#you know that line that kafka has saying that because of the nature of her work she rarely sees the same person twice ??

[rintoki]

visitors in the night

characters: kafka x dom!fem!reader

cw: use of strap, rough sex, mentions of somnophilia, reader might be like a robot or smth idk what’s going on with them

a/n: i have no clue what i was wafflin on about something about story setting i think i had a headache ok idk also sorry for any spelling / grammar / punctuation mistakes. even though reader is not actually gendered they just have a fem body, can be read as wlw, read it if u want to idk.

“kafka.”

you glanced up at the purple-haired woman from the book you were reading in bed, watching silently as she pushes it to the side, sidling into your lap.

she doesn’t speak a word, her body language telling you enough. the silk robe wrapped loosely around her body brushes against your skin, and out of your periphery you can see it falling to the sides of her thighs, exposing the milky white skin to you—surely all to get you to pay attention to her. but you can’t find it in yourself to entertain it, eyes boring into hers as you waited for her to explain the interruption.

kafka pouts when you seem unfazed by her advances, resting her arms around your shoulders and leaning in a little closer, “come on…”

she all but purrs into your ear, pressing her body against yours in yet another attempt to get a reaction out of you. to be perfectly honest, you weren’t expecting this out the her. sure, at one point, you played with and entertained her, thinking it’d be a one time thing and you’d both move on. but the enigmatic woman has come waltzing back to you just one too many times to be ‘just for fun’, clearly making herself at home in your residence. you sighed, this is going to be a long night.

and on your lap, kafka shivers. the thin material of her robe doing nothing to keep her warm from the cold air, and instead relying on the heat from your body. a jarring contrast from the iciness in your expression, the very same disinterest that first drew her in. with excitement beginning to swirl in her lower belly, kafka readjusts herself, loosening the knot that held her robe together and letting it slip lower on her shoulders.

“kafka,” you repeated, your eyes fall to the side as you reluctantly set down the half-read book to finally pay full attention to the woman on your lap. the sound of her name falling from your lips sent shivers down her spine, her back arching just a little.

“did you need something?”

she smiles; lips curling as her eyes scan over your face, tracing the curve of your jawline before finally resting on the neckline of your dress shirt, the top buttons unbuttoned with a clear view of your cleavage.

“don’t be like that, darling. i think we both know what i need from you,” she sounds almost breathless, her voice low as one hand reaches for the button that struggled to hold your blouse together, the soft cotton stretching tight over your chest. with a soft sigh, you put your hand over hers, effectively stopping any attempt to unbutton your top.

“i don’t believe i received any message from you about what you might need?” you tilted your head to the side, sitting up a little straighter as you slowly brought her hand to your lips, giving it a soft kiss before placing it where it was previously—wrapped around your shoulders.

“i’m sorry, should i have scheduled an appointment with you?”

“that would be ideal…” your voice trails off as you wrapped an arm around her waist, gently laying her on the bed as your other hand supported you. kafka smiles up at you, breathing deeply as your head dips down to kiss her neck, your arm wrapped securely around her waist; your slow, steady movements beginning to drive her mad.

“then i’ll have time to prepare,” you whispered, bringing your hand from around her waist to cup her breast, massaging it through the silk robe. you hear a soft sigh from the woman, her chest pushing against your hand as you thumb brushed over her nipple.

your lips traveled down her collarbone, pushing one side of the robe aside as you beginning to kiss around her breast, purposefully avoiding her sensitive bud that you know she likes to be touched. kafka’s breath quickens, feeling her back muscles tensed as you tease around it, her grip on your shirt tightening.

“prepare?” her voice was beginning to sound strained, breathing unevenly as you continued to kiss around her breast, everywhere except where she wants to feel your mouth the most, meanwhile the other side was left neglected and aching. kafka presses her head back into the mattress, her body begging for more but not wanting to push you for it. had it been anyone else, she might have just forced them into what she wants, take over their will to do her bidding. but for reasons unknown, that doesn’t work with you. which then begs the question of why she keeps coming back to you knowing you’d tease her like this. she doesn’t quite want to think about that yet, though, instead focusing on your hand that pushes apart her legs, fingers tracing along her thighs.

“to fuck you, of course.”

—

at this point, kafka wasn’t really sure how long it’s been, her hands gripping the soft sheets as you left get your strap. it actually hasn’t been that long yet, perhaps maybe a half hour had passed since she first sat on your lap. but in her lust-fuelled mind, it felt like hours considering you have yet to fuck her like promised.

instead, you spent the time kissing and caressing her body, massaging her chest and teasing her nipples. and you were so fucking good at that, licking and sucking on her sensitive buds until they felt raw and swollen. and even after you would continue to roll the buds between your fingers, until you drew out soft whimpers from her, shying away from your touch and yet her hips trembled with need.

“finally,” kafka mutters, watching from her spot on the bed as you came back with the toy, her purple eyes following your every move as you slipped it on and secured it in place. just the sight of it aroused her further, anticipating the feeling of your cock buried in her walls already.

her robe was a mess; the lower half pushed to the sides to expose her pretty pussy to you, glistening even in the dim lighting of the room. even so you stopped her from undoing the knot that held it together, “keep it on, i quite like it actually.”

kafka only smiles in response, holding your gaze as you crawled over to her once again, before hooking her legs over your forearms and pushing it up. now in this position, it was much more obvious how wet you’ve got her, pussy oozing with juices as it awaits your cock. her breathing gets heavier again as you continuing to toy with her, her walls clenching and unclenching. your fingers brushed along her entrance and watching as more fluid leaks out her, and an involuntary twitch of her hips.

“come on,” she groans, leaning her head back and wiggling her hips, urging you to do something already. you could only laugh in return, before lining up the tip of the dildo to her hole, and in one swift motion, pushed into her pussy completely.

“ah—!” the yelped that escaped her lips was uncharacteristic, and ‘surprise’ was not an emotion she could relate to, but the feeling of your cock buried fully inside her in one thrust was unexpected. instead she had expected you to take your time, fucking her slow and steady until she can no longer take it.

but now kafka could feel your cock in her belly, pushing against her insides so deeply that she could barely breathe. without even giving her time to adjust to the sudden stretch, you’ve already beginning moving your hips, pushing deep into her with every thrust and making sure your hipbones pressed against her ass every time.

you kept your breathing steady, and your movements sharp, pressing kafka’s thighs down until she was almost folded in half, forming a pretty V-shape as her legs hung limply. to you, it merely felt like a workout, the only pleasure you received from this was watching the woman below you gasp and moan out from your relentless thrusts. watching her normally collected composure crumble, and her eyes roll back with pleasure.

even as kafka started to squirt halfway through, her juices spraying out every time you pulled out, you kept up your brutal pace, pushing back in full force. her body bounced with your thrusts, and every movement caused her sensitive nipples to brush against the silk fabric which only amplified the sensations running through her body.

now, sounds of wet skin slapping against each other, and kafka’s gasps for air filled the room. her hands gripped your arms, nails digging into your skin but you barely noticed it, fully focused on the woman beneath, watching every rise of her chest and every twitch of her hips. you’ve done this enough to know, what her body likes the best.

kafka could barely take a full breath between each of your thrusts, and it didn’t matter how tightly her pussy walls clenched; not when you’re pulling out and forcing it back in like that. pleasure coiled in her lower belly, tightening until it was almost unbearable. she could feel her hips and thighs quivering, the muscles struggling against your grip. in and out and in and out, kafka feels her mind getting dizzier, your cock felt so good inside as her back arches, right on the verge of an orgasm before it all suddenly stops.

in an instant, all sensations was ripped from her and she could no longer feel your warmth. somewhere in her mind, she just barely registers the whine that leaves her throat, body aching for your touch, your cock, once again. so out of it that she doesn’t even notice you flipping her to her front, face buried in the sheets as you lift her hips off the bed. the moans that escaped her lips she can’t even care to muffle; high-pitched and needy when you pull her hips back onto your cock, the lewd sounds echoing through the room.

the orgasm that you had so cruelly ripped from her was quickly building again, this time much faster as the tip of your cock pressed against the swollen bundle of nerves within her with every thrust. pain and pleasure mixed together under your bruising pace, kafka was sure that she’d feel it in the morning, but she cannot complain. after all, this was what she wanted—what she needed from you.

this time, you don’t stop. even as her pussy ached from oversensitivity and the bed below has been completely drenched with her juices, your hips continues to fuck the cock into her. until nothing but shaky breathing could be heard from the woman below you, her body falling limply to the bed as you finally released her hips, imprints of your hands pressed into the milky skin.

—

thankfully, you still remembered the page you left off in the book you were reading, picking it up as you sat back in the spot you were in previously. having now showered and cleaned up, you were ready to resume your peaceful reading.

on the other side of the bed, kafka was still in the same position you had left her in. whether she had fallen asleep or passed out, you didn’t really care to know. and you could still see her body twitching occasionally; surely an after effect of your actions. well, it didn’t matter. you would finish your reading and go to sleep, and in the morning when you awoke again, she would already be gone.

—

when kafka awoke, the room was dark and you had long since fallen asleep. her body felt stiff and sore after what you did, but ultimately she can say gave her exactly what she needed. that you fucked her until she passed out was amazing in itself, but leaving her like that and going to sleep yourself was clinical. the coldness and disinterest from you that she can’t get enough of, her pussy throbbed as she observed your sleeping body, how easy it would be to use you to get off right now, rip off the damned clothes that hid your body from her hungry eyes.

instead she reels herself in; there was work to be done. biting down on her bottom lip, she drags her spent body off the bed, only now realising the huge stains left on the sheets. she assumes embarrassment is what she should be feeling now, but instead she finds a pen and some paper.

i’ll pay for the sheets. my apologies, you were just too good. ♡

as she leaves your residence, kafka pulls out her phone. thinking back to your words earlier, she smiles as she drafts a message scheduled to be sent to you.

‘i’ll be coming over again tomorrow night. don’t say i didn’t schedule an appointment with you.’

#you know that line that kafka has saying that because of the nature of her work she rarely sees the same person twice ?? #YUP #down bad needy kafka i like it #hc that her body is more sensitive because of her lack of ability to feel emotions #ok she’s starting to grow on me okay #like her text messages are kinda cute OKAY WHATEVER #honkai star rail #kafka #kafka x reader #kafka smut #sub kafka #dom!reader #sub honkai star rail #honkai star rail kafka #also somno kafka ???? lowkey an idea ??? #how come i only thought of it at the end #and yes i intentionally made their dynamic like that ok #bc kafka is probably used to people fawning over her #anything she wants she can just control #but not you #bc you’re y/n ofc you’re special #obviously LMAO #six.writes #anyway #YUP it got better tbh i really didn’t know what i was writing at the start #and if my writing is weird pls tell me i’ve honestly lost my touch it took me so long to get it together #be honest and actually give like constructive criticism

[crguang]

games people play

You belong on the stage, you think, under blinding lights and at the forefront of an applauding audience. Most importantly, you only care to play along if Kafka stars in the play right alongside you.

afab!reader, kinda fluffy actually, smut, toys used, kafka is strapped and im not talking about the gun, dom!kafka, sub!bratty reader, some edging, rope play, kinda possessive kafka, 6.3k words…

A/N: this got away from me. i have nothing to say for myself.

Infiltration missions are your favorite; slipping into another person’s skin for a few hours, coming up with traits both obnoxious and serious in nature and performing in front of a naive, ignorant audience fills you with exhilaration.

Improvisation is even better, the anxiety of making up things on the fly feels like a hundred little bees buzzing in your stomach and you’ve grown so accustomed to its uneasiness by now that you often seek it out, it’s become a sort of addiction. Your team doesn’t understand— Silver Wolf prefers causing trouble from behind a screen and away from the action unless she needs to stretch her legs, Blade has too much on his mind to bother adding different characters into the mix, Firefly dreams to only live as herself. None of them share your excitement for acting and it would have been a great disappointment if it wasn’t for Kafka. Beautiful, guarded, eccentric Kafka. Constantly in search of adrenaline and always in movement, she is the only other member of your little illicit troupe of performers. Being with her is often the same as stepping on stage, what with all the half-truths and misleading statements, she is hidden under layers of costumes sometimes extravagant and other times impressively mundane. Even now, if she truly wishes to keep you at bay, you won’t be able to read her. It’s intoxicating. She plays you like the lines of a movie and together, under glaring lights and unsuspecting spectators, you dominate the stage.

You’re clasping the buttons of your shirt at the wrists, often slipping and having to start over, but despite the faint feeling of annoyance as you get dressed, you’re excited. Another evening of performing is ahead of you and it’s in times like this where you truly enjoy the work of the Stellaron Hunters. Having to blend in, to navigate a crowd of arrogant businessmen and pretentious admirers of the arts in order to steal the prized item of this auction feels like a scene straight out of a spy movie. What’s better is that you’re not meant to do this alone; Silver Wolf will be on comms as usual, hacking into the building to assure that the infiltration goes smoothly and Kafka will be right by your side, gloved hand in yours. Pre-performance jitters tingle your fingertips and toes. The sensation is welcome.

You tuck your shirt into your slacks and buckle the belt around your waist. You can hear shuffling and rummaging from the bathroom connected to the bedroom because of its open door. You pick the tie you laid out on the bed with the rest of your outfit earlier and wrap it around your neck, fiddling with it for some time before accepting the fact that you have no idea how to tie a tie and letting out a sigh of frustration. This is your first time wearing such a professional-looking suit complete with the loafers and tie, and you don’t know how to feel about it. It was slightly altered by your request, so it isn’t uncomfortable, just unfamiliar. You stand in front of the full length mirror with your undone tie, turning this way and that. Your hair is done in a style you like and with the shoes on you have to admit that you look nice.

You hear the faucet being turned on in the bathroom and stalk towards it.

“Can you tie this for me?” You ask as you step inside and glance at the mess of beauty products on the counter. Some of them are yours used in your hair, but most are Kafka’s. This is her room, after all.

Kafka’s applying a thin coat of mascara on her lashes when you walk in, focused on her reflection in the mirror. She doesn’t spare you a glance until she puts the brush back into its tube, flutters her eyelashes a couple times and deems her work perfect. She turns to you, an amused smile growing on her lips at the tie resting around your neck.

“Don’t know how?” Kafka steps into your space and runs her fingers over the fabric. She starts to loop it around and over itself as you stand.

“Never had to learn.”

From this close, you can appreciate the eyeshadow at the corner of her eyes and the highlights on the apple of her cheeks. She hasn’t put on perfume yet or finished doing her lips, but she’s dressed in a form-fitting dark magenta dress that ends a little above her ankles, with thin straps and an open back. You feel no shame observing her backside through the mirror since she’s facing away from it. She’s stupidly gorgeous; you bring your eyes back to the dangling pearl earrings in her ears and the few strands of hair that cover them. If for some reason she stands out from the crowd tonight, it’ll be because she’s the most beautiful person in the room.

Kafka finishes tying your tie and pats your chest twice. She steps back and looks you over with a hum and a couple knuckles under her chin. When her gaze travels back up to meet yours, you catch a shimmer of appreciation in it.

“Well, you look dashing,” she says, her eyes following the movements of your hands as you smooth out your shirt.

You grin playfully, approaching her to lightly rest your hands on her waist. “The suit is doing it for you, isn’t it?”

Kafka lifts your chin with two fingers. “It is.”

Her honesty makes you huff out a laugh and the smile on her lips grows somewhat at the sound.

“I’ll have to come up with excuses to get you to wear it more often.”

“You could just ask.”

“That’s boring.”

You roll your eyes, glancing at the watch on your left wrist. “We have to meet Silver Wolf outside in 20 minutes.” You lean forward to plant a chaste kiss on her lips before letting go and leaving her to her makeup.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re shrugging on your coat when Kafka emerges from the bathroom to clasp a necklace around her neck and put on her heels. She carefully handles her own coat as she takes it out of the closet, putting it over her shoulders to complete her look. Her hair is secured in a low ponytail, as usual. The chain of her pendant rests between her breasts and the low neckline of her dress draws your attention to her chest for half a minute while you wait for her near the door.

You meet up with Silver Wolf with two minutes to spare and set off for the venue. It’s this city’s grandest museum, its marble columns can be seen from a distance as you approach in car. The streets are bustling with activity, glowing lights are shining on skyscrapers and stores have their doors open to assure a healthy flow for the customers coming in and out of them. The arts are greatly valued here, it shows in the pristine buildings and advertisements all around. You know it’s only because this is a richer neighborhood and surmise that the rest of the city doesn’t look as well put together. The ride to the museum is filled with Silver Wolf’s rock music in the speakers. Everything is in place, the comms she gave you are installed and all that’s left is to put on a show that the audience won’t forget.

Silver Wolf acts as your valet when you reach the venue and step out of the car, Kafka’s hand in yours. She slips into the driver’s seat and drives off to park somewhere close and inconspicuous. She’ll be supervising the mission from the back seat while the two of you do the heavy lifting.

Kafka curls a hand around your arm as you walk up the steps of the museum. You feel a little smug knowing that she’s here with you, at your arm. Getting inside is child’s play; your invitations are checked and the metal detector is no match for Silver Wolf’s genius tech, not that you’d ever tell her that. The interior is as impressive as its outside, with high ceilings, ceramic floors and precious artifacts displayed inside tall glass cases. You and Kafka make your way to where the Attouine Universal Auction will take place in one system hour, stopping to mingle with previously chosen targets on the way. You mingle among the upper crust, politicians, businessmen, academics alike so that Kafka can use her Spirit Whisper on them. The guest list isn’t large, only up to a total of 67 people, including you two. Lying to them is easy, pretending to be in love with Kafka is easier and you’re actually having fun half an hour in.

Kafka doesn’t let you do all the talking, she has no issue following your train of thought and assuring her advantage in the conversation. It’s admirable and effortless, you don’t get tired of seeing her in action. She has a champagne flute in one hand, occasionally pensively stirring the clear liquid inside. Her smile is rehearsed and comes as naturally as breathing when a couple sparks up a conversation with you. You’re happy to play along in front of the short woman and her husband, judging by the wedding band on her finger.

“What a beautiful pair you two make,” the brunette says, an air of forced politeness about her. She seems a little out of place, like she’s not used to these kinds of events. You guess that she’s only accompanying her husband to them and that he’s actually the one with recognition.

Her husband, however, stands with his chin high and his shoulders straight. He belongs there, or believes he does, and makes a show of showing everyone else.

You take Kafka’s hand in yours and bring it to your lips. “Thank you. She’s a diamond, isn’t she?”

The man follows the motion with his eyes but his wife replies before he can open his mouth. You hear Silver Wolf gag over the comms.

“Oh, how cute! Have you been together long?”

“A year, just about,” Kafka answers, looking at you. “This one’s always a charmer.”

“I can see that!”

You smile. “I’ve got to keep you around somehow… I’m aware of what a blessing you are.”

A sparkle of amusement shines in Kafka’s eyes, the corner of her mouth lifting ever so slightly at your cheesy reply. You maintain your facade, but you also feel like laughing at how silly you sound. It’s not an untrue statement per se… it’s just weird to say such things out loud because all the both of you do is beat around the bush when it comes to genuine emotion. You’re playing a character but it feels a little like the lines between fiction and reality are blurring.

In your ear, Silver Wolf groans, “One more corny line and you’re getting muted. You both disgust me.”

The woman poses a hand on her husband’s arm, addressing him while keeping her eyes on you. “They’re just like us, aren’t they, Len?”

Your gaze flickers to his at the mention of his name and he immediately looks away into the distance to pretend he wasn’t staring at the necklace between Kafka’s breasts. You feel a faint tinge of annoyance flare up inside your chest.

“Yes, very lovely,” he says, faking the unbothered tone of his voice.

You don’t know what offends you the most; his atrocious acting or his unashamed ogling.

“I notice neither of you are wearing rings,” the woman continues with interest. “Will things be made official in the near future, perhaps…?”

Kafka lets out a chuckle— you can tell it’s a genuine one— and turns to you with a teasing smirk, “Oh, I don’t know… will they?”

You feel the familiar sensation of bees in your belly as you’re put on the spot. All three of them expect your answer so you decide to play Kafka’s game. You meet her stare with the most innocent, lovesick look you can muster, your thumb rubbing the base of her ring finger. You find that you don’t have to try that hard.

“I don’t know about the near future, but… I know I’ve never been in love before knowing her.”

Kafka’s face doesn’t change, her meticulously practiced mask never slips, and you look at each other with equally heavy stares. Time seems to slow if only for the few seconds it takes for your new acquaintance to make an exaggerated sound of excitement. The moment breaks, you both look away at the same time and the conversation quickly resumes with pointless inquiries about your (fake?) relationship and the auction.

After some time, you glance at your watch and feel somewhat vindicated by the fact that the auction will start soon, giving you a reason to excuse yourself from the conversation. You’re also excited by what will happen next.

“It was nice meeting you both,” you offer the woman a smile and a nod, not dwelling on the blush of her cheeks, “but we have to find our seats. It’d be a shame to be all the way at the back with so many almost priceless items on display tonight.”

She laughs quietly and you miss the furtive look Kafka sends your way.

“Of course, of course…” The brunette sighs, then smiles sweetly. “Maybe we’ll end up seated next to each other.”

You don’t say anything to that. Kafka politely bids them goodbye and walks in the opposite direction, the hand laced with yours tugging you along. You meet with the rest of the guests, spark up short conversations from every corner of the room. Despite enjoying your performance, you find your audience lacking. Arrogance and pretentiousness reside in every business man, celebrity, political figure that you talk to and you quickly develop disdain for almost every person at this event. None of them deserve the social advantage that they have; you feel restless with the desire to humble them.

With each guest filing into the auction room until all the seats are filled, it’s time for the next part of the script to unfold. You take your seats at the front right near the small built-in stage. Two staff members carefully roll out the auction items as the auctioneer steps before the microphone and greets his audience. Kafka’s hand is on your knee, forefinger tracing insignificant patterns into the fabric of your pants while you wait for the last and most important item to be presented. The Stellaron, trapped inside a large, almost translucent mineral, emits an energy felt by the entire room as it’s brought on stage in a glass case. It glitters in the light like a precious jewel and catches the attention of each buyer. Kafka squeezes your knee once. It’s go time.

Stealing the Stellaron is laughably easy. Due to Kafka’s Spirit Whisper, not a single member of the audience can find the strength to stand up from their seat as you hop to your feet and saunter on stage. The auctioneer stammers about it not being allowed, but he’s dealt with just as the others are and soon, he’s frozen where he stands, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Confused murmurs and panicked shouts fill the air when the guests realize their predicament, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Kafka handles the Stellaron with care while you browse the selection of items on display with a pensive hum.

An antique vase catches your eye. It curves at the top and opens like a blooming flower; designs that mean nothing to you seem carved right into the glass, so you take it out if it’s case for a closer look. It’s a bit heavy despite measuring less than two feet. You decide to keep it and eventually gift it to Kafka knowing she would be able to find the beauty in it. As the clamor of people’s voices rise around you, an idea strikes you. You turn to Kafka.

“The script only said we would steal the Stellaron and leave the museum at 20:56 system time…”

A small smile appears on Kafka’s lips. “What are you thinking?”

“This place reeks of supposed social superiority,” you trail your fingers on top of a case containing an old ceramic disk with contrasting colors and patterns. You push it off the table and it explodes into cutting shards. Amidst the chaos, loud gasps of indignation follow. “I want to tear it down.”

Kafka’s smile widens.

Twenty minutes later, you’re on your way back to the base exactly as Elio foresaw, with Silver Wolf in the driver's seat making a quick getaway as the museum’s alarms sound behind you. You huff out a breathy laugh once in the back seat, heart thundering in your chest from the adrenaline. You had to incapacitate some security guards on the way out, the chase is your second favorite part. It feels great, your fingertips twitch with exhilaration as the car swerves between other vehicles on the road, ignoring red lights and stop signs. Kafka leans on the head rest next to you, looking at you with something you can’t fully decipher. In the darkness of the backseat it’s hard to read her gaze, especially with her contacts on, but you recognize the way her eyes flicker between yours, then to your mouth. She doesn’t have to say anything, your hands suddenly cup her cheeks and your lips crash into hers. The breath is knocked out of you with both her kiss and the lingering adrenaline. Her hand snakes around your neck to bring you closer, her teeth sink into your bottom lip when she pulls away for half a second. She’s rougher than usual with a sense of urgency accompanying her touches; her free fingers sneak under your coat to grip your shirt.

“Can you not?” Silver Wolf makes a noise of disgust and her sudden intervention pulls you out of the daze you were in. “I swear, I’ll crash this stupid car.”

Kafka chuckles, separating herself from you. Her hand stays beneath your coat. “Don’t be so dramatic. A mission well done deserves a proper celebration, don’t you think?”

“I don’t care what you do, as long as it’s not in front of me.”

“We’re behind you…” you mutter, inhaling deeply to calm your shaky hands.

You ignore the middle finger Silver Wolf sends your way. You lean into the seat, eyes closed, and regain full control of your body with a few slow breaths. Kafka’s hand trails down your shirt to your lap. As you turn your head to look at her, you find her gaze already on you. The unfamiliar glint in it is still present, seemingly making her irises darker, then the corners of her mouth lift in a softer smile than she’d normally offer you.

“Let’s play a round of Truth or Lie,” she says suddenly.

Apart from being a fun game you both enjoy, it’s somewhat become your way of discussing serious matters without having to lay yourselves bare. The existence of a lie adds a layer of protection that neither of you can go without. You tilt your head at the suggestion.

“Okay. You start.”

Kafka takes a few seconds to reply, as if thinking of how to phrase her question. You’re careful to school your features into a picture of neutrality so as to not be caught off guard. She hums, then speaks up.

“Did you mean what you said earlier, to that woman?”

You don’t need to ask for clarification on what she’s referring to. Though her smile hasn’t slipped off her face, Kafka’s expression is guarded.

“Am I that good a liar you couldn’t tell?” You tease, an eyebrow raised.

“Is that one of your questions?”

You look past her as you think. Yes, something in you meant what you said then. You recognize this certainty, it’s as real as the earlier thrill in your veins. Being with Kafka is never boring, always brings something new, and you’ve never felt this way before meeting her. It’s an electrifying feeling that travels from your toes to wake the rest of your body, not unlike a shock, except that this is something you can’t help but crave. Beyond the curtains of this beautiful stage you act in lies a sort of yearning for more of how she makes you feel, of her hand in yours as you reenact this rehearsed play of two emotionally guarded beings finding closeness in each other. Are you in love with her? Yes, you are.

“No,” you shake your head, “to answer your first question. I was in character.”

Kafka stares at you for a moment, searching your face for the truth. You smile at her.

“Mm. You turn.”

Your fingers fiddle with her hand on your lap. Silver Wolf takes a sharper turn than necessary and the car swerves to the right. “Are you disappointed by my answer?”

“…No. I’m not.”

You can’t read her at all. You suppose that’s the point of the game. You arrive at your destination before you can finish the round and Silver Wolf wastes no time in hopping out of the car and into the building. There’s a spring in your step as you follow suit with Kafka in tow.

You’re already working towards unbuttoning your coat and uncuffing your shirt when you step into Kafka’s dark room. She flicks the switch behind you, illuminating the room. She takes off her earrings and you take a seat on the bed after slipping out of your loafers. You stretch your arms above your head, letting out a long sigh. Kafka discards her jewelry on top of a dresser.

“You know…” she turns to you before leaning into the furniture and looking you over like she did earlier this evening. You stop loosening your tie as she speaks, lifting your head to meet her eyes. “You looked beautiful tonight.”

You feel a playful smile stretch your lips. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mm. You nearly had that poor woman combusting in place.”

Your brows furrow briefly as you recall the exchange. You viewed her interest as superficial, something she felt compelled to be because of how obviously uneasy social events of that nature made her. It showed in the way she clung to her husband and how clumsy she was at navigating the conversation. Still, Kafka’s words are laced with a tinge of possessiveness you almost never see in her. A smirk slowly spreads across your face.

“She had a husband,” you remind her.

“Who spent half the conversation looking at my chest. They likely had nothing between them. But you knew that.”

You did not. You genuinely thought she was overcompensating and were too busy playing a clip of her husband getting fatally injured over and over in your mind after catching his eyes on Kafka. It’s funny that she would think you were flirting on purpose, though.

Kafka takes slow strides towards you. She stands in front of you and a bare foot slides between your calves to nudge them apart. You take hold of her waist, looking up at her with an innocent smile.

“You liked the attention,” she states with a finger under your chin. She wears a smile as her other hand comes up to strike your hair.

“You sound jealous.”

Kafka laughs softly, fingers splaying out over your cheek. Her thumb soothingly rubs your skin. You resist the urge to close your eyes. “Cute. What’s there to be jealous of when you’re pliable in my hands?” Her knee sinks into the mattress between your legs and she leans closer. “A block of clay to be shaped and molded. That’s what you are.”

“And you’re so eager to put your hands on me, to have me for yourself that another woman laughing at my jokes tickles you.”

Her thumb traces the outline of your bottom lip. “Eager?”

“Like a pup.”

Her smile doesn’t waver. She pushes her digit past your lips and it gets caught between your teeth as you make a noise of surprise at the sudden intrusion. You relax after a second, your tongue swirling around her finger while you maintain eye contact with her. There’s a dangerous heat in the way she looks at you, an unsaid warning that you choose to ignore.

“Brat.” Kafka takes her thumb out of your mouth and observes how it shines in the light. “You know what I do with them, don’t you?”

“You fuck them?”

The smile on her face grows larger. The way she touches you is inherently condescending, the overly sweet strokes of your hair and fake gentleness as she cups your cheek and leans close to you as if to kiss you are subtle reminders of her control over you. You stare into her eyes with fluttering eyelashes.

“Sweet girls get orgasms. A brat like you, on the other hand…”

You feel her breath on your parted lips and expect a kiss that doesn’t come. Instead Kafka tears herself from you and straightens up. Your hands leave her waist as she takes a step back and brings her hand to her chin in contemplation.

“I think I’ll tie you up.”

She does just that. You bite your bottom lip to muffle a whine, wrists absentmindedly tugging against their pretty, silken restraints. Kafka’s ropes hold your arms above your head to each corner of the headboard and slightly dig into your skin the more your muscles struggle. She effortlessly ties you up like a lovely present before you can prepare a snarky remark. The pink webs obey her command, unlike you, and keep you in place while she climbs over you to leisurely undress you. She starts at your neck, loosening your tie to place wet kisses on your skin. Her teeth sink into your flesh and she is without remorse when you hiss at the sensation. She suckles the bite, her tongue occasionally darting out to soothe the mark in slow strokes. Her hands expertly undo the button of your shirt without needing to look at her work. You feel her warm tongue trailing down to your collarbone as she removes your shirt. One of her knees stays between your thighs, unmoving.

Kafka lifts her head to look at the reveal of your skin once your shirt is discarded somewhere on the floor. Her palms travel up and down your stomach, squeeze at the waist and knead your covered breasts over your bra, all the while following their movements with lidded eyes. You swallow. You don’t say a word because you know she’ll go even slower if pressured to pick up the pace, but your skin is hot and your cunt already pulses between your legs at her tame ministrations. Kafka pulls down the cup of your bra with a finger, freeing a hardened nipple.

“Erect already?” She teases. “I only took off your shirt.”

“Shut up,” the words leave your mouth without thinking and your lips part in surprise when she uses two fingers to harshly twist your nipple. “Ah!”

“Wanna try again?”

You take a breath. “Acting like I’m the eager one when I know you’ve already ruined your pan— Mmh!”

Pleasure courses through you as your nipple is pinched between her fingertips. Her hands run around your chest to unclasp your bra and toss it aside, then resume their work on your breasts. Her thumbs swipe over your nipples, applying pressure that pathetically quickens your breathing. Kafka licks her lips but doesn’t use her mouth on you. She watches how your plush mounds move under her hands and take whatever shape she wants them to. She grabs a handful of each breast, squeezing and kneading until you’re exhaling through your mouth. Then she slowly moves down to your hips, rubbing the skin. She has to adjust her position in order to take off your pants and she settles between your thighs once the task is done.

Your thighs spread apart to accommodate her body. Kafka looks up at you, amused, but doesn’t comment on the gesture. Her palms rub into your soft skin, trailing up and down your inner thighs. A dark spot spreads from where arousal dampens your gray underwear.

“If only you could see how wet you’re getting,” she sighs lustfully, “maybe we should do this in front of the mirror. What do you think?”

You bite the inside of your cheek at the suggestion. Kafka hooks a forefinger under your underwear and pulls to reveal your glistening sex. Her voice lowers perceivably.

“Mm? Is thinking about me fucking you in front of a mirror getting you all wet?”

Her index trails down your folds and touches your clit as it does, making you suck your lip into your mouth to keep in a low moan. Kafka observes her finger between your lips, how your arousal coats the better part of it as it teases your pussy. She’ll have you a complete sticky mess before the night is over. The thought makes her cunt clench. She slides your panties down your legs until they no longer hide your puffy pussy from her sight. She uses two fingers to spread your lips and looks up at you.

“If you were well-behaved, I’d be licking you clean right now. Too bad you’re not.”

You groan in slight frustration. “Come on. Just fuck me like you mean it.”

“Oh, I’ll fuck you.” Kafka’s eyes narrow. She pulls her fingers away from your cunt completely. “And when I do, you won’t be able to remember a thing but how good I feel inside you.”

Kafka stands upright, ignoring your little whine to rummage through her drawers instead. She picks up a couple of things and you’re breathless when you see the strap-on and vibrator in her hands as she returns to your side. Your thighs clench together in a fruitless attempt at relieving pressure in your lower belly. You feel your arousal on your inner thighs, coating them in sticky juices. Kafka waves a hand and silk threads wrap around your flesh, forcing you to keep your legs spread for her. You try to move but apart from the quiver of your muscles, nothing happens.

“You haven’t earned that one yet,” Kafka gestures with the plastic cock and tosses it on the bed. She turns the small vibrator over in her palm, messing around with the settings until she finally settles on the lowest one. It pulses as it’s pressed against your cunt and you don’t bother covering up the moan that escapes you. “This will do for now.”

The vibrations on your pussy are so good, so relieving you throw your head back with a breathy moan. You feel each one reverberate through your body and soon, your hips are trying to move along for more friction. You buck your hips, hoping the movement will make it touch your clit for even a second. Kafka watches your growing desperation with apathy. She runs the vibrator up and down your slit, purposely ignoring your aching clit. Positioning it at your entrance covers the head in arousal and she’s tempted to push it in just to see how your cunt greedily sucks in anything she gives you. She makes you suffer longer, caresses your labia with the toy and pulls it away when she sees you clench from the pleasure. With it being at the lowest setting, the throb is a welcomed sensation but isn’t enough to make you come. Trying to move your body is useless; the thin ropes around your limbs keep you exactly how Kafka wants you: defenseless.

You inhale sharply through your mouth as she rubs the toy into your cunt. You know begging won’t help your cause and will only serve to humiliate you. Pleading to her good conscience is just as worthless, but you need to come so badly and Kafka will only allow you to do it on her terms. So, you provoke her.

“That— Mmh, that woman from the auction,” you manage to breathe out, and Kafka instantly meets your eyes. “Bet… she’d be so eager to make me come if I asked.”

Kafka doesn’t move for a moment. The vibrator is still pressed against your pussy, making you let out little whines, but her hand isn’t moving and she’s simply looking at you like she’s trying to figure you out. You know she sees through you, your mind is too taken by the idea of pleasure to bother hiding yourself from her searching gaze. She seems to debate with herself on something and when you think she just won’t bite your bait, she turns off the vibrator. You watch as she stands to let her dress slip to the floor. Apprehension curls around your throat as she steps into the harness of the strap-on and adjusts it around her hips. Her silence makes your gut flutter with nervousness. Then she chuckles to herself and that only worsens the feeling.

Kafka hovers over you, fingers digging into your skin as she grabs your jaw and guides your gaze to hers. Her nails will surely leave crescent marks behind, but you can only focus on the dull pink of her irises. With her free hand, she guides the plastic cock between your folds, coating it in your slick and grazing your clit in the process. Your following moan is muffled by the grip on your jaw. She spreads your arousal over the dick, pumping it once, twice, three times before her sticky fingers grip your waist and she pushes half of the length into you at once.

You groan in surprise, unaccustomed to the sudden fullness. You feel the toy stretching your walls and Kafka doesn’t allow you to get used to the sensation before thrusting the entirety of it inside your fluttering cunt.

“Fuck, w— wait…” you gasp out, wrists struggling against the ropes and thighs trembling. “I was—” A whimper escapes you as Kafka pulls out almost completely just to drive into you again. “Was joking, baby…”

“Shut up and take it.”

You have no choice but to comply. Kafka thrusts into you, unrelenting and apathetic to the way the sensations overwhelm you instantly after so much teasing. Her dick rubs your walls deliciously and the wet sounds of it pounding into you has you choking out a cry. You don’t get used to the pace, it’s too rough, too fast, and has your orgasm building after only a minute of her inside you. You can’t last, not with Kafka playing you as rigorously as she does the violin, fingers digging into the flesh of your love handle for stability. You take her cock as she orders you to and whimper against her lips when she leans forward to press her mouth to yours for the first time tonight. Her kiss is as rough as her strokes, leaving you breathless, a mindless puppet only able to mutter her name. As her tongue enters your mouth to tease yours, the hand around your jaw leaves so that her middle finger harshly rubs your clit. It’s too much for you to handle at once. Your cunt swallows her cock as you come with her name out your lips, squeezing her like a vice.

Kafka doesn’t slow down her thrusts, fucking you through your orgasm and maintaining the pressure on your pulsing clit until you feel another one coming.

“Kafka—” You whine, throat hoarse, “too much…”

“Mmh? That’s what you wanted. Be grateful I didn’t leave you there, cunt aching for me to fill you. You’ll take what I give you.”

Her eyes drink you in, she commits your twisting brows and trembling lips to memory; her mind takes live pictures of you under her, whimpering as you greedily take her cock, until there’s an entire gallery of your fucked out expression inside her head. The sight makes her wetter and needy for release, but it’s not enough. With an arm around your shoulder and the use of her webs, Kafka manipulates your weak body into straddling her lap as she sits up on the bed. Your wrists are still tied together, your arms around her neck, but your thighs quiver as the ropes vanish around them. She holds you up with two hands on your hips and pushes you down onto her length. Your eyes are closed, your lips parted, and you let her guide you up and down her cock until you’re coming again. Kafka watches your slick slide down the dildo and groans, wishing she could pump her own cum into your cunt and watch it leak out of you as she fills you. The toy is drenched in cum and she doesn’t look away as it disappears inside your throbbing pussy, can’t; she feels her own slick run down her thighs just from watching how messy you’re getting her cock.

“Can’t take it,” you breathe out, “mmh…”

Kafka looks up at you. She briefly takes your nipple in her mouth, swirling her tongue around it, before letting go and murmuring into your skin, “You can, baby. You’re taking me so well.”

You whine, hips faltering. The length of her cock buries into you in a harsh thrust upwards and you can’t make a sound as you come hard, your face in Kafka’s neck. Your arms shake from the pleasure that assaults you at once. Your toes curl and the breath leaves your lungs. Kafka doesn’t pull out as you come down from your high a panting mess. Your limbs feel twice as heavy. Her hand strokes your hair while you breathe in and out sharply. She gives you some time to calm down, then pulls you away from her neck with the hand in your hair and kisses you messily; you feel her tongue on your bottom lip and her saliva mix with yours. She breathes out into your open mouth, a low moan escaping her.

Kafka squeezes your hip and mutters into your mouth, “You’ll give me another one, won’t you?”

Though it’s phrased as one, you know it’s not a question at all. This is what you get for provoking her, and she won’t stop until she’s entirely satisfied.

#honkai star rail #hsr kafka #hsr #hsr x reader #kafka x reader #kafka x you #kafka smut #hsr smut #sub!reader #hsr x you #kafka fluff #kafka honkai star rail #hsr fanfic #dom!kafka

[near-er]

The Stellaron Hunters as your lover

Hc of the stellaron hunters if they were your lover

 ... FEATURING; Blade, Kafka, Silver Wolf CW/TW; romantic talk, over-protectiveness, manipulation, hints yandere, toxicity

Notes: GOSH, I haven't posted in forever. ngl i completely forgot that I had tmblr BUT I've been writing a lot more recently and wanted to post some drafts before my new works! pls enjoy this! <3

･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･

Blade

 ➤ Practically the whole fandom assumes that Blade would be extremely possessive and jealous,,, I 100% agree. You can’t go anywhere without his “mark” with you, even then he has Silver Wolf send one of her holograms to follow you (much to her dismay). Yk, just to keep you safe of course! If Blade goes anywhere with you everyone knows you two are together, whether it's because of his deathly glare towards anyone looking at you or the way he constantly has a hold on you. Whether it’s your waist, hand or bag (he’s slightly touch-starved). Blade is the type of s/o who would threaten to dismember someone just for asking if you want a large or small drink, god forbid you ever get hit on. The person would go “missing” within the next few hours. Confronting him about it would end up with him saying something along the lines of, “I’m not jealous doll. What’s mine is mine.” 

Kafka

 ➤ Anyone who doesn’t agree that Kafka is the most romantic among the stellaron hunters, can take their leave. Many think that her manipulative nature on the battlefield slips into your relationship but it’s far from that. She does her best to show that her emotions and intentions are pure. Kafka is the type of lover who will wake up before you just to admire the way that the sun shines on you while you’re sleeping, you’d wake up to her gently moving your hair out of your face while already teasing you “Like what you see darling?”  If that doesn’t get her feelings across then maybe all of her acts of service will; You want a hot bath? Kafka is already in the tub waiting for you. Had a hard day? She’s sitting on the bed ready to listen. (and possibly remove the problem) Kafka is downright smitten for you and isn’t afraid to let people know about your spell on her. 

Silver Wolf

➤ Although all the stellaron hunters are protective of their lovers, the most over-protective lover in the galaxy is without a doubt; Silver Wolf. You can NOT do anything without her, if she isn’t with you in person, she’ll still be watching over you through holograms. Her job requires her to stay in headquarters most hours of the day, and constantly online. This is why her love language mainly consists of playing video games with you and physical touch. A lot of your dates are just the both of you playing games and the winner gets any ‘reward’ they want. (silver wolf will demand a kiss for each win) While she may not be the most expressive lover, she gives subtle hints, and her small smiles and softening eyes, become a lot more noticeable.

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail fanfic #hsr #hsr x reader #hsr blade #hsr kafka #hsr silver wolf #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #hsr x gender neutral reader #hsr hcs #hsr headcanons #hsr stellaron hunters #stellaron hunters #stellaron hunters x reader #stellaron hunters x you #stellaron hunters x y/n #stellaron hunters hc #hsr blade x reader #hsr blade x you #blade x reader #blade x y/n #blade x you #kafka x reader #kafka x you #kafka x y/n #silver wolf #silver wolf x reader #silver wolf x you #silver wolf x y/n

[thealiveshadow]

Looking at all of the takes this chapter, and I thought about this Tokyo Ghoul quote that Eto Yoshimura wrote in her book “Dear Kafka”

"That time, so that no one (not even Father) would notice, I secretly rewrote the summary.

What cannot change can only be broken. 

This is so to me, who left behind everything necessary inside the womb."

(There’s also this translation, which I think fits better into what AFO’s character, even if there are only a few words that were changed: “Then I, hidden from everyone (particularly father), stealthily rewrote the outline. Things that cannot be changed, can only be broken. From the view of I, who left all needed things in the womb.”)

And how this quote in a way truly summarizes, especially the last line, the way All for One thinks of himself and a way we, the audience, can view the way he thinks of himself. For example, the first line can be used in reference to how he changed the summary of the comic books him and Yoichi read together, in order to better fit his own wishes and desires. He doesn't accept the fact that Hero had defeated the Villain in the end, and decides to simply stop reading when the villain had won and become the Demon King, hereby rewriting the summary of the book to fit his own needs and desires. (So in that context, it should be "(not even Brother) would notice", but we'll let it slide this time for the sake of coherence) He then tries to LARP that twisted idea and that's how you end up with the current AFO, a man who thinks of himself to be the Demon King of comic books, and does what ever he possibly can to bring that reality of the summary of the comic books he rewrote.

I think the second line of the quote also is an indication of the way AFO thinks. To the core he doesn't believe that people cannot change, evidenced by the way he reacts when Lady Nagant is now fighting on the side of the heroes and when he starts losing to what he defines as a ''bunch of extras". He does not anticipate people to step outside of the lines that he drew around them and when they do go outside of those ideas and change (you know how people do) he throws tantrums and and refuses to acknowledge the fact that each person has their own autonomy and character, far beyond any neat little box he has put them into. And what he cannot change he wants to break. He wanted to break Yoichi by forcefully bestowing a quirk onto him, he wanted to break Tomura by grooming and manipulating him for the majority of his life into believing that he was simply born evil, and he wants to break all of the "extras" such as Stain, Jiro, Hawks, and Bakugou who go against the stereotypes he has placed them into, because to him these people can not change their so called "true nature", and therefore can only be broken.

Lastly, the third line, which I have been waiting impatiently to get to. I think this last line, truly shows the way AFO thinks of himself. In the chapter, All For One is shown to have cannibalized his mother as soon as he was born, and has been described as someone who simply took from others, without any regard, because he thought that anyone who could not give him *something* was useless. One could say that this is an indication of how All For One was evil from his birth, and therefore has no redeeming qualities. BUT this is My Hero Academia, good sir, where everyone is human. While framed in a horror like and grim way, it important to look past that and see the AFO/Yoichi backstory through the lens of BNHA's themes, which are all about humanizing villains and are against dehumanization in general. Imagine being newborn with a dead mother with no source of nutrition, and you have to eat her. You grow up with no one to protect your child self, no name, no sense of identity, no social security net, no one to help you differentiate between right and wrong, you are constantly being hunted for simply existing, and you are responsible for someone who is far weaker than you and have to find ways to protect yourself and him as well. So, of course you are going to grow up twisted, with disturbing ideals and cruel habits. But AFO and a lot of the MHA fandom doesn't see those factors, or refuse to acknowledge them. That's why I think this third line really displays AFO's mindset how he thinks he was evil from the womb. All things necessary to interact and engage with the world in a healthy way, such as the ability to show affection, to be caring, to be understanding, to have the methods of socialization, and have a acceptance of the autonomy of other individuals, and to be able to face and understand you own feelings in general, are abilities that have to be learned, they don't simply come to you in dream at night. But All for One does not think that, rather he refuses to humanize himself, and continues to play the role of the Demon King in the story he is trying to write, forever convinced that he was born like that from his mother's womb.

In summary, I think this quote from Eto Yoshimura really provides insight into the character AFO is and what he thinks of himself. He rewrote the summary of the comic books him and Yoichi read together, he doesn't believe that people can be changed, only be broken into what he wants them to be, and that he truly believes he has been evil from the very beginning, and any kind of "humanlike" trait he could have, was all left behind in his mother's womb.

#this was one of my first metas! #so I sincerely apologize if there are any errors or inconsistencies or if something doesn’t make sense #feel free to let me know if there are any! #bnha #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #boku no hero manga #afo #bnha afo #all for one #yoichi shigaraki #shigaraki yoichi #bnha yoichi #bnha meta #bnha analysis #mha meta #mha analysis #tokyo ghoul #tg #eto yoshimura #alive's analysis #mha ch 407 #bnha ch 407 #bnha chapter 407 #mha chapter 407

[araneitela]

I'm writing, finally, but this thread made me want to leave a little note on the dash about the topic of affection/care in my portrayal of Kafka, because I don't want any assumptions made about what you can expect on this little blog of mine. Any way, I think that I've made it abundantly clear that I don't shy away from touching on the more emotion-driven aspects of her character (1, 2, to note just two quick examples) that tell me there's a deep-rooted capacity in Kafka to care, despite her confirmed lack of fear. While I respect that people may play into the concept of a 'numbness' across the spectrum of emotions for her as a whole, it's important to note for my end and on this blog (and this isn't any sort of jab at anyone, truly), that I do not play into this same take. This'll be a larger meta soon, but I wanted to add two specific 'little' things as a bit of a driving force alongside these numerous scenes, so that people may know where I'm coming from until I actually write this meta. This is from her SQ (Letter from a Strange Woman):

Trailblazer: Why did you join the Stellaron Hunters? (If Kafka says the truth) Kafka: Because I wanted to change myself. Kafka: I have no mechanism for "fear". There's an empty space in my mind and my heart, but I'm unable to perceive it. Changing that part of myself isn't something I can do alone. Kafka: Elio can help me, if I follow his instructions.

It has always struck me ever since the confirmation in this story quest, that 'feeling fear' is something that she actively wants to find and more so, seeks to obtain. Fear isn't just any random emotion, it's one of the most deep-rooted emotions that we have, and it is the one thing that we use to not only actively instinctively protect ourselves, both physically and emotionally; but fear is a fundamental part to attributing value to something or someone. And the reason why I bring up the latter, is because of Blade's line in the same quest:

Blade: Every Stellaron Hunter has a deal with Elio. I do not know the nature of those deals, but I do know that Kafka and I agreed to take orders from Elio. She must have sought something extraordinary. Everything she does comes at a great cost. Blade: She will have done many things to keep you alive until now, young one.

How do you measure 'great cost' if there is a lack of emotion, and therefore investment? If there is a void across the board, then does anything ever, truly, come at a great cost? Of course, one can claim that Blade is an unreliable narrator, but he is arguably, likely, the one who's known her longest after Elio, and then Sam.

#[ mini study. ] she must have sought something extraordinary. everything she does comes at a great cost. #[ it's one of those things of-- i respect that we don't all firmly agree on this and that's perfectly fine. but i know /my/ take here is.. #[ less common. and so i want to ensure that people know not only that i /don't/ follow the same route for her. but also note /why/. ] #[ so that it may also kind of resonate with everything i write and whatnot. ripple effect if you will! ] #[ instead of going 'this is it'; i want to say 'this is why' so that people /understand/ how i got here. you know? ]

[ipsen]

For the Shipp asks game could you make the 1 to 10 asks for Etoken? I'm sorry if it's too much, you can just do whatever you want

cracks knuckles Let's do this. Every single one.

(Sorry about the wait! Super long days lately. Also wanted to make sure things were spick and span.)

AFTER A READ MORE WOO!

Describe their first date.

I'm so glad you asked! Would you believe me if I said I pseudo-covered this in Holometabolism on AO3? Because I did. Sort of. please read it.

I think of their first date (a proper one) taking place at a coffee shop neither of them have tried before; it’s one of those things where both of them attach bitterness to the places they took place at (Eto avoids the 20th ward, Kaneki's apartment away from the Asaoka family, and is also never seen visiting his mother's grave, assuming there is one). Choosing a spot with little attachment equates low commitment, and with low commitment comes low risk for long-term harm.

Who wakes up early? Who sleeps in late?

I think they're both light sleepers, but in different ways. Eto is a light sleeper because of her time in the 24th ward, where being able to move at a moment's notice is paramount to surviving. Meanwhile, Kaneki is a light sleeper due to the debilitating fear of loneliness that constantly plagues his being.

However, I think as they spend more and more time together, and get more and more comfortable with the idea that the other person is here to stay, they start to sleep in later, knowing that there will be someone to protect them at any time. The basis of a prolonged relationship between the two of them is healing each other's wounds, which are very similar in nature (abandonment, loneliness, and the counteraction of them via the other, someone who understands).

What was their first impression of each other?

I'll dig into Kaneki's first impressions first. His first exposure to "Eto" is through Dear Kafka, whose release lines up extremely nicely with the death of his mother (he was ten when his mother died, and Dear Kafka came out when Eto was fourteen, their age gap consistently being about 3-4 years). Kaneki really likes Takatsuki's work, praising the vagueness and the hidden strength. Someone brave enough to say these things, unlike him. Supplement this fascination with Haise's analysis of the work. Haise, who has mostly known joy, sees the loneliness and anger and sorrow for what it is. So, in essence, Kaneki feels very close to and understood by her at first, without having met her.

Cut to the book signing, where he does meet her, and she's completely different from the picture in his head. Considering how much of himself he recognized in her work, she's strangely comfortable around people. However, when he dissects her book and she prods his brain, he spies a bit of that person he imagined in his head, and thinks how they might not be so different after all.

Eto first "meets" Kaneki in the Aogiri arc, where he's brought before Tatara. I think she shares much of Tatara's misgivings about him-- he's not willing to hurt people to get closer to his goals, much less the people in charge of "tragedy" (CCG + V), and finds him more content with staying in the Anteiku bubble, therefore a useless thing to be tossed away. He barely registers on her radar, if only because this is in an OEK-candidate searching sort of way.

At the book signing, their second and proper first meeting, however, she is glad for his newly obtained strength after Yamori and beyond. Not only that, she immediately game-recognizes-game sees a lot of herself reflected in him. So, in a way, her work becomes a two-way mirror for the both of them in that moment.

Who initiates affection? Why does the other not initiate affection as much?

As with most (read: all) Kaneki-involved ships, Kaneki is almost physically incapable of initiating affection in the sense of being close. However, Eto, for all she likes to "initiate" pretty terrible things (psychological torture being the obvious one), is in a precarious situation herself. Initiating affection does not come to her naturally, though when she's feeling bold, it'll manifest in simple ways (hugs, for example; I'm a big believer in physical affection to communicate love).

Do they argue often? If so, what do they argue about?

Arguments are born out of the times when one hits the low point, causing friction with the other. Kaneki feeling helpless despite himself angers Eto, while Eto distancing herself from Kaneki due to her feeling unworthy of him spirals into him feeling similarly. Eto's words cut deep, as they often do when she wants them to.

How often do they say "I love you"?

I wouldn't think very often. For all their love for words, their affection is more demonstrated through implicit statements (Eto) or actions (Kaneki), and occasionally they trade professions. Kaneki cooking Eto's favorite meals on a whim (he watches her eating habits without asking directly), Eto spending multiple hours multiple days in a row on Kaneki instead of writing (after noticing he seems a bit more withdrawn than usual), "reminds me of you"s to know they're always thinking about each other and "hey handsome"s to keep up that cripplingly low self-confidence and so on and so forth.

"I love you" itself is reserved for vulnerable and emotional moments. Like a wedding or a birthday. Maybe.

How to they make up or apologize after an argument?

Much like how they say "I love you", their apologies don't usually take the form of "I'm sorry". After the heated moments pass, Kaneki will be seen floating around Eto in a not-so-subtle way, like a lost puppy. If she was the one who got angered the most, the best thing he can do is wait until she approaches him.

Regret is a vital component to both of their characters, I think, and approaching each other to address it is a part of how they stay together. Because a lot of their previous failures are based on not addressing past regrets.

What do they love most about the other?

Kaneki loves when Eto is vulnerable toward him (it makes him feel special). It's like an achievement, the way he notices how she acts just a little bit differently, a little less energetic, when they're alone, and that it's because she's comfortable around him. Getting a healthy dose of her going about without her mask, after so many years of wearing it, means the world to him.

Eto's fascination with Kaneki's ability to analyze and break down passages-- and by extension, herself-- is the source of her glowing praise for him. She feels understood by him without needing to say things outright, and it's the thing that attracted him to her in the first place. Being able to sit in comfortable silence is a gift.

What do they dislike the most about the other?

Eto is eternally frustrated by Kaneki's lack of initiative. His reactive nature is, ultimately, his greatest flaw. He has so much to offer the world, and instead of going out and using it for something, he often keeps it for himself (and for her, which she begrudgingly appreciates and that is also frustrating). It's why she tries to give him the confidence he desperately needs, because that's the main roadblock.

Kaneki, on the opposite end, feels Eto can be too distant at times, especially early on in their relationship. It's too often that he can't always tell what she's thinking or hiding from him, but it is clear she's distancing herself from him. It's a defense mechanism after being alone for so long. And though it's difficult, he tries to (gently) pick her apart so that she gets the idea that being open with him is a good thing and that he won't abandon her for it.

Another thing he dislikes is how sometimes impossible it is to keep her in one place. But you know what they say about caging wild birds; one of the things he learns is to have faith that she'll always fly back to him.

Do they share any hobbies or interests? How do these things bring them together?

Their entire relationship is built upon a mutual love for literature. I love the idea of them just exchanging pieces and listening to the other analyze them.

To supplement this, they will travel to various bookstores (Eto drags/entices Kaneki with a "what if they have the next volume of this?" and it usually works) to see what the locale has to offer. They clean out books fast, unfortunately, and scouring for new things proves quick to take them outside of Tokyo rather fast.

--

Phew, is that all of them? That took a while. Thanks for the ask!

Edit: I-I forgot to hyperlink to Holometabolism...

#tg #tokyo ghoul #eto yoshimura #ken kaneki #etoken #ask

[mdhwrites]

Your opinion on Kafka's relationship with the MC?

'Relationship Status: It's complicated' has never been more accurate. I'll expand on it but the best way I could describe it quickly is "We are in an enemies to friends/lovers arc and right on the brink of Kafka's grand mistake before she either loses us entirely or comes to our side."

So my fans who have no idea what this is about, let me just, without judgement, detail the core interactions these two characters have with each other that we have seen:

She takes a sleeping us and wipes our memories while implanting a literal natural disaster in us. Seriously, I wish it was easier to describe what the fuck a Stellaron is but the best way to put it is that where it is, things go WRONG and planets DIE. And yet the one in us is stable. The only memory we have of the time before waking up is that we know Kafka. Then we are left to be found by people who can take care of us and take us on glorious journeys while Kafka leaves.

We don't see her again until the lead in for the third planet. She appears on the express as a hologram and tell us where another Stellaron is going to destroy a planet ship unless we intervene. Of course, she knows that since we're heroes, we won't be able to ignore so many lives being in danger.

Then... We get the worst parts of the third planet where Kafka acts cryptic, is supposedly working off of some grand plan and then does nothing. It just wastes time, though by doing so supposedly makes things worse. It also has no real interactions between us.

Then you get her companion quest where she is using her hypnotic powers to help her companion she came to the third planet with before they leave entirely. She needs our help to keep enemies away. In return, she plays a game where you each tell the other one lie and one truth. Inbetween rounds and us doing things for her, she talks of fate and destiny and believes all is preordained. It doesn't add much besides her continuing to use us...

Put a pin in the end of the quest because Kafka leaves but her companion stays to say something to us. For now, I just want to talk about as presented what our relationship with Kafka is in the story. This is pretty simple: We are a puppet to her. Simply a tool to be used for the grand plan that is her organization's desires. Her kindness seems to mostly be just performative. Something to make us believe her and wish to be close to her so that she can better manipulate us. It is toxic as it is purely for her own goals.

Except.

Small bits of the writing imply a slightly different story that can be interpreted a few ways. It's one of the ONLY times where playing up Kafka being mysterious actually feels substantial and with a point rather than her just going "Wouldn't you like to know?" rolls his eyes

The easiest of them and the most overt is the ending of her companion quest. With it, Blade tells us that of all the people who have worked with Kafka, you are the one who has survived the longest. This coming from the literal immortal means that bare minimum, we have been by Kafka's side longer than any of the current Stellaron Hunters, the organization she's a part of. Add this to how she genuinely gets kind of sad anytime you say you don't like her or don't care about her and it starts opening up a few new interpretations.

The first is that it's actually all still part of the grand manipulation. She's smart enough to pretend she's hurt by hurtful words because that makes us not want to hurt her. To want to understand her. Worse yet is that Blade was quite literally just under hypnosis by Kafka and so she could have implanted the line with him to say, making it just another lie.

The next two are branching paths for why we are the ones holding the Stellaron (besides just making the MC special). The first is that Kafka didn't have a choice for who was the receptacle. So here she was, knowing that for the grand plan she was working towards, she had to give up on her longest term companion. At the last minute, she realizes that her boss' orders could be twisted a bit, she takes an indulgence in trying to give us a larger impression of her than we might have had otherwise. A reason for us to pursue her and reunite with her someday.

The other option is that when talks of who to make the receptacle were brought up, Kafka thought it over. Anyone granted the powers of a Stellaron would be incredibly hard to kill, potentially impossible by anything but the bomb in their chest. The plan also outlined that they would be SAFE as they traveled the galaxy and furthered their plans. Kafka looked at the options with her boss and specifically chose us so that we got away from her. People don't live long working with Kafka but against? Against maybe we'll last just a bit longer. She still has to use us as the pawn we were made though, relishing in the chances to see us but keeping a large gulf between us for our sake.

All three of these though are conjecture. As I said before, most of what is written with Kafka is to be infuriatingly obtuse because their opinion of how to make someone Kafka-esque is to give quite literally ZERO ANSWERS. Honestly, for the longest time my opinion of Kafka was low enough that I assumed it was the first scenario. I just kind of dismissed the line because Kafka felt like too little a person and didn't seem to actually care about us.

But... I like DoT characters and mechanically, you do not run DoTs without Kafka right now. She literally doubles the effectiveness of your team, full stop. So with her rerun right now, I grabbed her, even though I didn't really like her character. Maybe she'd give me a little more though.

Joking aside from my good luck, she actually did. See, whenever you get a character in Star Rail, you also get a few texts from them. They're usually cute interactions that help expand your understanding of them and the like. I hadn't considered what Kafka's would be or even the fact that they would happen at all.

They are all done under an anonymous number. They are all pretty much just checking up on you, seeing if you remember her and telling you a little about what she's up to. They also all give the vibe that she knows she shouldn't be doing this. That despite the fact that she tried making sure she could never leave our brain, we've left a similar impact on her. This exchange though essentially slammed me firmly into one camp.

Again, it could just be machinations. Ways to make us like her more. But... I would like to believe it's the third option. That she genuinely wants us to be safe and happy and away from her is where she sees that as mostly likely. That this option let her stop worrying, even though she still is. The fact that she often goes on multi message, rapid fire texts like she's looking for more to say and a touch nervous helps with the impression.

It all kind of makes me hope that Elio, her boss's, script will say something akin to "An old hunter must die," and that her and us will be somewhere together. She points her uzis at us, knowing that in just a handful of seconds, the moment the event is supposed to happen will come up. She fires. We die. She is still in the script after all past that. We are not. This is the end.

And finally, the slave to Destiny's Slave breaks her bonds and steps in. She knows better than to believe Elio's plan won't come true somehow and a different enemy attacks, killing Kafka instead of us in that critical moment.

I am admittedly against character death so I'd rather she not die but that's definitely the vibe I'm getting with her storytelling. She will find escape from the plans and scripts only for it to cost her life because of all the cruelty she has inflicted. Kafka is not a good person after all, not in the slightest, and I don't think the writers would want to have to ground her enough to put her on the express or the like, hence why she has had such limited interactions with you. They'd rather keep the mystery going and well...

Dead men tell no tales. I hope that isn't the case for her, even though I still mostly dislike the character, because I do see potential for her to improve. To be better than what fate says she must be. To find some happiness outside of chaos and sadism.

But maybe I've just fallen into her spiderweb and am believing too many of her lies. Thus is the intersection we find ourselves with the name stuck in our heads.

======+++++======

I have a public Discord for any and all who want to join!

I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past. I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead. If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

A Twitter you can follow too

And a Kofi if you like what I do and want to help out with the fact that disability doesn’t pay much.

#kafka #hsr kafka #hsr #honkai star rail

[flowerish-cherry-blue]

book review: sputnik sweetheart by haruki murakami | 1999

summary:

sumire is in love with a woman seventeen years her senior. but whereas miu is glamorous and successful, sumire is an aspiring writer who dresses in an oversized second-hand coat and heavy boots like a character in a kerouac novel.

sumire spends hours on the phone talking to her best friend k. about the big questions in life: what is sexual desire, and should she ever tell miu how she feels for her? meanwhile k. wonders whether he should confess his own unrequited love for sumire.

then, a desperate miu calls from a small greek island: sumire has mysteriously vanished...

my opinion:

first of all, i will say that i liked sputnik sweetheart much better than kafka on the shore. the plot itself isn't bad if you consider it separately from the love line, which is kind of crazy here. sumire is a person who thinks she wants one thing, when in fact she purely morally can't get near it. miu tries to ignore her past. and k. tries to get over her feelings for sumire while trying to at least remain her friend. this isn't the first time murakami has brought up the subject of split personalities, it feels like he firmly believes that we can be split in half in the literal sense, and one half will live its posh life while another sit in a corner somewhere

sumire tries to write her own novel throughout the book, and the way her worldview changes shows that this may not be what she should be going for. always when we meet new people, they have a strong influence on us, which is what happened when the girl met miu. under the influence of her feelings, she comes to a new awareness of what she's doing, and i don't think that's a bad thing, because it shows that she's still developing as a character. but honestly, probably my favorite character in this book is k. he, despite his feelings for sumire, understands that they can't make it work, and so appreciates their friendship. but at the same time, while he still has some hope, i don't really like that he's starting a relationship with his pupil's mother, it doesn't seem quite right to me. however, no one called him a one-love man, had someone?

the plot development is pretty good, although Ii honestly never understood two things:

• what the twist with sumire's disappearance in greece was for, whether she was actually on the island or got into the reality of the second miu, remained unclear to me.

• the scene with k.'s pupil, how much chance is there that this boy is acting this way because he is also bifurcated? what if murakami wanted to show that absolutely everyone, adult or child, is subject to bifurcation? that's only worth speculating about.

so what we have here is a bit of a detective book, with a love line that is a mess, since no one got anywhere, and except for miu, everyone is a loner with undifferentiated feelings.

sputnik sweetheart is a really good read, especially in its genre, as i said, personally in my opinion, it is better than even kafka on the shore, despite all the complexity of explaining the nature of the relationship itself and what love is, comparing people's relationships to a satellite's, and the atmosphere of loneliness the author conveyed, it is just amazing.

my rating:

3.9/5

«sputnik … ?»

«the name of a literary movement. you know—how they classify writers in various schools of writing. like shiga naoya was in the white birch school.»

finally it dawned on sumire. «beatnik!»

miu lightly dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

«beatnik—sputnik. i never can remember those kinds of terms.»

#book review #haruki murakami #sputnik sweetheart #literature #japanese literature #fiction #romance #novel #books

[consilium-games]

Setting, Genre, and Principles

I talked recently with a friend about Apocalypse World, genre, and Principles. For those unfamiliar, Principles are a design and game-running technique that Apocalypse World did not invent, but did refine and explicate, a bit like how the Greeks knew of static electricity, but it was Galvani who made a battery on purpose, that others could study. Since I haven't died yet, I have a project in mind, in this case one that really explicitly relies on Principles in its basic design, so in this essay I want to work out a basic edge of 'what Principles can cover'. Namely, the edge of 'genre'.

I'll define a couple technical terms here because I intend to use them pretty narrowly:

Diagetic means the usual, "bound within the world of a given story".

Commentative means "outside of any story, things we say about stories-generally".

So a setting counts as diagetic, bound within its own logic and the logic of the single work it appears in. Diagetically we'd ask "why does the author choose to write dragons in this way?"

A genre counts as commentative, not bound within any story. It may or may not codify some stories, an author might consciously bend to or defy a genre as they understand it, but most importantly on the genre level, we don't ask "why did the author write dragons like this?" Instead we ask "why do people-generally like to see dragons?"

In talking with that friend, she said she had difficulty reading AW, which I can't really fault anyone for: I'd consider AW almost as much a polemic manifesto as a procedural manual. And the former undermines the latter. Part of her issue came from her looking for a setting, not realizing that properly speaking, AW doesn't have one. I said as much, and as we talked, I then said a lot more than I should:

After confirming that "Baker does not give AW a setting", in a bit of enthusiasm on the idea of 'genre emulation', I went on to say that "Baker gives his apocalypse". This prompted confusion, for the reasonable question arises, "how can Baker provide his own, particular, post-apocalypse story without giving a setting?" So I should have spoken more carefully, and I wrote most of this essay to over-answer that question for my friend. I've massaged it into its current form, for you non-her readers, in hopes that it helps someone, or if nothing else I can refer back to it as I clarify my own cranky lit-game-dev ideas.

To me, 'a setting' goes like this:

DnD has a kind of proto-setting, it has dragons like-so, it has elves who look pretty and live in the woods, it has dwarves who look TV-ugly and live in the mountains, it has orcs who look ugly-ugly and live in the wastes, it has humans it treats as default and live wherever. It has vague gestures of settler-colonial race-relations but not enough anything to explore, unless you the reader put it there. DnD doesn't really have much of a genre more specific than "uh, generally sword-and-sorcery fantasy".

Shadowrun has basically the same things, and a specific setting: neoliberal dystopia and collapse of the state, but otherwise 'basically our world'.

But more than that, Shadowrun also--for its many faults--has a commentative-sense genre: in Shadowrun, might makes right (or at least right-now); money rules everything, except maybe loyalty; it treats magic as innately cool and natural but technology as evil and you maybe would better die than get an artificial heart. These story-contours don't care at all about where things happen or what institutions exist.

To take another example, Cowboy Bebop tells a solid noir western story set in space. The fact that it takes place in space ultimately matters very little to the 'western' or 'noir', though. Spike knows he lives in space, and he'd agree that--to someone alive in our world today--he lives in a sci-fi story. He doesn't know that he got cast as a western-revenge-fable protagonist (though he might agree if someone asked). He definitely doesn't know that he has a corner of the story that goes more-western, while Jet lives in a corner of the story that goes more-noir.

If you wanted, you could tell Cowboy Bebop beat for beat, almost unedited, as a straight-faced noir western. Instead of Jet's main ship they have a wagon, the individual bounty-hunters have their own horses, Ed does something weird with telegraphs and adding-machines. Instead of vacuum between planets of our solar system, they weather the desert waste between far-flung towns. It would remain a story about revenge, losing oneself, finding oneself, remaking oneself, and the things we have to do for the people we love, and what happens when we don't.

You could not do this and also remove the noir, or the western, those define the kind-of-story. If you left it in space but took out the noir, entire episodes of moral ambiguity would disappear (like Ganymede Elegy). Likewise taking out the western, the premise of bounty-hunters wouldn't fit and couldn't stay. I would even go further, and say that while I don't mind Cowboy Bebop sitting on the 'sci-fi' shelf so that consumers can find it, I wouldn't class Cowboy Bebop as sci-fi. A masterpiece, but not sci-fi. Because I think that as a genre, the core of sci-fi asks "where are we going, and what will we do when we get there?" Cowboy Bebop does not care to ask this question, it cares about the human condition right now, and what people right now will do. It takes place in space because space is cool.

Second hot take: Kafka's The Castle counts as sci-fi, by the above conception. Extremely, disturbingly prescient sci-fi, precisely predicting things from call-centers to Big Data and the professional managerial class, and warning of the ease with which a competent, level-headed, and well-meaning person can confront The Machine, and The Machine will completely hollow out and dehumanize them, rob them of every competence and agency, until The Machine no longer notices them as a foreign object.

No one would put The Castle on the sci-fi shelf, because it has no shiny labcoat SCIENCE![tm], telephones and typewriters show up as cutting-edge in the setting. But just look at the concept of tracking, monitoring, filing, and refiling, and bureaucratic shuffle and managerial maladaption and "not my department" and "oh you have to fill out a form 204B -> well file a form AV-8 to requisition a 204B -> look do I have to do everything for you, I'm a busy cog you know". Look at that concept as a technology, like Kafka did.

The story explicitly refers to this as innovation, as a deliberate thing that the Count and his bureaucrats did, on purpose, with intent and expected effect. The Castle explores social science, political technology. And Kafka rigorously explores its psychic effects on the subjects, more thoroughly than Gibson waxing poetic about VR headsets and the Matrix. The Castle qualifies as fiction about science, where we're going and what we'll (have to) do when we get there. It takes place in a quaint provincial village that might lie somewhere in Bohemia in the very early 20th century.

So I allege that while setting matters for writing a given story, it doesn't matter a lot for kind-of story. And in my conversation with my friend, I should have sensed the kernel I could have dug out, but instead, I wrote the rest of this essay, particular to post-apocalyptic genre fiction, and germane to Apocalypse World.

Bringing this back to apocalypsii:

In the Australian outback in the late-70s, the gas supply all but disappears, causing societal collapse and civil breakdown.

In the American midwest, an unspecified disaster wipes out communications and supply-lines, causing survivors to turn feral and cannibalistic.

In New York in the late 60s, food shortages and overpopulation cause the government to criminalize almost everything so that they can grind people up into food.

These are settings in the sense that I mean: a place, a time, implicit societal structures and institutions, "where is this, what world is this, what is here?" DnD's setting doesn't have much of a 'where' but it more or less assumes "uh, Earth kinda, sorta"; Shadowrun says "literally Earth but N years after magic becomes real and also DnD races". But the above three post-apoc settings have very different everything-else: if you were making a post-apoc section of a library and wanted to break down into sub-genre, you'd want to put the three works above on different aisles.

Mad Max tells a story where holding on to old power structures is complicated, sometimes good, sometimes bad, and it emphatically matters how we go about doing it: when marauding punks kill your family, you may justifiably go and kill them back; but when a power-mad warlord inflicts his brutal regime, you owe him no allegiance.

The Road tells a story where everything we care about can just blow away in the wind, and at best we can only cling to what we cherish, while we can. Power comes and goes, structures don't last, but cruelty and misery endure eternal and will always win--but we try anyway.

Soylent Green tells a story where societal structures can technically endure, but themselves have no moral compass and can inflict as much cruelty as uncaring nature. You may live in an illusion in which civilization appears to function, but in fact you have no more safety than the wilderness, and indeed you didn't realize it, but you're the cannibals, and perhaps soon the meal.

Those considerations all sit at the genre-type, commentative level, and I class them as wholly unconcerned with setting. Each of these stories would tell just as well in space, or an underground complex, or even Bronze-Age Fertile Crescent if you twist a few narrative arms. The where and when and what doesn't define or determine the kind of story, the genre, even if setting can help or hinder genre goals.

Bringing this back to Baker: he doesn't give a place where things happen; he doesn't give an inciting event that brought the apocalypse; he doesn't even describe what happened during the apocalypse, or how long ago it happened, or give a date for "today". I'll list three AW settings I've run or played in or heard about:

Sunlight vanished altogether, though somehow it hasn't gotten any colder. Darkness and shadow can become animate and even sapient, and can claim people, though it doesn't seem exactly malevolent or 'evil'. Rule of law has mostly fallen apart, but out of fear and prudence people mostly avoid wanton violence, because if you see someone you don't like, you could roll up on them and take their stuff--but just as easily they could kill you, and just as easily as either, the Dark might just take both of you; you're safer keeping the Dark at bay and not hassling someone else, unless you've got good reason.

A few years(?) ago, survivors woke up from total amnesia and some kind of fugue: it seems like this fugue lasted at least some years, there's some decay of modern-to-us structures, but the ruins look fully recognizable and often quite well-preserved. But signs abound, literally painted twenty-feet-high on buildings and structures, that something unfathomable happened. The giant wordless pictograms seem to warn to protect tools and structures, to stay together and not go off alone, indicate places that once had lots of food or other important resources, and most alarmingly they show gigantic hands reaching down from above onto some of the pictogram figures. No one can remember anything from before the wakeup though, so the meaning is lost.

Something like twenty years ago, the world broke in some fundamental way: it always rains or at least fog abounds, long-distance communication inexplicably but insurmountably fails to work, and cityscape has sprawled on its own to incorporate seemingly the entire world. As far as anyone knows, the city spans infinitely in every direction, it has no edge, only more city. The city-cancer seems waterlogged and rotting everywhere, some few places fit for use and occupancy, but if you go down any given street and step inside an empty house or shop, it probably won't suit human habitation. People still habitually carry on the forms and outlines of societal norms, mostly, because what else can they do? You can't burn it all down as long as it keeps raining.

I brought these up because Baker's conception of 'post-apoc' does not cover the whole of "all post-apocalyptic literature"--it couldn't, shouldn't, and if it did it would have little or no use to anyone. Baker's narrower conception, the Principles that AW's rules expect a setting to follow, narrow things down and keep the rules crisp, tight, and tractable.

Each of the AW campaigns above has a totally different setting, aiming in totally different directions for different things--but, they all live inside Baker's Principles for a post-apoc that fits within AW: scarcity, weak but present society and norms, a Before, an After, and no going back, and each has a 'Psychic Maelstrom' that excuses a lot of narrative fiat and deus ex machina and having characters just do weirdness not otherwise specified.

That 'Psychic Maelstrom' comes closest to giving what I'd call "a setting" as in "place, time, institutions", because it sits at the diagetic level. A distinct thing bound within a given story--except it only barely counts as 'diagetic'. Because Baker only gives loose guidelines for what a Psychic Maelstrom should be or do. Baker's own at-his-table Psychic Maelstrom will look nothing like mine, or my girlfriend's, or her erstwhile friend's, because in those three AW settings up there, each of us had totally different ideas for what to do with a Psychic Maelstrom in a post-apocalyptic setting.

But: all three of us used our Psychic Maelstroms for the things Baker says to use them for: unleash weirdness, justify unrealistic but narratively satisfying twists, allow and excuse extra awesomeness, maybe use as a metaphor or allegory for "how it got this way", as well as "where it could go", in literary terms. And . . . Baker doesn't really get closer than this, to giving "place, time, institutions, history and people and events". So in the sense I understand 'setting', a diagetic construct within a given story, AW doesn't have one.

But in the commentative genre sense, AW very definitely gives Baker's apocalypse, in that it gives a recipe for the things that Baker considers essential to the post-apoc genre (or at least, the aisle of the post-apoc library he wants to confine his game to). He doesn't try to tell a Soylent Green apocalypse so much--you'd need to twist some arms and ignore some Principles to tell Soylent Green. Nor does he try to tell Children of Men so much--you'd have to leave a lot out to rein AW in to just Children of Men. He instead aims* for something closer to Mad Max, but heavy on Weird West, and a lot less somber and desolate, so more like Fury Road. And he says, "here's how:".

(*) But, of course, he doesn't actually tell these stories. Instead he has the project of telling the reader how to tell this kind-of story. So, while he gives some sample poetic images of skylines on fire and the world torn asunder, he doesn't care to talk about the virus, or the metorite, or the gas-shortage or the food-shortage. He doesn't care about the where or when or what, and even with the Psychic Maelstrom, the one concrete diagetic thing he gives--it sits there as a meta-thing, explicitly unstated whether it resulted from The Apocalypse or its inciting event, or caused it as the inciting event, or something else.

All of which boils down to: commentative, about-stories, genre-level stuff owns bones, and I weigh it heavier than diagetic, in-stories, setting-level stuff. Baker gives excellent tools, within his purple polemic prose, for that first stuff and gives little or nothing for the second.

#literary theory #game design #genre

[rokutouxei]

the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

ikemen vampire: temptation through the dark theo van gogh / mc | T | [ ao3 link in bio ]

The challenge seemed pretty simple: to try to befriend the university bookshop’s most sour employee, Theo van Gogh. As a literature major with a boatload of book recommendations on her back, it ought to be a simple task indeed. But as she uncovers what lies between Theo’s pages, the more she finds it harder to become closer to him without having to put the feeling directly into words. What can she learn from Theo about what it means to stay—and how can she teach Theo about what it means to let go? | written for ikevamp big bang 2020!

[ masterpost for all chapters ]

CHAPTER 8 OF 22

And how impossible it still is: to train the heart to sit. - "The Kindest Thing She Almost Did", Blythe Baird

--

The College of Arts’ student council has rotating schedules on who gets to organize the university-famous Halloween party. This year, it was the Literature Department and the Film Department that paired up to choose a theme, decorate, and make sure the party is getting smoothly—and the very specific, not-required but entirely funny, theme this year was “Film or Book that you’d love to be turned spooky, but isn’t exactly spooky.”

This is why she thought of coming in as characters from the Night Circus. The black and white stripes matched with red really gives off a very Halloween vibe to begin with, but all the circus-y magic that goes on in the book itself also makes it very viable for the spooky vibes.

She’s now standing in front of the College of Arts’ event hall, where the event is set to happen. She tugs at the locks of hair dangling at the side of her face, the ones she couldn't get to obey her planned updo, even with all the bobby pins.

There's something about scavenging a costume on your own that is so nerve-wracking. There's something more when you're portraying a character from a book someone introduced to you. It feels like it's a duty to get it right. She couldn’t find any entirely matching dresses in the thrift stores she went to, so this was the best she could do: some sort of modern but 1890s-inspired fortune teller mash-up of a costume. The dress was fashioned out of this dizzying deep blue-black velvet fabric, with little speckles of silver glitter like stars across it; she wore a striped black and white petticoat underneath it to give it some volume since the dress ended around the knees. She’d re-sewn the sleeves and the neckline to be similar to that of the era, revealing a nice V along her back and a nice, wide boat collar. Then, she’s put on a small, decorative hat with some red flowers on the corner of her head, and then draped a sheer black scarf with little rosy red designs on the ends over her shoulders. Then she put on some knee-high lace-up boots to add a little grunge to the entire attire. Lastly, she had a few Rider-Waite tarot cards in her pocket (The Chariot and Temperance) just for the vibe of it.

(All this costume preparation was really to wind herself down after submitting her initial requirements to the scholarship selection committee earlier that week.)

Just as she begins to spiral in her thoughts, “Sorry I’m late,” she hears Theo’s familiar voice call out, and she looks up from staring at her shoes and gasps out loud.

Theo’s wearing his hair a little curlier than usual, a lightly-tinted pair of green contacts on his eyes and—as he’s promised—a well-tailored suit, in black and white and red, to suit the general aesthetic of the circus itself. She figured he would come in a suit, but—she wasn’t expecting him to take the extra effort with the hair and the eyes, either. She could even see the little silhouette of a journal peeking from underneath his jacket—he’s obviously prepared even to the smallest details! Maybe, maybe he does look like the Marco in her head. Just a little. Maybe if his hair was darker. She finds herself staring at him for a ridiculous amount of time, so much so that he has to cough to get her attention again.

"The green eyes look lovely on you," she comments softly, hand curling up to gently press his finger at his cheekbone near instinctively, allowing her to observe his eyes better. Theo feels himself flinch in surprise, but he does not pull back.

"Thank you, grey-green was a very specific color."

She nods. "I do prefer your usual blue though." Her hand falls back to her side. "Too bad I can't magic it back?"

"You see it blue all the time. Stop complaining when this was your idea," Theo says, but he offers his arm anyway.

"So sour," she pouts. "How unbecoming of you, Mister Alisdair," she says, as she slides her arm into his.

Theo only snorts; he does not hide the half-smirk. "Only to match you, Miss Martin."

--

The event hall is lavishly decorated in some sort of spooky, old vampire mansion vibes, with all the matching spiders and fake candles. It is a little silly to see the DJ on the far end of the hall, with his set-up on top of what seemed like a desk older from three centuries ago. The caterers set up the food on a buffet table—also beautifully decorated, how many fine arts majors did the production team get to bully into helping them out?—to get it ready before dinner at six.

But the bar—the bar is open.

“Do you drink?” she asks casually, already one foot towards the bar.

He takes a nervous gulp she pretends not to notice. “Not a lot,” he answers.

“Then a glass will be alright. I told Arthur we’d meet at the bar. Come on!”

Because her college stupidly attempts to seem puritan, official drink menus are not allowed to actually say out loud that they contain hard liquor, so instead have really creative names. This time, they are references to different, random books and films, with fine-print descriptions of what it is. She orders a glass of Pride and Prejudice and Theo gets a serving of Kafka on the Shore. Both of them had just received their drinks when her phone begins to ring, and with a short excuse me she heads to a quieter part of the room and answers the call.

“Dazai?”

“Hello, Toshiko-san. I’m waiting outside the hall, but you’ve entirely forgotten that I haven’t actually met who I’m bringing in.”

Oh! “Well, I told him to wait on a stone bench there… Dark blue-ish hair, blue eyes, a mole on the side of his lip? He responds to ‘Arthur’.”

“‘Responds?’ Are your bookstore friends all a bunch of dogs?”

“Well, this drools at the sight of meat,” you say, unapologetically. “I didn’t see him there yet when I was still out, but—”

She hears a shuffle from the other side of the line, and Arthur’s familiar voice through the phone, a small “Hello, could you be Dazai?” and her friend’s very, very meaningful pause—she can almost see Dazai looking Arthur up and down—before he answers, “Yes, and you must be Arthur.”

The phone call ends and she grins for only a half a moment before realizing what she’d done.

She walks ever so slowly back to the bar, letting it sink in. But once she’s got her glass in her hand, she downs it in one go, surprising both the bartender and Theo. She shakes her head and then sits back down on the stool, half-laughing.

“Something happen?” Theo asks.

She groans. “I may have made a mistake with Arthur.”

Theo takes a sip of his drink, just the littlest bit smug. “Everything is a mistake if Arthur is involved.”

“I didn’t think he’d—”

“Hello, lovebirds,” says the devil, Arthur coming up behind them with—

With Dazai glued to his hip.

She’s known Dazai for a few years at this point, and because they’ve known each other for so long, there are little things she knows Dazai does that may not seem obvious to the onlooker.

First: Dazai is not fond of touching, but he is rather great at tolerating it. It usually takes a few months before Dazai is fine with being touched by someone. Even she took around half a year before Dazai would allow her to hug him freely. When he’s being touched by someone he does not particularly like, he clenches his hands and fits them into his pockets, so it’s not as noticeable.

Observer’s note: Arthur’s got his hand around Dazai’s waist. Dazai’s hands are wide open, resting at his hip.

Second: Dazai is also good at having his practiced smile. He says he practices it in the mirror, did it every day for a year until it became natural to him; it looks genuine and otherwise believable, that is, if you haven’t seen his actual smile. And even if you have, sometimes it’s still hard to tell. His actual, genuine smile, that goes up to his eyes, crinkling the sides of it, and he flushes sometimes too; it’s so wide it reveals the little dimple on his cheek.

Observer’s note: Dazai’s dimple is very, very visible right now.

Third: Dazai has this thing where the longer he considers a person, the less he becomes attracted to them, for some reason, even if the extended thinking time only makes him feel like they’re a better match by the second. Dazai is only genuinely, passionately, instantly attracted to people he knows will pose him some sort of danger and excitement.

Observer’s note: Dazai met Arthur today.

She bites back the groan that’s bubbling out her throat and grins. “Hello, Arthur, Dazai. Having fun?”

“Where’d you been hiding this cutie all this time?” Arthur teases, squeezing Dazai closer to him. “Much fun now that he’s here. I see you’ve started drinking ahead of us.”

“Just a little,” she says. “Shall we find a table?”

The four of them choose a table in the middle of the chaos—Arthur’s suggestion—somewhere midway the bar and buffet. The tables are for six, and the number makes her remember.

“I couldn’t get Isaac to come.”

Dazai shakes his head. “I told you he said he wasn’t interested. Must be working overtime like he usually does.” He nods towards her direction. “Good attempt, though.”

She frowns. “He should really let loose sometimes… I know he’s good at what he does, but a little, one-night-a-year party isn’t going to hurt him is it?”

“Ohoho, what’s this, have another cute friend I have to know?” Arthur interrupts.

Dazai taps Arthur’s nose gently and she wants to vomit. What has she done. “Isaac Newton, a Ph.D. student from the physics department. Too serious for his own good.”

Surprise fills Arthur’s face. “My, isn’t that Newt? Teaches classes sometimes?” She and Dazai nod. “Small world!”

“Next year we’re really finding a way to drag him in,” she says.

To which Dazai laughs, “you won’t be here next year, Toshiko-san.”

There’s a small sliver of silence that settles in between them, just long enough to be felt but not for the conversation to come to an abrupt halt. It makes Theo flinch a little.

“Then it’s up to you guys, isn’t it?” she takes her second glass of literary cocktail—she doesn’t even know what’s in this one, just pointed at the menu, it was titled Wolf Totem—and downs half of it in one go.

“Maybe if a girl came around to bring him, he’d be more persuadable,” Arthur teases, “Look at my chap Theo over here.”

“So you’re Theo, huh?” Dazai purrs. She throws a glare at him that goes ignored. “Nice to finally meet you, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Theo only nods as a response and she takes the chance to get the conversation back in a direction that makes her a little safer from their teasing. “But no, really, Isaac? Coming for a girl? You don’t know him at all, Arthur.”

“Oh, even the toughest guys fall back to romance, don’t they, Theo?”

Theo throws a glare towards Arthur; it is shrugged off as the newly-formed suddenly-a-couple laughs in unison.

--

Despite the ruckus, the four of them still have some good fun at the party. Arthur Arthur’s non-stop insisting that they play the party games has them rewarded with many things: a stupid award here or there, minuscule amounts of cash that could be used in the future for dine-outs, and even a nice bottle of high-end “water”—it was definitely vodka, the organizers just couldn’t announce it out loud. She and Dazai had to stand up a couple of times to go meet their college-mates in their department, but the four of them stayed mostly together until past dinner—that is until the dance music started to rev up, getting ready for the long night ahead.

“Excuse the two of us, we’re going to do some actual dancing, like people do at parties to have fun,” Arthur says, but his face is already littered in glitter from the poppers and his face is dusted pink from all the alcohol. Obviously, dancing isn’t required to have fun at all. Taking Dazai’s hand like a gentleman, sliding his arm around the other man’s waist, Arthur makes a comical bow to which she makes a face. The two disappear into the crowd of people dancing on the dance floor, and the sight of them so obsessed with each other makes her lean back on her chair to take a sip on her—fifth? Sixth? Ah, who is counting?—nth glass of alcohol.

Wary of being the killjoy, Theo gently asks, “Don’t you want to dance?”

“I mean… you don’t want to, do you?” she asks, facing him properly, glass still in hand. “I just felt like it’d be great to hang out with you here and if you’re not up for dancing…”

“If you want to we should go.”

“I’m not going if you’re forcing yourself to.”

“No, I’m not, so—”

“Theo, sit down!” she says, laughing. The alcohol’s given her skin a beautiful pink flush, and her smiles have turned wider, more relaxed. “It’s okay, I promise. Just sit here and drink your—drink. It’s just nice to have company.”

He nods as she turns back to watching the crowd. A smile still settles on her face as she watches the mass of people dancing and shouting to the music. Theo asks, “Do you always go here with someone?”

She shrugs, taking another sip from her glass. “I came alone the first time, and then the next I went with Dazai. He’s pretty popular—when he’s alone, without anyone slung on him, you know? Lots of people dance with him.”

“And you?”

“Me?” she asks, forehead wrinkling. “I’m normal. I sit and drink until my liver begs me to stop. And then dance until my legs beg me to stop when I’m drunk enough.”

He scoffs, but only in that friendly way of defeated acceptance. “Sounds like fun.”

“So much more fun with you around though,” she asserts, tilting her glass to him. “Cheers?”

“For what?”

And she’s quiet for a moment, before she raises her glass again, saying, “To friendship and literature, of course.”

Theo thinks that’s good enough. They clink their glasses gently and then drink.

For the slightest of moments, Theo considers asking the one question that had been on his mind since she invited him to the party. Preparing the clothes to wear to the event only made his curiosity even stronger, but at the same time, he didn’t feel like he had the right to ask. Theo feels content sitting in his uncertainty, the mystery of it hanging in the air.

But the alcohol has made him a little more courageous.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot!”

“Why didn’t you go as Celia?”

It’s common for a pair of people to attend a costume party in matching outfits with characters that are paired as well. Celia is Marco’s natural pair in the book. Isobel is not. Why didn’t she go as Celia? Theo would not have minded if she did. Celia was fiery and romantic and could see through Marco’s every disguise.

And Isobel longed and longed and never got what she wanted.

“I kind of felt for Isobel, you know?” she answers, in that hesitant way that makes the asker wonder if it’s because of the embarrassment or because of the half-lie. “She was running away, after all. Didn’t you say that was what I was so fixated on?”

And Isobel is only the circus because she was the way for Marco to get to who he loved. Even before he knew who he loved.

“Wouldn’t have expected that from you,” Theo remarks, taking out his little Marco-journal to dust it away idly. “You seem like the type who always feels extensively for the protagonists.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but then, suddenly, her eyes widen brightly. She puts down her glass and quickly swipes the journal Theo kept with him before pulling him up by the wrist. “C’mon, let’s do the photo booth?”

“What?” Theo staggers up. Why so suddenly? “Who’ll watch over the table?”

She places her little hat on the table. “That’ll save it, let’s go.”

Theo can feel his pulse thrumming under his wrist where she’s holding on to him. Theo does not have the will to argue as she drags him to the makeshift studio on the far end of the hall. Instead, he focuses on her—the way her hair’s held up in an intricate braided bun on her head, the fall of her dress over her shoulders, the feeling of his hand around his arm.

She’s such a weird girl, he thinks.

When they get to the end of the line—a short one, bless the universe—she takes out the two tarot cards in her pocket and hands them to him.

“Switch props for the photo,” she explains.

When they get to the photo booth, they opt for two photos; one for her to keep, and another for Theo. They don't even bother with the poses, both half-drunk, holding up their character props as the cameraman fixes the shot. She settles, standing by his side, arms twined, head leaning toward him as the camera flashes once. And Theo can’t help himself when he turns to face her because of that, and before he knows it—the camera flashes once more.

She’s too far into her drinks to have time to think why Theo’s so concerned about seeing the photos first and choosing which one he wants to keep for himself.

--

 It is just a little past midnight when she, Theo, Arthur, and Dazai hop out of the hall. She insisted that it would be better to wait until the end of the night before leaving—making most of the ticket, or something—and the most that they had gotten out of that was a free coupon to a fast-food chain.

That, and this:

She’s half-slung over Theo when she yells at Arthur and Dazai, who are very obviously becoming a little too comfortable with each other, handsy as they huddle together. She shouts: “Jesus, guys, get off each other!”

“Hmm? Right now? Sure, we’d love to, if you don’t mind—”

“NO! NO NOT LIKE THAT!” she yells, pushing away from Theo to nudge Arthur away from Dazai. The new lovebirds just laugh mildly at each other as she huffs and frowns, falling back into step next to Theo. “Oh god, I’ve made the worst mistake of my life.”

“Best mistake of my life,” Dazai says with a slurred laugh, leaning against Arthur. She makes a gagging motion, to which Theo snorts.

Relative to everyone else’s lodging in the university, the van Goghs’ apartment is the one closest to the hall, so the four of them make their way to it, drunk feet stumbling on uneven pavements all the way there. Arthur and Dazai are walking ahead of them—Theo doesn’t know how Arthur knows where he lives, not when he’s never brought him there; that’s a question for a more sober time—and she and Theo walk side-by-side a few feet behind.

She’s not entirely drunk, no, but she’s a little closer to drunk than tipsy, and it shows when she speaks. “Did you have fun today, Theo?” she asks, ignoring the little misstep her conversation has cost her.

Theo has his hands in his pockets, but they’re only seconds away from grabbing her by the arm to steady her. Any minute now. “It was okay.”

She grins. “Great! That’s all I want.” She looks back up in front of them, and Arthur throws one glance upon hearing their conversation, but then quickly looks away. “It’s kinda, uuuuh,” she squints, the words lost. “Different, to hang out with you with ‘thur and ‘zai around.”

See, this is exactly why Theo capped himself off at three drinks. Look—he’s long accepted his less than average tolerance, but to have to babysit a group of drunk college kids… “Bad different?”

“Nuh-uh,” she says. “Jus’ different. Used to only us. ‘t’s nice being alone with ya.”

I don’t want to take care of a drunk you on my own, she hears in her head, and she isn’t quite sure if Theo had actually said it or if it was just a figment of her imagination.

Soon enough, the four of them stumble onto the van Gogh’s front porch, Theo just not-drunk enough to get the key in through the hole. With a click, the four of them are greeted by the bright light of the living room. Arthur must have been the one that hissed. They stagger in, Dazai slamming onto the sofa, Arthur right after him, and she, heading to the refrigerator for some water.

Theo disappears for a moment to check on Vincent in the studio and to tell him that he’s brought his unfortunate group of friends to sober up, and it’s a good thing the drunkards aren’t around with him because the brightness of Vincent’s smile would have knocked them right out.

“I’ll go take a shower,” Theo announces to no one in particular, shouting down the hall as he disappears into his shared bedroom with Vincent. She tries not to think of what that would look like, blaming her wandering thoughts on the alcohol. She’s about on her second glass of water when she spots Vincent headed to the kitchen.

She beams. “Vin-ny~” she reaches out to him and Vincent catches her before she falls.

“Did you have fun at the party?” Vincent asks, half-laughing, as he helps her to sit on the counter—which was what she was trying to do. “How much did you drink?”

She raises her hands up to her face and tries to count, fully knowing she stopped counting after the second glass. “Enough to make me happy,” she answers instead, smiling dumbly at the older van Gogh. “Theo was so grumpy.”

“He was so excited to go, though,” Vincent says, standing next to her. Of course he has no qualms ratting on his younger brother like that. “You should have seen him, preparing for his costume. Did he look just as you imagined?”

“…And better,” she admits, before taking a sip of the water again to sober up a little more. The ice in the glass is helping her brain to chill. “I’m not sure if he had fun, though. I feel kind of bad.”

Vincent hums. “He looks like he had fun. He wouldn’t have brought you guys here otherwise.”

“You think so?” she asks, eyes wide. The blond man laughs.

“I know so.”

By the time Theo comes out of the shower, he’s a little more dressed down, in jeans and a button-up shirt. He looks at Arthur and Dazai, both already long out like a light on the couch, and sighs.

“I suppose you’re sleeping here too,” he asks, looking toward her. She shoots him an awkward grin.

“She can sleep on my bed,” Vincent offers, but Theo shakes his head.

“She can sleep on mine. You sleep on your bed tonight, Vincent. I can sleep in the studio. I’ll just pass by the drugstore a few blocks down for some…” he frowns at Arthur and Dazai, “…Ibuprofen, for tomorrow.”

“Take care on your way out,” Vincent answers, taking a scan at Theo up and down to see if he’s sober enough to go out. Theo really didn’t drink a lot—purposefully, he knew this was going to happen—so he’s standing pretty straight. He nods and makes his way out, the door closing with a gentle click.

After that, she slouches next to Vincent, like she was just holding herself up to seem a little put together for Theo. Vincent pats her on the head gently, like a little child.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

She sniffles a little, looking down at her shoes. “I was just thinking h’much I’ll miss this.”

“Are you going away?”

“Maybe,” she says, idly. “I want to. Don’t want to. Want to.”

Vincent smiles, the kind of disappointed-but-not-surprised, non-judgmental, gentle smile of an older brother one would give to a younger sibling. Carefully, he hooks her arm around his shoulders, saying, “C’mon, let’s get you to bed,” as he leads her to his shared room with Theo. She is pliant in his arms, legs wobbling but still planted with a balance onto the floor.

The costume she’s in doesn’t look entirely too comfortable to sleep in, so he offers her a loose shirt and some sweatpants to change into. It takes her two minutes too long to fumble into them, but right before he begins to get worried that she’s gotten stuck in the fabric, she knocks at the door to tell Vincent she’s done. He walks in with a glass of water.

“One last before you sleep,” he says, assisting her in drinking. “I hope you don’t have a headache tomorrow.”

But she’s intoxicated, and her brain doesn’t follow along with Vincent, so as she’s drinking the water her eyes are wandering the walls, where various canvases are hung. All of them are Vincent’s, and most of them are unframed, and perhaps have never been seen by anyone besides Vincent and Theo. Once the glass is empty, she turns to Vincent with a glazed look in her eye.

“Do you think there’s going to be something greater for us outside of this place?”

He blinks, taken off guard. She has officially transitioned from clingy, whiny drunk, to having an existential crisis, philosophical drunk. He only laughs lightly, placing the glass on the bedside table as he coaxes her into bed, tucking her under the blanket.

“I sure do hope so.”

#the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart #ikemen vampire #ikevamp theo

[illegiblewords]

5 Questions for Writers!

               5 Questions for Writers                                                        

I got tagged by @kunstpause, it looked like fun so figured I’d go for it! THANKS TO KUNST!

Tagging @wouldyouliketoseemymask, @nilim, @azwoodbomb, @peregrineroad, @frostmantle, @autumnslance, @strangefellows, @redbud-tree, @nozomikei​, and @rivenroad​. No obligation to anyone but full permission to steal granted to anyone else who might like to. I’ll literally be delighted if you pick this up spontaneously and blame me as an excuse lmao.

1. Do you have a favorite character to write? Who and why?

2. Do you have a favorite trope to write? Or one you want to write?

3. Share your favorite description you’ve written?

4. Share your favorite dialogue you’ve written?

5. Scene you haven’t written, but want to?

I made long answers so have a cut!

1. Do you have a favorite character to write? Who and why?

It depends heavily on what fandom and where I am mentally, but I’ve figured out I tend to love writing angsty lameass dudes with blonde hair who are prone to doing really silly things despite taking themselves entirely too seriously. Honestly, I have a pretty huge track record at this point. Harvey Dent, Vexen, Dmitri, Lahabrea, probably more besides. Every one of them fits the right balance of lameass to angst. I like seeing them grow and find fulfillment as people and they are very very cute while still having an edge of badassery and cleverness. Also they’re funny.

Lahabrea is my favorite at the moment, and him reaching that position is an accomplishment considering how stiff the competition is in FFXIV. Loser tricked his way to the top while I was busy laughing at him.

2. Do you have a favorite trope to write? Or one you want to write?

I really, really, really love redemption arcs and people recovering from fucked up experiences. Latter case especially I love seeing characters in those situations successfully connect to the people and world around them, especially if they get to grow together with a partner. I also LOVE “hero saves the villain and villain takes it to heart”.

(You may be sensing a theme here haha.)

There are a few reason these concepts resonate with me, the first being I think they’re really hopeful, inspiring, and something I always wanted to see growing up but rarely did.

People fuck up in life. People get hurt in horrible ways that bring out the worst in them. Sometimes when that happens they dig themselves deeper and deeper into ugliness. The more a person’s bad side comes out, the more hopeless it can feel. And for mental illness especially I’ve found this can be a major issue.

Everyone makes mistakes and everyone has flaws, but I think there’s something really significant in seeing someone who has hit rock bottom, who can no longer imagine a way out, get offered a hand for support and take it. While recovery and redemption (not synonymous of course) ultimately need to be carried by the individual struggling, I really can’t understate how important it is to know in those situations that you’re not alone and someone believes in you.

I think a big part of why this theme is important to me is because mental illness, both genetic and due to trauma, is something unbelievably difficult and painful not only for the sufferer but those around them. The most mentally ill characters in fiction tend to be villains, and are disproportionately more likely to be suffering severe trauma. It frustrated me since I was pretty young to see over and over again cases where a mess could have been avoided if there was any support system in place.

Seeing compassion and connection given that kind of power means a lot to me, as does recognizing that villains are people before they are villains. It’s also very reassuring in the sense of “If this person fucked up that badly but still tried to better themself, I can too. And odds are I’m also worthy of love and compassion, even when my issues make things harder for others. I just have to keep working to improve.”

3. Share your favorite description you’ve written?

Eff.

Straight up I think I’ve written too much to have just one favorite description. It’s been a lot of years and I have hundreds of fics and I’m lame. So I’m going to put a few of my favs.

Anytime there’s a gap in block quotes it’s a different section within the same fic.

22 - A Batman Fanfic

He trembles beneath the weight of their expectations but his smile never fades flashes before cameras microphones under his nose crowds screaming questions bleeding together he answers like clockwork the District Attorney who must bring justice to us all paying tribute to false idols with golden hair and silver tongues we the people bow down in worship to this guardian of the law with words and deeds I believe in Harvey Dent so he swears in hallowed halls to bring prosperity to smite the wicked to damn the criminal with authority invested in him by Gotham’s dutiful children and himself.

***

On the precipice of victory we stand united our voice raised like a torch like a spear like a golden arrow against the beast of Lerna we are gods and monsters we are so much more than good and evil we are order in the court cauterizing corruption our head held high and mighty manifest in Harvey of the doubletalk Harvey who writes himself into the fabric of Gotham’s history Harvey who will not bend before the Roman we command you the unworthy we condemn you the unrighteous we will not be merciful and you will fall before our eyes.

***

I am Dionysus divided at the altar of Tyche O Fortuna O Fortuna give me guidance in the light of the moon you dance sacred silver dollar I see and obey the wax and wane your whim Wheel of Fortune the card I am dealt your servant your slave venerated puppet of flesh blessed is your wisdom bestowed upon I am your disciple wine-mad twisted chanting your word becomes law holy splendor against gavels desecrating your name defiant in denial extend your will through me and we shall strike the innocent enlighten the ignorant or spare them all for now.

Doppelganger - A Spider-Man Fanfic

She asks him to tell the story of himself, and like Scheherazade he begins anew each day.

As with many other things, this comparison is imperfect. The Ravencroft Institute is hardly a palace and neither of them could pass for royalty. She sits in a chair across from him over a carpet the color of sawdust. Her walls are lined with insects pinned on display. Not many butterflies, quite a few beetles. On a bookshelf Dmitri sees The Metamorphosis nestled between non-fiction texts more relevant to her profession. He thinks maybe it's an inside joke she has with herself, but doesn't say so.

He's received an invitation to call her Ashley instead of Dr. Kafka and doesn't know whether to accept. It might be to make him more comfortable. It might be something else. In her late fifties Kafka is built from delicate features, and he suspects the lines around her eyes mean they crinkle when she smiles. Short black hair, beige suit, only jewelry a pair of diamond stud earrings. Dmitri thinks she looks like a mother, but not his.

Her weight sinks into leather, darker than the floor. The couch he rests on matches. He finds himself leaning forward with one elbow propped on his thigh, the other locked in a cast suspended by his neck. There is something reassuringly empty in the gray fabric of his uniform, cheap and utilitarian and harmless. Dmitri’s wrists are thin, but then he's lost a lot of weight recently. He probably wouldn't be able to run as fast as he used to, but then circumstances would be the same anywhere he went so that really doesn't matter. His espionage days are over. His free arm is shedding in flakes but at least his skin is dry. Clean.

Dmitri no longer looks like anyone, unrecognizable to himself. A face without much in the way of edges, short nose. Weak chin. Mismatched eyes that shift between green and blue and brown and every other natural hue as moments pass into minutes pass into hours. Dark blotches interrupt his forehead and chin. They will peel in new patterns across a span of days. For the most part though, he is pale enough to trace veins where his body seems on the brink of spilling out.

It's been a while since he shaved his head and the hair that grows back is almost foreign. An unruly mess of black, blond, brunet, and red—strands as unlike in texture as anything else. The mask that made him Chameleon was white plastic embedded with hardware. Left deformed after trying to resemble others in flesh too many times, it allowed him to duplicate any face, any body he could remember. More than holograms, the most complete sensory illusions technology could perform.

Without it, Dmitri feels stripped.

When Kafka looks at him she’s receiving constant signals and missing none of them. The moments he needs to turn away, flat monosyllabic turns of phrase he chooses or resorts to or blankly accepts as his own. It doesn’t have to be this way. It isn’t comfortable and he doesn’t even trust it’s not calculated. But she’s going to notice no matter what he does at this point, and lying about it doesn’t do anyone much good. They both know why he’s here.

***

“We were poor. We worked hard to keep ourselves fed and clothed and less than an embarrassment. I probably could have worked harder. Mother,” he begins before stumbling over himself.

The story he’s telling isn’t hers. Whatever else she was, Sonya Smerdyakov wasn’t Mrs. Bates. He remembers her voice as the beginning of an echo, forever following someone else’s lead.

And so he followed her.

She was bright like a light going out. She was gentle without being kind. Her fingers were short and delicate and she touched him as little as possible. He found her attention in the way she avoided his name.

***

In the privacy of his room, Dmitri began talking to himself.

Celebrities. Teachers. Children. The flat, steady rhythm of his father’s voice. The words and intonations favored by mother. Sergei’s laugh. He lost himself in a fantasy of conversations, strode through space to mimic confidence he didn’t feel, flashed teeth in front of his mirror like other people.

Once, Dmitri raised his voice. And when his older brother came, eyebrows knitting in confusion, he found himself full of stammered explanations, hands fumbling at his elbows, stumbling over his tongue to make sense of it.

Just making stories for himself. A game with no ending. That was all.

***

He would have died in that town under the eyes of speechless parents. Dmitri remembers the confusion that took his peers when he found a job for people who spoke for themselves. They thought he might be growing up.

He could lie. And when he began he understood it would always be a game with no ending.

Dmitri lost himself in a fantasy of conversations with real people and a voice that didn’t belong to him.

They asked a stranger to sign their yearbooks without even realizing it.

And then he was eighteen, and he left to continue elsewhere.

He didn’t announce his departure.

From Umbra - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

It was probably a dream.

Lukewarm water crept down his throat, nearly making him choke. A skin pressed to his lips, insistent. He coughed, and for the first time there was moisture enough for resistance.

The face that obscured his vision was shrouded in white cloth. Cenric found he couldn’t focus on it. Mismatched eyes, one light and the other dark. Impossible to say if blindness caused the inconsistency.

A string of shells dangled from the figure’s neck, rattling gently. The skin pulled back for a moment. Careful. Patient.

It returned only once he'd grown quiet. Cenric drank for as long as he could. Impossibly, a great deal remained by the time he relinquished his hold.

There wasn't enough of him present to say thank you. Cenric barely registered being dragged, being carried onto a cart. Awareness was altogether gone by the time they started to move.

***

…to the blessed traders who enrich our lives we’re bound to pay with our lives in turn aether born fire-walker your will sees us to rest we entrust ourselves to your sight forged of oschon for peace and prosperity and an ending you do not weep for father azeyma lives in the earth with you her fan brings no breeze the air is hot and thick and breathless your domain a silent place that does not stir have you forgotten the sound of your own voice have you known what it is to live and fail have you been alone do you know what it is to die how can a god pass judgment without being judged nald’thal lord of departures of flame and sand whose coin purse overflows who knows not what it means to starve what it means to spoil the legacy of one who loved you nald’thal who holds shells and souls and precious stones as if their worth were equal nald’thal who cannot know mercy without knowing pain who are you to weigh mortal affairs?

***

In darkness he unwinds the black bandana, steps first from his slops and then his kurta. Yuyudana has provided robes, which rest neatly on a small rock nearby. It crosses Cenric’s mind that the bones of his knees, his hips, his wrists, even his face have all started to protrude strangely. He looks less hyuran than before, maybe less than he ever has. Closer to something priests would exorcise than anyone deserving aid.

He wonders if this idea has occurred to them.

The water, when he advances, is cold. Goosebumps raise across his skin as slowly, gingerly, he wades in to his waist.

Cenric ducks under.

His hair is a long and tangled wreck. Being wet only disguises this slightly. It drifts past his neck, comes to float near the surface. Cenric holds himself in silence, eyes open, watching the silver scatter of light over stones and plants and fish. He remains for as long as he can bear.

His vision stings afterward. Gasping, he can’t tell if the cause is exposure or something else. For a time he simply waits, breathing hard through his nose, hunched so that his lips are partially submerged.

He thinks of nothing, pretends that this time instead of no future he has no past.

Only one moon remains. Maybe the sky aches for losing Dalamud, but better that than the blow which scarred Eorzea.

Stalemate - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

He is presented with impressions of a horse, gaunt and fetid and decayed. Spreading ruin wheresoever it goes. Occasionally it sloughs off portions of its own flesh, which collect flies and blacken any land that surrounds. On its back rests a world, and alongside it does the herd struggle under their own burdens. But even beasts of such endurance have limits. Theirs are reached. When the rotten steed lags, its companions cannot afford to falter. Cannot turn. Without its ability to bear loads, this aberration has no place. Falling is inevitable.

Yet a heart still beats and lungs yet swell.

The Ascian shivers in his grasp, but does not attempt escape.

Here, something festers. Something bleeds. An old wound exacerbated over time.

Fevered, coated in a film of self-disgust, the core of Lahabrea convulses.

 Don’t…

 Don’t leave me like this…

***

Teeth and tongue. Lingering, wet, disembodied. Another finds his hip. Another his thigh, slipping beneath what clothes remain.

And another.

And another.

Warm, human, seeking. The Warrior tightens his hold, uses the moan crawling from his own chest as incentive. Barred by naught but fabric, driving close as he can manage. Lahabrea makes a strangled sound, his gasp crushed empty. A new mouth finds the dark knight’s ear in response.

These are parts of him no one dares touch, no one dares acknowledge. Slick now, attended with something like reverence. Supplication.

He resolves to fuck the Ascian senseless for this, presses his intent deep into Lahabrea’s aether. He is going to steal all his fancy words away. Make him squirm.

“I… I…” Tight, airless, like a plucked string. The Warrior feels Lahabrea’s voice reverberate against the roof of his mouth.

The feeling is difficult to describe. Cracked ice. A fraying rope. Such is Lahabrea's response, fumbling and disoriented as it is.

The Warrior lets go.

4. Share your favorite dialogue you’ve written?

Just imagine me weeping over here lmao. Same deal as before, I’VE DONE TOO MUCH SHIT.

Spare Change - A Batman Fanfic

"Stop," he gasps, "I wouldn’t—"

"You would Harvey. You did. It’s what makes you such a damn good instrument. You had to test yourself, prove that you’re not a real person.” He can feel fingers grinding against bone. His knees bend. Harvey kneels, shuddering, gazing up into the destruction of his own visage. Two-Face meets his eyes, blue on blue. “People are weak. People are ruled by what they want and don’t want. You’re capable of anything if the wind blows just right. You can’t even stop yourself.”

"I wouldn’t," he repeats, numbly.

"Did you," demands Two-Face, forcing him down further, "or did you not flip for their lives, Harvey Dent?"

"We…We aren’t the same people anymore."

"Of COURSE we’re the same people!" Another shove and he’s on the ground, Two-Face sitting on his chest, teeth bared, coin clenched tight between them. "Do you really think you can close your eyes and pretend you aren’t capable of these things? They’re alive," and there is something hideous in his expression, something certain, "because they were lucky. No other reason.”

"The coin is gone! Even if I wanted to listen to it—I can’t!”

"If you’re so sure," says Two-Face, "then how about you improvise?”

And with one motion the silver dollar is under his tongue, forced back so hard he feels himself gag and begin to choke before his eyes open.

The Inquisitor’s Letters - A Dragon Age: Inquisition Fanfic

To His Worship Inquisitor Mahanon Lavellan of Skyhold, My name is Isell from Amaranthine and I’m seven. My mum is helping but says I can send you all by myself. Thank you for fixing the hole in the sky and also the one by the dead man’s house. There were demons but they’re mostly gone now and people are going outside now. Da says Amaranthine has been through too much and can survive anything and he says you’re an elf like us and the Hero of Ferelden was an elf too. He says people used to think elves can’t be heroes but now they don’t. Have you met the Hero of Ferelden? Also I heard that even though you’re Dalish Andraste helped you in the Fade and that humans let you be in the Chantry because anyone Andraste likes must be a really good person. What’s Andraste like? The Chant says a lot but it’s different meeting someone I think. Also I think I saw you a little before but Mum wasn’t sure because you had a helmet on and we were far away and there were a lot of people but I bet it was you. Da wasn’t sure I should write because he says the Dalish don’t like city elves like we are but I think you must be nice and Mum agrees with me. I’ve been playing demon hunters with my brother Arrion (he’s just five still) and Da said templars are who fights demons usually and elves can’t be templars. People thought elves couldn’t be heroes and inquisitors though and we are so I bet I could too. Is it hard fighting demons? Da says they’re real scary but I’m not scared. Thank you for helping us and everyone and I hope you kill lots of demons. Sincerely, Isell U’venlan

From Umbra - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

Cenric sits on the floor, draped in a white cotton tunic. It might have been snug on a Roegadyn but anyone else would find ample room. Behind him, Memesu stands on a cot holding shears. Gold earrings dangle on either side of her face.

“I fought at Carteneau, you know,” she mentions casually. There is a soft hsssssshhhh. Click.

Hair hits the floor. Coils.

He starts to shake his head, aborts the gesture partway through. Stills. “…you saw Bahamut?”

Memesu snorts. “I’m sure everyone this side of Hydaelyn saw Bahamut.” Click.

“That’s probably true,” he concedes. The dragon is what everyone knows, everyone remembers. He can't imagine the proximity. “What about the Warriors of Light?”

“Pff.” Gentle tugging at his scalp. Cenric does not open his eyes but leans into the motion. “I wasn’t of rank to see their like. Not that I’d remember. Stop moving.” Click.

Cenric hesitates.

“What do you remember, then?”

For a time, the only sound comes from blades and a thousand strands cut short. This lasts for several minutes. Cenric resigns himself to secrets.

Then, “I used to think I was special too. As a twin. My sister was Memeni. We studied together.”

 Was.

The exhale hits him slowly, quietly.

“She died?”

He can feel the shrug in her hip against his shoulder.

“It was Carteneau,” says Memesu. “Of course she died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Click. “It had nothing too do with you. If you keep trying to claim responsibility for every misfortune you find, you’re going to get self-important.”

Cenric only grunts, quiet and non-committal.

 Click.

 Click.

 Click.

“Carteneu was so much worse than people remember. Only four years later and already we hurry to dispose of details.” There is a hard undercurrent to Memesu’s voice, but what contact she makes remains light. Careful. “I remember the arcanist from Limsa who didn’t dodge a magitek canon in time. Miqo’te. Spells come faster in that discipline, so there’s less stress on distance than thaumaturgy. Girl got careless.” Click. “The mess smelled like rotten eggs and charcoal. Her face was… melted.” Click. “I try not to look in those situations. They only make casting harder. But she was so close.”

Cenric doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word.

Memesu continues. “One of our own gladiators, an Ala Mhigan, took to mutilating any pureblooded Garleans he could catch. The man had a string of eyes hanging around his neck. I’m pretty sure one enemy officer wet himself before he started to beg. Not that it particularly mattered.”

��Click.

“Memeni… didn’t anticipate what she was getting herself into. She saw magic as a way of being useful to craftsmen. My focus has always been theoretical. Right side.” Startled, Cenric lets her guide his jaw to get a better view of his profile. Click. Click. “Meni used to think I was a priss. She preferred to develop magitek kettles alongside alchemists. See if she could find a way to capture light like the Mhachi did. She still enjoyed fishing when she could, even though it smelled awful. Never outgrew the braids she wore growing up. ” Memesu sighs. “…just understand she died afraid, in pain, and with things left undone. My sister didn’t even resemble herself at the end.”

Cenric is very still. Thinks carefully.

“…I wish it could have gone differently,” he says at last.

Memesu’s mouth slides up in a small, crooked smile. She tousles the neat, ear-length hair before her. “So do I.”

Eclipse - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

It ends at Elidibus’ untimely arrival.

“Lord Zodiark,” he says, so smoothly that were he not searching for it that the anger would be undetectable, “appreciates your attentions.”  His gaze does not waver from Lahabrea as he speaks. “But there is work to be done and I’m afraid there are words I would have with your Speaker.”

They disperse.

Nabriales, careful and curious, folds himself out of sight beyond the chamber then makes his way back to its edge.

Lahabrea, farthest from the exit, attempts to steal some small dignity. Turns to face Elidibus.

The Emissary makes him wait. Expressionless red masks matched by those who wear them.

Then, with more speed and force than typical for his demeanor, the Emissary closes distance to trap his colleague against the wall.

“It was my error,” hisses Elidibus, leaning in, “to have stayed silent upon rescuing you. A mistake I will remedy now, so we can be on no uncertain terms.”

Lahabrea lowers his eyes. Nabriales notes that despite the dread they all share of such reprimands, the man does not brace.

“You know as well as I that these words offer less succor to our Lord than action,” continues Elidibus, his fury quiet and no less sharp for that, “just as we both know your thoughtless action is the cause of repeated missteps these past centuries. Make no mistake—for all the strides you’ve made, your fixation and your impatience have cost the rest of us considerable time.”

Silence.

“Do you truly think this is your best service to Him?” asks Elidibus. “To us? Compromising your ability to fill the hours? Even Emet-Selch agrees these displays are disgraceful. You have ever borne them poorly, but being a 'paragon among paragons' naturally you continue ignoring your own better judgment with ours to continue this exercise in futility. Idiot.”

A twitch of the head. Almost a flinch.

It is one of few moments Nabriales has seen the Emissary express his anger so openly. Even after the Thirteenth fell to Igeyorhm’s error, Elidibus allowed the Angel of Truth to lead and voiced his own reproach with a more typical icy demeanor. Scathing though it was.

“I can be of use,” says Lahabrea softly. “Only three of us remain, and I—“

“You,” Elidibus snaps, “cannot follow the most simple instructions for the good of us all. Not for Him, not for Amaurot, not even for yourself. Your pride has made you not simply an embarrassment but a liability.”

Neither man speaks for several moments after that.

And then, at length, Elidibus exhales.

Says the Speaker’s name.

Receives his attention.

“What would you have me do?” the Emissary asks. His tone now is almost weary. “Clearly it would be unreasonable to trust you’d simply listen. Must I mind you like a child?” This is what breaks Lahabrea’s composure.

Knowing the man’s temper, Nabriales had expected him to lash out. Even on the back foot their orator is perfectly capable of defending himself from insults.

Instead, he embraces Elidibus fiercely—face just within the bounds of his pauldrons. Jaw locked shut firmly enough to hurt. Expression downcast.

Elidibus remains perfectly still at first. In the absence of conversation it is possible to hear the rush of Lahabrea’s breathing. Only through the nose, withheld briefly between each inhale as if that offers some means to steady himself.

As if that would make it better.

Tentatively, Elidibus holds him back. Lahabrea's fingers contract, and though he remains upright when his knees begin to give it is the Emissary who helps him kneel.

“Easy,” he murmurs, and Lahabrea removes one hand to run it reflexively over his face—coming against the mask.

Nabriales finds himself staring, searching. A puzzle with missing pieces whose image he may yet divine

“It was not,” says Lahabrea roughly, “my intention to…”

Elidibus reaches beneath the other man’s cowl, finds the hair and skin beneath. Draws him in once more.

Naught that would be shared with or among the Sundered. Nothing so personal as that.

Nabriales has worn his own share of flesh. Bedded lovers, adopted companions and families of vessels to fulfill a purpose. Passable enough, perhaps, but never for him. Not in truth.

It’s as if he looks upon two strangers.

Parched - A Final Fantasy XIV Fanfic

The door closes behind them. Lahabrea, projecting his preferred likeness over the host, waits on a couch within.

It’s admittedly a surreal sight. Ishgardian finery with its gilded edges, its elaborate wallpapers and marble floors. A collection of creams and blues and greens, fine furniture with velvet seat cushions. All ostentatious in the extreme… and then Lahabrea. Masked and cowled. Pouring three glasses of La Noscean arrack.

Elidibus freezes, and though none of them can see his eyes the confusion is clear enough.

“What is this?”

“Your turn,” says Emet-Selch, lightly but less flippant than he might have been.

Lahabrea proffers a cup from where he sits.

Elidibus neither moves nor speaks.

Emet-Selch approaches. Takes the drink. Presses it carefully into the other man’s hand.

“Don’t think,” he says smoothly,” that I won’t let you drop it.”

Mercifully, Elidibus has a good grip.

“Sit,” says Lahabrea, gesturing with his own glass to the sofa across from him.

Elidibus sits.

Emet-Selch sits.

Takes his own glass, perhaps a bit pointedly.

Elidibus’ mouth is pressed tight. It opens briefly, as if to speak. Shuts again.

“Explain,” the Emissary manages eventually.

Lahabrea meets his co-conspirator’s eye. Downs his arrack in a single attempt.

It is a long attempt.

It lasts several moments.

The other Ascians watch.

“Elidibus,” says Emet-Selch as Lahabrea endeavors to catch his breath in the aftermath, “Lahabrea and I are concerned that you may be experiencing some difficulties in recent years.”

“I’m fine,” replies Elidibus coldly. Holding his drink. “Why did you think this necessary?”

“Because—“ wheezes Lahabrea.

“Because you’re practically a mammet,” says Emet-Selch, picking up Lahabrea’s glass. Moving it just out of reach. “Truly. It’s been what, two hundred years? Three? Neither of us can remember the last time you so much as spoke of matters unrelated to the Rejoining.”

Lahabrea reaches. Elidibus pours his arrack into the other man’s glass before nudging it back toward him.

Elidibus makes eye contact with Emet-Selch.

“I remain focused,” he says evenly. “Nothing more.”

Emet-Selch gestures to the bottle.

Elidibus sighs.

Refills his own glass.

“There are matters I must attend myself. As is the case with each of you.”

“Undoubtedly,” replies Lahabrea more evenly. “But with few exceptions, you haven’t done so.”

A hard stare from behind the mask.

“What would you have me do? I can’t very well take time off.”

Emet-Selch sips.

“A negligible amount of time,” he says, “taken sparingly, may be forgivable.”

5. Scene you haven’t written, but want to?

Lmao see this is a plus side/minus side deal. Minus side, it’s being asked just before I embark on a MASSIVE ASS FANFIC. And I basically am excited for all of it. Plus side, there are things I refuse to spoil.

So... putting it vaguely, in no particular order:

- Lahabrea and Hydaelyn meet a second time after Praetorium.

- Moonfire Faire

- Thancred

- Conversations over mulled wine

- Silvertear Lake

Some of these are sex scenes. Most aren’t. But I am very hyped.

[itsthenerdwonder]

So I have this problem where someone posts a 2 sentence comment on YouTube and I come back 6 hours later with a ton of research and 5-paragraph essay going like *anime glasses* “Well, you see--” and I hate myself every time. This time was because I’m playing catch-up on Critical Role and Laura Bailey’s character, Jester, commented on an Empress of a nation saying that because her people and another nation were at war and wouldn’t stop until everyone was dead because such is the nature of life. Jester followed the line of logic to the possible out come of 

a better world when everyone is dead. YouTuber ike eki believed that Jester mistranslated what the Bright Queen had said, and I...decided to write. I wrote over a thousand words because I don’t understand the concept of concise anywhere except in the classroom where word counts are a STRUGGLE. Apologies to everyone who reads my philosophy 0 class essay because I’ve never taken a philosophy class; I just spent over a month hating talking about Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis and existentialism in 11th grade.

It's several feet down the road, but it's still the same path. If you follow the line of existentialism that everything will go wrong because that's the way of life and there is no greater purpose beyond the endless cycle of birth, destruction, death, there's not many forks in the road. None of them are wrong; they're all-natural responses to living multiple lifetimes. But they are usually destructive, to the self or anyone close to the person.

You could end up depressed, Kafka's Metamorphosis style. Knowing pain is inevitable and there's nothing you can do to prevent it and so becoming disheartened and sluggish due to depression. And this is dangerous because this is the thought process of many people who turn to suicide. Something or somethings hurt. It hurt a lot. And you listen to people say "it gets easier and you learn to deal with the pain" and think, why? Why put up with the pain? If I must put up with the pain, then I must, and I will. I will go to this job and live with my family and endure my life as little more than a giant cockroach because life is suffering, and it doesn't get any better as evidenced by those who can prove that life sucks. But if I mustn't, then why live? Why live at all? What's the point? There is none. So, there will be no life.

You can end up accepting, which the Bright Queen is. She has lived hundreds of thousands of lives and probably tried to change herself and others for "the better" a millennia ago. But it backfired. And it probably didn't backfire once, but dozens if not hundreds of times. And if she dropped a pebble into the stream of life, ripples were created but quickly faded. And if she dropped a boulder into the same stream, it may be diverted for a time, but the river would, eventually, break down the rock and return to its original path. And so does life. The more things change, the more they stay the same. And you must accept that. Keep what you can, but know that if it was meant to die, it will. Life will do as it desires, and there is little you can do to change that. So, there need be no attempt.

The only other path you can take is one of abandonment, that is, abandoning the line of thinking that life is pain. The "Let it Go" or Mollymauk approach. You've done some things, good and bad, but that means fuck all. Your actions define who you are now. The actions of your past define your past. And perhaps you created conflict and that hurt, but you take a step off the road. You walk off the beaten path into brambles and bushes and it's hard. It's a slog. And some people might turn back to where it doesn't hurt as bad, or at least, turn back to the familiar pain. But those who keep going learn something about life and themselves. They learn what they can take and what they can't. They learn what the world can take and what the world won't take, whether it can or not. You learn that life is a night sky. Dark and endless, but with beautiful lights that keep you looking and wondering how anyone could be afraid of the vast emptiness. Who could fear such open possibilities when you know that you can grasp them? All those stars, small beautiful moments that are worth fighting for. So, there need be no fear.

And every single one of these can lead to destruction. Depression can lead to destruction of self. To kill oneself or others to save them from the pain. The Roman parents who murdered their families to keep them out of the hands of invading forces. The people who stop creating because nothing they do will ever be good enough. The disappearance of the Will to Live after a traumatic experience. Acceptance, on the other hand, can lead to destruction of culture. The Jewish method of "keep your head down" during the Dreyfus Affair. The people making half-hearted jokes about pandemics and natural disasters. The people who philosophize about whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles without actually doing anything about either answer. The people who live for nothing and in the end, die for nothing, and the world continued on the same. Fearlessness can lead to destruction of walls. The people who no-longer fear ridicule and so post their creations on the internet. The people who stared Death in the face and laughed. The people who take their lives into their own hands, consequences be damned. The people who force others to make a space for them. The tiefling who forcefully carved out a name and personality when he didn't like what he was given. The man who wouldn't stand for a Jew to keep him from art school.

Fearlessness is the only path that allows the person to follow the path of thinking that life is nothing but pain and allow the person to keep moving. It might end in good things or bad, but by golly, it was your path. And for the good things, there will come pain. And hardship. Blood and tears. And you may even wonder if it was worth it. And for the bad, well, morals are all a matter of perspective, and most villains believe themselves to be the heroes of their story. Hitler, Thanos, Ikathon, Ultron, Kilmonger (holy cow, MCU, you need to take more philosophy classes.) If you survived the process of forging your own path, and if the ends justify the means, then the world can certainly survive a "better" path you paved for them. So perhaps the Bright Queen isn't evil, simply world-weary. But she knows that life is pain and seems to accept than. Now the question remains of: if she tries to break the circle and forge a new path, where will that lead, and what will she destroy to get there?

#me #personal #delete later

[traincat]

I've just read that post on bridges in TASM films, and it reminded me: Before the Spider-verse comic event, Gwen Stacy was essentially the Lost Lenore of Comics. Now Spider-Gwen is popular enough that her fans, and probably younger generations would balk at the idea of Gwen dying. I'm aware that you're a fan of The Night Gwen Stacy Died story, so I hope this doesn't come off as judgmental: It's a major part of the main Spider-Man comics, but does it NEED to be part of general narrative?

This is something I do think about a lot actually because, as you’ve said, it’s pretty well known I’m a fan of The Night Gwen Stacy Died (or a Gwen Stacy deathfucker as some of my friends have delicately and tactfully put it), but I’m also a fan of Gwen, and additionally as a woman who loves big two superhero comics I do think it’s important to consider the treatment of women within that particular media. So I don’t think this question is rude at all, and I think it’s an interesting thing to debate and to talk over. As famous female characters deaths go, Gwen’s is definitely up there, and it is a storyline I personally love and have a lot of feelings about, because, to put it simply, I love a well-done fictional tragedy. I find a lot of the rhetoric around this death to be iffy – Gerry Conway’s own statement that Gwen died because she as a “non-entity”, as compared to the current hyping up of Spider-Gwen as the “Gwen we’ve always needed”, which seems to imply that it was Gwen’s own fault that she died for not being an interesting enough character, or that Gwen is only a valuable or relatable character if she herself has superpowers or is leading a book. There’s a lot to unpack here, no matter what your stance is. I think it’s particularly telling that Gwen’s death is very up there with, say, the deaths of Jason Todd or Bucky Barnes, and yet Gwen, as a female character, does not get a violent “return from the dead” vengeance storyline along the lines of Red Hood or Winter Soldier. Even the recent reframing of Gwen Stacy-65 as Ghost Spider is totally divorced from this subject, despite the fact that the name alone seems to tease the idea of Gwen, back from the dead. The fact that even with Gwen’s resurgence in popularity following The Amazing Spider-Man franchise’s portrayal of her still doesn’t mean she gets a revenge saga the way young and tragically at one time dead male characters do is I think very telling. (I could write the hell out of a Red Hood-esque Gwen Stacy revenge murder miniseries, I am just saying, Marvel.)

But to go back to the question at hand, if I’m being a hundred percent honest, I think that to keep a version of Peter in line with his 616 character development, he needs to suffer a loss of this magnitude at this particular point in his life. Personally, I don’t think that loss needs to be Gwen, but within the adaptation that is being told I think it needs to be of equal weight and importance to what 616 Gwen meant to 616 Peter. Gwen traditionally only ever gets spoken about as his girlfriend, but if you look at the period of comics surrounding her death, it becomes abundantly clear that Peter and Gwen were planning to get married shortly before her death, which adds a certain amount of weight to the relationship that simply referring to her as his girlfriend doesn’t lend:

(Amazing Spider-Man #99)

(Amazing Spider-Man #103)

Additionally, for me, I think it’s important that Gwen’s death isn’t just a one and done – she’s dead and it means something, both to Peter and to the rest of the cast that knew her. The definition of fridging is when a woman is killed for a man’s emotional development, true, but I think a key issue is that often when a woman is fridged there isn’t much emotional development when you actually look at the text. The man is sad but then he moves on, and maybe it comes up when he gets into a new relationship with a different woman because he needs to angst about how she can’t end up just like Poor Dead Previous Girlfriend. But I think Gwen’s death has a real weight in the series. She’s not a non-entity; her absence matters. I once saw a post about how Gwen’s death didn’t really have an effect on Peter and I think about it all the time over how incredibly wrong it was:

(Amazing Spider-Man #127)

(Amazing Spider-Man #136)

(Spider-Man & Black Cat: Evil That Men Do #6)

(Webspinners #12)

So this is a loss that deeply  and consistently haunts Peter and not one he ever fully recovers from. It’s a loss with very lasting impact, like I said, not just for him, but for other people who knew Gwen.

“How lovely she was! What a wonderful couple she and made! I hoped we’d friends for life!” – Amazing Spider-Man #365

“Gwen was our light.” – Spectacular Spider-Man #250.

“She fell… and, in a sense – we all fell with her.” – Spectacular Spider-Man #200.

“Peter… loved Gwen. I loved Gwen! She was a good person.” – Spectacular Spider-Man #180

“Maybe because she knew Gwen, and was also friend.” – Amazing Spider-Man #509

Roughly speaking, I would say that to keep Peter on track with his 616 character development, the loss needs to be of a person in a serious and committed romantic relationship with Peter. The circumstances need to be duplicated, in my opinion, to track with 616 Peter’s development, but Gwen doesn’t necessarily have to be the character that dies. I personally have several WIP AUs where I’ve subbed out Gwen in this role for Harry; combined with Harry’s drug addiction and Peter’s natural protectiveness, as well as Norman’s role in this particular murder, it makes for a very interesting version of events. This sounds like I’m framing things around the man, but Spider-Man comics are a story about Peter, and so what Peter feels can’t be discounted from the story, and I do feel Peter needs to feel deeply about this. There are a lot of Spider-Man female characters death I feel very negatively about: Mattie Franklin, Ashley Kafka, Marla Jameson, Jean DeWolff, to name a few. But I feel negatively about them in part because if you’re going to kill a character, it should majorly impact the story and the main character. Gwen’s death does that in a way that the character deaths listed above don’t. In my opinion, if you’re going to kill an established character, it should matter beyond the story they die in. For me that’s a big part of what separates a character death I enjoy from I don’t.

At the end of the day, I think loss is built into Spider-Man as a story at its core. Look where everything starts: Peter, an established orphan, losing his uncle to violence. Right from the very beginning, we have an established loss. Then those losses add up: his parents, Uncle Ben, George Stacy, Gwen Stacy. Later, Harry Osborn, his and Mary Jane’s child, his clone Ben Reilly. Loss is embedded into the story on such a deep level that I think when you remove it, you ultimately remove Spider-Man’s identity itself, which has always been part of my complaint about the total refusal to even reference Uncle Ben within Spider-Man: Homecoming. And while I may love The Amazing Spider-Man 2′s retelling of The Night Gwen Stacy died as an adaptation, I also totally understand why some people might not want to watch a movie that ends in a young woman’s brutal death. As much as I joke that everyone deserves a version of their favorite problematic comics death, I also know not everybody wants that, or even has a favorite comics death scene. But when it comes to Spider-Man as a story and a narrative, I do think loss is an important piece of the puzzle. Take it away, and you end up with a less meaningful and human story. So no, ultimately, as much as I love the original scene in part because it’s so painful and haunting, I don’t think you need to kill Gwen to insure a 616-esque character development and emotional journey for Peter, but I do think you need to have him suffer a loss of the same magnitude if you’re invested in keeping the character on the same or on a similar track. But those are just my personal feelings on the story, and I do feel this is a topic where personal feelings are a make or break king of deal, and that not everyone is a slut for fictional tragedy, so I think this is very much a case that’s up to personal interpretation.

#traincat talks comics #*replies #long post/

[araneitela]

1, 12 & 20~!!

@aventvrina // Prompt: Canon Questionnaire. // Accepting

1 What made you pick up this character? Answered here!

12. What would you say is the most unique trait about your character? Answered here!

20. If you could sum up your character with one sentence, what would it be? There's a line that's said by Blade to the Trailblazer during the end of Kafka's SQ, and it really sticks with me more than anything else in this game has (and I think ever will) when I think of her, and it's from this little exchange:

"Every Stellaron Hunter has a deal with Elio. I do not know the nature of those deals, but I do know that Kafka and I agreed to take orders from Elio. She must have sought something extraordinary. Everything she does comes at a great cost."

And perhaps this rests at the core of a lot of my salt towards fanon, because of what it touches on: this supposed lack of investment. If we want to talk about fear or the lack thereof, we need to look at where we find it, and then we see that we're quickly confronted with its connection to 'loss' in some capacity or another. And then following that, we usually (a bit of a simplified version here) find it in the form of hesitation because we could lose ourselves, or we feel it in the horrendous truth of losing another. In both of those cases, it adds importance to the decisions that we make to avoid those two scenarios from ever coming to pass. So then, keeping in mind everything that Kafka says to us in the SQ and even throughout our exchanges with her, does that then not become evident of... a great complexity? If 'everything comes at a great cost', how is 'great cost' defined to someone who might not, according to fanon, understand its importance because she doesn't possess the ability to attach value to... well, anything from any emotional (or other) standpoint? Granted, yes, I know that Blade is the one who says the line instead of Kafka herself, but before we rush to 'unreliable narrator'; keep in mind that outside of Elio, the one who's known Kafka the longest would be Blade, otherwise he'd be unable to even note that line to the Trailblazer to begin with. To witness a truth like that, means that he had to be there. Any way, I digress, welcome to the big complexities of Kafka that I truly despise that fanon simplifies. It drives me absolutely mad.

#[ answered: ooc. ] apologies for interrupting your little get-together. but I’m sure once you’ve heard my request; you’ll forgive me. #aventvrina #[ /cups z's cheeks and smooches you all over your face. ] #[ thank you for sending this in. i apologize for the ramble. 💖 but also-- not really. you already know i ramble. ] #[ hi ily. ]

[bi-dazai]

Could you talk more abt double black’s romance coding if you don’t mind?

it’s just kind of a fun thing!! but anyway the fact is that there’s a lot of double entendre in all of their interactions, history, etc, to the point that as an author myself and also with the knowledge of particularly how the real life dazai osamu deconstructed heterosexual relationships…the character dazai’s relationship with the character chuuya also having such a…homoerotic edge in their dynamic, particularly in the way every fucking scene, line of dialogue, and visual imagery theyre portrayed in is very, VERY easy to pull a romantic double meaning out of…it’s just that to me as an author and by the way skk is written…like thats exactly how i would write a complex broken romantic relationship. 

the way i always put it is try to imagine if one of them was a girl - particularly chuuya, because chuuya absolutely fills in the “jilted lover” to the “cool anime husbando” stereotype. there would be absolutely no doubt that the two have canon sexual tension if one of them was a girl. like it would be known and talked about p openly that, yeah, they used to date/there is a romantic/sexual aspect to their partnership, if one of them was a girl! 

-

to me also there are two types of ships - ships that are just fun dynamics and pairings (shinsou/kaminari, atsushi/akuutagawa, mori/the firey pits of hell where paedophilies burn); and ships that have plenty of canon romantic potential, double entendre, and/or romantic dynamic that i could actually see happening in canon (think kirishima/bakugou, korra/asami, lance/keith from voltron before s7). dazai and chuuya absolutely fall very easily into that second category. to me, dazai/chuuya is more than just “oh wouldnt it be cute if they dated”, it’s more “every time these two characters interact every single thing they say and do is a double entendre”. 

-

the scene where they first interact is literally one of the most sexually tense things in anime ive seen in ages. the way they talk about each other and worry about each other in the double black episode is much more complex and heartfelt than the way kunikida and dazai are written to talk about/to and worry about each other. kunikida and dazai have been shown to be friends and also put trust in one another, yet still hate each other. but kunikida and dazai don’t interact with the sexual tension and romantic double entendre that dazai and chuuya have. for me as an author, that would be a perfect comparative technique to highlight dazai and chuuya’s nature as something more than just a running joke of  “every partner dazai has hates him”. in fact, if that even were a running joke you would know, because bsd loves to play up running jokes. but both of dazai’s partners hating him isnt meant as a joke, it’s meant as a point. literally dazai and kunikida and dazai and chuuya could have had a much more similar dynamic, with minimal differences but not so many/so dramatic in order to create a strong, bsd-style running gag and also a platonic dynamic between them. but by having kunikida hate dazai it literally stands as a comparative point against how chuuya hates him - because chuuya doesnt hate dazai in the same way kunikida does.

kunikida’s frustration with dazai is definitely more of a gag on the comparison between kunikida’s and dazai’s work ethic and personalities. chuuya’s frustration is constantly played down with the numerous times chuuya actually seeks out dazai’s affection AND is concerned for his wellbeing:

like idk if u know abt the whole sheep backstory with chuuya…but it would be perfectly reasonable to write chuuya as absolutely despising dazai. chuuya’s forced partnership with dazai is a representation of everything the port mafia did to him and his friends with sheep. yet chuuya is written as seeking out dazai’s positive attention and checking he’s okay? and this scene isnt about the port mafia and the agency - it’s about chuuya and dazai. oh, and again, some more comparison - akutagawa seeks out dazai’s positive attention, but it’s pointedly different from the way chuuya seeks it out. with chuuya it seems more about a comment on the complexity of how he feels not about dazai (as akutagawa does) but how he feels towards dazai (if you get what i mean??). akutagawa’s need for dazai to validate him is a primary motivator in the plot and in his character. compared to this, plus comparing the way kunikida and dazai interact in battle, slipping in the way chuuya and dazai express concern for each other when they interact in battle is….interesting. the warmest port mafia executive to dazai other than chuuya is kouyou, and that’s only because she is entrusting him with her surrogate daughter’s life - another primary plot point. compared to all this, it seems…somewhat domestic and pointless to have these little moments. 

-

my final main argument for canon skk underlying romance coding is some of the visual “double entendre”. while dazai and chuuya havent exactly ever said or done anything explicitly romantic (such as kiss, admit explicit romantic feelings for each other, etc), a lot of the visual coding and the dialogue (particularly in the anime) is…pretty easy to interpret as romantic and sexual. i mean:

(dont mind the subtitles for this first one, what matters is the imagery)

(double entendre - how often do you use this in fiction outside of lovers quiffs?)

(like it isnt every day you see two anime dudes between each others legs lol)

(double entendre in this line) (also dazai doesn’t “reunite” with any other port mafioso. except maybe akutagawa, who has a dynamic just as complex but much less…”angry lover” dynamic and reunion with dazai. oh yeah. another comparison.)

like im just putting this entire scene from dead apple because it was so heavily visually romantically and sexually double entendre…like again. if one of them was a girl. dead apple is…a lot.

(also sorry for shitty quality on some of the images)

anyway some of this i know sounds like a reach but it’s honestly me just theorising from my own perspective as an author! this show is v complex and well-written, and so far there havent rly been any bits that are just…on accident?? everything is very purposeful. and a lot of the ways that kafka asagiri writes dazai and chuuya’s dynamic, dialogue, interactions, etc, are very much real writing techniques that i would use to write in a romantic pairing, especially a same-sex romantic pairing that i might not be able to be too explicit about and have to find ways to get around that. like im obvsly not saying that this is all canon and real and ive found a way into asagiri’s head, but ive just…noticed a lot of things and i think they arent rly…discussed too much in the bsd fandom?? which is disappointing cos soukoku is a rly well written and complex relationship and pairing that needs more meta!

#long post #double black #bsd #Anonymous

[hopescale-blog]

‘ you were hurt badly, and those scars will stay with you forever. i feel sorry for you, i really do. but think of it like this: it is not too late to recover. you are young, you are tough. you are adaptable. you can patch up your wounds, lift up your head and move on. ’

kafka on the shore prompts || not accepting || @rottingwomb

ears perk up to prophetic words, the sonorous melody of Kiara’s words offering largesse where it isn’t needed. her hands cradle his gently, the scanning of palm lines causing fingers to twitch. to say that Ritsuka planned out his entire life is too optimistic for his palate. to say that Ritsuka imagined himself surviving fantastic myriad encounters of ancient wyrms, vindictive goddesses, and teeter on the precipice between salvation and death is arrogance equivocal to that of the King of Heroes. he still remembers the explosions: the sabotage that engulfed Chaldea when Lev Lainur orchestrated his plan to incinerate all of mankind, cursed to some greater purpose beyond individual thought; he remembers death’s hoarfrost breath on his face as he swallowed his own mortality to comfort Mashu, afraid of her concrete tomb; he recalls every Singularity like fresh wounds, the foreboding knowledge that every step adds yet another mile to this unending journey. and what of his former life? ( talks of university, walking across the street, window-shopping on the way home ) can one possibly return to an everyday peacefulness after witnessing all that he has seen? his lips twist at the thought, whatever tears he planned to shed all dried up. stomach lurches as fire reminds him that he hasn’t heard his mother’s voice in over a year—going on two—and that the world is dying as he mourns, mourns for a world once scorched to silhouettes and ash.

❝I’m… not sure I follow.❞

no one will know. no one will fathom the terrifying numbness he feels. the loss of childhood, how he wakes up soundlessly screaming into the night because reality catches up to the phantasmagoria ( people die left and right, and the sight stays in the backs of his eyes ), reminding him there’s still so, so much more to go. his feet ache, and his soul weighs heavy. she calls him young, yet he feels as ancient as the Fertile Crescent, life stretched thin across all of history and beyond. she calls it strength, but he calls it fight or flight—a quiet killing. Ritsuka Fujimaru died long ago ( drowned in Okeanos, perhaps earlier in Orléans as a dragon’s meal ) and left behind someone less individual to uphold the task; it’s natural, he thinks, because no one person can endure what he’s witnessed and remain borderline sane—unless he came to Chaldea broken on arrival. he alone will shoulder that burden, picking up the cross because no one else can. Ritsuka chuckles to her encouraging words, their recent clash just one more scar to the massacre on his back.

Ritsuka chuckles to her encouraging words, their recent clash just one more scar to the massacre on his back. ❝just keep doing what I’ve always been doing, right? well, you don’t need to worry about that, but I always appreciate the advice.❞ he speaks evenly, giving nothing of joy or sorrow / anger or excitement. were he not saving the world perhaps he might have become a small-stage actor, a false smile suiting him better than the tempting frown. pain is a natural effect and he knows he’ll move on, but the compassion is as much a virtue as it is a weakness, his arms spread wide and giving alms to all under his wing regardless of ethos or history. some might mistake him for a savior, but saviors possess a fundamentally inhuman quality about them that inspires an entire movement of change. Ritsuka is still human. Ritsuka still laughs and cries and greeds over as much shuteye as he possibly can. and perhaps that is the one tragedy he cannot avoid: to be so human, yet his will no longer his own.

#:･ﾟ★ 》 chaldea mailroom. #rottingwomb #(( hm. I'm sad. ))