The thing about Dazai Osamu and Nakahara Chuuya is the fact neither can exist without the other. They don't have to be lovers, they don't have to be friends, they don't have to be enemies, they don't even have to know each other. But the fact remains that neither can exist without the other. There is no Dazai Osamu without Nakahara Chuuya. Just as there is no Nakahara Chuuya without Dazai Osamu. They are soulmates in every sense of the word.
“I see! I SEEEE!” Dr Han yells as his eyes bulge wildly out of their sockets. “You’re a demon,” he says casually. Rumi flinches in her seat.
“WHAT!?” Mira stands from her seat along the side of the office.
Zoey’s eyes are wide, flicking back and forth between Mira and Rumi.
“No, actually, just a half demon." Dr Han says. "See?" He quickly grabs Rumi’s arm and slides her sleeve back to reveal her patterns.
Rumi gasps, pulling free of Han and tugs her sleeve back down.
Mira’s gok-do appears in her hand. “Where’s Rumi?,” she asks Rumi, voice barley controlled.
“Oh, and you’re both hunters,” Han says to Mira and Zoey. “Interesting. Well, surely you’ve seen her patterns when you were intimate?”
The girls all cough and stutter.
“Uh…” mutters Zoey.
“We’ve never been intimate. We’re just in a group together.” Mira struggles to say.
Dr Han’s eyes bulge out of his head again as he looks at the three of them. “I SEE! Oh, Im sorry. I just assumed because you all came in together and you’re all gay.”
The girls all go pale as they look at each other.
“Ah, I SEE, that was a secret you were all keeping from each other too. My apologies.” Dr Han turns to Rumi, who’s breathing is very fast, verging on hyperventilating. “Try and relax. Take a deep breath and breathe out. And you,” he says turning to Mira. “Put that away. That’s not helping,” he snaps his fingers and her gok-do disappears from her hand.
Mira’s shocked as she looks at her hand. She tries to summon it again but cant.
“Stop that,” Han says to her. “Now is not the time for that. Here, everyone have one of my relaxation tonics.” He hands them each a pouch of tonic. “Drink! Drink!”
“You’re Rumi?” Mira asks Rumi, sipping from her pouch.
“Yeah,” she whispers.
“And you’re a demon” Zoey says in a very small voice.
“Half demon,” Dr Han interjects.
“What’s a half demon?” Zoey asks.
“Half demon, half person,” Han says like its obvious. “Half demons are born. No deals with Gwima. Their patterns are not their fault. Drink your tonics.”
The girls finish their tonics.
Han turns to Rumi. “The problem with your voice is just demon shame. You’re in love with them both,” he gestures to Mira and Zoey, “but you’ve been lying to them. Go home. Talk it out and you’ll be fine by morning. No more lies, Rumi.”
Rumi’s whole face is red.
Dr Han turns to Mira and Zoey. “And you're both in love with her." He squints, looking at each of them. "And each other. Go home. Talk it out. Don’t be too hard on her. She was probably just scared you’d try to kill her.” He turns and points at Mira. “No more weapons. You frightened her.” Han helps Rumi up from her seat, grabs Mira's arm and puts it over Rumi’s shoulder.
Dr Han beckons to Zoey, who walks over and hugs Rumi around her middle.
“Go, Go,” Han says.”Pay Janice on the way out.”
—
They stand huddled together out front of Dr. Han’s clinic. They haven't let go of each other since Han assembled them.
“Should we get something to eat?” Mira asks.
“Yeah! Let’s get Gimbap!” Zoey shouts, breaking free from the huddle. “Gaja gaja gaja!”
Rumi’s tonic container is still in her hand and she picks at the label. Peeling the label back revels ‘100% Gay Juice”. “What the fuck,” she mutters. She shrugs and tosses it into a garbage.
Zoey runs ahead. Mira and Rumi start walking together, Mira’s arm still wrapped around her. She leans in and kisses Rumi’s forehead and Rumi wraps her arms around her chest, cuddling tight.
As they walk away Dr Han’s clinic shimmers and disappears.
imagine you’re a tiny thing. your mama is big and strong so you follow her everywhere. she’s very strong, which is why when she falls asleep on the floor you sit with her. you sit with her until she starts to fall apart. but its ok because she’s strong. and then you get really, really, really thirsty, and you think if you sleep it’ll be okay. and then you wake up surrounded by water and you see a face beyond the water and its blurry and you dont know how to feel about it so you go back to sleep and then you keep seeing the face beyond the water and they talk to you in soft words you dont understand and you’re still so small and confused but you know the face beyond the water is helping you. maybe it loves you. but you’re a tiny thing. and then one day you decide you’ve had enough water, and then you start to move. and you see the face beyond the water, who is so happy to see you and they do something you’ve never seen a face do, their mouth curls at the end in a smile and youve never seen it so you do it too and you keep doing it because you love the face beyond the water so much and they love you too and they’re strong like mama and they feed you and pet you and love you and one day you grow so big they can ride you. and they make you a hat and goggles to protect your eyes and they show you all sorts of wonderful things and YES this is about the happy ghast from minecraft im OBSESSED
An Increasingly Frustrated Pokemon Trainer who wants a Sylveon but he isn’t emotionally equipped enough to understand the nuanced difference between friendship and affection so he just has like 13 Espeons and Umbreons
He ties ribbons around their necks and clips them on their ears, and never thinks they’re good enough. He ignores them when they rub against him for pets, focusing on his newest Eevee, so tiny and soft and full of potential. He keeps trying, and trying, and every time he sees black instead of pink and his face falls. Or he perks up at a glimpse of a paler color--but no, that’s the wrong shade, and there’s the forked tail, and he is even more crestfallen.
Until one day he gives up on a Sylveon. It’s never going to happen for him. He slams the door, and cries with his head in his hands, and can’t stand to look at the warm, soft bodies pressing against his back, rubbing against his knees.
He can’t stand to look at the ribbons and bows. He avoids the Pokemon for two days and then, in one explosive burst of frustration, he takes all the bows, stuffs them into the trash--only just managing to keep his trembling hands gentle on soft necks and ears. It’s not their fault. He knows it’s not. It’s his. He rubs a black ear, worried that it might be sore. It’s his fault.
He pets them more. It’s not their fault they’re not what he wanted. He feeds them, and restarts the training sessions that had ended when each one evolved. He doesn’t know their movesets; he starts reading. He learns what he can ask from them, and then learns from them too: which one would rather Quick Attack than use Confusion, which has a Mean Look that freezes even him in place. It’s fun. It’s more fun than it ever used to be, when he followed all the best training manuals so anxiously. They respond, growing and learning and butting into them for pets that he sheepishly gives them.
It’s inevitable, with thirteen of them in the same place, that eventually two would breed. He holds the tiny Eevee in his cupped palms. So soft. So warm. He knows which Espeon gave her those extra-long ears and which Umbreon is responsible for her round little nose. He is fascinated.
He pets her. He holds her. He watches her try to mimic the others and he smiles when they high-step over her or when they lift her by the scruff. She joins in on training sessions and for a moment there’s the thought--but she’s having fun copying one of her aunties and he’s not going to change that. She learns what she likes because she likes it. She’s the happiest Eevee he’s ever trained, and he doesn’t need her to be anything else.
But she changes, of course. Children grow up and Pokemon evolve. Espeon, he thinks when she changes in daylight, when he sees a pale coat--but no, that’s the wrong shade--
He is dumbfounded. The rest of them are not. They crowd around, pushing him and Sylveon together, pressing against both of them until everyone is one pile of fur and waving tails. He laughs and hugs her first--and then the nearest Umbreon, and the next.
He is happy, of course. But not because of what she is. He's glad that it means she’s happy. And she is happy. He gets the sense, watching her examine her own ribbons, that she became exactly what she wanted.
Maybe he should start keeping some stones in the house. It’s inevitable, with fourteen Eeveelutions around, that they’re going to keep breeding, and the next Eevee might want something different.
Just think when Zuko visits babyKorra they would play hide and seek together and he would find her and shout “I’VE CAPTURED THE AVATAR” holding her up like Lion King.
Consider also:
Zuko picking up little Korra at some point during their first meeting. Sokka turns around to instantly go, “You finally captured the avatar. Congrats my man.” And Zuko, who is still working on how to treat this new little avatar, just cracks tf up.
Little Korra instantly decides she likes this firelord dude, because that laugh feels like the laugh of a friend to her.
Just imagine big giant scary Red Hood just stealing snacks out of Batman's belt Jason's favorite fruit snacks that Bruce totally bought for himself.
Dick walks down for breakfast just stealing Bruce's bacon he doesn't even flinch.
Tim looking at Bruce's food at the restaurant he ordered something different that he doesn't like Bruce just switching the plates.
Bruce takes Cass out to lunch and orders stuff that his baby girl specifically likes so she can make a game out of taking it even though he would never stop her.
His plate is never his own and he doesn't care because they are eating.
Also if we want a bit of trauma he is willing to sample food for them so that they know it's not poisoned or something else eating a little bit of baby Jason's food so he can feel safe.
Sipping Dick and Tim's drinks before handing them over. He will do anything to make them comfortable.
His kids will randomly walk up to him at a gala he takes it without stopping his conversation and giving it back only if it's safe and not god have mercy on you if it isn't.
Damian who didn't trust anything knowing his Baba's plate is safe so just taking that.
DAD'S FOOD IS THEIR'S
His left overs being put on Jason's plate because sometimes he's still hungry but won't say anything.
I’m like 99% sure the Gotham Elite’s social customs are fucked up because Autism-in-Human-Form Bruce Wayne was just so fucking tired of high society’s weird and incomprehensible (and frankly ableist) social etiquette that he went full Virgin Mary About-to-Invent-a-Major-World-Religion, said “oh haven’t you heard?” and just started making his own random social rules. Like who’s going to stop him? The other elites? The dinosaur CEO’s? He’s richer. He hosts the better parties. He could tank your business in a weekend. So when he says “Weird passive aggressive fork language is out. Having a different utensil for every different food texture is in,” you use a different utensil for every food texture. Now when foreign elites visit Gotham, they have to learn a completely new set of social customs to fit in. It’s like a cult, but the cult is run by the most influential man in the world and Gotham’s personal Jesus. The followers are more likely than not mafia bosses named after a bird. You will be judged. There’s a test. Yes, you do get brownie points for being nice to the servers. For the love of god, stop making so much eye contact. The cloth napkins are folded into little ducks. Welcome to Gotham.
The younglings played. The younglings read. The younglings talked. The younglings laughed. The younglings paused as they noticed their teachers watching them.
Not their usual mindful gaze, not a glance, not a watch to let them know they are being watched...a different kind of watch.
It was not unsettling. It did not frighten the herbivores. It did not threaten the carnivores. It did not alert the omnivores.
It was a watch that was familiar in a way. Different but familiar.
"Stop staring at us!" they cried
"We're not staring. We're thinking." they replied back, their gaze deepening.
"Well stop thinking at us." the boldest ones said
"Your still staring." the smartest ones said
"What are you thinking about?" the curious ones said.
"Your so small."
"..." "..." "..."
"WE AREN'T SMALL!" the younglings protested. The oldest most offended. The middle most annoyed. The youngest most loud.
"We don't mean your size." one started.
"We mean you're so young." the other finished.
"I'm 8 years old!" "I'm 5!" "I'm 3 and a half!"
"And you have so much to experience." they smile
"You still have to experience taking the shuttle by yourself." they grin to the eldest ones.
"You still have to experience losing your first tooth." they beam to the middle ones.
"You still have to experience your first playdate." they whisper to the youngest.
The younglings pout and huff. The younglings protest being small. The younglings, the smartest ones, figure out what's so familiar with the watch.
It was the same watch they got from their parents. It was the same watch they got from when they told them about the new friend they made. It was the same watch they got when they learned how to make a snack by themselves. It was the same watch they got when they learned something new and exciting.
It was the same watch they would see from their teachers for days to come.
concept: a death god that is actually surprisingly supportive and on the side of the good guys, supporting actions and promoting policies that will lead to the kingdom growing and thriving instead of being destroyed, because the more the kingdom grows, the more people there are, and the more people there are the more people will eventually die, and when you’re an immortal god of death, you know there’s no need to rush. you’ll get them all in the end
Yes. A Death that is kind, and patient, and inevitable.
A Death that need not fight against you, that will often fight for you, because why not? It will gather you home eventually. Why not enjoy you first?
A Death that treasures those who fight it most ardently. That loves healers and defenders and survivalists and necromancers and mad scientists and immortal gods. That lets them pour everything they are into fighting it, denying it, adoring every desperate scrap of strength and will and brilliance and raw determination poured out against it. That catches you when your strength is done and all your will and brilliance run out, that gathers you close beneath a warm, dark cloak, and whispers well done, oh child, you were magnificent, well done.
A Death who will not seek to hasten an inevitable end, who will chastise those who seek to hasten it for others in Death’s stead, who will slowly and patiently plot and sow and siphon away from the great monsters of the world. Because who are they to hasten Death’s domain, who are they to deny Death its time and its place, who are they to cut short these vital glories that illuminate it so? Who are they to presume upon its will, that is so much larger and so much longer than theirs?
Who are they to call, and presume that Death, of all beings, should obey?
A Death that is not a hunter but a gatherer, who is always and eternal, who loves you, and can afford to wait. A Death who will fight for you and defend you, who will place its hand upon those who would speed you to its embrace, who has no need to rush you, only to greet you when you call.
one of the most beautiful things ever written, imo. this is in part one of the reasons why I stopped being afraid of death. that and a dream I had when I was younger. not sure I ever posted the dream but…
some years ago, when i was still living wiht my parents, i had a dream where my parents and I were on vacation in denmark, driving around with our van. suddenly, something happened and we died. I woke up somewhere strange that still felt familiar, but i hadn’t ever been there. i was walking around and one by one, i found the rest of my family and we tried to figure out what was going on. we ended up picking up a hitchhiker. that hitchhiker told us we were in the place you end up after you die, which is a neverending dream, but not quite. you could do anything you wanted or could imagine, which he demonstrated by flying, like how you would in a dream. I tried it and flew too, following him, or chasing him. i ended back with my parents, and we kept going. suddenly, still wondering about death, I ended up in something like a town. it reminded me of Animal Crossing Wild World, honestly, and I even had a map that showed me where people were. In the corner of the map, there was Death. I went to Death, but I can’t remember the form Death took. Things are blurry from there on. I know we talked, and we talked about stuff after dying. I remember being calmed down, even content with what I was being told. i also vaguely remember giving Death a hug.
I woke up for real around that point. I woke up feeling calm and relieved, with the sense that everything is going to be okay.
I’m not a classicist, but I suspect one of the reasons so many of the Greek gods are portrayed so unflatteringly was less because they were seen as villains than because they represented their domains. Of course Zeus sometimes misuses his power, that’s what a king does. Of course Artemis’s wrath is wild and painful, that’s what nature can be. Of course Hades snatched away a young girl from her mother’s arms, that’s what death does. This is one of the reasons callout posts for some gods comparing them negatively to ‘nicer’ gods are kind of missing the point.
