le yuuki au chocolat

cre avt @/kampuzu do not repost

[4eyesfreak]

[ratbuchet]

netzach 🥬

[itsyuukiiiiiii]

(OcCanon content)

Remember when you ran away?

(based on They’re Coming to Take me Away - Sloppy Jane)

[itsyuukiiiiiii]

Hi! I’m back with new art I commissioned and a new ficlet I wrote.

(comm by Shawn Coquillage on FB. Do not repost.)

A confession to yourself. Inspired by Mizi (Alien Stage)’s monologue in Karma.

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_____

you’ve been running away from the very beginning.

say it to yourself until the words taste like blood and you can’t swallow them down.

you run in circles the moment a feeling edges too close. you do not march forward bravely, but around it, rather. around the same hollow, polishing different excuses until the surface gleams with that sickening spark. duty, devotion, noble? you wrap the words up like bandages, covering your wounds neatly so no one asks what’s bleeding underneath. you tell yourself that’s enough.

but nothing's ever enough for you, isn’t it?

not once did you face your true feelings. you dress them in service and hand them to netzach as if that absolves you. you think giving is saving. you think doing is proof. but you never call the thing by its name — want, fear, hunger — because calling it dirties the altar you’ve kept clean for so long.

did clinging to a noble sense of justice really ever solve anything? what did your “righteous” hands build but scaffolding for your inevitable ruin? how many times has your insistence on being the good, the steady, the indispensable, only tied him tighter into your script? you sang your self-righteous hymn, the virtue of sacrifice while stitching chains out of quiet favors. praise yourself for martyrdom, then watch him flinch. noble? it’s theater. and the audience is a single man who deserves better than being forced to watch your performance.

what came of it but a meaningless death? don’t romanticize the slow wasting. it isn’t tragic poetry. it is slow corrosion. you call it proof — look, see how much i gave — but what you gave was his space, his breath, his permission to be whole without owing you. you wrapped your need in ache and called it love, and he paid with pieces of himself you took without asking. if there is a body to bury at the end of all this, it will not be the corpse of your nobility. it will be whatever was left of him after you had finished proving you cared.

even if we were granted freedom… if some god tore the walls down and said “here now, live”, we’d still feel alone. freedom is a just a word. it does nothing for the hollows you carved out of someone else’s life. you imagine freedom as a final prize, as if unshackling both of you will stitch your insides back together. but the rot you’ve nurtured in the name of constancy doesn’t vanish with open doors. it follows you like a ghost.

why? because humans are the cause of this pain. look at you and be honest with yourself: the harm you inflict is not some noble collateral. it is absolute authority, signed by you. labeled “for their own good” and placed on a shelf where you can admire it. humans love, yes, do they love fiercely — but often they do so with knives in their pockets. they barter affection for control, trade mercy for debt. it is not the world that made you this way; it is your handling of it.

we are creatures who can’t seem to love without exploiting. there it is — the truth you hide behind your rituals. you give to keep. you heal to be needed. you tend to leaves until the tree forgets how to grow on its own. that’s not love. it’s ownership dressed in kindness. you used “we” to soften it, to say it is not only you, but the “we” does not absolve particular sins. you are the only prisoner to the sins that you’ve caused.

and that man — netzach — he is not the proof of your existence. he is flesh and habit and stubborn breath. you have been so afraid of being forgotten that you made him the anchor you could not release. he did not ask to be anchored to your shame. he asked, less dramatically, for someone who can be present without turning aid into captivity.

remember the way he looked when you placed yourself between him and the world like a shield? remember the way his fingers twitched when you would not let him step back? that twitch is not gratitude. it is alarm. he was afraid, chrysanthemum — when he panicked the day you bled on the floor for him, when he saw what your “devotion” costs you, he did not feel triumph, but only felt the small, awful knowledge of being loved to death. how does that rest in you? does it gratify your wound, or does it finally make you sick?

you are angry now, and rightfully. but let that anger be surgical, not performative. hate the mechanics of what you’ve done. hate the map you traced into another person’s life. use that fury to unlearn habits: stop making yourself indispensable to the point of theft. stop translating care into ownership. stop believing that if you vanish, there will be nothing left of you, because that lie is the same rope you’ve used to bind both of you.

face your feelings. say them aloud: i am afraid of being forgotten. i am afraid i will have nothing if not an object of devotion. i want him. i want to be necessary. these are ugly confessions but honest ones. once named, they can be handled. once handled, they do not have to become barbs you sharpen and hand back to him as “sacrifice.”

if you love him, prove it by restraint. prove it by the slow, stubborn practice of letting him live without you taking from him. let him learn breath that does not carry the sand of your needs. step back when he says he needs space. do not fill the silence with a kindness that binds. be present in a way that respects his edges.

and if stepping back kills you a little, let it. better to feel the ache of absence than to watch him erode under your hands. better to be hollow and whole than full and poisoned. be angry enough at yourself to stop making love an instrument of survival. be fierce enough to refuse the easy vanity of martyrdom.

stop running in circles. stop pretending the next act of service will retroactively redeem the ones that constricted him. open your hands. let him go, sometimes. not as a test, not as theatre, but as an offering: i trust you to be whole without me. if he stays — because he wants to, not because he must — then your presence will be clean. if he walks, do not call it betrayal.

call it mercy. call it the truth.

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[lilliput10-moved]

better late than never, happy birthday green gork

[isatartdump]

I heard it's Netzach birthday so I'll share these early......

[kokomadada]

[asher-sblog]

[ch1h4ru3]

📚

The thing I love about tumblr is that I can crop however I want

Also I love this little guy they eats

[itsyuukiiiiiii]

he… gubo x oc

[itsyuukiiiiiii]

For Netzach’s birthday — My OC x Canon fic.

(lowercase warning)

it feels as if my entire life was waiting for this moment.

the library itself doesn’t seem to notice the date, and it’s not like anyone would either. no candles nor laughter. i wonder if the date still holds any significance to him, but there’s nothing far greater than the birth of my salvation. i had counted down the days leading up to this moment with a nauseating discipline, with each night pressing another purple petal flat between pages of an old book, to the point that my fingertips were bleeding.

the gift wasn’t much. a pressed flower, a chrysanthemum sealed in clear resin with its petals gently spread around the bud. beauty preserved for eternity. a simple black and green hair tie, made from the fabrics taken from some old pieces of uniform that i had, and my clumsy attempts at sewing. the remnants of my sleepless nights still won’t wash off my hands, as the needle scars still burn and the smell of resin still refused to leave.

———

i woke up earlier than usual – or rather, i did not sleep, for my agitation kept me wide awake the night before. i had just spent the entire night practicing how i should hand it to him; my movements must be calm and my voice should hold no hesitation, yet the mask i wear on my face always feels like glass when it comes to him. it feels like i might shatter into a million pieces.

when i finally found him already slouching lazily at the sofa inside the floor of arts, i almost wanted to turn back and shove the gift into some old drawer, pretending that they never existed, but then his eyes were opened before i could escape.

“chrysan. you’re up early…”

“...yes, sir.”

my voice had come out too hoarse, practically throwing hours of my practice off the window. even so, i kept on marching forward. “today is your birthday, netzach-nim.”

netzach’s eyes were fixed on me for the briefest moment before blinking slowly, the thing he always does when he hasn’t quite processed something yet. i stepped closer towards the sofa as my hands gradually revealed the gifts, and his gaze softened – dear lord.

“chrysan. you don’t have to do this.”

the smallest chuckle escaped his mouth, and my heart ached. it shouldn’t have, but it did.

“but i did it anyway. it’s your birthday after all.” i replied with a smile of my own; i had to, lest i broke on the spot.

his fingers lightly brushed against mine as he took the first gift, and I wondered if he could feel the scars adorned my skin. netzach turned the resin over in his palm, his expression unreadable.

“it’s nothing really,” i lied, like i always do, “just… so you won’t forget.”

his lips broke into another smile, and it broke me as well. “didn’t know you can do this. it’s pretty.”

while netzach’s attention was still fixed on the flower, i hesitantly placed the hair tie into his hands. he jolted slightly in his seat.

“and this… i thought you’d like it.” i explained, my throat painfully dry. “your hair is always messy.”

netzach appeared dumbfounded, and i wondered if i had strayed too far; but then i could hear a ghost of a laugh. netzach twirled the tie between his fingers first before (and i… i was breathless, i was undone) gathering a portion of his tangled hair, bounding it back into a bun. it was imperfect, sure, but there it was. my creation against his skin.

it felt like i was touching him. i could feel my fingers on him. i had to look away, afraid that i’d said something stupid.

“you really didn’t have to go that far…”

his thanks was almost sheepish, and i wanted to scream to his face that yes, of course i did – for that is the meaning of my existence, to bind my soul with his, piece by piece, so tightly that there’s no way of separating us. instead of making a fool of myself, however, i could only lower my eyes with the utmost reverence as the wish came out of my lips.

“happy birthday, netzach.”

netzach’s hand reached out, once again, to ruffle my hair clumsily. like i was a child.

“yeah. thank you, chrysan.”

and in that moment, i had thought to myself; if the library managed to swallow me whole – either today or tomorrow – at least i could die with this image burned into my retinas, and netzach would get to live on with the flower in his pocket, the tie in his hair. right?

fragments of me would still live on with him. but flowers will wilt, and nothing would last forever.

———

the day went on as usual. guests came to the library, books were piling in, and the garden inside me was content. i made sure to always keep up that smile as my blade sent the unfortunate souls through pages and pages. netzach was beside me, always; his movement was slow, almost lazy, but they carried a steadiness i was certain would not exist back in his days at lobotomy corp.

at one point during a clash, a guest’s blade grazed my skin a little bit too close to the wrist. the sting was nonexistent, but it was enough to send me into a panic, my breath quickening as flashbacks raced in my mind. netzach’s hand caught mine, however, and i gradually steadied myself as i was pushed behind him.

“focus.”

i nodded, but the humiliation burned. i was supposed to protect him, not the way around.

later, when it was just the two of us in the office, i had made a half-hearted joke.

“you know, you could’ve just ignored me all this time.” a smile was dancing on my lips as i was cleaning the table. “all this time, even back at the corp. would’ve been easier.”

he glanced at me from across the room, lids heavy. “but i did not. maybe i could, but i didn’t.”

i diverted my eyes before he could see my hurtful expression.

———

the shift had ended late, and the library stayed silent again. i walked with him through the endless corridors, the air still reeked of the smell of past invitations. i took a glance on my left, gaze squaring in on the flower resin still safely tucked in his pocket and the tie around his bun.

“today was fun,” he suddenly spoke up and i stuttered slightly, wondering if he’d caught me staring.

“...i’m glad.”

“no one cares about my birthday, usually.” he was nonchalant, but the words cut deeper than i expected. you have me, netzach, you don’t have to be alone ever again–

“don’t say that.” my voice had come out a bit too desperate. “i do. i’ve always cared for you, netzach, and i’ll continue to do so.”

his eyes widened slightly, a bit taken aback. my hands were shaking where they were clasped behind my back, at least he couldn’t see it. “chrysan…’

“if you keep saying shit like that, i–” dear god, i could not shut myself up. “... you matter to me, netzach. so much. haven’t i done enough to prove that?”

the silence had stretched longer than usual, it was almost uncomfortable. my lips were trembling, yet he only replied with that same, achingly tired sigh. wait, netzach, wait—

“I know.”

the hair tie slipped faintly off the bun as netzach stumbled his way inside the chamber. there i was, still in the corridor, motionless as i waited until the sounds of his footsteps gradually faded off.

“if you keep on doing this to me, netzach… you’ll end up killing me.”

[fairy-festival]

assistant librarian reader painting with netzach?? :3c (this can be headcanons or a fic or whatever you want)

Picture Perfect

Netzach x Assistant Librarian!Reader

Warnings: Some brief self deprecating thoughts from Netzach, the longing is real he is Clingy. No other warnings!

WC ; ~1.1k

First one out of my batch finally done! This was really cute to write, Netzach is great. I didn't specify what exactly the paintings are of, so that's up to you~. — Mod Hemlock

“Ah, sorry…”

“Oh— no, no, it's okay, here…”

You haven't even put brush to canvas yet, and it's already a disaster— you're reaching for the same brushes, reaching over each other to grab some paint samples, almost knocking things over and making a spill here or there… the setup might just take longer than the actual paintings themselves.

It turns out that Netzach's little art nook, tucked away in some little corner of his floor, is severely disorganized. You were only able to tell where you were going to paint together by the fresh (and not so fresh) color stains dappled on the floor and on the wood of the bookshelves.

He already anticipates your cleanliness concerns. “It's a neverending mess,” he murmurs, setting up your easels. “Don't bother trying to clean it. It's not your fault it's messy to begin with… and even if you were to anyway, it always reverts back to the same state when I finish another piece.”

You can't say you don't understand where he's coming from.

“Well, I'll try to keep any spills from happening, at least on my end, ” you state idly, a little reassurance.

You're always so considerate. Something pangs in his chest, but he dismisses you with a lazy wave of his hand. “Don't worry about it. You know I'm really not the type to care, but… well, I guess that's never stopped you before.”

Netzach's tone is as low and gloomy as ever, but he gives you a short, cute little smile that makes your heart warm anyway.

...

So, not only is co-painting (unsurprisingly) clumsy in practice, but it's also somewhat nerve-wracking for the both of you. It's clear neither of you are used to painting with a partner. It's intimidating. But as you both go along this anxiety is quelled, somewhat, because you realize the man next to you would never judge something so personal as a creative process, especially not yours.

There's another worry, one not so surface level. Not many people realize that art is an intimate activity; it allows the viewer to peer into the mind of the creator. And, for a perceptive audience, each brushstroke, accent, highlight is a physical manifestation of a precious thought, no matter how brief it lasts. Every direction, press, length is a choice; a subconscious one, but very much a choice still.

Perhaps this line of thought explains why Netzach is eagerly anticipating seeing your painting: the formation and gradual expression of, essentially, who you are. How all the parts and pieces come together to represent you as a person, and how your finishing touches, deliberate alterations change the final product. He wants to see the hidden, dormant side of you that, usually, only the canvas would have the privilege to bear witness to.

…He thinks that maybe he's been daydreaming about this opportunity for a while longer than he should have been.

...

It's not long before Netzach finds himself struggling.

Whether it's the performance anxiety that makes him want to take it seriously this time (he wishes to impress you, of course— if there was a time to scrounge up some motivation to try and perform well, it was now. For you.) or the exhaustion seeping through and settling behind his eyelids, or the overwhelming vacancy between his arms—

Oh.

Something occupies his thoughts already. It's you. Always you. This isn't surprising, but for once Netzach actively wishes he wouldn't be so pathetic as to be constantly craving you when you are literally in the same room as him.

For what must have been the 60th time today, his gaze gravitates towards you again. For only a moment, his aching heart tempts him into placing down his palette and brush, reaching towards your arm—

Netzach refrains, board-stiff once he can bear to look at you again and truly take in your expression. A pang of guilt makes him retract his hand; he understands, as an (albeit novice) artist, how seemingly insignificant, little things can interrupt the creative process— an already frustratingly delicate, skittish thing.

…Besides, you look cute when you're focused. So Netzach leaves you be, despite how he wishes to hold you, and returns to his own painting.

He tries to return to that elusive state of artistic focus, but the decaying part of his mind whispers and calls him selfish, unworthy again. His hand stalls mid-stroke, and he exhales, exasperated and laden with sorrow... but it's quickly hushed when he feels a weight on his shoulder.

Suddenly, you're nestling into the crook of his neck and wrapping your arms around him in a loose embrace. Despite the extra weight, Netzach swears he feels a little lighter. Immediately, he shifts to cling onto you and rest his chin on top of your head.

Some moments in comfortable silence pass. You speak softly and the sound is muffled by the fabric of his clothing. “I think I'm pretty much finished. How's it coming over here?”

“...It's alright, I guess… inspiration hasn't really been striking me right, so I don't think this'll turn out to be anything impressive.”

The sound and vibration of his voice, tired and whispery, is amplified by the lack of proximity— you practically melt.

One of your hands snakes up his torso and chest to absentmindedly fiddle with the brooch attached to his tie. “It doesn't have to be. Art is created for the purpose of expression, right? Not necessarily to be a grand gesture of your capabilities… although it very much can be.”

“Yeah… you're right.”

You feel him move (careful not to dislodge you from your sacred spot near his neck) and hear the sound of something being lifted up off the ground.

Netzach starts to speak again, but he's uncertain, and it pulls his sentence away to trail off awkwardly. “I think… I've got some ideas on how to finish this now. If you wanna stay there it's.. that's, uh, fine with me… if you wanna.”

Something tells you that's not exactly what he wanted to say. You gently pry it out of him.

“Do you want me to move?”

He answers, 'no', quicker and more emphatic than you think he's ever responded to anything in both of his lives. “Then I'll stay put. And you're comfy, so I don't want to move anyway.”

Netzach picked his head up earlier, so now you have a front row seat to the warmth crawling across his face and up to his ears. You take the opportunity to worsen his plight and crane your head to give him a languid kiss on the edge of his jaw, which earns you a shiver.

“Just don't get too comfortable. We really should clean up when you're done.”

All you get is a groan in response. So much for motivation.

Work by the @fairy-festival. Do not plagiarize or use for AI.

Reblogs and comments are appreciated!

[windsandstar]

"i don't know why, but i want to stay alive"

[cyberkotolog]

Talk (requested art)

[br8indamaged]

netzach liker nation how are we feeling today

[ladatucha]

marketable idiots <3

[itsyuukiiiiiii]