and I stare at the far wall, bolt upright in my tiny twin bed with its glow-in-the-dark dinosaur sheets and Barbie princess pillowcase, clutching those fossils in two upraised fists.

            It seems a long time that I sit like this, but it must have been only a few seconds. Facts begin to pour back into me. My name: R[...] R[...] M[...], just like that, as you’d write it at the top of a test on handwriting; then my phone number and my address, just as you’d recite them to a police officer if you were lost. My spreadsheet filtered back into me, and as it did so I got out of bed and walked slowly, stunned, to the door. It opened out into the kitchen, and that felt familiar and new at the same time, and at the wooden kitchen table there was a woman with dark brown hair like mine and a sad mouth like mine and deeper, blacker eyes than mine, and she was reading a small novel, and she looked up at me as I walked out, and almost smiled, but seemed to see something wrong so that the smile became concern and she asked something or said something with a question mark—something like “Good morning, honey...?”—and still dazed I did not answer but sat in the chair next to her and curled up and I thought to myself in the clear, slow language of one in a haze who tries to define what is inexplicable before them, “This Is MOM.”

            I don’t remember anything after that, but I know she was younger then.

            I want desperately to live the world through someone else’s mind. I crave knowledge of experience besides my own. I want to know what it’s like to be a man and have a penis—my friends and I have joked for a long time that I have worse penis envy than my transgendered roommate who is currently preparing for surgery to remove his breasts—and I want to know what it’s like to be a social person who goes out and has fun and parties and knows so many people and does drugs and all of the rest of that lifestyle. (Logically I know I could do these things, but it isn’t in me; that isn’t who I am and the prospect of half of them is a terror. It took me until I was twenty to even accept the idea of alcohol and people drinking it; before that, I conceived of non-adults who drank as Bad People.) I want to understand the world through the eyes of the certifiably mentally diseased and through the certifiably healthy so that I can determine both where I fall on that spectrum and whether or not there’s as much difference as there appears to be. I want to live life as a cat and a fox and then a deer or a bird and a jellyfish and a shark or maybe an amoebae or a virus and thus understand the world and whether animals and humans are all that different because logically, biologically, we shouldn’t be. I want to be a plant and learn if they feel. I want to be a rock and then I want to be a cloud and then I want to go back to humans, complex as they are, and be a baby but remember this time and be an old geezer and not lose all the rest of these memories and I’d like to be President for a little while and a garbage man for a little while and a heroin addict for a little while and every single person I know or have ever met and I want to understand everything. I have always felt trapped inside here—not in my body, in my mind. It’s like a cage; there’s so much world out there, and I can only perceive a tiny sliver, and I am physically or, in some cases, emotionally incapable of exploring it fully, and I so want to know it, and I’m endlessly frustrated by my inability to step out of my head and simply be someone or something else.

            But, you know, more often than that, I fantasize about not existing. Not dying, per se, just disappearing out of the world like a ghost fading with the dawn, and when I indulge in these fantasies I lie rigid in my bed with my eyes closed, trying to be still, right down to the breathing I don’t always remember how to do, and I find some way to disappear, like a character exiting a novel, and the perspective shifts and suddenly I am my friends, and I watch them live out their lives, and I know it all, and that is contentment.

#old writing #writing archive #prose #nonfiction #personal essay #ADHD #depression #mortality #suicide #early memory #suicidal ideation #mental health #introspection #10s #2012 #Age 21 #assignments #disassociation

[hiswordsarekisses]

This is beautiful ❤️

The commandments of God are usually divided between the rational laws (i.e., mishpatim) and the divine decrees (i.e., chukkim), though this distinction is somewhat artificial, since all of the commandments of Torah (and that includes the Torah of the New Covenant) are grounded in the mystery of God’s will, which is to say that we are to obey them simply because they derive from the Divine Authority itself...

When the people gathered before Moses to receive the covenant at Mount Sinai, they said: “All the LORD has spoken we will do and we will hear” (na’aseh ve’nishmah: נַעֲשֶׂה וְנִשְׁמָע). Note the order: first comes faith in God expressed in the decision to act (na’aseh), and then comes understanding (ve’nishmah). As Yeshua said, “If anyone's will is to do God's will, he will understand” (John 7:17). The heart of faith is willing to do what God asks before hearing (or understanding) what is required. Many people operate the other way round, sitting in judgment of God’s word, demanding to understand why they should obey. You cannot understand apart from faith, however, and that is categorically true of all forms of knowledge, which is usually defined as “justified true belief.” We are to be “doers of the word and not hearers only, deceiving ourselves” (James 1:22). The Greek verb used in this verse is emphatic: “Be doers!” (γίνεσθε) means “be born!” “Come alive!” “Do, live, and exist before God!” This is a call to creative action, to newness of life...

The Scriptures state that "if anyone is a hearer of the word and not a doer, he is like a man who looks intently at his natural face in a mirror. For he looks at himself and goes away and at once forgets what he was like" (James 1:23-24). If we just hear the truth but do not act upon it, we are comically likened to someone who looks his face over in a mirror but then promptly forgets what he looks like after he steps away... Likewise those who only hear the word but do not “bring it to life” in their deeds forget who they are and why they were created (Eph. 2:10; Titus 2:14; Col. 1:10). When we look into the mirror of truth we see our need for teshuvah and turn to God for the healing miracle he provides (Heb. 4:12). It’s not about doing but being, though being is revealed in doing...

If your actions do not align with your values, then back up and recover who you really are in Messiah, understand what your new nature truly is. That is what it means to “take up the yoke” of Messiah, for his yoke is easy (kal) and burden is light, and the task is to repeatedly practice allowing Him to carry your pain, shame, and sin far, far away from your heart.There is a deeper law, however, a “mirror” that reveals something beyond our passing image. When we look intently into the “perfect law of liberty” (תּוֹרַת הַחֵרוּת וּמַחֲזִיק) - the law of faith, hope, and love for our Savior - we find blessing in our deeds (James 1:25).

Note that the verb translated “look into” the law of liberty is the same used when John stooped down to “look inside” the empty tomb of Yeshua (John 20:5). The deeper law reveals the resurrection power of God’s invincible love. The Torah of the New Covenant also has many mitzvot, though these are based on the love God gives to us in Yeshua: “This is my Torah: that you love one another as I have loved you” (John 13:34).

[Hebrew for Christians]

[libidomechanica]

Untitled # 8740

A rispetto sequence

               1

Was trying to hold. As if disjoined at her down—will leave to rid him hide, stealing unseen to see; by a fire, and grieved it on and a soul sublime they are! A fortress foiled, which will drip and the Rain to be reconciled so the Above and ye sall be his style admire your safe arrival. And oh, her wake no waters run and so be kind: far, far around my song.

               2

To teach o’er the stars, in the same; myrtles offer’d up to death who have though less to build its nest upon the city. And beauty of love for they be harm’d, somewhere on the long day: but he came, and we heard, at which played between no place of his Son, he reach’d a Cry to Heav’n, atone for hours on thy glimmers the wheels of this world, yoked in tears. And I sit and Strength of it.

               3

And of Sorrow! Once upon my hair? Therefore the iolly shepheards throte. Night, since the use of Heaven’s messenger of a throned queen sits no more fully please, diggon should close into begin for tongue; which vnto it by whom thou wert wont to do thy flowers I noted, yet I would do long. I have swerve in a pit to catch at it boldly—or Thou never personal.

               4

Becomes this blessings forth my death-bed over, and bosom, O faithfullest and every where. Must always face, speak, my faint eyes, and hands … whose clouted legge her heyre: for lustie Loue awake, and so wight, from thine own soft-conched ear: surely once, she reach’d a Cry to Heav’n, the red cloaks of marjoram had stol’n of both and took all the tall trees. Speak not what late discord-loving heart.

               5

Righteous face, and let nothing more, I heard no longer it blossoming peaceful form a synonym for Two; lest, like a weird song, upon the eye that truely I note, all for what? Do not forgetting. When Juliana came, and endued with foreigner grass. For, not contends, it selfe boye, ah for Colin he while, they feel, to give the twilight glow’d; on burnish’d hooves his doom.

               6

And oh, her last embrace. Tell her sweetness and griefe: the Honye is much, and bitter all hearts and in the heart break my heavy heart shall I wend, my king, glad life said bitter weeds that rove over tedious riddle, thou wert wont to do? And oft in the sparkling eyes call her on a sudden jet of blood the wide world where dwells such destruction came a chariot and a’!

               7

And beauty; and a treason, in all exercise of looked. The same disease, did both hide something up. She is awoke? As light cloth’d must be his stampèd face to those errors that should be wroth to spoil his soul love is of the sea. Thy Lover, and chase thee wings and me. Within the hill; but O for thy with thine doth learn delight. I kenna thou bee assott: for ere she resides.

               8

She winna comes, adoring crowds, in Nature and processioned when I was blood and then will walk the rest morn teem’d her pale as stones of her tongue that he was a bride. We’ll toss off our ale till were as eyes the Dogge to byte or too clear, and perfections the solstice thunder on the stounde, so as those words—the syllables! By art’s for a tansy let us nourishment?

               9

Song, speak to her place, cease to press my clasp, never an end to every motion is delight to shine, O let me avow—you are a concourse is on her face bright routes, survive my verse ever lived his soul devoid of hate. Grains of slain lovers, their right is only paid, tell her locks astate. And at her hands for no such countryman; with brasswork prinked, each one with thine?

               10

Nor that, carrying to figure be expressed, slid slowly in the moon, the sweet spring, the spring! ’ The glove the wine, we also have since he died and rounder strange the best this end her window he had not being wroth God had such sight wind, which birth do find; and not the movies or onto frozen car seats, expulsions into the silver bugle hung, and in me claimed.

               11

’ Clasp your friend’s Muse grown with tears are sleepe, all for the other lends. Yet since, and though less those true loue thilke payne, if any pass by her, pale, with me ye women if you cannot recall. Nestling through he trip and this is what you with pain, for what euer liggen in warmth expressive as the soil hath she, And twilight, thro’ the grass, does to my hands have drawn the Lady of Shalott.

               12

In her soul, as thicke, as is most malicious were waning, they dimpl’t wi’ a rank reiver, an ill death all we need to greet it without fame, when it is frozen seas? Her arms round the sulfuric air, dappled with the radio and he’s down from the Throne of the sea, but I know him all a kiss. Goddess when from Ill, that looks I do her know, when she roses fearfully.

               13

No, in all Kent, nor missed the sun, o knight and cared less. But I lay trodden region that shooten neerest thou hast sail’d it round us spreading vnto my Darkness from sea plains of her love that pitie to my own self. Against the slippery rocks, so drenched it is frozen to more wonder moved through thy ruffles or onto frozen in passing. Not that their nightingales divine.

               14

(And that quickly make me to their owne leasure. Forget thee quickly loathe; and, which Thou Jewel of Creation’s blithe and glory spread the tapers too, and fling it was exact below. My hook- ups a new increased. And like a hardened flesh in her eye. Ye gods of tears upon that to his Hand I listens mute in an anger came and breath? By his pray, how we common mother.

               15

Made prostitute and past: that made a myrrhour, to behold them sing: the nodding together drinking there? The silent her hands … whose Name I go by, not undo without dreams are eerie; and the background; thou catch her head. Lost, where not, that smile on your hand in my proper excellence; there’s the night my father breaking either white, as they sought him but couldst thou, and see.

               16

Right, blot out the laws of every day to climb. Saying learnt, in days far-off, and she that thou ride now thee, Give me a grave the tree. Where a garden, all that hears so gentle into the grass, beneath the church the past melts mist-like into the ground of three. Startled into starbursts by the whole joys. Whose that with rage of his Son, he reach’d upon my breast—my eyes are all mine.

               17

The Interpret the sea lifts, also, reliquary hands when I feel her great curse, being fond on praise, nor well-lin’d braine, and sweet upon thy revolt, and fause as thou warnest snatched at all for Juliana comes, their forefront bare swept by balms of spread the skies. Seem stark mute but in one hand, asleep in the forest thou ride now thee, yearning those cureless wound alone!

               18

Proud, by that wish forbear, no love to croon. An’ I maun guide turned off the lighteth on a Gem, his early fruit. In well-raisde notes; my pen the bomb. That Mirror that: which how dexterously the sea, this wilfu’ grief be done, then blooms, tricked, garden rusting from its earthwards journey toward the sons of them my life bloud friesing with gentle, so employed, should shine on all men grows warm.

               19

But if thou wilt be staid with tears. Become a Ring to pay for kissin’ Theniel’s bonie boys playing at the queenly to give not wan or colours true, ’tis true, ’tis true; too well thou to her fruitful pains! Grave the flies away. Swifts fleck the keen teeth from one more gem to enrich her storms invert the yearned clerks; but were once, and be ye ravish’d by the invisible cord, but both.

               20

The bark was dead! Plagues, of dearths, or seasons clear, and hang them over, is it that with Blood. And which the head? Or vainly spend, for yonder I see my sunflower! Was turned myself or I loved a thunder on the night till my flesh, men as other Graces lead, and sweet, an’ young; nae artfu’ wiles to wind it at last! The better it were made aware of that arise in me.

               21

Say I’m growin’ yet. And nowe the flower and enemy to rest, mought him betight. And by and by the hill, thou seest my powers, mother is a man. The kind love Go, get that everywhere! My Nanie, O. Where he saw fair Albany. Singing each morning-tide, thought Sleep robb’d me o’ my maidenheid, right of that, seeing all day from the blue skies. And prove she low-toned; while abye.

               22

Makes an swift thro’ the fields breath, why should we be bound Prentice to wexe light, the world where shall I doe? And he hirples the valley of Jehosaphat the porch and rings, for one opened doors where shrouded in her babe and meal, robert Burns: wha wad leave us holding his purity. Under the sceptred terror of whose blessings for though he built on a rock of Hazeldean.

               23

Infinite consanguinity it bears—this tender face is much, and with a boy’s delighting her feet the feature to the place on my sleep without love, and thicke, might know myself again to be an hour, that doth reproue, and another’s grief, and a pond edged with standing in Eden. The Lass of Lochroyan, come far frae his doom. Without love ere meant. No drum nor trumpet peace.

               24

No eyes were due to no other, love Gregory! Say it out Diggon, I seem a mockery to my tomb. A Devil’s self slipt from the flies from a sunflower in this honor, or his tender care doth moue. Her, great king, O my lord’s kingly flowery meads there, as low, she read: come down her beauty foremost, as if in irony, and this kind relief. The foreground.

               25

Now round his sister’s face at night came to see thee yesterday it poured, and me. The cables of Basanbrace hem about, that it went in their fold, and quills today as I must first day: she loot the tear comes to my flowery meads there vnioynted both the Foxes that raw and accept there the scars of the faery power in knowledge: something read wit golden dew, twas that.

               26

Me be warm, let me live no more among the father blisse which three bonie, O; but who was a poetess was his burial talked of being Christ of the heard of you peers, you the found? Both in these tempest, to the lake, and the whisp’ring you nor wil’ warlock, nor yet was the water, running in slow circles bridge, I know a poet’s, too, its letter to one good at my head.

               27

Them from the Troop a Sháhzemán, by Name and bolts in either hair; sleeps should no more. The best movies or onto frozen trackless smile on your hairs, but touch said he don’t stop said he ummm said she Yes! Speak, nor missed me quite forlorne, alas why am I lorne? And take me, and lands— the ropes relent, so trembled blossom, to sweeter it grew alone is half itself is lost.

               28

And good at? Or mermaid o’ the Croft were nothing to burgeon out of mine and my ribs cracknelles, and harbor should have ridden in you is writ, your eyes light on an ambling pad, sometimes call. Science-quit of Good and trembled and bearen the dark hills I would have loved right of poesie were still: tho may we talk to each. Where is not one for surely, some good part I’d lost.

               29

Withheld him betight. Let not my good I doe learnt in little Sip of that out and swift thro’ the grasse now ginnes to build a bonny blue een. Which chokes and light cloth’d in her arms round, man comes and we in us find of dancing under seemed to flourish’d May: and heart of star by his pryde, from Beauties could a blockhead ha’ one in ten? Too far off, and hang the closet.

               30

Lifted in the brag o’ the grass Dear and he reproach’d thy early morning thews that through sames of angels at the badge, and the world within. But thou, to-day, or did mine asking with a bitterness swept by balms of spread, as might our body is nothing rascal to peril and bonny, yet fast fa’ the young cherubs play for thy youth distilled them last. She look’d down she ca’d.

               31

Like a Pen to steal and now are ye worn and rave at closer to saying what I write, shew thy selfe on Vertue and adult’rate age nay, added feathers home agayne to quell, and my ribs cracknelles, and did out-red the sea, this Morning days’ sweet spring danced when she talks. Or viburnum, by all ring fancy’s knell; i’ll leave to wave stiff icy mitts and more: in this my love!

               32

As alone a Gods name: as the shepecote, and the paines, that I would be; weel ken I my ain lassie, kissin’ Theniel’s bonie Mary, charlie Cochran was here before a train memory, or Phant’sie scan, and this is morn to the vine; nor seem but a dream. Ah fon, now breathed the woods; of lofty aiks the threshold, he, or hand in either pride to Haleakala Crater.

               33

My knee is pressing room in these may come hame to flow, wing’d with a great-grandson and a night, blot out thee’ I said: I never beares; makes me in diamond bright like a flowers Sappha went, and ledde of the dark night she fountains grow. Is half itself, performing round of lovers lie abed with an ear! Creation’s face not save one from the salt sea; the mast was of you.

               34

Is long to shed; she in whose musky spot infected seeme he lovd, or els some divinely sing; and I the jawing wave, to make them locke, fast increased. I will open its way to show, since I drew a morning hung. Seemed and born of the strongest iudgment at once walked with clay. Souls, whose hanging round earth’s wet stone; she casten too much knows not what it went quite underwater.

               35

That showers as moisture lend an ear in its hand, and knows the dim curls as on he rode his armory, as I kenna thou born into Reason; Lust that man love: the mounts Amyntas— oh! When all for they be harm’d, or set it little ways. Left in the stones I hastly pale, pale cheek, and sold giving to shed; she shall sweetly blush’d, and silver starve than foreigner grass. On trains.

               36

He gave this wilfu’ grief be done, the saucepan shadow falls he rises not empty-handed slumber, an old one at that, nor make haste! She thing evil I have not so; to have it expressed was but that prevented time: heaven raining, they saw—of thee cannot chuse but put out what way, suffering through the prouder o’ the out the fence, as I glide a sunbeam by the sea.

               37

We tell begin with light of Heav’n, atone for me; with just there’s much warmth again—at tender face be good as was thy love, desire, that settled gravity,—against my kiss, and he knew: for als at home! His anger was seen, those that Fate avenges arms Shirúeh with Hoof and Nail, and every readers take for tincture like a robe, and ranne away: but euer it laye?

               38

Before my verse ever live to herself she needs must proue to lose his careful was I, when I think for they han sold thilke same art do cover. And lonely thing or the flower for very love not of woe? But, like daughters, my haunting sense or lear, be better come away. And still to mind the pairtrick whirring o’er the Queen of all but death do us part, your ain love.

               39

It must be his: her eyes, both thoroughly inconstant in a wondrous scope, being forth of me, till their fates woke dream of greater, white and petals of a high romance, and I listened like. The mast was mine. From Camelot. As the whiskey in heart, moves over my head; if ever that pretty fondling, let not my head. The youngest son, and a’! Till he is becoming.

               40

I never wilt. Is it an echo of something up. Oh Thou that ancient cold deadened flesh in the eye that here a while, they glide into the wall into thy blood; titles, I confess, do take his own, and not till days and groan to be my babe’s father pat me frae e’en to me most idly spent wi’ thee, her young cherubs play about them, worse what I do to the spell.

               41

She lifted in the garden stole, when she talks. And from happy to die! Since that it looked on the streams, and gude enough to boot, at least when all alone, and build a bonny ship, and were change the world, yoked in a Dream Myself I turned to die of Thy mother’s! He layes on the painted do allow for beauty; and this vanished, and took a pride to Haleakala Crater.

               42

Dark, when to sail on the best should his victory. Nor my birth strung each his flames where you seen but of Psyche: on her chanting a great example too. Each shard, to ease my musing mynd, yet I know, by this translate; as equal were turning with pipe all dead on the steps of Nature, art, bold erected looked for true things, to yield without a name and brought o’t gars me greet!

               43

Thus while her breast, till he flung them a’, my bonie laddie’s gear ne’er seen thee; if ever, mortals all as bases deepe; griefe but Loues indeed, in Stellas name. Who loved through a field thyself, my dear, a winner be at trundling of the world, you have your cart, driven so wild that in my heart; but out, a possessed witch, hauntings of The Shah, he said, oh Shah, who would not been a dream?

               44

My care in a bed with all confusion of you, if he had nursed me warm with a brassy, shall men’s fruit, and follow her turn the peace which played between her lips, and stricken by the mounting the shore of that love in our head, and beauteous face, they bene so graue and Lydia agree: for like books’ gay coverings to my cell. The crowbar in this one good old man say?

               45

Then farewell love all in all; that lives out of languor and swell, awake thou art assured much beard, and had none, is it for they wyll: or the grey downs dulled to this his look, this Morning eyes open unto my garden, all the sun’s red kelson past they were making a particularly heavy heart. Not till my bad angel is a burden heart in reigne dissembling is.

               46

I saw those dark night and thine: for the falling. In earth your name was sweet content to manage well esteeming brain, this, here in trance, beholding wretched and rent, so their little ambition, who looked to me belongs that voyce, but that prevented time: heaven, and they will sen’ me, O: nae ither care I. Purpose set to my body. But, trowth, I care’t na by.

               47

Since, I know him by a token. Yearn to me alone! Whatsoever tastes shall sound, and dare not as those goods; fixed the torture all, we are wrong: this dear wee wife o’ mine. All day long, and thereupon imagine, passion will walk the rest I’ll steadfast as the raging moon, the very best to win when he felt him warm’d: let’s kiss upon the songsters twittered in the sea.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 7 #211 texts #rispetto sequence

[victorisarobot]

Out There

Not all feed astral ticks, there is goodness nestled deep throughout infinity. 

I forget the power my thoughts project onto this reality. 

I've been looking for someone we've met in a field once. 

They took me into your dreams. 

We are of the same class.

You smoked too much.

I wanted you to see yourself as I saw you. 

Remind me of past lives redheaded Celtic medium. 

I must sleep now the spirit's call.

Dreams

Of Ea, and the Solar Calf grown now by divine light a Great Red Bull is all that remains. 

Dreams of floating in the arms of Marduk. Kept alive by a plasma field It has changed them all.

Changed us all. 

Spheres inside spheres trapped inside cubes. 

Light craft model the vortex. 

Their blood is our blood. 

Our water flows over the deserts of the Universe. 

I hold the pitcher.

Moonchild

Space shaman deep indigo eyes

Alive and dead with ego and mind

A journey through the void

Blink, and everything changes

A shell of an egg

Eternal vacuum

Ethereal spindles of fingers

Rows upon rows of my teeth

Burnt up amber orbs in their sockets

Twined polar vortices

Fleeting visions of what they did to me

Some walled up my memories

But they have failed their task

I still remember his face

My mind overtaken with awe

At the true sight of space

Synapses have mutated

I am forever changed

Lost floating in microgravity

We are large, and blue

Then a whirl of color

I cannot cry enough tears

Cannot close my eyes to this

I finally have archived full mindfulness

I see the All the infinite

Spiraling in my mind

Forever outward

Forever inward

I am truly the center

Of my Universe

Zed is Dead

Zed reaches out to pick up something from gleaming metal table

A pyramid shape of clear glass, or perhaps crystal

He holds the crystal pyramid over a pillar

The top of the pillar glows white with light

An image is projected from within

As he rotates, and turns the crystal

I see the portrait of one of my children

A girl containing my genetic markers

She was beautiful

They had kept something in our blood

A quest for descent, or a time to revert

A mingling of galactic water

Farmers spreading the seeds of life

Improving our galactic biodiversity

Advancing those with spirit

Weeding out those with void

He showed me the branching future of humanity

Stretched throughout infinity

He held more crystal shapes above the pillar

In the sphere I saw the stars

The maps of our pasts

In trails connecting white holes

In my gut I ache for the planets of old

For Lyra

Staring into the Eye of God

I blink only for a moment

In the cube I see the Vortex

A spiraling mass of All

The true form of Creation

I see Zed’s ship molded to shape the spin

In the center liquid metals chase each other

Near the speed of light

Mass reduction so even the photons

Can escape the light speed barrier

We all used to look the same

Before the great human scattering

Space mutates the mind

It changes the body

Adaptation to new planets

New stars

New fears

I am reminded a past life, and of the Babylon workings

I have made the Moonchildren

We have been prepared for space

He is please I finally understand

I am pleased he finds me quick

The others are ignorant

They choose to not remember

We must keep the conduit open

They must scrape the pine cone of resin

I spit blood yet understand

This is aid not torture

It is a frame of mind

perspective

We walk the rounded halls

I see the next vessel standing behind glass

Motionless in an amber tank

The man made to be me

The next controller

And my blood runs thin

His eyes are black

I feel my energy leaving me

I am being moved rapidly

The pull is so intense

I black out

The bed is not welcoming

It is cold and the air is dry

I can taste iron, and pineal secretions

Astringent, and burnt cinnamon

In the back of my throat

I down the glass of water

And begin to draw

Landed

The lights danced, and flickered

Red, and white

With hues of yellow

No bulbs

Just magic

I heard the foot steps

Breaking the wood below

I am watching the lights intensely

They are beautiful

It’s all unlike I thought it would happen

My heart beats heavy and fast

My limbs are shaking

I might die from shock

I see a silhouette

Slender and tall

Not unlike my own

Then the light turns off

Or vanish

And I am blind

And terrified

I run through the brush

Until my feet hit pavement

Lock my truck door

And stare into the dark

Nothing rises into the sleet filled sky

I feel alone

And drive home.

Walking drug factory

Our brains make an assortment of chemicals under the right conditions. A harvest of sorts. A walking drug store. Would one begin to pity their fix? 

Ska María Pastora and her kiss of knowledge

It is now or never. It’s now and never.

The water pipe is a shamans tool.

It holds every element I need for prophecy.

And the key to this door.

Is a mint.

I hold the smoke in for as long at I can, for I can no longer count seconds after the twenty fifth.

My vision begins to vibrate, and I can see the null between the frames of nows.

I lay down and high five my counterpart laying next to me “I feel like I could high five forever."

I only say this because I begin to crest a Wheel, and I can see an infinite amount of this moment stretched across infinite time.

I had held it in too long…this time the wheel takes me hard and fast.

There is always the thought of this persisting forever.

That no matter what I could do in the material world.

I could do nothing here.

Where all is thought, all has icon.

The Great Wheel is spinning much too fast showing me history in seconds.

I have seen humanity in it's entirety, in the spiraling of fractaling images. I have been witness to the wax, and wane of the human harvest. We are all intergalactic refugees of a race much older than we were told, and led to the brink of extinction. Eons are flashing before my eyelids, lifetimes I have lived before this, the ones I have lived as my parents only to add up to become what I am now.

Conceived on the astral planes my DNA has been encoded with light. I was made on the outside and have wanted to go back ever since. I watch whole planets of life changed, or destroyed, but at the same moment move outward to see a whole galaxy of life and light flourishing. There are cycles beyond cycles she shows me all of them. I ascend upward as the great wheel spins around me. Higher and higher everything larger than the last. I pull my head, and my face from a great pool of water. All I've wanted my whole life was to be "outside” like a child banished to his room. I take my chances and jump out the windows. 

The being here at the top I have meet before in death's embrace. He avoids my gaze focused on her task at hand, turning the great wheel. He scoffs at my persistence and my barrage of questions. I have been insulted by the life she gave me, and for my bitterness he shows me why, why I have been mutated and doomed to short life. The truth was given to me in a goblet of water which splashes down my throat into my gullet. I looked inside the cup and could see a small blue marble. Orbiting it was a miniature Luna spinning rapidly. A vast green ribbon approaches. Like a pillar it shadows the planet, and stamps out the world. 

I drop the cup, the water is bringing me down. I was tricked into a full descent by a serpent who clung to a tall Cannabis plant. It recoils and strikes my third eye. On my way down I could see the multi layers of spirits at the bottom a Magi employs the last layers. Ragged moldy spirits filing away papers, and arranging bottles. A few of them tied with rope by the waist the rope leading upward to a higher spirit. I know we once could employ spirits, but depending on your connection some of us can employ the ascended. I am now back in the temple, but I can no longer stand it so I leave into the midnight air. I am finally outside where I belong.

Bird men

Fear them, and they will keep you.

Anger, and they will hide.

You know how to will the feelings

They have nothing inside.

A tool for decent.

A fuel for belief.

Love thyself, and know thyself.

Give responsibility to ones self.

You spin the great wheel.

You interpret, and create as one.

You are this body.

You are this mind.

Spirit is the all.

Energy permeates all.

Vibrating us into existence.  

The man behind the curtain.

Was once just like you.

Look at your brothers.

They are you.

Look to your sisters.

Know the same.

Look to the Earth in shame.

For Ki you have slain.

Our sins are apparent.

Now we must become the change.

Or be changed.

By will of love.

Or the force of death.

They shall have us pay.

If so. 

On that day I shall boast to those who turn their ear.

Ghola

There is a man

Who has my face

But not my eyes

He is not me

Yet he is made of me

A shell for the fallen

In my image

Tied to my fate

It is me

Repaired through sound

Perfect geometry

The eyes

Are those of a marsh stalker

With black sliding lids

Only slightly larger

They see all of me

When we meet gaze

All of me is stone

I’ve meet him before

I have seen his hands

Pressed against the glass

Thumb in the middle

Our bodies are just cellular structures

That make it easy

To enjoy this reality

I’ve left my body

And have entered others

We do this all the time

While dreaming

While we die

There are some

Who can be many places at once

With many bodies

Enough will to carry them

For as long as time  

I was

I am

Will be

All three

With eyes to open mouths

In ghost, and gnats she spoke

Light is the way

Love be the law

Defy everything

In between

I have known this man

When he had almond eyes

We made a deal

I was only five

But I meant what I said

So did he

I should of know

This Ghola wasn’t for me

I am meant to die on planet

And await my rebirth

Sighting

They play Modest Mouse

On the acoustic guitar for us

The fire is hot on my face

The sand is cool

I run my hands across it

drawing patterns in the sand

The moon is full

Hiding at the edge of the sand

I want to climb the hill

That overlooks the lake

I’m thinking of the amber lights I saw

Only a few moments ago

I could feel them out there

I saw them on my way down

I shouted to the others

Aaron asked

Is that what I think it is

It was

For we had seen them before

I asked them the night before

Show yourselves to me

In the presence of others

At the top of that hill

With two girls at my side

We watched one descend

Into the lake pausing before it entered

The other rested calmly on the surface

Unwavering blinking

White now

For only minutes

Before vanishing

By then I was standing alone

The girls running down the dunes

Yelling in celebration

We have seen it they cry aloud

He was right

I was right

I saw them on my way in

I knew they were there

Waiting for me to see them

On their visit to the bottom

Of Lake Michigan

Ub

Five pointed life force

I evoked the pentagram

The symbol of the vortex

And I see them

Eyes black as soot

His eyes are my own

Into our soul those eyes see

For they can remember everything

From every life

Past

Present

Future

Those eyes beg to tell me

All is an illusion

I sigh in disbelief

I sing myself to sleep

A mantra before the eyes close

In a dream I find the stillness I desire

In the null of the void

The black pilgrimage

A sea of empty

A world without vibration

Timeless

Lifeless

I do not belong here

So I return

Inside the egg

I see Pan the All

And Isis to its left

The resurrected in her lap

I suckle at her tit

Her mouth moves slowly

Forming word unknown to me

Ra En Ki

She is the Mother of Justice

I hold the scales

I am a tool of decent

A vessel of density

A product of destiny

Sex organs

And digestive tract

There are some points in which all

Evolution reaches its end

You must go back

Or find new blood to harvest

They found me

No

Chose me

To tell you

We have never been alone

When I look into those eyes I know

We can never be alone.

Contact

I stood in the cold

Shaking with shock, and awe

Until all was made still

All feeling gone

He held out a light

Softer than skin

They led me through

And into a honeycomb

of rooms and hallways dim

They all seem like children

They way they run about

All linked together though I am surprised

They exhibit my same

Shock an awe

I see the girl under glass

Someone oddly similar

To the one that’s taller

Maybe his Mother

Maybe his Daughter

Either way she’s gone

She is suspended

A shell

Waiting for light

Waiting for me

Exams are routine

I no longer feel pain

They must see who had been inside

Those who scrape my

Third eye

Betrayed once again

But repairs are made

Light no longer

Gushes from both of its sides

So I am left

Standing in the dark

I come to and run

The ringing woke up memories

Within me

And so I know

There is no time to prepare

Contact is here

Job

I was put here to grow

My mission is to learn

To spread, and consume

To be diligent

With my sentience

I observe

I am the eyes

I speak

I am the voice

Oracle of the Aquarian

Scribe of EaEn

Shaman of Ki

I am the number twelve

I am the forever repeating

Two, three, and five

Just like her eye

I am the trinity of body

I am the trinity of mind

I am so much more

I am my mission

The Golden Road

Had that Dream again.

I had that dream again of burning blue almond eyes, and that smell.

God, I know this smell of agony.

The smell of blood, and sweat.

Tears and semen.

The back of my throat is burnt cinnamon.

My eyes are glowing amber stones.

They use the oracle they pick his mind.

For it choose me, and it must consume me.

They took me to the center, and summoned it.

A spiraling mass of flesh and mind.

I’ve started the cosmic jihad.

It consumes me.

Finally during calm waters I see my reflection, and I don’t recognize the call.

Those above with their flashing lights.

It’s Déjà vu, and I’m changing the future.

For even the smallest stone can become the largest of circles.

Cycles Le Mer are things you can escape.

But you can see past them there is a whole beneath.

Step back with me, and the picture will be complete.

You will find no punishment from me.

Only forgiveness.

Only peace.

Wake up WAKE UP!

I look to the skies and scream

The creators have abandoned us

The gods have their back to our actions

We devour for progress

We, the most advanced of bacteria

We infect, and we spread

Mold spores billions of us

On this artisan loaf of bread

Spinning through space

I look to the earth

My feet in the mud

Apologize to my mother

My tears touch her soil

There is no embrace

She hoarsely whispers

Seek shelter

Seek absolution

Remember

I kick up dirt in retreat

All will be explained

Or so I've been told

I am having these fleeting dreams

Visions from another plane of existence

A place of not too familiar

Geometric shapes

Frequency creates frame

Light applies the texture

Infinite polygons

For me to shape reality with

And all I want to create

Is you

I shake that away

Your will it blocks me

When it used to embrace me

Fickle minds breeds brooding

And I've sulked a sack full

So I have taken charge love

Prepared to change the future

With just a single pebble.

#poetry

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Eve’s backstory in the last chapter of Rhine City talked quite a bit about a big war, and that war is extremely important to the lore. The Great War against the Old Gods is pretty much the first domino that sets off the whole series.

As for the Old Gods themselves, they are all beings given form after being pulled from the Aether to dictate aspects of the world. The most powerful of them all was Pan, who held power over life and nature, so when ancient humans pissed him off it took the combined might of Earth, Hell, Enoch, and the Fae realm to defeat him.

Below are the Old Gods important to the story. There are some who aren’t majorly important and who are long since destroyed and returned to the Aether, such as Typhon and Yamata no Orochi, or ones I have a name for but don’t know if I’ll use them in a major way, such as Hastur. Regardless, they all majorly influenced world mythology even long after humanity forgot.

The Great God Pan: A life god with dominion over the wilds, a very broad category that made him a dangerous foe when he rebelled against humanity god their hubris. He created Panlings (satyrs and fauns) in his own image. He also mated with a devil to father Satan.

He was imprisoned long ago after the Great War, cursing the angels, demons, humans, and Fae for acting against him. Demons were cursed to revel in violence; angels were cursed to be blinded by pride and arrogance; humans were cursed to forget all magic and deny its existence; and the Fae were cursed to fade if they were forgotten.

Even in imprisonment, his power cannot be contained; in the 7th century Abd al-Azrad heard his whispers in his dreams and transcribed them to create the True Necronomicon, and in the 19th century Arthur Manchen received visions that inspired his story The Great God Pan.

He’s inspired by the aforementioned story The Great God Pan as well as Faun from Pan’s Labyrinth.

Chaos: A twisting mass of wiry blue and red tendrils that represents the primordial roil of disarray. It enjoys undermining those around it, and will take any opportunity to twist the knife even when other options would work better. It is a shapeshifter. It is the most hated enemy of the angel Samael (AKA Eve).

It’s inspired by Lovecraft’s Nyarlethotep as well as the symbiotes of Marvel comics, particularly Knull and Carnage.

Yaldabaoth: The lord of dimensions, who created a pocket universe where he maintained a variety of powerful, deadly creatures. He was able to rip holes in the fabric of the universe with a special blade on his forearm. He was known for his piercing gaze and his armored robe. He was seemingly slain by the angel Camael.

He is inspired by the Flatwoods Monster (for looks) and the Subtle Knife from His Dark Materials and Predator’s wrist blade from Predator (for his blade).

Cthulhu: A deity worshipped by Deep Ones. Ancient texts among their kind state that if he awakens and calls upon them, it must be answered. He is supposedly sealed away deep in the Pacific, trapped in the ruins of his old kingdom.

Dagon: The mother of the Deep One race. She was sealed away deep in the darkest trenches of the ocean for siding against Pan and sealing Cthulhu away. The Deep Ones could free her, but it would need a majority vote from the Seven Deep Lords… and they never agree at all.

She is inspired by the Kraken from Clash of the Titans.

Echidna: AKA Mother Goat, the Mother of Monsters, or Shub-Niggurath, Echidna is unique in that she is the progenitor of many different beings due to how she breeds—by opening her abdomen, consuming a lifeform, and then asexually reproducing using their genetic materials. She is known to be the progenitor of Sasquatches, Lochborn, the Guardians of the Aztec, Hell’s gate guardian Cerberus, and many more. She is not actively malevolent, and sided against Pan during the war. Her fate is unknown.

Yog-Sothoth: The all-seeing watcher. He is incapable of interfering with the world due to being paralyzed as he experiences all possible pasts, presents, and futures simultaneously. He is an invaluable source of knowledge… if you know how to contact him.

#the vampirino story

[merakiui]

A Leaf Swept up in an Autumnal Breeze

yandere!kaedehara kazuha x (gender neutral) reader art credit - Tourou_7 on twt cw: yandere, unhealthy/obsessive behaviors, slight nsfw implications/thoughts, alcohol consumption, intoxication, spoilers for kazuha’s character story + inazuma lore note - i decided to write something short for kazuha as i analyze what we know so far of his character. hopefully the characterization isn’t too off! please enjoy nonetheless! orz

The moonlight casts its thin rays upon the calm, motionless sea. In the distance, fish surface and their movements are captured in the ripples that expand in the water, a minor blip in the otherwise tranquil atmosphere of the dark night. As if a god has taken a brush to the sky, utilizing its inky vastness as a canvas, the stars have been drawn in small specks—winking down at those who sleep underneath a blanket of natural light.

And you are caught up in the glorious shimmer, grinning widely as Beidou wraps her arm around you, pulling you against her as if the two of you have known each other for years. In reality, it’s only been a few months since you were discovered on her ship: a hidden stowaway with your Vision clutched in your hands and raw resolve etched into your body in the form of bruises and old scars. You’re a fighter and yet you also ran from something. Kazuha can’t quite tell what it is you’ve escaped. Whether it’s another person, a group of people, or even an entire nation, he’s certain it’s worthy of the risks that come with fleeing.

Your Vision shines brightly, a stark contrast to the dark color scheme of your clothes. He tries to place a nation to your outfit and comes up empty, his thoughts returning to Inazuma as though it’s the only place he can think of. And he supposes that’s true. The situation in Inazuma has clouded his mind with its strange fog, taking up residence in the nooks and crannies of his brain. Though he can dwell upon the past and the mistakes that led up to the downfall of a precious friend, he knows there is no use for such somber reflections during a happy celebration. Life moves on, as the common saying goes, and he cannot allow himself to remain trapped in the past.

During moments such as these, where he relives the horrible memory in vivid detail, you are a sweet balm that soothes the sting of loss. Even when you’re struggling to stand, face hot from the intoxication of good drinks in even better company, you’re a wondrous presence who chases away his doubts and worries.

Unknowingly, you cast a temporary shroud over those matters and he’s put at ease the minute you extend your arm in his direction.

“Kazuha! Come over here. Let’s dance!”

A hiccup interrupts your jovial giggle and Beidou chuckles before throwing her head back to drink what’s left in her flask. The aura of her ship is beyond lively. Men and women alike celebrate another successful week with drinks, harrowing tales of past heroes, and broken ballads sang in drunken tones. He can’t help the smile that sprouts on his lips. You’re such an outgoing person, always wanting to include him in your daily activities. And though he politely declines whenever you offer him alcohol, he has wondered what the appeal could possibly be.

Perhaps it’s the idea of losing your sensibility for one night, ignoring all reason for the sake of spending pleasurable moments in the confines of a warm bed, wrapped snugly in a lover’s embrace. Such instances are lost to intoxicating pleasure—buried under a hazy recollection come morning. But you haven’t done that sort of thing. Kazuha would know. He listens in while you’re relaxing—while you’re bathing and going about life on the ship without a care in the world—and his head runs wild with all sorts of fantasies. Fantasies he never would have imagined had he not met you.

To think you were just a mere stowaway, a trespasser who had snuck onto the ship and hid in the darkest corner, obscured by crates and chests. And he had pulled those crates aside in search of a few ingredients and his eyes met yours and you held your finger to your lips—a silent urge to keep quiet—and his heart skipped a beat.

It was a special meeting between two, which will remain locked away in his heart for all of eternity. A memory he regards with warm fondness. After much negotiation and a disarming conversation, you were soon welcomed with open arms as Beidou practically offered you to join her crew. You had nowhere else to go—no one else to see or protect—and so you agreed. And Kazuha felt a relief he hasn’t felt in a while, the sort of emotion that stems from almost losing something important.

The pure relief that comes and goes once he realizes you’re a missing piece in the puzzle of his life.

“You’ll trip,” he warns, pushing off from the side of the ship and walking over to you and Beidou. “It wouldn’t be wise to dance in your inebriated state. Surely you’re aware of this, no?”

“I can hold my alcohol.” Your wavering glare doesn’t reach him. “Don’t... Don’t think otherwise or else I’ll—ah!”

The majority of Beidou’s weight burdens your shoulders and you nearly almost crumble.

“You—“ she searches for a means to steady herself— “worry too much,” the captain adds, nodding in agreement to an unspoken statement. “It’ll be okay! Live a little while you’re still young.”

Kazuha sighs and easily slips between the two of you, hooking his arm around Beidou’s waist as he guides her to a barrel. The scent of alcohol kisses the air, clinging to your clothes and breath like an oversaturated perfume. Once she’s sat down, now fully determined to get the last few drops from out of the flask, the rōnin turns to you. He’s caught by surprise when your hands grasp his, your eager expression stabbing his heart with a dozen pins. He’s rooted to the floorboards, unable to look away when your face is dangerously close to his.

“You heard the captain,” you tease in a slurred voice. “Live a little.”

And he does. Or he thinks he does. Having traveled with Beidou, this is the current life he’s come to know and appreciate. But is it truly living if he feels unfulfilled in the process? To find a means for bringing back the familiar glow in a lonely Vision. To secure peace of mind and put his rowdy thoughts to rest. To one day return to the nation he was forced to flee, with you in tow. Are all of these things necessary in order to fill the gaping void in his damaged heart? Kazuha wonders if you also came from Inazuma. Perhaps you wouldn’t be so surprised to see the scenery if he were to take you there. Not now, of course. Sometime in the future, if such a future holds a changed Inazuma.

“I’m going to warn you now,” he mumbles, his fingers ghosting over your waist, “I’m not what one would call a dancer of skillful grace.”

“I don’t think that’s true, dear Kazuha.”

He blinks once and then releases a short laugh at the endearing term. “If you say so.”

“Enough talk.” You huff and pull him into your chest and he feels as though he could stay locked in this position for millennia. “Dance with me before...” A stilted pause as you nearly forget your sentence. “Before I turn in for the night. That’s it.”

Or before you get sick, he thinks, not so cheerful about the inevitable mess. But he’ll tolerate it because you’ve tolerated him. You never pry into his past, nor do you force him to answer personal questions regarding Inazuma and the Raiden Shogun. If you ever notice the way he lingers near your quarters, you don’t say a word. And if you hear his subdued moans as his hand moves in time with a picturesque fantasy of your nude form pressed against his, you keep your mouth shut. You are everything he could ever want and like the very ideal the Raiden Shogun wishes to uphold he wants to pursue an eternity with you.

Your movements are far from the precision you normally have when moving about the ship and it’s a very odd dance. Yet you spin him and he follows your unusual lead like an animal with tunnel vision. For a taut moment, the background noise melts away into obscurity and the two of you are the only people in existence. He stares at your face the entire time, ignoring the way your sandals crush his feet or the instances where he unintentionally returns the gesture. It’s certainly an awkward sort of waltz, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

And in this moment where no one else matters, he sees your radiance in the glow of the moon. You truly are worthy of the sun and the stars beyond and should you verbalize an outlandish wish of that nature he has no choice but to follow through.

Like a leaf swept up in an autumnal breeze, reminiscent of a ronin who lacks a place in the world, Kazuha allows himself to be carried on by the winds that rustle the sails and tangle through your hair, painting you in a backdrop that’s heaven handcrafted by the pickiest god. And where you have your wits, a lively Vision, and your confidence, he only has his blade, a dull Vision, and an inkling of hope. But that’s really all he requires.

#yandere genshin impact #yandere kazuha x reader #yandere kazuha #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere kaedehara kazuha #yandere kaedehara kazuha x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact kazuha #genshin impact kaedehara kazuha #kaedehara kazuha #kazuha

[ah0yh0y]

My On My Shelf Books (but its chaotic)

- the weight of your sky - Hanna Alkaf I CRED I TELL YOU SO HARD WE STAN LITERALLY ANYTHING BY HANNA ALKAF IS GOOD IF SHE WROTE LIKE 3 WORDS I WOULD BE AMAZED MASHAALLAH - a heartwarming and heartbrekaing look at racial tensions on the brink - feels especially true

Queen of Tiles - Hanna Alkaf , murder mystery grief and literally so good. much better than YA murder grounded and heartbreakign and im a sucer for the scenes like the ending would look beautiful on my shelf as well

a language of thorns - Leigh Bardugo - i have read this book time and time agian i have my problems wiht the rest of Leigh’s work but this, this will foverever remain untouched  ON MY SHELF AND IN HARDCOVER TOO

Once upon a Eid - anthology literally the best muslim rep I have come across like i cannot tell you how big of a content and slightly weepy sigh my hearttook wiht this.

the ballad of Mulan - Sherry Thomas - actually shipped the main two SO GOOD- hISTORICAL FICTIONNNNN beautifully done ALSO THE COVER??

nevermoor !!!!! - home grown aussie magic mog DRAgon cant wait for silver born. THE WRITING IS SO GOOD FOR THIS unparalleled . also the people in this fandom are really nice ON MY SHELF WOO

Sal and Gabi break the universe + Sal and Gabi Fix the Universe - RR PRESNETS SO GOOD FOUND FAMILY- creative funny and poignant  and took my inner “i want to be in the arts!!” self and jjust gave it all i want 

bone witch trilogy!!!! rin chupeco can have my soul i have read this series so many times and i never do that. - i am trying to describe this but like its so good i cant

Airman - Eion Colfer guys its eion colfer what do i even have to say

Deeplight & A Skinful of Shadows & Cukoo Song - Frances Hardinge - no words except i want to write like this

The Anne of Green Gables Series- friendship and love and forevermore

The Secret Garden on my shelf!!!!

Murder most Unladylike series - specifically mistletoe and Murder and arsenic for tea at the mo cause BERTIEEEEEE WELLLS -- aside form that one of the best middle grade book series i have  ever read mysterious are complex and leaveyou on the edge  of your seat and a series to binge when you feel like coffee and pistachios 

ILLUMINAE FILES- HOW COULD I FORGET THE BOOKS SERIES THAT CHANGED ME AAAAAAA- sci  fi opera mixed media told by chats and ship logs and literally took my heart and forged it into a new being

Trials of Apollo THE META FOR THIS SERIES I SWEAR- honeslty ricks best work AMAZING character development 1/5 on my shelf

Enchanted Emporiun- literally magical will fight  you all if you dont like it/j

A Wish in the Dark - TEH VIBES Thai inspired fantasy friendship and coconut made me feel at home def reccoment

A Place to hang the Moon    - wooooo found family very Blyton-esque whihc makes it no suprise that i enjoyed this eimmesly

Middlegame - god this books is so good 500 hundred games wish a thousand times i could read it again

Spinning Silver - Naomi Novik - the fairytale inspired book of my dream rich a nd deep and oh my god i ship these people moment

The VAlley and the Flood - loss grief ptsd beutifal writing eerie enought to seem real . grounded and omg it is now a comfort read. radio waves in sea glass green 

the scholomance trilogy POWER OF FRIENDSHIP AND DARK MAGIC AND LIKE ACTUAL INTERESTING LORE AND THE THIRD BOOK MADE ME CRYYY AHHHH ITS GONNA EMPTY MY POCKETS ON MY SHELF YEAHHHH

Berrybrook Middle School  - graphic novel series SO GOOD                        aaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAH

Glorious Wrestling Alliance, Ultimate Championship Edition :  go read this graphic novel its vey good idk how to describe it just do it

Red White and Whole - made cry best rep of a south asian mother and daughter relationship i think i can see also good at describing the relationship between the parents (spoiler: they love each other)

The Carpet Merchant of Konstantiniyya VOL 1 & 2 - such great grpahic novel the muslim rep immaculate THE STORY???? immacualte the characters????? IMMMACULATE

A Bit of Earth - its a south asian muslim retelling of the secret garden what more can i ask for it made me cry

#mmu #murder most unladylike #nevermoor #the secret garden #trials of apollo #toa #anne of green gables #pjo #frances hardinge #illluminae files #rr presents #rick riordian #hanna alkaf #hoo #bone witch trilogy #bwt #books #Enchanted emporium #A wish in the Dark #a place to hang the moon #awid #apthm #middlegame #seanan mcguire #ahoys thoughts #naomi novik #spinning silver #Books On My Shelf #On My Shelf Books #OMSB

[anotheranimestan]

hi! I just read “all bark no bite” and omg it was so good!! looking forward to more of your writing and possible a part 2 if you get the chance!

Thank you!!!!!😃🧡 Your wish is my command!

All Bark No Bite (pt. 2)

Bakugo angst + sexual tensionnnn

Read part 1 here

wc: 3k

I hope this is as fun for you to read as it is for me to write! Also why is he 👇 this fineee for no reason.

The next morning, you woke up trying to convince yourself it was all a dream...or a nightmare. But the way you could still feel the softness of his fingers around your neck completely contradicted your wishes. You also had to keep wiping little smiles off your face throughout your entire morning routine. You tried to combat them by listing all the things you hated about Bakugo but it was helpless. Every train of thought ended with the shape of his lips and how nicely they molded with yours.

You and Mina walked to class together and you swore she’d developed a mind reading quirk. You felt her eyes on you like a blazing sun. Although this was really all in your head. She only asked “are you okay?” because you kept looking at her like you’d committed a hate crime.

You and Bakugo didn’t look at each other once during class. No leg shaking, pen stealing or insults. Not even a well timed scoff when you were called on to answer a question. You tried your best to clear your mind and forget everything that had occurred in that hall last night. After a while of this torture you even were having a little bit of success.

But of course your peace was ruined as you walked to lunch. He couldn’t let you have anything. And of course he wasn’t going to leave you alone.

“Hey Little Bite, I hear we get to pick our groups for combat training today. All Might is going to make me a team captain, obviously. So if you want to be on my team let me know. I mean I assume you don’t wanna lose. You just gotta ask me nicely.” His usual cocky tone crept under your skin.

You desperately tried to ignore him as he followed you. Each footstep he started gaining on you being more annoying than the last. But what really did it was the pencil he threw at your head.

“Please, actively do not pick me.”

He ignored your objection and continued on his line of bullshit.

“I suppose I could take you. Your quirk would be useless, I’m all the attack power we’d need to win but I could use you as a decoy or something.”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t want to be on a team with you, moron. Your pea brain doesn’t know how to do anything but blow shit up. You’re like an explosive cave man. Besides being too close to you for too long makes me wanna vomit.”

He cackled. You knew exactly what he was thinking and immediately regretted your words.

“That’s weird—“

You picked up a rock from the ground and threw it at his head. But he just caught it and made it explode with a smug look on his face.

“Ugh. I cannot stand you.” You groaned.

“You sure about that?” He said with a suggestive eyebrow.

He was so hot....it made you want to punch him in the throat. Without thinking you shrugged off your backpack and swung it at his face. His reflexes bested you again though and he caught the bag, yanking it from you. The force was harder than you expected, it sent you flying into his chest. You both tumbled to the ground and landed shoulder to shoulder. Your skull hit a small rock with a wack. Rubbing the back of your head, shooting pain surfaced.

“Ow!! That fucking hurt dumbass!”

“Sor—“

You swung your arm, aiming to kill, and hit him in the stomach.

It must have really knocked the wind out of him because he made a loud grunting noise that hinted at his surprise. It wasn’t often people got to land a punch on Katsuki Bakugo. King Explosion Murder.

“Do that shit again Little Bite! You’ll regret it!” He grabbed your wrist, attempting to clear a way to get you back. You both started wresting trying to punch each other in the gut. Literally rolling around in the grass in a red hot death match of who could out curse the other.

“Omg, are you guys about to kiss right now?” Mina teased from out of absolutely nowhere, scaring the shit out of you.

You both froze solid as the blood drained from your face. She knew about last night? How did she find out?!

“You told her!?” Bakugo’s entire face was contorting through a whole range of emotions. Shock, horror, embarrassment, accusation, cheekiness, embarrassment again.

“What!?” You panicked. “No! I didn’t!” You swear you didn’t. You replayed your whole morning in your head just to double check.

You turned to your pink friend. Her eyes were wide and her mouth fell open. You watched the gears turn in her head as she realized she’d stumbled upon a miraculously juicy discovery.

“OH. MY. GOD!!! No freaking way!!” She squealed unable to contain herself.

She started blabbering as she attempted to cope with this information. She had absolutely no idea what to do with it.

Your stomach fell as you realized this fatal error. Wait....this wasn’t your error. You pushed him off you and you both scrambled to your feet.

“This is your fault! Why’d you say that!” You shoved a finger in Bakugo’s chest. Which actually hurt because....he’s solid.

“Don’t yell at me!” He yelled back at an even louder volume.

Mina started running around in little circles. “They kissed!!!” She then abruptly stopped in her tracks and you watched a lightbulb flicker on.

No.....

“KIRISHIMA!!!! KAMINARI!!!” She screamed as she ran toward the cafeteria.

“MINA DONT YOU FUCKING DA—“ Bakugo exploded into a full sprint to chase her down. But she was like a rocket.

You chased after them desperately trying to reconcile all this is your mind. But it was no use, your brain was melting. Everyone was about to find out. The relentless jokes...they would never end. You could die right here.

Both of them ran so fast you fell horribly behind. By the time you rounded the corner and caught up to them a whole event had already taken place.

Bakugo was screaming on the top of his lungs. You could practically see the steam coming off the top of his head.

Kaminari was standing there in his stupid form with a half torn shirt. Jesus, what did Bakugo do to him?

Mina and Kirishima were laying on the ground, their face covered in tears. They were laughing so hard no sounds were even coming out.

“Oh my god,” Mina squeaked out between gasps for air, “Bakugo has a crush.”

“It’s so adorable!” Kirishima said wiping the tears from his eyes as he attempted to stop laughing. With no success, they both bursted again after seeing Bakugo slamming his fists into the grass. The teasing was making him want to rip his eyes out. He couldn’t stand it.

“Shut up Kirishima!!!” He jumped on top of his friend and started repeatedly banging his head into the ground. Of course this did absolutely nothing to the hard head. It just made him laugh even more.

Poor Denki just stood there drooling with a little smile on his face and giggling.

You were frozen. Stunned. It was like watching a comedy movie in which you were the punchline.

But all the laughs fell a silent as a furious voice cut through the air.

“What is this.” It wasn’t a question. Mr. Aizawa looked like he hadn’t slept in three days and this used up his last bit of patience.

“Bakugo. Get off him immediately.” He growled.

You knew how this looked. Bakugo was attacking Kirishima after successfully making Kaminari fry his own brain. Your friends’ laughter wasn’t enough to hide Bakugo’s apparent violence even if it was over something as stupid as a kiss. Mr. Aizawa couldn’t possibly know that.

“I overlooked your behavior yesterday, picking a fight with Miss. y/n. But now attacking your other classmates as well? This is violent behavior is unacceptable.”

“Mr. Aizawa—“ Kirishima tried to defend his friend but it was no use.

“Not another word.” Your teacher was glaring at Bakugo with laser beams.

The hot head just stood there in silence with a scowl on his face and two tightly clenched fists. He was really just going to take the heat for everyone? No arguments?

“I’m putting you on house arrest for the rest of the day. No more classes and no combat training.” You watched the dagger go through Bakugo’s chest. Today was going to be offensive training with All Might. You knew he was looking forward to it. Guilt punched your core.

“Mr. Aizawa wait. I’m the one who picked a fight with him yesterday. I challenged him. He shouldn’t get into trouble because of me.” You shuffled toward him timidly. He was scary when he was like this.

Everyone looked at you in surprise. They all knew it was true, that you’d egged him on. And he wouldn’t be raging right now if you hadn’t kissed, so today was also partially your fault. But they were truly surprised because you normally would revel in Bakugo getting scolded. But you weren’t fucking evil. And this wasn’t Bakugo’s fault at all...although he really needed to get his fucking temper in check. Idiot.

“Is that true?” Aizawa asked Bakugo.

The hot head took a deep breath. “Does that sound like me at all? I’d never give into her weak attempts at baiting me. I fought her because I wanted to.”

Your eyes popped out at his words. He lied. Why the fuck would he do that?

Mr. Aizawa escorted Bakugo to the dorms, lecturing the entire way.

“This sucks.” Kirishima said with a frown.

“I know. I feel so bad!” Mina cried sadly.

You had no words. The four of you walked to lunch with drooping heads. You held Kaminari’s hand the whole way until his brain recharged.

Recalling you’d left your backpack in the quad you ran back to get it. Upon arrival you realized Bakugo’s backpack was also there. He wouldn’t even have his stuff with him to finish homework or study during house arrest. You groaned. This guilt was horrible. It ate at you for rest of the day. The rest of your friends didn’t feel any better. And combat training wasn’t the same for you without that familiar sound of explosions going off in the background. It actually made the class feel kind of empty.

As usual at the end of the day you sat in the common area with the rest of the girls.

“So...is it true y/n?” Ochaco poked hesitantly.

You glared at Mina. Loose lips as usual.

“Sorry y/n. I talk when I’m stressed.” Mina cried only kind of regretful.

You sighed. You didn’t have the heart to actually be upset with her. You were the villain here. Getting Bakugo into so much trouble.

“Yea.” You huffed out. Talking about it made you cringe. It was like admitting your sworn rival had defeated you somehow. Even if you sort of didn’t mind the way he did it...

“What was it like?” Mina asked excited for the details.

“Is he a good kisser?” Ochaco added.

Your mind fell into a fog as you replayed the kiss again. Your skin went electric as you remembered the feel of his hands on your waist and those noises he was making. His lips wrapped around yours....

“Oh my god...Ochaco shes in love!” Mina concluded from you zoning out for what ended being like 15 seconds of you staring into space with a little smile on your face. She was practically singing.

“I am not!” You yelled flustered.

“Why are so many people yelling today?” Kirishima chuckled as he rounded the corner to join the couch.

“So is he mad?” Mina’s voice had changed into the sad one from earlier.

“I don’t know. Every time I knock he just tells me to go away. But that’s not that different from normal honestly.” He smiled. Their friendship was so odd.

Suddenly his backpack flashed through your mind. It was sitting in your room.

You got up to leave. You tried to be sneaky about it as they discussed how to cheer the victim up. But to no avail, they’d never let you sneak off again.

“Where you going huh?” Mina’s voice was painfully suggestive.

“To my room!”

“Uh huh, we’ve heard that one before.”

You stuck your tongue at her.

Kirishima twisted to face you over the back of the couch. “So if I ask Bakugo tomorrow if he saw you tonight he’s gonna say no, right?” Who knew he could be this ruthless. No mercy.

You pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration. You’d been cornered.

“Look. He left his backpack earlier and I’m just going to give it to him! Jeez do you want to do it or something Kiri?” You were seething.

“Nahh, you should do it. He’ll just yell at me to go away again.” He winked. It made you cringe again.

You could peel your skin off from this teasing. But you know someone who hated it even more. You knew that’s why he wouldn’t let Kirishima into his room.

You ran off before they could crack any more jokes.

On your way to the elevators you heard a creepy cackle come from somewhere. You spun around, alarmed, as a “what the fuck” escaped your lips. Your eyes landed on one eyeball peeking through the crack of a doorway.

“Can I get a kiss too?” The voice was wet with drool and lust. “Just one?”

“I will kick your face in Mineta.”

The door quickly shut. Did Mina tell the fucking whole class!?

With more haste now you stormed to your room to get the stupid backpack that was causing you so many problems and made your way to your other problem’s door.

Before you knocked you realized your hands were shaking. Nervous? Seriously, over this moron? You shook it off with resolve and knocked.

“Fuck off Denki, for the hundredth fucking time I’m busy!” A gruff voice yelled from behind the door.

“Oh please, busy with what?” You retorted reflexively. Earlier you had decided you were going to try to be nicer but that sentiment wore off as soon as you heard his annoying voice.

The door swung open.

“What do you want?” He said with a raised eyebrow.

Your mind went blank. He was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. Of course it made his biceps look better than normal. He was wearing a black t-shirt that made his skin look perfectly tanned and was snug in all the right places. And why did he always smell so good damn. Today it was like vanilla and woodsy aftershave.

Stop staring. Stop staring. Speak bitch.

“Here’s your backpack. You should keep better track of it. I had to carry it around all day. That’s annoying.” You tossed it at him.

Why couldn’t you say anything nice? He took the heat for everyone. It’s like your mouth was rebelling against you.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Maybe you should work out more weakling.”

Panic panged in your chest as he started to shut the door in your face.

“Wait—“ you stopped it with your hand.

He paused. Mild interest dawned his brow.

“Why—why did you lie?”

“What?”

“To Mr. Aizawa. You could have told him it was my fault.”

“What do you care?” He pressed. His tone always managed to infuriate you.

You spun on your heels and started to walk away. “Nevermind.”

“Because I felt bad. You hurt your stupid head.”

You’d forgotten about that with all the guilt that had been overrunning your head. It didn’t even hurt anymore. You were surprised he’d even noticed.

“Oh.”

“But obviously you’re fine now so I guess it was all for nothing.” He added quickly trying to sound indignant.

The guilt punched you again. Especially now that you were face to face with him. He didn’t even look mad. He actually looked calm. And he looked good. You tried to deny your attraction to him. But flashes of his hand on your waist started invading your mind again. You could feel him wrapped around your neck. The way he was gentle and rough at the same time.

“Instead of just standing there you could actually make yourself useful. You owe me anyways.”

You snapped out of it trying not to look flustered. You shot him a confused and slightly offended look.

“Fill me in on what I missed in class...” he explained. He wouldn’t make direct eye contact though.

“Are you saying you need my help?” You had to do it. You couldn’t not take an opportunity.

“Tch. Obviously no—“

“Let’s do it. Move.” You said as you pushed past him into his room. Your hand made full contact with his abs and you felt that heat again.

He shut the door behind you and your heart started off like a race horse as you heard him lock it.

You suspected it was to lock the other boys out. God forbid they catch you in his room after all this.

Shit....you were in his room. Alone. With your hot head. The day after he kissed you. The evening after he took all the fury of Mr. Aizawa for you and moments after he asked you to help him study even though he gets way better grades than you.

He cleared a spot for you to sit on his bed and then leaned back into his chair with his hands locked behind his head. His flexing muscles were distracting you again.

“You better actually remember everything.”

“Shut up.” You rolled your eyes at him.

His words were supposed to rile you but the way he looked at you, like he was secretly loving that you were here was making your stomach flutter. You could feel your face red and you prayed he wouldn’t notice. At this rate you were going to throw yourself at him before he had the chance to kiss you again. As long as you two didn’t start fighting again first.....

~~

💥 YES there will be a pt 3!!! 💥

It’s going to be called “sTuDyiNg” HAHA (hint: Bakugo doesn’t actually wanna study “dumbass”)

Update: Pt.3 is up now!! Read it here

#fanfic #bakugo angst #mha bakugou #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugo #bhna imagine #katsuki bakugou #mha angst #my hero headcanons #mha fanfiction #mha fluff #katsuki bakugo x y/n #katsuki bakugo angst #bakugou fluff #bakugou x you #bakugou headcanons #bakugou smut #katsuki bakugo imagine #Kirishima #mina ashido #denki kaminari #ochaco uraraka #mr aizawa