#history repeats itself without reflection | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pluvialpoet · 2 years ago

Text

how to disappear

Summary: a reunion ten years in the making serves as a reminder that absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder- especially when history has a tendency to repeat itself

Pairing: dick grayson x fem!vigilante!reader

Requested: no

Warning: nsfw!!! (18+ MDNI), porn with plot, lovers to enemies, unprotected sex, implied breeding kink, choking, angst, minor barbara gordon slander (for the plot, I swear)- do not read if you are not comfortable with the warnings listed above!!!

Word Count: 12,874

masterlist

Light reflects off the crystals that hang from the chandeliers above, and like a moth drawn to a shiny flame, you bask in the warmth of their glow. For as beautiful as the crystalline teardrops twenty-two feet overhead are, they dull in comparison to the- equal parts blinding and mesmerizing, simultaneously gorgeous, yet gaudy- diamonds that dangle from earlobes, rubies that rest against décolletages, and the pearls placed upon dainty fingers in an over the top display of money, power, and status. It’s the epitome of wealth, and though meant to allure, you find yourself disgusted by the flashy exhibitions of greed and corruption.

Every smile is artificial. Every laugh is humorless and diluted. Any feeling beyond complete and utter misery is a hoax. Yet, they play their parts. Each and every one of them continues to mingle, boast, and feign genuineness, but it’s obvious what they are, even beneath their disguises, you recognize the vultures circling the fresh carnage of the innocent- with blood on their talons and a hunger that’s never truly satiated. Do they even know what they’ve done? Do they even care? Given a chance to make amends, would any of them take it?

Revulsion counters amusement as you watch the elite interact with one another. It’s pathetic. In a room full of affluence, not a single person knows pleasure beyond material possessions, and that’s an injustice in itself. Amongst thieves, you’re the honesty that rivals them all- and that’s a scary revelation, all things considered.

Taking advantage of the large crowd, you continue to bump elbows with the rich- literally- as you weave your way through the opulent mass. A tight-lipped smile is granted when you pass an older woman, and an even wider flash of teeth catches your attention from a man around your age. Mimicking the gestures seal your fate, damning you- even if only temporarily- to this game of confusion, a game in which approval and disgust are indiscernible. Having had years to grow accustomed to the tricks of this elitist trade, it’s almost impossible to recall a simpler time. Back when you still thought there might be a modicum of authenticity behind the action, back before you were close enough to spot the invisible strings controlling the marionettes, you believed- and even hoped- that you had it all wrong. There was a time, long, long ago, when you were desperate to believe that there was still some good left in these people, but you grew out of your naivety. Now older, and wiser, you won’t make the same mistakes you once made. Under the influence of optimism, your purpose became convoluted. Not anymore.

Without anyone to dissuade you from reaching out- to challenge you from swiping a few bejeweled tennis bracelets, engagement rings, or even one or two watches and calling it a day- a thrum of urgency spreads through your fingertips. It’s an impulsive electricity you can’t deny. Besides, it’s not like social dynasties would crumble if a few diamonds went missing. If only it were that easy…

Wealth doesn’t doom these poor, unfortunate souls, but their greed- coupled with the blood on their hands- paints a distinguishable target on their backs. If you look closely, it’s impossible to miss that they’re all cut from the same cloth. A hundred different reflections of the same privileged archetype imitate the same gestures, mannerisms, and movements to a tee. An amateur would operate under the guise of distraction- causing a small scene and offering their apologies before making off with their prize- but you’re not an amateur. Not anymore. Not by a long shot.

A few women- four or five, at most- nurse flutes of bubbling booze a few feet away. The sound of their laughter is a little too joyous to be feigned and when one of them waves a manicured hand towards a waiter, signaling another round of drinks, you start to put the pieces together. Perhaps, the ladies in your sights are the most genuine in attendance- even if they’ve lost themselves to their cups. Matching their demeanor is child’s play. Once equipped with a half-empty glass from a server on their way back to the kitchens, you stumble towards the group, plastering on the same elated- intoxicated- grin, and hope that they’re inebriated enough to be welcoming towards a newcomer. Masking the bitter taste of insincerity with a sip of prosecco, a greeting rises from the mix, but it never has the chance to come to fruition because a large hand wraps around your wrist- effectively halting your heist before it even really had a chance to begin.

You should’ve known better.

As you turn to glare at the idiot who dared to put their hands on you, your breath catches.

Two birds die from the blow of one stone, and he takes advantage of your stupor- finding that you’re more pliant in your daze- leading you away from the women you intended to rob, and into the crowd. More witnesses make it less likely for you to cause a scene. At least, that’s his logic, anyway. While it’s not exactly flawed, it’s not all that accurate, either, but for old time's sake, you’ll play along. His hold on you remains firm, and he reaches for the flute in your hand with his other, placing it on a tray and discarding the prop. Your surprise begins to morph into anger- especially when he pulls you closer towards him as the orchestra starts to play a tune. Remembering the steps forced upon you as a child is muscle memory, and you glare daggers up at him- though, they don’t pierce nearly as deeply as the blue of his irises.

“Nice hair,” Dick revels in your obvious frustration of being thwarted, his lips curling into a smirk when your frown deepens, and he asks, “I thought you were blonde, last I saw you?”

“I was,” For the sake of maintaining appearances, you don a phony expression of your own and respond with as much benevolence as you can muster- even though you’re filled with animosity- as he leads you through the steps of the dance. “And you didn’t have a five o’clock shadow,” You note, allowing yourself a split second to take in everything that’s changed since the last time you saw him, before pressing your lips together tightly with a huff.

“Things change.”

As if he needed the reminder…

Chance has never meddled in your relationship. Coincidence doesn’t exist within the realm of precision both you and Dick operate from. Everything has always been on purpose, calculated and planned, never left blindly to fate or possibility- which is why this meeting isn’t an accident. As if he can feel you about to pull away, he flexes his fingers against you, tightening his grip and holding you in place. Ten years later- ten years too late- he’s found you. Not destiny, not a fluke, but with his own intention, and you wish that he would’ve just stayed away.

“What are you doing here, Dick?” As you abandon your costume, your smile falls away to reveal genuine loathing as you force the question from behind gritted teeth. Still, despite your obvious disdain, he doesn’t let you go. “Last I checked, you were in San Francisco- and more recently, Blüdhaven. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You keeping tabs on me?” His amusement contradicts your revulsion, and a shallow breath purges the threat of an outburst. Dick has always had a way of getting under your skin, of pushing your buttons and doing everything he possibly could to make you tick, but the sudden onslaught of such juvenile taunting fills you with a fire not even he can extinguish- not anymore. Despite his charming exterior, the steady flow of his breath, and the easy grin of confidence that was once impossible not to mirror, dampness swells where your palms meet, and you feel the rough, raised reminders that he’s kept busy during your time apart- that he’s evolved into a stranger despite how familiar he still seems- and you wonder if he can feel it too, if he can tell just by touch, that you’re not the same girl he once knew.

“I keep tabs on everyone who might get in my way,” Your eyes narrow accusatorially, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re not special.”

“That’s not what you said the last time we-“

“Yeah, well, the last time was when we were teenagers, and a lot has changed since then.” Any attempt to remain cordial flies out the window when he dares to mention the last time- like it hasn’t plagued you for a decade. Not even he possesses the antidote to the venom your words carry, and he winces slightly as your rebuttal shakes. He clears his throat softly, the sound filling the lull where an apology should sound, and he takes a look over your shoulder before meeting your eyes again.

“Any chance I can convince you not to go through with whatever it is you’re planning?” It brings little joy to watch his smile dissolve into something more serious. His face hardens, and you notice lines and creases that you aren’t well acquainted with- unable to distinguish battle scars from the divots of age- and you quickly shake the thought away. Instead, you stare at him blankly, not revealing an answer. Though, he takes your lack of conversation as a reply, and with a heavy sigh, he shakes his head, “Yeah, I figured.”

He dares to express melancholy. Stunned by his nerve, after everything, not even shame or regret could rattle his courage enough for him to reconsider such a crestfallen expression, and the discouraged twist of his lips and the downcast slant of his eyes are so pronounced and dramatic that you’re unable to discern whether or not this is part of a ruse, or his genuine reaction.

“Did you think that would work?” Your skepticism is muddled with ridicule, a mocking scoff filling the line meant for his counter. It’s almost laughable- the nerve he has to look dejected by your questioning. To be fair, it’s been a while since he’s danced this dance- a routine once familiar, consisting of bite and bark, push and shove, before simultaneous defeat and victory- but he’s smart enough to know that that’s not how this works. “I mean what did you think would happen, birdy? I’d take one look at you, all grown and handsome, and reconsider my plans?”

Even in heels, he’s taller than you remember. He’s always been pretty- all mesmerizing eyes, slightly crooked smile, and sunkissed skin- but not even he was immune to the awkwardness brought forth by puberty. There was a time when he thought his shoulders were too broad, his ears too big, and the angular structure of his face too sharp and strong for a boy. It didn’t look right. Features that were admirable on their own, looked out of place on his face- or so he feared. You always thought he was beautiful- especially when he didn’t know it.

Now, Boy Wonder is all grown up, exuding confidence and oozing charm. He knows he’s attractive, but he doesn’t parade his arrogance- not anymore. His early twenties were a never-ending roller coaster of trying to find himself, his purpose, and where he fit into the grand scheme of things. Conflicted by right and wrong, tempted by lust and surrender, divided by good and evil, he’s had a lot of time to awaken from the grogginess inflicted by nightmares of freedom and liberation. Still, his eyes are just as mesmerizing, his teeth are straight- but his smile is still crooked- and he’s truly grown into himself. The man before you is a boy evolved- still a bird, but with a different set of wings. Robin is an old friend, a fond recollection of a different time, and though the stranger before you mimics the familiarity you’ve longed for, he’s not Robin, anymore- he’s Nightwing.

“Look, they’re anticipating for you to strike,” His warning is low and hushed, but even in whispers you’re able to detect his plea. Call it concern, or at the very least interest in serving justice as quietly as possible, but his timbre urges you to reconsider- if not for his sake, then for the sake of those around you. He really doesn’t want to cause a scene. “Security has been tripled, and you’ve grown sloppy-“

“Did you ever consider that the trail I was leaving behind wasn’t for anyone else but the one person I wanted to find me?” There’s no affection behind the way your fingers thread through the dark tresses at the nape of his neck. Without any fondness, without passion, or care, the action is mindless, meaningless, and merely muscle memory. There’s no repressed feelings you wish to convey, no animosity you’re trying to diffuse. With no hidden agenda, the gesture serves no purpose- except to unintentionally torture you both. Old habits die hard, and something undefined urges you to reach for him. He flushes, and the sight is so droll that you can’t bring yourself to stop. His lips part once, twice, three times, trying to produce an answer, but he’s at a loss. When you cock your head to the side, he tenses. “Of course, you didn’t,” You purr, and he clears his throat softly.

Dick’s no stranger to berating. He knows what it feels like to be chastised, scolded, and reprimanded. This exchange feels similar. The only difference is that you don’t raise your voice, your eyes don’t darken and you don’t threaten him- not with words, at least. If anything, the remark feels like a gentle rebuke, but the sting left from the impact of your insult brands him with shame. You’ve always seen right through him. Easily able to discern real from fake- truth from falsity- under both his domino mask and the hardened mask of his stoic expressions, you’ve always had a knack for exposing his most vulnerable self- welcoming his flaws, humility, and weaknesses to light. Even though he’s not the same kid he was when you first crossed paths, he feels just as naive and guileless as the boy he once once.

“You and the bat were never really known for considering every angle,” Spoken so thoughtfully, he’s almost able to forgive the verbal assault. As intended, the blow lands- precise, heavy, and unforgiving in the center of his chest- and the muscles in his jaw tighten with thinly veiled frustration. It seems, that in the moment he needs his voice the most, it evades him. He swallows consonants and vowels, a jumbled mix of letters that sit heavy atop his palate, and focuses on maintaining his composure- though, his steps are a beat behind and his footing seems, suddenly, unsure. You’ve struck a nerve. Whether or not you intend to wound, the damage is already done. Picking at scabs that should’ve scarred a long time ago cause his insecurities to bleed- a punch more lethal than brute strength and weaponry combined.

Blindsided by the truth, he feels utterly defenseless.

“Can I ask you something, Dick?” Your brows barely pinch together, your voice calm and steady as something softens in your gaze. Dick should know better than to let his guard down- especially when you lean in, and your lips brush against his ear, “If you’re the hero, here to save the day, does that make me the villain?”

“No, you’re not-“

“How about this, which is the lesser of two evils- knowing that you’re protecting a corrupted establishment because it’s what you believe to be morally correct, or taking back what was wrongfully stolen and returning it to its rightful owners?” As you tilt your head to the side, he hates the way that you look up at him through your lashes. It’s not a demure move. You’re demanding an answer, and a look like that- a look meant to allure, tempt, and bait- would have a weaker man spilling his deepest darkest secrets. With a sharp inhale, he reminds himself that the tricks up your sleeve aren’t new. He knows all of the cards you’re going to play- albeit, he’s unaware of the order in which you’re going to play them- and he won’t allow history to repeat itself. Purposely, your thumb caresses the back of his hand- the touch feather-light, but far from hesitant or accidental- and his breath hitches. Dick doesn’t undermine the small, sinister smile that threatens to spread into a victorious grin when he fails to answer your question. Perhaps, he doesn’t know the answer. Or, perhaps, he’s just distracted. Either way, your voice fills the absence of his own. “We’re not on different sides of a playing field, Grayson. You and I aren’t on opposite ends of a spectrum, we’ve always been right in the middle- dancing on a thin line.”

Prompted by the soothing symphony of strings, Dick twirls you- delicately extending his arm and leading you into a spin before pulling you back in- and it’s fitting, the push and pull between you so familiar it almost feels as choreographed as the steps of the waltz you’re dancing.

History repeating itself, just one more time.

“We both know you’re not here to turn me in, because if you were going to, you would’ve done it by now.” Your arrogance causes something to snap within him. Clarity comes rushing back as he breaks free from your spell. Without meaning to, his grip on your hand tightens.

“Look, I understand why you’re doing this, but-“

“No, you don’t.” Like a switch being flipped, your façade shatters- revealing a face so unbridled with emotions that not even a mask could obscure. He’s defensive. Tired of grappling for control over the situation, he tastes power as he parts his lips with a clever retort, but you don’t allow him the space to get a word in. “Did you know that last year, the city council held a vote to refurbish a few run-down parks on the south side of Gotham with the hopes of restoring the communities destroyed by violence, or increasing the GCPD budget?” The heat behind your accusation pokes and prods at his curiosity, coloring him intrigued. Admittedly, he’s not the most up-to-date on Gotham’s politics, but something this large shouldn’t have slipped under his radar- or the watchful eyes of those who swore themselves to protect the beloved city.

It’s deeper than that, though.

Your frustrations, however warranted, seem to extend beyond such an injustice. Between the lines, amongst all the words you haven’t said, there’s a decipher hidden in every twitch, gesture, and glare. From the way your eyes narrow, to the sharp exhale and tightening grip of your fingertips. To sweaty palms and clenched teeth, all the way to flared nostrils- there’s something just beneath the surface that he can’t crack. Too much time has passed for him to unscramble tacitness when he no longer understands the codes in which you speak, and, unfortunately, he needs you to paint a clearer picture than the vague abstract before him.

“When it came down to it, do you think that the citizens of the south side had a say in the matter?” Dick’s smart. He’s not just a pretty face or a nice body- he’s actually got brains to match. You know- deep down- that sooner or later, shapeless pieces will fall into place to reveal the completed puzzle, but you need him to come to the conclusion all on his own. It would be easy to simply reveal your motive, and while a straightforward approach may have been less complicated than the mental gymnastics you’re forcing him to perform, it wouldn’t have been as impactful. Dick needs to understand, and to understand, he needs to feel- the same anger, outrage, and upset you felt. “Do you think the people on the other side of the tracks were given a chance to speak in front of the council?”

“They can’t segregate who speaks publicly-“ The gears are turning- some slower, some faster, and others completely out of control as he struggles to make sense of your elusiveness. When the current song fades out, a scattered round of applause takes its place before a new song begins. Hardly anyone else is dancing, save for a handful of couples who look just about as miserable as you and Dick- without the coordination or grace, the two of you share. It takes him too long to jump to the conclusion, and you tire of waiting for him to put the pieces together on his own. He always did work better with a helping hand- though, the quality of his work declined greatly whenever your hands were involved.

“You’re right,” Your agreement further confuses him, until an additional explanation provides the last bit of clarity he’d been seeking. “But they can change the date, time, and venue of the meeting without alerting the other parties involved, parties that spent weeks building the foundations of a strong claim, and vote on the matter without them being present- subsequently, granting them access to funnel more funds back into their pensions.”

“That’s not possible,” His argument is backed by disbelief instead of reason, denial influencing his refusal to accept such an absurdity, even in spite of proof, and every ugly, undesirable, nasty feeling you’re not supposed to have swirls together in the pit of your stomach at his incredulity.

How can he still be so blind? How, after all of the evil that he’s witnessed, how can he deny the truth in favor of possibility? He may be a man grown, but he still lives in a delusional state of boyhood- where he still clings to hope and the prospect of good intentions even when the jury has already delivered a conviction.

“Why not?” You seethe, simultaneously demanding an answer without allowing him the chance to speak. Unfortunately, whatever’s been brewing amongst your insides finally bubbles over and your own reluctance to accept an outcome where he doesn’t justify your point of view sharpens the words at the tip of your tongue until they’re as lethal as any weapon. “Because good old Commissioner Gordon wouldn’t let that happen?”

It’s resentment- the concoction without a name- but it’s also envy, pain, and perhaps a bit of fear. At the very least, it’s petty, to bring her into this and force him to pick a side, but it’s been corroding your logic- eroding a place in your chest that’s been dormant ever since he last filled it with life and meaning- and you watch his demeanor shift when his lips part to defend her. You can’t bear whatever praise he’s sure to dole out in her defense, especially when she’s just as guilty as the rest of them, as far as you’re concerned. Before he has a chance to tear you to shreds with his ire, you interrupt.

“Look, just because the commissioner has a heart, doesn’t mean that the animals working for the force do.” Without any conviction, you start to claw at the mire on either side of you, closing you in. “It’s always been bad, but it’s gotten a lot worse.” He can’t argue with that. Worse doesn’t even come close to how downright doomed Gotham is now that someone’s poisoned most of the police force. The one group of people who are supposed to remain impartial to power and abide by the laws they’re sworn to uphold, have turned their backs on the people who needed them most, and the people hurting- the ones without flashy jewels or the stomachs for caviar and champagne- don’t have anyone looking out for them.

Not the way they used to, anyway.

“You don’t get to come here and lecture me about what’s right and what’s wrong, just because she asked you to.” Bittersweet tips towards bitter and a sour taste settles in your mouth at the suggestion that she had even the slightest part to play in your reunion. “You’re a few years too late for that, birdy.” This time when the song ends, you take a step back- though, his thumb brushes against the back of your hand before you pull away, the phantom of a silent prospect lingering even when the warmth of him is gone. Once, it was what you sought. He was what you sought. Years of desolation turned your desire for that same heat- tender touches and gentle caresses against skin- into favor of bleakness. You don’t regret pulling away from him, not as much as you did back them. This time, it’s warranted- a choice you make unobstructed by what you’re feeling, now that you know the outcome of what was fated to happen between the two of you.

“I appreciate the dance,” You swallow, your throat tightening with words you won’t allow yourself to say. Instead, a retort finds you, though it feels foreign as you speak it into existence. “Maybe we’ll do it again in a couple of years,”

Without waiting for a reaction, you head off down the same way you came, and this time, without any intervention, he lets you go.

The bathroom door shuts behind you, and the sounds of lively chatter and the hum of instrumentals fade away until you’re consumed by a silence so stark that it buries you. It doesn’t feel real. The soft tapping of your heels against the glossy marble floors cuts through the nothingness- even the slightest echo in the void registering as an alarm, coaxing panic and fear from the rusted, forgotten cells you banished them to long ago- and when you finally take a look in the mirror, you don’t recognize the face that stares back at you.

Your reflection is plagued by guilt, and haunted by ghosts of the past. Well, one ghost, in particular.

Running into Dick Grayson was something you’d prepared for. Since the day you last parted, you always knew that there was a possibility your paths could, and inevitably would, cross again. It was destined to happen, and you were doomed from the start. He makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak. Back then, before everything that drove a wedge between the two of you, you had a bit of a soft spot for him. He was the only other person in the world who truly understood the life you lived because he was living a different version of the same life. Both protégés, both headstrong and zealous- attributes recognized as both strengths and faults- and both dancing a choreographed routine in the shadows cast by the bat and the cat. The two of you were fated. It was only a matter of time before you started pulling your punches, and he started letting you get away.

The chase was always the best part- second only to the capture.

Still, it’s been years since he left. You’re not the same girl he once knew, and he might as well have been a stranger. More than a decade apart will do that to two people. For everything that’s changed, one thing remains the same- the chase and the capture are unavoidable.

With a shaky exhale, your chest tightens. Resting your palms on either side of the expensive stone washbasin, you attempt to focus on regaining your composure- but another heavy intake of breath punches your lungs. You haven’t come this far just to let him swoop in and gain the upper hand. You’re done pulling your punches. Flipping the golden faucet on, you allow trickling water to interrupt the unbearable silence that surrounds you- a lull so loud it sounds like buzzing static without the interruption of something mundane. With a few more deep breaths, in and out, you begin to fumble with the clasp on your clutch, opening the small bag to retrieve a tube of lipstick. The color has started to fade from your lips, and you use the moment of stillness to touch up your makeup. If nothing else, maybe your reflection will look less distraught with a signature swipe of dark red. You long for a sense of familiarity that you can control.

Above the trickling from the luxurious spout, the door squeaks- or perhaps, it cries- as it’s pushed open, revealing a mirage basked in artificial light and a custom-tailored suit. As your fingertips graze the fixture responsible for the steady stream of distraction, a thud sounds, and seconds later, the unmistakable click of a lock latching into place seals your fate. A wave of emotion- a tsunami of feelings- brings forth a myriad of everything, all at once. Just as you suspected you always would, you’re drowning- caught in a riptide of your past and present, finally merging in a deadly current that threatens to pull you below the depths of your worst fears and direful imagination. You swallow thickly as you close your eyes. It fills your mouth with delusions of saltwater.

This isn’t supposed to happen- at least, not like this, it’s not- but the one thing you’ve been running from has finally caught back up to you. Now’s the time to set the record straight. No more ties. No more draws. Tonight, the victory is yours- regardless of his intervention. He’s taken too much from you to take this too, and you’re done letting him.

“I already told you that this is pointless,” You don’t even look at him. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his overbearing stare. A swirling sea of darkening blue attempts to sail back to shore- pleading to find refuge within familiar comforts and intimacy- but you cast your gaze back to your reflection, focusing on fixing the corners of your lipstick and leaving him afloat. “You’re not going to stop me.” The promise is backed by conviction- though, you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him, or yourself.

The muscle in Dick’s jaw flexes as he grits his teeth- forcing ivories to clench and grind against each other, creating a perfect, white prison to cage the words he wishes to speak. Stifling his emotions is conventional. It’s a routine he’s perfected through years of reluctant practice. Though uncomfortable and daunting, the void in which he sentences all that’s repressed is secure. It’s safe- if only in the sense that it’s familiar.

You’re familiar- rather, you were once familiar- but he can’t cross a bridge that’s been burned, molten ash still ablaze amongst the rubble, and expect to be welcomed back with open arms. Not after everything that’s changed. Not after everything that’s happened.

Not after what he did.

“I need a list of names,” The determination in Dick’s voice contradicts everything he feels inside. His face hardens- a mask, a shield, protection- and he stands a little taller, fixated on resolving the one problem he could actually solve. “Names of the officers involved in whatever this is,” He clarifies with an uneasy edge to his voice- like he already knows he’s bit off more than he can chew, but he can’t stop himself from going back for seconds, thirds, and fourths.

For all that’s changed, Dick remains the same. A phantom- a spirit, a memory, a ghost- of the boy you once knew disappears just as quickly as your imagination teases familiar red, yellow, and green. He’s not the same. You know it to be true, and yet, you find yourself distracted by glimpses and figments from a different life entirely.

“Grab a pen,” A scoff, an eye roll, and the gentle shake of your head, disbelief and credence existing in tandem- contradicting each other when your eyes finally meet his. “It would be a shorter list if you started with the people who aren’t guilty of committing some type of fraudulent activity.”

You’re not a bad person. Despite varying beliefs, you’re not evil. Mayhem doesn’t bring you joy. Confrontation doesn’t get you off. There’s little pleasure to be found in being the itch that people can’t scratch. You’ve never sought out violence or peril, and you seldom plan on causing either. Just like Dick- just like Bruce- you operate under a different moral code, but a moral code, nevertheless. Even if the only thing it provides is an excuse to justify why you do what you do, you still hold yourself to a standard. Unlike the vile, chaos-thirsty cravens that would happily light the match and watch the world burn, you’re selfless- bound to your morals, if nothing else.

What you do, the sacrifices you make- everything that you’ve lost and everything you’ve fought for- is fueled by benevolence. You’re in a position to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves, to speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves. The power to defend those who have had their rights stripped from them- those who have had their power stolen by greed corruption and profit- is in your hands. You’ll be damned if you let anyone stand in your way and prevent you from doing what you know is right.

Through the reflection in the mirror, you recognize the face that stares back at you. Gone is the fear and doubt that mangled your features unrecognizable. With a heavy sigh, you unclip the earrings that dangle from your earlobes- and the buzzing sound of static fades away completely.

You know what you have to do.

The sound of your heels against the tile might as well have been deafening in contrast to the silence that follows your remark. As you cross the room, your resolve sharpens. Dick Grayson has taken so much from you, you won’t let him take this, too.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me-“ You feign saccharine, your tone phony and filled with counterfeit regret, as you reach for the locked door handle, but Dick blocks the latch, stepping in front of you before you have a chance to wrap your hand around the lever. He knows exactly what buttons to press and genuine annoyance, anger, and frustration fill the space where your poor imitation of remorse once occupied. Through gritted teeth, you command him, lowly, “Move, Dick.”

“You know I can’t do that, sweetheart,” He says it so easily, with a sorrowful sigh and undisputed repentance, that you almost buy the sincerity he’s trying to sell. Unfortunately, for him, you’re not in the market for his misery. He’s a few years too late. Dick can turn his charm up to ten thousand- he can say all the right things and plead with his perfect crystalline eyes- but you won’t risk everything you’ve fought for for a few crocodile tears. You know, now, that you’re better than that. One way or another, you’re getting out of this bathroom- and if you have to go through him to do so, then so be it.

“And you know I’m not above fighting you, right?” He’s entirely unprepared for your snark, the bite that fuels your reply nearly nipping his sense of control straight from the palm of his hand. It’s obvious that this isn’t the same game that it once was, but something much more dangerous. “The dance wasn’t enough?” With your arms across your chest, you challenge, and he hates the way you’re looking at him- like your eyes are piercing straight through him instead of actually looking at him. If you bothered to look closely enough, you’d be able to decipher all of the blatant emotions he’s never been the greatest at hiding. One look and you’d see him- and his heart beating proudly on his sleeve. It’s why you don’t spare him a glance. “You still feeling nostalgic for old times? Because this feels awfully familiar, doesn’t it?”

“What are you going to do with the money?” He asks, fighting to keep his voice stern. His poker face was never the best- or, maybe you could just read him better than most people could. Still, as he stands before you, he grapples with his devotion to whatever this competition is. This clash will never see a winner- only two losers- and he knows it. You do, too- but unlike him, you’re not willing to back down without a fight.

“Give it back to those who rightfully deserve it.” He doesn’t deserve your honesty. He has no right to the truth, but you don’t have it in you to scheme an elaborate lie. However gratifying it might’ve been to feed him false information and watch him fly in circles, you’re too exhausted for mental gymnastics. Like clockwork, you give, and he takes- his stare narrowing, almost accusatorially.

“And who are you to decide who rightfully deserves it?” There’s an edge to his question- like he can’t fathom justice without his divine intervention- and it’s grating, the way he can make you feel so small, and worthless with a single sentence. His arrogance is astounding. Who was he to seek vengeance against Slade Wilson? Who was he to target Heartless? Who was he to sentence Tony Zucco to his death- by placing him behind bars, and granting other enemies easy access to the crime lord, which ultimately led to his demise? The self-righteous guilt trip nearly gives you whiplash from how fast it makes your head spin. He’s no different than you are- no better or worse, since you operate on the same playing field. He doesn’t get to act like he is. Someone needs to knock him down a few pegs, and you’re happily up for the challenge.

“Who are you to try to stop me?”

“Someone who knows you,” He replies, instinctively. “Someone who’s a friend, not a foe.”

“Hmm,” With a bitter laugh, your stomach churns- twisting, clenching, and swirling with swells of irritation, regret, and sorrow- and although it’s a familiar discomfort, it’s been years since you’ve felt the threat of splintering cracks, chipping away at the stone-cold facade of your exterior. Come to think of it, the last time you felt this way was when Selina had told you that Dick left for San Francisco. The reminder fills you with a bitterness you’ve long tried to suppress, and as it bubbles to the surface, so do all of the repressed thoughts and emotions that’ve haunted you for years.

For a moment, you ache- chasing forgotten remembrance plagued by wistfulness. Then, you burn.

“Friends call every once in a while, and if they can’t make it to a phone, they send a postcard to let you know that they’re still alive and well.” Vexation forces your eyes to narrow, the color of your eyes morphing into something much more bleak. With a heavy exhale- filled with frustration and a semblance of humility- you remind him, “Friends don’t disappear into thin fucking air without letting you know why- especially, after those friends, were always a little more than just friends.” There’s a darkness behind your eyes that Dick’s not familiar with, and a weight settles in the hollow emptiness of his chest before sinking deeper and deeper into the pit of his stomach. His jaw clenches and he swallows thickly- the tastes of bile, rue, and shame all indiscernible from one another as he forces them back down.

He knows you’re right.

While his absence was abrupt, it had nothing to do with any ill will towards you. There was never a falling out- no crossing a line of no return or being pushed past a point that shattered a shared fantasy. Though the bullet posed no real threat of death by passing through his arm- beyond the phantom agony of lead tearing through flesh, and the hot, wet feeling of crimson pouring from the wound- a part of Dick Grayson did, in fact, die that night, at the hands of the Joker. The Clown Prince of Crime set off a domino effect when he fired at the young Boy Wonder, inevitably altering the course of his life forever. Acts of violent intent seldom harm a single soul, and as if it were fated, you became another casualty from an attack that was never meant for you.

When Bruce fired Dick, he was angry. Back then, thoughts of hanging up the cape never, ever, crossed his mind. Back then, he was content with fighting crime alongside his mentor, and never really considered what would happen next- or if there’d even be a next, or an after. He felt betrayed, abandoned, and filled with cynicism. As selfish as it was, you weren’t even really an afterthought in the downfall of his life caving in and swallowing him whole. He needed time to heal- time to rebuild- and prioritize who he was when he wasn’t hiding in the shadows left behind by a cape and cowl. Years passed, and with time to reflect, Dick’s bitter resentment morphed into a new kind of devotion to himself, and the few that started to look to him for guidance.

Before the Titans, he never really considered himself to be a leader. He spent most of his life abiding by rules and plans- roles and paths- that were set for him by another. Had he been hungry for control before, his first real taste solidified an insatiable appetite for the very thing he felt himself deprived of for too many years. Though, he’d come to learn that there was an ugly side to the power he wielded. Some days, the responsibility felt like a burden, and others, he felt like his guilt and uncertainty would swallow him whole. He bottled up all of his doubts, packed them somewhere deep inside the closed-off caverns in his heart where darker demons haunted, and forced them elsewhere- out of sight, and out of mind, but never truly gone.

It’s not fair that, somehow, you’ve come to possess the key that matches the lock on his Pandora’s box. Every emotion, every feeling, and every thought meant to be suppressed and banished to a place where they couldn’t torment or harm him, refuses to go gently when one simple, magnetic look threatens to release them from their cages of skin and bone. The most daunting realization of all, however, is that he’s the one to blame- for everything.

For all of it.

Selfishly, he’s hoped for an ember amongst the carnage he’s created. He’s held onto some convoluted idea of hope that whatever was once alight could be reignited again if he fully committed himself to an apology, but he failed to acknowledge the amount of ashes he’d have to sift through for a hint of a spark. There’s too much disappointment, too much duplicity, regret, and time passed between the two of you for things to ever revert back to even a semblance of what they once were.

He looks to you now, and he sees it- your anger is a mask for your pain. It’s so faint he almost misses it, but your lip threatens to wobble. Beyond the wrath you try to convey with the narrowed glare of your eyes, he watches as thinly veiled yearning mingles with what’s left of the color of your irises- simultaneously faint, yet prominent to the only other person who knows what it’s like to push away the person you love. What Dick and you shared wasn’t love, but it could’ve been and that’s what you’re both mourning- what could’ve been.

“You and I aren’t friends, Dick.” He hates the finality behind your conviction. It’s so cold, and void of the warmth he associated with you once upon a time. A split second threatens to expose the façade, and you blink back tears instead of allowing them to fall- swallowing emotion and banishing it elsewhere. Feelings have no place here. Instead, you grit your teeth, clenching them together so tightly that your jaw begins to ache. He watches you struggle to commit to the act- because that’s what your rage is, an outlet for your passions- and as you take a step closer toward him, his breath hitches. “Now, get out of my way,”

Toe to toe, you meet his gaze, and no matter how hard you try to fight it, despite your best efforts to disguise what you truly feel, Dick sees right through you- recognizing the parts of you that you try to mold and shape into something else. After all, he’s your greatest weakness- and you’re his. You always have been, and he always will be.

He dares to move. This close, he resists the urge to reach out for you and never let you go again, but this isn’t about him. It’s about you. Hesitantly, he raises his hand, his eyes never leaving yours as the shaky tips of his fingers graze your chin with a tenderness you’ve sought since the last time you felt it. The air is tense, passed back and forth by sharp breaths and thundering pulses- intimate with warmth and affection that mimics that of a simpler time- and when his palm rests against your cheek, cradling it with such gentle endearment in the face of betrayal, you let him. Dick’s throat bobs, and he pours everything he can’t bring himself to say into such a delicate touch. Every apology he wishes he had the courage to speak aloud, every declaration of devotion he was too afraid to voice, and every inevitable truth he attempted to ignore lingers, and you can feel it- in every shy stroke of his thumb across your cheek.

“You’re not going to distract me,” A single tear merges with the pad of his thumb- a testament to your resilience, but no match for the broken, battered, beaten bond you share with the man before you- and your certainty begins to dwindle. There’s a string that ties you to him- an invisible thread strong enough to stitch the two of you back together when you should remain apart- but you’re destined for him, the same way he’s always been destined for you.

It was foolish to believe any differently.

“I’m not trying to distract you,” Barely above a whisper, he pleads, desperate to make you understand, “I’m trying to apologize.”

He hangs his head with defeat, his shoulder slumping forward as he peers down at you. He’s never known such cruel torture. Such sick and twisted suffering is self-inflicted. The past erodes his future, but he can’t stop himself from resurrecting his demons. Foolishly, he invites them to haunt him further- and you’re no exception. His tightrope is stretched taut, and it’s a long way down. How much longer can he balance between anemoia and actuality before tipping one way or the other? It’s insanity- repeating the same act and hoping for a different outcome- but Dick can’t bring himself to accept that this time won’t be different. If nothing else, the possibility that this never-ending game could crown two winners is enough for him to play the martyr, and suffer whatever repercussions might follow after barring himself whole. What more does he have to lose, if not everything he’s already lost, again?

It would be so easy to reach past him and turn the lock in your favor, granting your escape. Hell, with the way he’s looking at you now, you know that he wouldn’t even put up a fight. He’d let you waltz right past him, slipping through his fingers for the umpteenth time because he knows that this time won’t be the last. It never is. Visions blurred by uncertainty flash before your eyes- infinite possibilities, each with consequences and punishments, rewards and sacrifices- but the unknown doesn’t elicit the same adrenaline-filled excitement that it once did. Maybe because this time, Dick isn’t fighting back. Surrendering his shield, he abandons resistance- instead, entrusting you with the vulnerability that spills from his heart, blood crimson against his fingers as he squeezes it with each thump and thud- crumbling before you, and submitting everything he has to give to you. Even if he can’t bring himself to support your cause.

You lean in closer, drawn to him- the same way you always have been, and likely, always will be- and your palm hovers over his chest. For a second, it’s unclear whether or not you’re going to reach out for him or push him away, but when your hand meets the fabric that covers hard muscle, you know you’re done for- because in the same ways he’s willing to fall before you, you’re willing to fall before him, too. Over and over again. Repeatedly and infinitely.

“Well, you have impeccable timing,” Your reproach is close enough for him to taste. It wavers against his lips and slips past his tongue, allowing him to savor parts of you he hasn’t been allowed to indulge in for so long. There’s no mistaking the invitation of your reprover, and Dick’s palm rests against your lower back, coaxing you closer towards him as his nose brushes against yours. It’s dizzying, and your arms find their way around his neck to steady yourself when he rests his forehead against yours with a soft sigh. The irony of the situation isn’t lost upon you- even when the two of you have ceded to one another, you’re still fighting to see who will give in first. As if he’s come to the realization at the same time, a large hand- rough and callused, but soft and tender in the way that it trembles against your cheek with anticipation- encourages you to tilt your head back, and you follow his lead. You hold your breath as your lips part, and Dick surges forward, slotting his mouth against yours in a kiss that’s fueled by the release of years of pent-up longing, need, and want. The gesture is foreign, yet familiar. Reminiscent of the past, yet entirely new. Everything you remember and everything you’ve ever dreamed of merge together in this moment and bring life to what had only ever been fantasy before his lips found yours once more.

It’s exhilarating.

“I missed you,” The affirmation rumbles against your skin, warm with fervor and urgency, and it’s completely unnecessary- considering that each movement acts as a balm to soothe wounds of time, fear, and doubt- but he vows with each breath, relying on words to convey what his actions can not, and vice versa. Masks are off. Shields have been abandoned. Capes remain long forgotten at the door. This is no longer about duty or morality. No, this moment is about two people seeking confirmation for what they’ve always known to be true- that a love unspoken, but never absent has always existed between them. Two people- not vigilantes or heroes- two hearts, beating to guide the other back, are bare, open, honest, and raw without the theatrics of a chase or the pretense of a game. Surrender invites you to balance on the edge of a precipice, and you’re the first to lose your footing.

Desperation is an influence, and his lapels wrinkle with the severity of your hold. Through the haze of everything unknown, he’s the only thing that’s clear, and you reach for him- blindly, but intentionally- clawing at the fabric that keeps him from you. Clashing teeth and bruising grips don’t elicit pain, not when real suffering exists in the absence of the other, and you allow him to paint you violet, blue, green, and red with desire, becoming the embodiment of his want. Your only regret is that the evidence of this divine crime will eventually fade away to nothing more than a memory- another ache that will never dull, a moment so unique that it can never be replicated. As you rejoice, you mourn.

“Sure you did.” His blazer drops to the floor as you follow your script, hardly taking a moment to realize that the page you’re reading from is blank- without word or direction- as you venture into unknown territory. Even when you don’t mean to be, you’re combative. Even when you don’t want to be, you’re still on edge. This is different. This already feels different than before, and maybe it’s because there’s a lot more at stake now that both of you have already lost one another, but for as overdue as this homecoming is, something subconsciously prolongs it further.

“No, really, I-“ He begins, ready to mold rhetoric and force it to take on a form that would allow you to see just how much you mean to him, but that would make this real, and you’re not sure if you’re ready for this to be real yet- because if this is real, if this isn’t just a cruel imitation of memory like so many variations before or a concocted fantasy so vivid you can feel yourself shaking, then that means you can lose it all, again. Just like last time. Within your grip, one minute, slipping through your fingers the next.

“Don’t.” Fear sounds different when there’s a bite to it. It could almost pass as annoyance, if you’re able to keep your voice just steady enough, and he mistakes the command for irritation, rather than the timidity it actually is. Whatever you’ve intended and he’s interpreted gets lost along the way, and he takes a hesitant step back. It’s impossible not to lunge for him as he retreats, but you remain still- your breath hitching when he holds both hands out to you, surrendering his palms while he shows he meant no harm.

“Can I…”

“You don’t have to ask,” You silence his fears quickly, closing the space between you before you even realize that you’ve taken a step. This self-sacrificial eagerness to light yourself on fire just to keep him warm has always been one of your greatest downfalls, but a most ardent gesture, and with ash on your tongue and soot in your lungs, you strike a match the minute he begins to second guess himself. “Just pretend it’s like before.” The suggestion sounds just as unsure as you are, but with a heavy breath, you encourage, “Pretend that nothing’s changed…pretend that we’re still…” You can’t even bring yourself to say it, because the kids you were back then are gone. They’re never coming back. You can’t avenge them or try to seek vengeance for what they’ve lost. It’s over for them, but this is just the start of this new beginning for the two of you. “Just for tonight.”

He moves promptly, gathering the skirts of your dress in one hand, fisting the fabric- a blue so dark he mistook it for black, or perhaps it was, until his fingertips were close enough to paint the illusion with light, making it appear different than it was- without any regard for creases or lingering proof of your affair. Support rests at your back, his chest firm and protective as you lean into the rippling muscle, and Dick continues to illuminate shadows of the past with each touch- eager to help you forget all of the agonies suffered at his hands in favor of remembering glimpses of peace. He’s ready to give you more than just a taste. Now, he wants to gorge you with the pleasure he’s reserved.

His hands shake- not with hesitancy, but anticipation, and when you catch his eye in the mirror, you shiver. You’ve never seen a blue so dark it looks black- until now. Without warning, he mouths at your neck- kissing, sucking, biting, any part of you he can get his lips on- reacquainting himself with parts of you that were once so familiar, and you allow him to explore. Blindly, you reach for one of his hands, taking it in your own, and he begins to intertwine his fingers with yours, but you gently guide his hand where you want it most- and he lets you, following your lead just as impulsively. You jolt at the first brush of his fingertips between your legs, even though you were expecting it, and he lets out a few ragged breaths against the back of your neck. It’s paradoxical, the chills that contradict the flush of your skin, but this relationship has never really made sense before. Why should that change now?

Almost as if he’s in a trance, Dick is overwhelmed by the twists and turns of the evening, but the whiplash is starting to subside in favor of something much more exhilarating. He never thought he’d have this again. He believed moments like these to be lost to time, and he wasted years grieving memories he could never replicate, only to feel the weight of your body against his once more. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything he never knew he wanted or needed until it was stolen from him, swiped right out from under his nose by his own negligence. He won’t make the same mistakes this time. No, this time, he’s going to do it right. He’s going to-

“Fuck,” When you grow tired of his stalling, you force his hand, again. This time, when your fingers meet his wrist, you press your palm on top of his- coercing him to mimic the shape- and maybe you’re the one in control, or maybe he finally rises to the occasion, but with a newfound determination, he cups your cunt- a choked sound catching in his throat when he feels how wet you are. You briefly wonder how something so vulgar can sound so pretty, but you already know the answer- it’s him. It’s always been him. Had it been anyone else, the effect would cease to exist, but it’s Dick, and that desire- that pull that you can’t ever deny- will always bind you to him.

You can’t help yourself from rutting against his palm, and he presses himself further into your back, allowing you to feel the hard outline of his cock against your ass. The hand that isn’t between your legs rests on your arm, and when he tries to hold your hand, you don’t deny him. There’s just too much fabric for you to hold in just one hand and some of it drapes over his forearm, but you manage to keep most of it from obscuring his movements. It’s a strange angle, and both of you are fumbling to make it work, but you crane your neck in search of him, and he answers your call with an eager kiss. Your tongue caresses his, savoring the feeling and committing it to memory, just in case-

He swallows your surprised gasp when he nudges your panties aside and begins to circle your clit. With just a bit of pressure, a crease forms where your eyebrows pull together, and you untangle your hand from his hold to brace yourself against the counter. It’s been a while since someone else has touched you, and it’s been even longer since the last time Dick had, but it’s so much better than evocations of pleasure. You swear figments are tangible. Spurred on by the reaction his touch has coaxed from you, he’s torn between making the moment last as long as possible or picking up the pace. He settles on the latter, considering that if this is heading the way he hopes it’s heading, he’ll have all the time in the world to make it up to you, but right now, he’s on borrowed time. You both are. With the reminder looming overhead, he adjusts his hand so that he can continue to work your clit while lining up a finger with your pussy. You’re so wet, and warm when he curls his middle finger inside, and he can’t remember why he ever left in the first place. What persuaded him away from Gotham when you were always right here? Would you have waited for him? Would you have followed him if he asked you to? He supposes none of that matters now, but he can’t help but wonder…

He adds a second finger, and even though your body gives little resistance to the intrusion, you groan at the feeling. His fingers are so long, reaching that spot inside of you that your fingers are just too short to reach, and they’re thick enough for you to feel yourself stretching around him with each thrust- not enough to cause pain, but an ache that serves as a reminder that it’s been too long since the last time you’ve had him like this. You vow not to let another ten years pass before you let him have you, again.

He continues a steady pace, curling his fingers in such a way that sweat begins to glisten across your chest, and when a third finger threatens to join his others, you wrap your hand around his wrist- abruptly halting his movements.

“N-not enough time,” He doesn’t even get the chance to ask before you supply him with an answer, but he nods in understanding once you offer an explanation. He’s already reaching for his belt, unbuckling the clasp and roughly shoving his slacks down before you have a chance to catch your breath, and you’re grateful- if the speed in which he undresses is any indication of his own eagerness- that he’s just as desperate for you, as you are for him. Taking a moment to adjust your skirts so that you don’t have to hold them, you bunch them above your hips and lean forward, resting your forearms against the counter while Dick frees himself from his boxers, and when you look back in the mirror and catch sight of his cock behind you, you can’t help but swallow thickly.

He strokes himself a few times, smearing the pre-cum beading from his slit down his shaft as he prepares to take you. This doesn’t feel like last time. As he reaches for your waist and lines himself up with your cunt, this doesn’t feel like last time at all. This is new, and different and everything he’s wanted ever since the last time he had you in his grasp. This time, he won’t let you get away. With as much self-restraint as he can manage, you feel the tip of his cock against your opening, slowly splitting you open, and your back arches. Your own strangled cry prompts a groan from him he sinks into you, inch by inch until his hips are flush against you. You’re so full that you’re not sure if it’s too much or not enough.

“I’ve got you,” Dick assures, his grip on your hip tightening when he feels you struggling to accommodate him. He tries to be a gentleman. He tries to give you a few minutes to adjust- even though he wants nothing more than to take what’s right under his nose, what’s always been his- but his restraint snaps when he feels you begin to rock back against him.

“Move,” You command, and he doesn’t have to be told twice. With your permission, he’s happy to follow orders and obliges with a sharp thrust upwards. The sound you make is a mix between a sob and a moan, and his fingers flex against your hip as he repeats the action.

“I forgot…” Through clenched teeth, he confesses, and you don’t think anything of the admission, too lost within your own feelings to attempt to decipher his. Instead, he wraps an arm around your waist, offering thick muscle to serve as a buffer between your body and the stone he has you pressed up against- relying on intimate gestures to make up for words lost in translation. Even now, when you’re not on the same page, you still know. Somehow, you know, and he does, too. Every time. Without fail. Always. Your head rolls back to meet his shoulder, and your fingertips claw at the back of his neck awkwardly, with transparent desperation to pull him closer. Within reach isn’t close enough. Near is too far. With a muted gasp, you push back to meet his next thrust, and he hisses softly before elaborating, “I’m so sorry if I made you forget.”

“Dick-“ Realization begins to splinter the mirage of bliss, and you manage to say his name with enough caution to serve as a warning. You don’t want to think about the past. Not right now. Not when you can see your future so clearly in the foggy reflection of the vanity. He wraps his hand around your neck, encouraging you to bare your throat to him and he licks at the vein that calls out to him.

“I won’t let you forget, not this time.” He vows, bucking his hips faster and faster as you whine in his hold. In some sick twisted way, he loves that he’s the only one who has this power over you- that he’s the only one who could ever elicit such a reaction- and it’s a testament to how much the two of you care for one another; the influence both of you have over one another. “This time, I want to remember.”

It’s going to be impossible not to.

“I-“ He can barely get a word out with how good you feel around him, and he takes a breath before trying again. “I know you want to pretend, but fuck…I can’t.” Dick wraps his arm around you, guiding your back to rest against his chest, and one of his large hands splays across your stomach, where he can feel himself inside of you. “I really did miss you,” Somehow he manages to find his voice. “Not just like this, either,”

“I-I missed you, too.” You don’t seem certain, not with the way you stutter, but your reply is genuine. It only appears dubious because Dick’s palm begins to press against you, and you all but choke on your confession. He can’t help himself, but neither can you.

“I’m close,” He rasps, brokenly. “Shit,” His thrusts begin to falter, and his eyes meet yours in the mirror. “Are you-“

“Yes!” You yelp when his fingers start circling your clit, and he doesn’t relent, even when he feels you start to tremble beneath him. You’re overwhelmed by him, in the best way possible, and as eager as you are to chance your release, a part of you never wants this moment to end. “Dick, please d-don’t stop,” Your muscles grow taut, and when his thrusts lose their precision, you know that he’s almost there. “Just like before,” You encourage him, clenching hard when he bites your shoulder and your orgasm washes over you. “J-just like before.”

He knows what you’re asking for. He understands what you’re practically begging for, and in a fleeting moment of clarity, he catches a glimpse of the faded scar on your arm- his only regret being the fact that an implant still stands in the way of what he truly wants with you- but the thought disappears as quickly as it materializes.

A few seconds more and he grunts against your neck, pulling your hips to meet his and spilling himself inside of you. It’s even better than you remember and your body shakes with aftershocks of pleasure. Luckily, he’s there to keep you upright. Your vision starts to blur and the only sound you’re able to make out is both of you struggling to catch your breaths. With a heavy sigh, he pulls out, and you can feel his cum start to leak from you, but you’re too disoriented to clean it up. Instead, you lean forward, relying on the countertop for support as you hang your head and try to come back to your senses.

Dick leaves a trail of soft kisses down the back of your neck and his forehead is both warm and damp when it meets your shoulder, resting comfortably against your skin while he takes a minute to catch his breath, and these sensations- these tiny little reminders that he’s here, this moment is present and real- ground you. Where your mind is a mess, reeling with indecision, emotions, and thoughts you can’t yet process, your body is at ease.

As your eyes flutter shut, greedy gulps of air fail to satisfy your lungs, and you swallow thickly, allowing pressure to build up in your chest until you simply can’t take it anymore. Darkness saturates all that you can see, and you’re caught in a void- trapped, without any light to guide you back home. The gentle caress of his touch along your arm brands you, flush enough to make you burn with reminders of this fleeting moment- when embers of devotion inevitably fade into ashes- and you stiffen in his hold, not that he’s coherent enough to notice.

He seems to be in his little world as he tucks himself back into his pants and presses another gentle kiss to your shoulder before wrapping his arms around you. Violent delights really do have violent ends and it’s not fair that you let it get this far without thinking about the consequences of your actions. None of this would’ve happened if you just let yourself love him- without fear, without judgment, without regret- and if you had just been honest with yourself all those years ago, this mess would’ve never spiraled so far out of your control.

Whatever repercussion await you, you’ll brave. Regardless of what happens next, you know that you have to tell him the truth- even if it kills you. The thought is often more daunting than the action itself, but as you turn yourself around in his arms so that you’re facing him, you’re petrified.

“I’m sorry,” The magnitude of your apology isn’t supported by the handful of letters that arrange themselves as they slip past your tongue. There has to be a better way to express your remorse, but if one exists it evades you. Over and over again, the same words come to mind and it’s not fair that you know exactly what you want to say, but you just can’t find the right words to absolve your shame. At your inability to voice your regret, frustration overwhelms you. Your lips part, ready to divulge your sins, but only a pathetic, meek sigh comes out. Why is this so difficult? You know the answer, and yet, you play the part of the fool- leaning on ignorance as a crutch for what you can’t bring yourself to brave. He deserves it, doesn’t he? The truth- not something partial, but whole. Transparency is the only piece left of a nearly complete puzzle, the only thing keeping this tragic tale of two lovers who break each other’s hearts only to stitch them back together again from reaching its inevitably doomed end. When your lip begins to tremble, Dick reaches for you, pulling you into his chest and embracing you in a hold that’s absolutely suffocating. You don’t deserve his kindness. You don’t deserve his love or affection- his tenderness or his forgiveness.

You don’t deserve him.

“Me too,” He sighs into your hair, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before resting his head on top of yours. You can hear his heart- how steady it beats- and the sound rivals the racing of your own where it threatens to burst straight from your chest, and your eyes flutter shut, savoring the gentle lull of his own serenity before you poison his relief with your own disruption. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how difficult it may be, you know that you have to tell him. With a breath, you prepare for carnage.

“No, Dick, I-“

“Dick? Are you in here?” Barbara’s voice seeps through the wooden barrier that separates the two of you from the rest of the world- from reality- and as soon as she calls out to him, the illusion of tranquility is broken. Of course, it’s her. Of course, she’d be the one to interrupt you before you had the chance to speak, and of course, it would be her that drives a wedge further between the two of you with one simple revelation, “They’re getting away!”

It’s almost impossible to miss the sounds of commotion that follow her declaration. Faint screams and chaos replace the background of symphony strings and he turns to you then, a divot dividing the smooth skin of his forehead while his eyes narrow. Blue is black. Dark, and unmistakable. The muscle in his jaw looks like it’s about to burst with the severity of his clenching and his nostrils flare with a shallow exhale. It’s excruciating to watch him slip back into consciousness after being caught up in a dream, but a nightmare unfolds before you, twisting your stomach into knots so intricate they threaten to snap. You can’t breathe, and when you gather enough courage to finally take a step forward, he takes a step back. He’s never looked at you with so much hostility before, and you open your mouth to explain, to shower him with honesty and desperate pleas to make him understand that this wasn’t meant to happen like this, but no sound comes out. Not even a sigh. Not even a huff. Not even a pathetic, broken whimper. Nothing.

Unfortunately, Dick’s left to draw his own conclusions- to fill in the gaps in which your silence fails to atone for your crimes- and he paints a picture so drastically different from the truth, relying on his interpretation to establish a story so vivid he believes it to be real- even if it’s a figment of his own imagination, a product of his own devastation. Dispelled doubts come rushing back, and he allows them to influence the narrative- since you still can’t seem to find your voice- and everything left unsaid becomes louder in the silence. He mistakes your tears for guilt, instead of recognizing the regret and shame that mingle with saltwater. As gutted as he is, he looks to you for an explanation, but you can’t bring yourself to justify what you’ve done- even if it wasn’t your intention. Distracting him was part of the plan. Keeping him occupied was your mission, but confessing your true feelings and allowing yourself to fall back in love with him- not just the idea of what it would be like to love him- wasn’t part of your job description.

The second your paths crossed again, you were done for. It was never about seeking vengeance or getting even for the hurt that he caused you, because the minute that Dick waltzed back into your life, you knew you were doomed- because he makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak- and you let him. Every single time. Always and forever. Infinitely.

When he looks at you, he looks past you and towards your belongings on the counter. No. You shake your head, vehemently encouraging him to look away. If his eyes would just meet yours, if only for a second, you know you could save this. If not for the sake of putting broken pieces back together you could at least salvage fragments amongst the wreckage, but he doesn’t spare you a glance. No, no, no. His attention is solely on the expensive stone behind you, and when you reach out for him, your fingertips shaking as you grasp his bicep with all of the strength you can muster, he shakes you off of him.

Everything splinters.

When he reaches for your earring, you know that this is the end. It’s all over. A new moment will erase everything you thought you knew about pain, heartbreak, suffering, and betrayal. This moment, as it unfolds before you, will plague you until you meet your demise, because the second that he dares to bring the jewel up to his own ear, the exact moment that he hears Selina’s command through the gravely static of the earpiece you discarded earlier in the evening, you know that any hope for a future together vanishes- ripped straight from your fingers before you even had the chance to hold onto it and guard it with your life.

Even with his back towards you, you can see his face harden in the reflection of the mirror. Through the thin material of his crumbled dress shirt his shoulders tense and when he finally looks up to meet your stare through the glass, all traces of red, green, and yellow are gone. A piece of him- the piece of him that you’re most familiar with- dies, sprawled out and oozing across the marble. It’s too late to try to revive him. All that’s left in the wake of his slaughter is blue and black.

Blue and black, forevermore.

There’s nothing left for either of you here. Not anymore. Hope begins to decay, and the hollow hole in your chest that only he could ever fill begins to die from rot. Nothing will ever be the same. Not after this. Perhaps the final thought passed back and forth between a glare is the last thing you’ll ever share- beyond moments of destruction and beautiful chaos- but it’s clear to you both, that not all ghosts are meant to be resurrected.

Some ghosts should just stay ghosts.

a/n: hey, I’m raen and I’m down bad for this man lol…anyway, I’ve been working on this story for months. I literally poured bits and pieces of my soul into this (so if you wouldn’t mind interacting or providing feedback I’d be forever grateful) but I just wanted to write a tale of doomed lovers who care about each other in such a way that it leads to their downfall. I wanted this to hurt, and I hope it did- in the best way possible! I’m not above begging, so please, please, please feel free to send some feedback- as this is my first time writing for Dick and I would love to hear what people think! that being said, requests are also open! check out my request guidelines before submitting! and if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading!

everyone who requested to be tagged: @js-favnanadoongi @kalulakunundrum @1lellykins @octodog17 @novelizt @nesta-houseofwindfantasy @corgiqween576 @whiteglovemanor @godcreatoreli @lassmich1 @consternat1on @deffnotnia @haloney @iananiko @noodlesketchbook @thescarletcryptid @obsessedwthdilfs @vanice-e @taintedmaroon @holybatflapexpert @whatismypurpos @heylookwhoitis @corpseflower6 @heavenlym0chi @lokiwannacry @boywondergrayson @tetzoro @oiztsy @naf3211

tagging a few of my favorite accounts: @becauseicantthinkwritings @dxckgrxsonx @lightwing-s @makethatelevenrings @littleredwing89 @bat-writer @wingbcrn @rebelbluerobin @idyllcy @dick-nightwing-grayson @damiansgrayson @gone-batty-fics @graysonspet @graysonswonder @angry-nightwing

Send me some feedback, or request to be added to my taglist! (please specify which taglist you’d like to be added to- character or general) !Requests: OPEN!

buy me a ko-fi!

2K notes · View notes

astrosouldivinity · 7 months ago

Text

𝐏𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐧 𝐀𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐬: 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲

- Angela Davis

✫ As we enter the era of Pluto in Aquarius, it’s set to be a karmic time for the elites. The recent assassination of United Healthcare CEO Brian Thompson in New York highlights the escalating tension of this age. This targeted attack serves as a warning that we are approaching a tipping point, one in which solidarity among the proletariat is becoming increasingly essential for survival.

✫ Since Pluto entered Aquarius on November 19, 2024, revolutions are already beginning worldwide. History has a way of repeating itself; consider the Haitian, American, Industrial, and French Revolutions, alongside the beginnings of the Women’s and Abolitionist movements, all occurring during the Pluto in Aquarius era. Each of these movements was fueled by collective consciousness and the desire for change.

✫ The American healthcare system is deeply corrupt. With threats from leaders like Trump to cut essential benefits like VA Healthcare only exacerbate the situation. America operates like a business, prioritizing profit over people, and the exploitation of our healthcare system is utterly unethical. Furthermore, research indicates that life expectancy is higher in countries with publicly funded healthcare compared to those without it.

⋆⁑ ⋆ ✩ ⁑ ⋆ ✩ ⁑ ⋆ ✩ ⁑ ⋆ ✩ ⁑ ⋆ ✩ ⁑ ⋆ ✩ ⁑ ⋆ ✩ ⁑ ⋆ ✩ ⁑ ⋆

✫ This alarming reality in the U.S. reflects a broader pattern of instability and discontent around the world. Similarly, we’re witnessing turmoil globally: France's government has collapsed, South Korea has declared martial law, and protests are erupting in Georgia. These events highlight an increasing wave of rebellion, fueled by a collective desire for change and justice worldwide. Citizens everywhere are standing up against oppressive systems, demanding accountability, and striving for a future that prioritizes their needs and rights.

⋆⁑ ⋆ ✩ ⁑ ⋆ ✩ ⁑ ⋆ ✩ ⁑ ⋆ ✩ ⁑ ⋆ ✩ ⁑ ⋆ ✩ ⁑ ⋆ ✩ ⁑ ⋆ ✩ ⁑ ⋆

✫ In the aftermath of Thompson's death, Blue Cross Blue Shield reversed their policy on anesthesia coverage, clearly spooked by the assassination. This swift change demonstrates the power we hold as a collective. The elites may be a small fraction of the population, but this shows that we the people have the strength to demand change. When people have nothing to lose, they become a force to be reckoned with.

✫ I want to clarify that I am not condoning violence. It’s unfortunate that we've reached this point in the world. Historical cycles tend to repeat, and we are witnessing its echoes. Pluto in Aquarius marks the beginning of a new age of rebellion, revolt, and transformation. Pluto symbolizes destruction and renewal, and the energy of Aquarius fosters the desire to break free from outdated traditions. People are fed up and are demanding change.

𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐬:

• https://www.npr.org/2024/12/05/nx-s1-5217617/blue-cross-blue-shield-anesthesia-anthem

• https://foreignpolicy.com/2024/12/06/georgia-scenarios-protests-russia-eu-election-democracy-tbilisi/

• https://www.newsweek.com/veterans-health-care-cut-department-government-efficiency-1985641

• https://amp.cnn.com/cnn/2024/12/04/us/brian-thompson-united-healthcare-death

• https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC9653205/

• https://www.npr.org/2024/12/05/nx-s1-5215788/south-korea-martial-law

• https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/cdxz934p56qo.amp

𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

𝚆𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝙰𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚜

𝙲𝚊��𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖

𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖 𝙿𝚝. 2

𝚡𝚡- 𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 (𝙺𝚒𝚔𝚒)

©𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚁𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚁𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍.

170 notes · View notes

lucentshore · 15 days ago

Text

obviously we'll have to wait and see, but i've been eyeing the steamdb page for silksong since i heard that team cherry uploaded language packs for the achievements, and i figure it might be a good idea to show what i've watched be uploaded in that time, for those curious about silksong development stuff.

for anyone who wants to review this themselves, here is the link to the steamdb page for the game.

so that others dont have to go to the page to verify what i'll be talking about here, i will provide screenshots. it's all under the cut, but if you don't want to read it all,

tldr; team cherry has uploaded translation packages for achievements in ten different languages (viewable on the steam page), uploaded two game packages (one of which uses the official title, the other being noted for developer & publisher use), updated a time or two more without adding details, and updated compatible operating systems to include mac & linux (not updated on the steam page).

JUNE 3RD, 2025.

this was the translation package that restarted the silksong rumors! the steam page was updated to reflect the languages the game will be available in now, too, while steamdb specifically noted them to be achievement languages.

the added languages are brazillian portugese, english, french, german, italian, japenese, korean, russian, simplified chinese, and spanish.

after this, two more updates were released. the changelog doesn't note what they were,

but if you head to the packages tab, you'll see a total of three packages noted. the first two are the ones that were updated during this day.

i had to look this up, so just to explain the billing type,

CD & Store Keys are how a game is verified after purchase. its their way of confirming that okay, yes, you did buy the game, and this is your copy. theyre called CD keys, because when games were distributed only on CD keys years ago, it was on the CD itself.

nowadays, it's basically a confirmation of purchase upon installation.

SO. let's start with that top one. Steam Sub 342710 (link to package) is for developer and publisher use only. it has ten different CD keys, is licensed for single purchase, and is listed as having 0 available. i would speculate here, but i know fuck all about game development, and i'm not gonna give any false hope.

...though i do wanna point out that if you go into the history for that package it has been there since 2019, and based on how it talks about a release override and counting as always being owned, this definitely is a dev-use only package. anyway.

you can see the information listed on the package's page below.

the other one, bearing the game's full name of Hollow Knight: Silksong (link to package), was actually updated like. twenty minutes before the other one. which unironically probably does not mean much, don't look too far into it, im giving you a timeline here. that's it.

this one has ten CD & Store keys, as opposed to only having CD Keys. i tried to look up the difference, but couldn't find anything. it's also only for single purchase, and is listed as having 0 available. it also has cross-region trading and gifting disabled.

you can see the information listed on the package's page below.

and that was all the changes for june 3rd, 2025.

JUNE 4TH, 2025.

there was one update on june 4th, and despite poking around, i couldn't figure out what the update was to. the changelog lists that there was an update, but it doesn't say what was changed. shrug.

you can see that below.

JUNE 6TH, 2025.

starting out strong with. well. a repeat of june 4th, we have a listed update that i could not find a notable change from.

and then, thirty minutes or so later, the compatible operating systems list was updated! i'll be honest, i don't understand all of what's listed here, but i do understand that this is confirmation that silksong will be playable on windows, mac, and linux.

unfortunately, as of the time this post has been made, the steam page still has not been updated to reflect this compatibility update.

that is, as of the time this post has been made, the last update listed on the steamdb page for silksong.

#our posts 🌊#silksong #hollow knight #team cherry #TELL ME THE RELEASE DATE FOR SILKSONG YOU AUSSIE PIECES OF SHIT [affectionate]#if they update shit more tonight after i already made this post im gonna start biting

58 notes · View notes

lilu787788 · 3 months ago

Text

I see something deeply unsettling in the way some young people approach Aleksander. It’s not just that they dislike him, that's fair, everyone is entitled to their opinion. But the level of hatred they express is not only disproportionate to their understanding, it feels like a performance. It’s not rooted in genuine engagement or critique but in sheer emotional outbursts: shouting, mocking, name-calling, and vilifying him in ways that feel more like a show than anything else. What’s most troubling is how loud this condemnation is and how empty it is in terms of actual understanding. We’re living in a time when emotional intelligence, trauma awareness, and social consciousness are celebrated, so why is it so difficult for these young viewers to extend those same values to a character like Aleksander? The speed at which they abandon the very principles they claim to uphold the moment a character challenges their worldview is amazing. Aleksander isn’t some mindless villain or sadistic monster, no matter how often they says he is. His actions are born from years of pain, betrayal, loss, and an overwhelming need to protect his people from history repeating itself. Yet, instead of attempting to understand the deeper layers of his character, the response is pure disdain. These are the same people who claim to care about empathy for trauma survivors, who value moral ambiguity in characters, and yet Aleksander gets nothing but rejection. It’s not just that they don’t like him, it’s that they refuse to understand him. They throw around words like "manipulator", "villain", "monster", "groomer", without even considering whether they apply in his case. They strip away centuries of his personal suffering, the weight of his decisions, the heartbreak and loneliness he carries, and reduce him to nothing more than a one-dimensional bad guy. And here’s the thing: they don’t hate him because he’s evil. They hate him because he’s complex. Because he challenges their understanding of good and evil. He forces them to think and wrestle with moral grey areas. And instead of taking that challenge, they retreat into their comfort zones and shout louder.It’s a kind of intellectual cowardice, really. It’s easier to dismiss a character like Aleksander with a label than to sit with the discomfort of trying to understand his motivations. But here's the thing: Aleksander doesn’t need to be loved by them unconditionally. He doesn’t need to be idolized by them. But he does deserve to be understood. And it seems to me that too many of these young voices, who claim to appreciate complexity, are either unwilling or unable to do that. The more mature readers and viewers, those who’ve lived long enough to understand that life isn’t just black and white don’t shout or blindly condemn. They reflect. They see that Aleksander’s actions were shaped by survival, by war, by love, and by loss. They see the tragedy of a man who has lived for centuries in isolation, carrying the burden of all that pain. They understand that his greatest tragedy wasn’t his downfall, but the fact that no one ever really saw him. Not his mother and not his lover. And, tragically, not those who claim to be his critics. Younger generation claims to be champions of complexity and nuance, and yet, when faced with a character like Aleksander who is drenched in sorrow and burdened with trauma they shrink. They refuse to engage. They diminish him. They condemn him. And all the while, they shout, not to uncover the truth, but to silence it.

It’s frustrating, honestly. Because it’s not about blindly supporting Aleksander, it’s about having the maturity to look beyond the surface, to understand what makes him tick, and to ask yourself: Why does he do what he does? But sadly, the loudest voices seem too focused on proving their moral superiority to take the time to ask that question. And in doing so, they miss the real story. That's why I think that Aleksander would be perfect for a genre intended for an older audience, but more on that next time.

#aleksander morozova #ben barnes #darkling #pro darkling #shadow and bone #shadow and bone tv #the darkling #shadow summoner #anti antis #antis #fandom problems #morally grey men #morally grey characters

80 notes · View notes

unihentai · 2 months ago

Text

Pages of freedom

Tate No Yuusha X Reader(Shield Hero)

(01) (02)next>>>

SYNOPSIS:

The Rising of the Shield Hero x Reader (All Characters Except Imperial Family & Malty as Love Interests)

After yet another ordinary day, you finally give up on enduring your classmates' judgments and cruel jokes. Though your friend Riyako promised to protect you and catch you if you fell, you failed - reaching the third floor stairwell of your school, you jump without thinking, seeing your friend's face one last time as you leap.

But it seems you never hit the ground.

You fall endlessly until... waking up surrounded by a group of men, now bearing the title of "Book Hero(ine)." What happens now?

Fem!Reader (Name/You) x Tate no Yuusha

All characters are potential love interests (except the imperial family and that bitch).

About You in This Story: In your original world, you suffered injustice due to circumstances beyond your control. Arriving in this new world, you feel displaced - unwilling to reach out to anyone, afraid of history repeating itself in this unfamiliar place.

But after seeing how this world works... You feel empathy with Naofumi. You realize this world could be just like your old one, And so you start doing something you never did before - You start fighting back, No longer staying silent.

𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐥𝐨 1

Before:

"—Your sweater..."

The girl looked down at her school hoodie, now soaked and caked in mud from the rain. The boy beside her held an umbrella over them both as he picked up the dirty, wet garment.

"Don’t worry, Riyako. I’m used to it."

She shook the hoodie, trying to get rid of as much dirt and water as possible. The boy watched her with a sad expression—her face was unreadable, hidden behind a white mask.

"But, (Name)... don’t you think this is going too far? Maybe we could talk to the teachers or even the principal..." he said, eyeing the stains on her hoodie.

"I already tried. They didn’t believe me, and when they did, nothing changed. Cough—"

She was cut off by another cough. The boy immediately placed a hand on her shoulder, concerned. Without a word, she walked into the rain, still clutching the hoodie—until the boy hurried after her, shielding her with the umbrella.

"You should stop doing this. You’re already sick—you don’t need to make it worse!"

The boy, Riyako, walked beside the [hair color]-haired girl. It was late afternoon, and as usual, the two walked home together. Riyako glanced at his friend, who had her own umbrella, waving at him from the street. He smiled and waved back before heading inside.

Now alone, the girl stared at her gloved hand gripping the muddy hoodie before continuing home.

After:

Once home, she tossed her clothes—including the ruined hoodie—into the wash before heading upstairs. In her room, she removed her gloves and mask, observing how her [skin tone] had paled from illness. Even sick, she refused to skip school. She couldn’t stand being at home.

Her reflection showed faint dark circles under her eyes from exhaustion. Ignoring her hunger, she finished her homework and collapsed into bed, ready to repeat the same routine tomorrow.

The Next Day:

The two usually met at school, but (Name) arrived early. As expected, she endured the same taunts. She walked to the hallway near the stairwell, watching Riyako search for someone in the crowd.

Placing her belongings by the railing, she removed her shoes. She could feel the stares behind her—no one moved, no one spoke. Some even pulled out their phones to record.

She climbed onto the railing, sitting precariously as she glanced at Riyako one last time.

The boy’s eyes widened in horror when he saw her.

"(NAME)!"

He sprinted toward her, screaming her name. The crowd remained frozen, whispering among themselves.

"Is she really gonna jump?" "Bet she’s just doing it for attention—especially Nishiro Riyako’s." "If she’s that desperate, she doesn’t deserve to be near Nishiro-senpai anyway."

She ignored them.

And let go.

The group behind her gasped. Riyako’s desperate screams echoed through the courtyard—joined by horrified shrieks as her body hit the ground.

But for (Name), it wasn’t over.

She kept falling.

Memories flashed—her last conversation with Riyako.

"You won’t be alone. I’ll be here with you, okay, (Name)? I promise." "...Fine. But you don’t have to care about me like that." She stared out the window, packing her books. "Well..." Riyako pulled her into a hug. "I do. You’re important to me." "You say that now..." A finger tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his calm gaze. "I wouldn’t let you fall. I’d catch you. What kind of idiot would let someone like you go?"

She closed her eyes.

"You wouldn’t let me fall... but I’d jump anyway. Sorry, Riyako."

A New World:

She expected darkness.

Instead—porcelain tiles.

Blinking, she sat up, hood still shielding her from the rain (or was it another world’s weather?). The crowd around her murmured, but their judgmental stares couldn’t hurt her now.

In her arms—a book.

A magic book, with a gleaming [color]-hued jewel embedded in its cover.

Before she could process it, shouts erupted.

Four boys groaned nearby, bruised and disoriented.

"Where are we... Purgatory?" "We did it! We succeeded!" A robed figure cheered. "The Four Heroes! No—FIVE Heroes! We need your help!"

(Name) ignored them, focusing on the strange menu in her vision:

—(Full Name) — The Book Hero - Level: 1 - EXP: 0 - Weapon: Cardinal Book [Legendary Weapon] - Magic Level: 1 - ATK: 5 - DEF: 5

Flipping through the book’s description:

Cardinal Book (Enchanted): A magical tome bound to the Cardinal Hero. Gain EXP and levels to unlock abilities. Current Skill: Levitation

"A... book?"

One of the summoned boys—Naofumi, the Shield Hero—frowned. "Let me get this straight. You summoned us, and now you can’t send us back?"

"We called upon the Four—no, FIVE Cardinal Heroes! The Sword, Bow, Spear, Shield, and Book Heroes! Our world is under attack by Waves of Calamity!"

"Book Hero?" (Name) muttered. "Makes sense... I do read a lot."

After a chaotic debate about their origins (apparently, they were all from different versions of Japan), they were led to the king.

The King’s Audience:

King Aultcray Melromarc XXXII greeted them with false warmth.

"You are the brave Four—no, FIVE Heroes! Save our world, and you shall be rewarded!"

He demanded their names.

"I shouldn’t even be here," (Name) thought but stayed silent as the others introduced themselves.

Itsuki Kawasumi (17, Bow Hero) – A high schooler obsessed with justice.

Ren Amaki (18, Sword Hero) – A quiet gamer familiar with VRMMOs.

Motoyasu Kitamura (19, Spear Hero) – A flirtatious college student.

Naofumi Iwatani (20, Shield Hero) – A skeptical loner.

Then, all eyes turned to her.

"(Full Name). 18. High school."

Her voice, muffled by the mask, sounded almost androgynous. No one questioned it.

The king’s nervous glance at her didn’t go unnoticed.

"Why did you say ‘Four Heroes’ first?" she asked.

"Ah! You see, the Book Hero is... difficult to summon. It’s rare for all five to appear at once!"

Naofumi’s eyes narrowed. "So she’s the strongest?"

The First Night:

Back in their shared quarters, the heroes argued over game mechanics.

"This is just like a VRMMO!" Ren said. "What’s a VRMMO?" Naofumi asked. "It’s a virtual reality game! The stats, the skills—it’s all the same!"

(Name) stayed silent until Ren noticed her odd attire.

"Why are you covered up like that? Aren’t you hot?"

"I was sick before coming here. The mask helps." She removed a glove, showing pale skin. "Gloves are... practical."

Itsuki grinned. "You can take it off if you want. We won’t mess with you."

"Thanks... but I’ll keep it for now."

She excused herself, stepping into the hallway.

Lost and Found:

Alone, she placed the magic book on a table—only for its jewel to glow violently.

WHOOSH.

Her phone vanished into the book.

"NO!"

Desperate, she shook the book—until a notification appeared:

- EXP: +15 - New Skills Unlocked

Tears welled up. "I’m an idiot!"

Furious, she opened the book. Blank pages. A [color]-feathered pen materialized—like a diary’s quill.

When she returned, Naofumi was ranting.

"(Name), do you think the Shield is weak?!"

"No," she said bluntly. "I know characters who wield shields and are overpowered."

"Liar!" Motoyasu scoffed.

"I have proof—but my book ate my phone!"

Ren helped her retrieve it via the skill menu. The moment her phone reappeared, she hugged it—then hugged Ren in gratitude.

"THANK YOU! Arigato! Arigato!"

Ren chuckled, patting her head. "No problem. Now, show us these ‘OP shield users’ you mentioned."

She grinned. "Gladly."

52 notes · View notes

sakkiichi · 2 years ago

Text

IT’S YOU, IT’S YOU, IT’S ALL FOR YOU.

“Let them have the world, I only want you.”

Kaedehara Kazuha, Scaramouche/Wanderer, Venti, Xiao x gn! reader.

cw/genre: romance, comfort, angst, fluff.

✧ KAEDEHARA KAZUHA

Lightning opens the sky and the end of the world is starting.

Over Tenshukaku, bruised clouds gather, the ground rumbling to the ear-splitting sound of thunder.

Your breath comes in short, running by your lover’s side, a scene you know neither of you ever wants to relive, peeking from behind the darkened horizon.

Spears, bows and swords drawn, you rush to the scene by the resistance’s soldiers’ side.

Violent shades of violet ignite two silhouettes: one of them with their sword at the ready, the other with something floating at their side.

The Traveler is in danger.

Picking up pace, you reach the war zone, just to be met almost face to face with the slash of lightning.

Something you never wanted to encounter again, something you swore you’d never let him have to face anymore.

Electricity is reflected in your eyes when your gaze focuses on him. Your arms reaching out, to no avail, for the wandering samurai’s katana is clashing against the very same storm that burned him, in more ways than one.

Perhaps you were screaming, maybe you imagined his departed friend’s vision glowing anew, or it could be that the crackling of neon indigo around was just scorching your throat.

You don’t want to look, and yet your eyes stay glued to him, the wandering soul you’ve come to know perhaps deeper than you’ve ever known yourself.

A bright flash surrounds you and you just can’t bring yourself to watch.

In the middle of this thunder raining night, you don’t want to, you can’t bear to imagine the prospect of a world without your sun.

Salty droplets start sliding down your cheeks, your vision blurry when you finally, tentatively, crack your eyes open.

And for a moment, all air is knocked out of your lungs.

A dull colorless vision lays lifeless before you.

“No… no… no! No…” A croaked out choke leaves your throat, your legs giving out from under you.

And yet, you never hit the ground.

Familiar arms are wrapped around you, comforting, in the way only his were.

A heartbeat, loud and quick, melting into your stressed lungs, its thumping breaking the surface of your glacial deep sea when you gasp for air.

“Shhh dove, I’m here.” His head rests against yours, silky strands of hair you’ve combed and braided countless times tickling the side of your neck.

The samurai’s hold on you tightens; oxygen fills your lungs again.

“Kazuha…” You breathe, your voice a glass string, threatening to shatter with the slightest breeze.

“I’m here.” He repeats, tender lips delicately pecking your hair.

In his hold, you turn around, your knuckles white, gripping his clothes, as if he was going to disappear right between your fingers.

“Kazuha… please…” you rest your cheek against his chest, burying into him. “Don’t do that again!” Sobs, broken like the lightning pierced sky above escape you. “I don’t care if the whole world burns down, I only want you, safe and here, so please don’t…” you can’t form any more words, tears completely blinding you, ragged breaths lodged at the back of your throat.

“My hummingbird, I don’t know if I can promise you I won’t put myself in danger again,” Kazuha utters, with the softness of autumn leaves landing on your outstretched palms. His hands brush sweaty strands away from your face, the bandages you’ve wrapped and unwrapped until you knew his scars by heart, all too present when he touches your skin. “But I swear I’ll always return to you, safe.” He leaves a soft kiss on your temple, a lingering charm reminding you of his promise.

“Kazuha…” you cry again, squeezing him even tighter.

In the thunderstruck night, the poet known by the wind doesn’t let you go.

History didn’t repeat itself.

You won’t let it in the future either.

✧ SCARAMOUCHE

In the end, you’re thankful he didn’t become a god.

Looking at him now, with the last rays of summer sun carried by the breeze kissing his face, you believe Scaramouche is right were he was always meant to be: with someone by his side, not replaced, not discarded.

Not alone.

Pristine svelte hands, despite the biting gales he commands, pluck at a Sumeru rose by his side, its violet petals almost sparkling in the coppery glow of the early evening.

The wanderer’s brow furrows, a dispersing cloud flitting by in the dusk horizon. He twirls the flower around his fingers, akin to a kaleidoscope reflecting the feelings his eyes can’t fully conceal.

“What’s on your mind?” You ask, bumping your shoulder with his softly.

Months back, that gesture alone would probably have earned you a cold hard stare and perhaps the breath knocked out of you.

But he��s… different now, you guess; or perhaps he is starting to become himself.

He sighs, starting to pluck at the petals of the rose still in his grasp.

“For a moment, I thought I finally had it all.” He leans back, the flower now resting beside him, as he looks up at the glowing sky. “For a brief instant, I thought, finally, no one else would betray me, that if I stood over everyone else, I’d… I don’t know, wouldn’t be discarded once again.” He chuckles, the sound humorless. “Turns out that couldn’t have been farther from the truth, huh?” He sighs again, pulling off some grass from the ground, letting it fly away into the sunset.

“Not necessarily.” You softly tell him, picking up the rose he was holding earlier. “You’re still here, and at least there’s a small part from your past you’ve been able to pull away from, hm?” You search for his gaze, your mind back to the days in which you exchanged blows and he was still known as ‘the Balladeer’. “And I’m still here, Nahida hasn’t completely deserted you either, and well, hasn’t the Traveler invited you into their Serenitea Pot more than once?” You offer him a sincere smile that merges into a chuckle when you observe his cheeks tinting in the same colors as the sun dipping behind the horizon. “Let whoever wants to command this world have it.” You utter, brushing away starlit strands from his face. “You’ll always be at the center of mine, Kuni.” You vow, as you tuck the Sumeru rose behind his ear.

Your partner scoffs, but it comes out like more of a chuckle, the carmine on his cheeks almost glowing as silver and gold mix in the sky for a few ephemeral instants.

In a moment in which is neither day or night, your gazes meet.

And he is certain the stars dancing in your stare are very much real.

‘The moon is beautiful,’ is the thought you share looking into each other’s eyes.

✧ VENTI

Midnight dyes Mondstadt in shades of cyan. By starlight, the city of freedom is not unlike a deep lake, the lit windows akin to lanterns shining at the bottom.

On the highest point of this city, a bard sits, his lyre, by his side; his songs, silent tonight.

He feels like he’s drowning.

He’s the god of this land, and yet, no wind seems to encompass his breaths.

By daylight, no one would be able to tell gales arise inside the carefree lyricist’s heart, but, at night, the shadows tended to light up things in their true colors.

A sigh leaves him, mere ripples in the stillness of the hour.

“Long day?”

A familiar voice, the one he has wished would join his in the verses he strums on his instrument.

He turns around, eyes of northern lights following your figure as you sit beside him.

Your feet dangle from the hands of the anemo archon’s statue, night air chilly against your skin. You give him a knowing look, inviting him to go on, to speak his mind if he needs to.

“I suppose you could say that.” Venti replies, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes plastered on his features. “But I’ll be fine!” His grin widens, a cracked mask held together by sheer willpower.

“Venti…” You scold him with no malice, leveling him with a pointed glance. “How many times have you said that knowing damn well it wouldn’t be true?”

He shrugs, looking down at the city below. A city he doesn’t think he can protect now.

He couldn’t save his friend, after all.

Who’s to say if the time calls for it, he’ll be able to save everyone, or you, for that matter?

“I know…” your partner mumbles, his voice devoid of his usual cheer. “It’s just…” the wind god looks up, as if asking the midnight zephyr, ‘where do I go from here?’ He mindlessly fiddles with the strings of his discarded lyre, right now, not certain he’ll ever pick it up again. “Wouldn’t this city… be better with someone else as its archon?”

“What makes you say that?” You ask, leaning your head on his shoulder, as you’ve done many times. The sound of his lyre used to accompany you in those. You miss it now. “I know I wouldn’t want anyone else but you, Venti.”

The anemo archon rests his head on top of yours, closing his eyes against the dark sky.

With you by his side, he almost feels like he’s flying.

“Are you sure?” He asks, barely above a whisper.

“More than I’ve ever been about anything, love.”

Venti hums, letting himself melt against your hold, at least for tonight. Perhaps he’s just too tired to discuss the topic further, maybe he just wants to believe this world still can be beautiful for him after all.

You wrap your arms around his waist.

The lake he was drowning in minutes ago stills.

The lyre is back in the god of anemo’s hands.

✧ XIAO

The yaksha is starting to think perhaps this was indeed not a good idea.

He feels miserable; he sports new wounds every night, both on his skin and his heart; he hasn’t felt your arms around his form in so long.

He thought if he pulled away, perhaps he could spend more time slaying monsters.

If there was no light at the end of the tunnel, then he could stay forever entangled in his eternal dance of life and death, right? Liyue would be protected.

You would be safe.

Except maybe that candle fluttering in the middle of the night was what gave the conqueror of demons some semblance of hope.

From the balcony of Wangshu Inn, the adeptus takes a deep breath, ready to leap to the other side of the darkened sky’s curtain.

Except, something, someone catches his wrist.

“Xiao.” The vigilant yaksha turns around, piercing gold meeting the steely resolve of your gaze. Your grip on his hand tightens. “Where are you going?” You ask him.

The demon conqueror stands at a standstill, balanced between the darkness of lost stars beyond, and the warmth of existing by your side.

The set of his jaw tightens. Why did you always make him feel this… softness inside his heart?

But no, he can’t stay. He needs to keep you safe, and if that means dipping in bloodshed, then so be it.

However, you beg to differ.

A ripple of ginko leaves, aureate against the marine backdrop of infinity flutters by.

By the time it stops, Xiao is standing in front of you, both your hands on his, the wisps of dark jade smoke and his polearm, discarded.

“Stay.” You plead, reaching out to brush silky dark teal strands away from his face. You let your fingers ghost over the dark shadows coating the underside of your adeptus’ stare, as if the demons he so intently fights were taking form in the the heaviness of his gaze.

He wants to say ‘no’, he wants to walk away.

He doesn’t think he has the right to taint you with his karma.

And yet, his patched up heart can’t help but nod along to anything you say.

So, for once, the yaksha sheds his mask, head hung low, shoulders sagging.

“Xiao,” you call, your hands cradling his face, guiding it to yours. “You deserve peace too.”

Your lover’s brows furrow, why were you always so tender and kind to him?

“But I need to protect-“

“My love, no legend is without chapters, you need rest and care as well.” You retort, your index running along the rosy curve of his lips.

The vigilante sighs, relieved or defeated, he could never tell.

“Let the world fend off for itself tonight, Xiao.” You softly breathe, a caress against his flared up skin. “Be with me, at least until dawn.”

Your arms wrap around him.

Standing in the light like this… it feels good.

Xiao leans his head on the crook of your neck.

And for once, he chooses warmth.

He wouldn’t enter the tunnel tonight.

650 notes · View notes

classicanalyzer · 7 months ago

Text

The Rise and Fall of the Galactic Empire - Introduction Analysis

"...People so often misunderstand the purpose of historians. They think that we are just here to recount past events. To provide details without analysis. Facts without insight. Data without argument. This is wrong. The role of a historian—my role as a historian—is to try to tell you not just how but why these things happened. To try to make you understand the importance of these past events and what they mean for us today and tomorrow. This study is not just a work of history but of necessity. The galaxy needs to understand exactly what the Galactic Empire was and how it brought us to our latest brush with disaster. I can think of no more important undertaking than this one and no more required moment." (Kin, Beaumont, "Introduction", The Rise and Fall of the Galactic Empire, 35 ABY, page xvii).

The Rise and Fall of the Galactic Empire is one of the best Star Wars novels I've read. The novel is an in-universe annotated history book written by Beaumont Kin ("Secrets only the Sith knew"), a historian with an interest in the lore of the Jedi and Sith, who reflects on the terrifying origins, reign, and legacy of the Galactic Empire. We also get a brief glimpse of what the post-TROS galaxy looks like but that isn’t the main point.

It is a part of several in-universe reference books being published post-TROS, which is a nice touch.

This study was published on the Holonet a few months post-TROS as Kin is excavating the Sith Temple on Exegol.

Introduction

History is a cycle, we wish to avoid it but it always finds a way to start the wheel again. The cycle certainly reflects the history of Star Wars.

Kin sadly laments that despite the Empire's evils being known and seemingly easy to understand, it seems easy to teach future generations and prevent the cycle from repeating itself, he considers himself a fool for being naive. As history has shown us and Kin, it has a tendency to repeat itself in various forms.

"It seemed to be an easy message to explain something that was now safely behind us. My colleagues and I congratulated ourselves on the ways we'd been able to take the realities of the Empire and convert them into lessons in schools and universities, which would then further ripple across the galaxy. We were so sure that we had created the perfect way of preventing future conflicts and a return to Imperialism. We were fools. I was a fool. As much as we might have wished that the remnants of the Empire could have been left to rot beneath the sands of Jakku, it seems that we could not be free of it so easily." (Kin, Beaumont, "Introduction", The Rise and Fall of the Galactic Empire, 35 ABY, page ix).

One element that is simply merch in real life but in-universe is the source of shock to Kin: Palpatine busts being sold at the Black Spire Outpost, among other Imperial objects. How could the galaxy reach the point that a being who murdered trillions of beings has busts being sold?

Despite the Resistance's and the galaxy's victory at Exegol, Kin can't help but wonder if the celebrations on Endor and Ajan Kloss are very similar. Both generations have celebrated the defeat of the Emperor, won their wars, and are driven to create a better galaxy, in the case of the last generation, including the current one who followed to preserve the hard-won peace, they were not successful.

However, this failure to maintain peace has very understandable origins. The leaders and soldiers of the Rebel Alliance wanted to look towards the sunrise of the New Republic after a brutal and horrifying war against the Galactic Empire. They focused on their desire to move forward with hope and optimism, and for this to never happen again, they were not careful in taking the necessary steps to prevent Imperialism from rising. A failure to understand how the Empire operated, ruled over, and why its personnel committed so many horrific war crimes over and over. It would be a nice thought to think that with the Emperor dead, so would his Empire die with him. And in a way it did, but gave birth to a new form of Empire as the First Order. While the First Order likes to fashion itself differently from the Empire with a new name and outfits, its origins intrinsically tie back to the Empire, which the New Republic and the new generation failed to see. They cannot risk another situation like this happening again.

Stories like The Mandalorian and its spin-offs, Bloodlines, Before the Awakening, Resistance, and the Poe Dameron comic show us how the New Republic fails to recognize the threat of the Imperial Remnants and the First Order, even when they're violating New Republic treaties. Complacency and appeasement became the new policy for the New Republic. They think the threat of the Empire is long behind them, and whoever is left is just simply ill-equipped warlords. They fail to understand why Neo-Imperialism grew as it did and why people want the return of a regime that killed so many sentient beings. It was left to those in the New Republic who saw the emerging threat, the Resistance, and those affected by these Remnants and the FO to act.

While discussing the Jedi and the Sith, Kin acknowledges how, despite his attempts to understand it, he still doesn't know everything about the Force, along with the galaxy not being clear on what the Forse is and if it exists. He then talks about how Palpatine managed to seize control of the entire galaxy as a Sith Lord, Kin made it clear Palpatine's desire for power and control was all him and not by anything else. Palpatine was a man. It is the most terrifying aspect of this Sith Lord. Much more terrifying is how Palpatine wasn't the Empire, he may be the linchpin of the Empire but there were plenty of people who believed in his Empire and maintained it.

There are four parts to the Rise and Fall of the Galactic Empire:

Part 1: Rise and Consolidation - Palpatine's rise to power and how the Empire consolidated itself.

Part 2: Expansion and Oppression - The methods of the Empire's dominance across the entire galaxy, the Imperial hierarchy, and the many horrific things (such as prejudice and genocide) the Empire did with that domination.

Part 3: The Galactic Civil War - The war and why the Empire collapsed.

Part 4: Fall and Continuation - The last year of the GCW and, with it, the fall of the Empire. But alas, the Empire continues to survive in its remnants and the rise of its most infamous of these remnants, the First Order. There are also the NR's successes and failures.

Kin went for the BBY/ABY (Before/After the Battle of Yavin) calendar system because the Empire's modus operandi significantly shifted after the destruction of the first Death Star with clear distinctions between pre- and post-Battle of Yavin. He also acknowledges how there are some debates over which dating system is the best among them being set after the Empire formed and the "before" and "after" periods at Endor rather than Yavin. In this, he also points out how the Empire was never at peace, and that the GCW greatly showcased and increased its brutality towards its own people.

While this work isn't the first one to study and analyze the Empire, it is perhaps the most relevant to discuss right now. There are beliefs and understandings of the Empire that are built on flawed information and shaky foundations. Some of what they understand is possibly wrong. Therefore, they must reexamine the Empire again and understand and therefore deconstruct the Empire beyond Palpatine.

"Furthermore, the very reasons for its eventual fall and collapse do not appear to have been adequately researched and analyzed at all. We know why the Rebel Alliance believed they won the war. Do we know why the Empire lost it? Because the Galactic Empire was so misunderstood, it is necessary to begin the process again. That is the point of this study. To deconstruct the entirety of the Galactic Empire beyond just notions of Palpatine himself. To see how it actually worked, the ideas and ideology that drove it, the ways it waged war, and the motivations behind its most awful crimes." (Kin, Beaumont, "Introduction", The Rise and Fall of the Galactic Empire, 35 ABY, pages xv-xvi).

Of course, researching the Empire is not easy. The history of the Empire is spread out across the entire galaxy. With the fall of the NR, there is now access to classified material such as interrogations of Imperial officers. It would've been impossible for Kin to find and compile this while excavating on Exegol. We see the galaxy coming together as researchers and other academics from across the galaxy pitch in to provide sources and information for Kin to scour through. Kin thanks all of them for realizing the importance of this analysis and is sure to acknowledge their work throughout his study. There is also lost information. After all, the Empire loves to burn and destroy the various records of their crimes and how they operate. Other sources are just lost during the fighting. With the excavation of Exegol and access to FO ships, new sources of information have allowed Kin to cross-reference and provide new understandings of the Empire.

He does acknowledge and welcomes the risk of his work becoming outdated and replaced with new studies containing new, undiscovered, and decrypted information. New studies can further elaborate on their understandings and help prevent the rise of Imperialism once again if they can at least find one new area they missed or have the chance to further understand. He points historians aren't just about telling the how but the why things in history occur. The galaxy needs examinations of the Galactic Empire and the history of its reign which allows them to better understand how they narrowly avoided the First Order's brief reign and Final Order's apocalyptic plot.

There is a nice nod to the Battle that Changed the Galaxy and Skywalker: A Family at War reference books as Kin notes how other historians like him are also noticing the need to reexamine history after Exegol, with the latter getting its author namedropped with a Star Wars-like name (the author was Kristin Baver, but in the Star Wars universe, her name is Kitrin Braves). Kin thanks Kitrin for sharing her information on the Skywalker family for him to talk about in Rise and Fall and notes it's been a long time coming for people to know the history of the Skywalkers in Kitrin's book.

The Empire's war crimes and cruelty are beyond horrifying and applied to anyone they come across, their cruelty is not equally felt. The Core Worlds often did not suffer as much as those outside of the Core. While some humans, such as the Alderaanians, have indeed lost everything to the Empire, the Empire's inherent prejudice is frequently focused on non-humans (a term admittedly imperfect and problematic in its own ways but much better one in-universe than the term "alien" which the Empire uses to showcase their racism towards non-humans). The Empire has made no attempt to hide its discontent and hatred for non-humans. Kin acknowledges he is a human, and he has never felt the experience of the Empire's prejudice just for being a non-human. He has tried his best to highlight those species and voices who have been silenced and suffered under the Empire's prejudice and genocides. He understands and apologizes for the criticisms that might come with any shortcomings that he and his studies may provide. Recognizing and analyzing both the sources and himself within this study are necessary parts of this analysis.

As the introduction concludes, we must ponder how despite the victories throughout the saga, we take a look at the horrifying and monstrous regime that is the Empire and its legacy. Our reality is filled with people who continue to follow Fascism and other far right-wing beliefs despite its clear evils, a look into the Galactic Empire is insight to why.

"The survivors of the Battle of Crait have become fond of saying, in moments of sorrow and loss, that ‘no one's ever really gone.’ It seems to bring them solace and I respect that. But I do not feel it. I have immersed myself in the existing records and writings and sources that relate to the Galactic Empire. And all I feel is the absence of lives that it brought. The multitudes who suffered and died. The further into this dark history I have gone the more horrified and haunted I have become. That is why this study now exists and why it is so important that you read it. Others in the Resistance will now lead and shape the galaxy. I cannot do that. I can only try and explain where we have come from. Why we have ended up here. But I need you to come with me. I cannot do this alone." (Kin, Beaumont, "Introduction", The Rise and Fall of the Galactic Empire, 35 ABY, page xix).

#star wars #the rise and fall of the galactic empire #rise and fall of the galactic empire #star wars analysis #my original post #rise of skywalker #skywalker saga #the sequel trilogy #beaumont kin #galactic empire #rebel alliance #the new republic #the first order #emperor palpatine #anakin skywalker #luke skywalker #rey skywalker

37 notes · View notes

chex-appreciation-week · 10 months ago

Text

Chex week will be happening from October 13th through the 19th!

And with that, we also get the official announcement of the prompts!

There are no limits or rules to how these can be interpreted. You can go as literal or as artsy or silly as you want with them, the skies the limit!

Day 1: Memory

As they always say: memory is the key. Maybe it’s a simple reflection on the past, maybe it’s the fact that they’re the literal manifestations of someone else’s memories, a reflection of a once great love… or perhaps Church just forgot to close the damn cabinet again.

Day 2: Fluff

Our favorite doomed duo is no stranger to angst and tragedy… so let’s give them a break! Let them enjoy some domestic bliss for once, and spend time in each other’s company without the overbearing burden of being doomed by the narrative. Just this once.

Day 3: Family

These two found their own little family inside of a box canyon, consisting of idiots and morons but they are their idiots and morons… or perhaps you want to go further back in time to when there was just Leonard and Allison and a beautiful baby girl and the future seemed so much brighter… or maybe Church and Tex just adopted a cat

Day 4: AU

Now they’re medieval knights fighting to save the kingdom! Or maybe Church is the super grumpy coffee shop barista with a crush on the cool tattoo artist across the street! Or maybe it’s the same story we all know… but that one moment played out differently… the universes are infinite!

Day 5: Cycle

History repeats itself, time is a flat circle, however, you want to put it there’s no denying the cycle of Leonard Church and Agent Texas. A story destined to be repeated again and again until it finally breaks… or perhaps they’re just teaching Caboose how to ride a bicycle, who knows!

Day 6: Goodbye

Don’t say goodbye… I hate goodbyes… but at the end of the day, you have to let go and say those dreaded words. You have to accept that some people are truly gone. Or sometimes you just don’t get to say those words at all… or maybe… well actually I don’t know how to make this one silly

Day 7: Free Day

Make whatever you like! It can be anything and everything, maybe expand on a previous idea, create a whole new world, or make something sad or silly or soft! This is your day to shine!

As said before any and all content is welcome in this event! Art, fanfic, meta, analysis, playlists, memes etc! If it’s Chex I’ll take it! My only rule is NO AI GENERATED CONTENT!

The tags for this event will be #chex appreciation week and #chex appreciation week 2024

#agent texas #leonard church #red vs blue #rvb #rvb chex #rvb church #rvb tex #rvb Allison #allison church #rvb the Director #the director #rvb alpha #rvb beta #rvb epsilon #Chex appreciation week #Chex appreciation week 2024 #info post

59 notes · View notes

518062 · 2 months ago

Text

If there is no moral to the story, is it worth telling?

Abstract: Izuku Midoriya is a microcosm of Horikoshi's inconsistent writing in My Hero Academia. The absence of a narrative voice in later arcs proves a lack of cohesion and care when considering all plot points before and after. The manga contains heaps of evidence to support this theory. One must consider not just Midoriya, but other plot points such as incarceration and the handling of antagonists as well, although this discourse pertains only to Midoriya for the sake of conciseness. Much like public opinion, the discourse seen below posits Horikoshi's literary ability as My Hero Academia's greatest detriment––especially when it comes to Midoriya.

An Introduction

A gripe many have with Horikoshi’s writing is the lack of cohesion and completion. This issue leads to characteristic inconsistencies and poor gratification for audiences.

Per Blumler and Katz (1973), active audiences search for escapism in what they consume. Readers/viewers do not want to follow a story and get to the end without significant development, especially if they have been following it for an extensive time in which they have grown accustomed to the story’s protagonists and reality.

Stories need morals, which is why we always ask why the chicken crossed the road––we already assume or know the how, especially in manga. The why is imperative because it is the core of a story. What motives do these characters possess? How do these motives affect their decisions? Why do they possess these motives? What message is the producer sending through such motives and decisions? The why and how appear interchangeably, but the why is the core of the story because it helps audiences connect with the story.

Who is Midoriya? What defines him?

Midoriya admires All Might for his kindness, resilience, and heroism. Therefore, Midoriya aspires to be just like All Might. Izuku has his why, but his how is the obstacle; his arc, since he has no Quirk and, at that moment in time, one needed a Quirk to even consider heroism as a career. As readers, this is good––we understand Izuku’s motives and want to root for him. We then understand why he works so hard, pushing his body to the limit, gaining multiple scars and having multiple notebooks in which he analyses every Quirk around him.

The how then solves itself rather easily. All Might transfers One For All (OFA) to Midoriya and now he can work towards heroism. Then a new how emerges, or a new goal––taking down All For One (AFO). From this point, Midoriya’s ideology is unwavering. But during the Paranormal Liberation War Arc, Midoriya faces a pragmatism his idealistic self had not yet considered.

Lady Nagant says it best; “History will just repeat itself.” Midoriya responds to her with what could be considered his first judicious thought: “It’s not all black and white. Most things in this world are in shades of grey. A blend of fear and anger.”

Despite his acknowledgement of society’s flaws, he keeps his motives intact. He wants to “extend a helping hand,” to which Lady Nagant responds; “That phony education’s done wonders for you.” Again, he convinces her to fight the ‘good fight.’ He still possesses hope during such tumultuous conditions.

Midoriya’s resilience mirrors that of All Might and even surpasses him. As our young, fiery, hard-working MC, Midoriya inspires other characters and readers as well.

Then it falls apart. The why and how cease to reflect one another as time passes. The idea of a tainted society is explored throughout Midoriya’s Dark Hero arc and is pushed aside for the inevitable climax––the Final War. When Aoyama confesses the truth, Midoriya bursts into tears. He cannot possibly fathom that someone would support such evil. But with his new nuanced brain, he comprehends the difficulties Aoyama faced––the poor boy had no choice. With this newfound consciousness and pre-existing empathy, Midoriya grows into a character who understands the grey area he mentioned to Nagant.

This is where many notice the significant decrease in Midoriya’s narration. His inner voice, which has led audiences for approx. 330 chapters, is lost. As the Final War begins, the relationship between character/consumer is broken.

We do not know who Midoriya is. He cannot be defined.

Consider: when Midoriya saw a dead Bakugou, he could not control his heart (literally). Mirio acts as the narrator here––reminding Midoriya of his task––and he charges forward. For a character who is so deep in thought––so incredibly verbose––Midoriya has no thoughts. Not a single word tells the readers his explicit feelings. One could argue this example is useless, since the lack of speech is the message that Midoriya is feeling a “blend of fear and anger,” but the idea persists. Besides this moment, Midoriya’s actions, his motives and emotions, are no longer described or conveyed in an explicit fashion.

Objectively, producers should consider the implicit just as much as the explicit. Audiences feel rewarded when they identify key plot points through foreshadowing. Readers like to dissect meanings through script and art. But there must always be a balance, and once the explicit is lost, the implicit becomes redundant. This is because the explicit sets the foundation for the implicit.

To summarise, Midoriya’s lack of a potent voice (and the lack of transparency) leads to inconsistencies and confusion. Most of all, it leads to alienation. This must be prefaced: Horikoshi does not need to spell out every single thing he wishes to convey. Yet Midoriya had been doing this for 300 chapters, and suddenly it dissipated. Slowly, albeit, but the evidence presents itself. Readers, especially those who have tuned in every week to see where the war is going for this extremely troubled but powerful teenager, the only one who can defeat the antagonist, want to see how this teenager is feeling. Is he angry? Afraid? The loss of internal voice has catalysed a series of disappointments. Now we cannot determine how the MC feels. As a result, we no longer understand him or his motives.

Consider: when Midoriya loses his arms, one can infer the inevitable shock, yet this shock is not expressed at all. Aizawa emerges from wherever he came and simply asks Midoriya how long it’s been since he lost his limbs. Midoriya answers him (“dunno”), still. Midoriya does not need to voice his thoughts anymore––especially since Eri swoops in to save his arms and continue the fight (which, without a five-year-old, means the entire story would be over. That is for another time.) Consequently, Midoriya stands up and keeps fighting. There is not one small text box dedicated to his contemplation. Rather, he fixates on how his plan to reach Tenko’s core failed, but his gory arms? Not a problem, it seems, since Eri exists.

The question arises––what would be of Midoriya and this world without Eri? Would Midoriya lie there, rigid, or would he merely fight with his legs? One can only guess. Yet this (and again, the lack of introspection) implores readers to grow agitated.

Of course, Midoriya does his best and kills AFO/Tenko. Before this, he calls AFO a “lonely man”. The inconsistencies are frustrating––how does Midoriya sympathise but refuse to elaborate on this after AFO is permanently gone? Does Midoriya (or Horikoshi) think it’s plausible to move on because it’s done and dusted? The most traumatic day of his life? Because Midoriya soars, sends the gust of wind, fist in air, and then it’s over.

The arc is over.

We jump straight ahead to rescue efforts; the teenagers recovering in hospital, Midoriya’s loss of OFA, imploring readers to ask whether there exists a moral at all. Can one become a hero without a Quirk? Of course not. That’s why Horikoshi needed to introduce the suit. Otherwise, all 400 chapters of this manga are pointless.

The audience never gets a glimpse into the years where Midoriya lives Quirkless again. Even when he loses the embers, we do not receive explicit or implicit messaging. The why is still gone. Did Midoriya cry? Did he keep going? The understanding is Midoriya kept fighting, kept staying positive, but who says? The manga doesn’t.

Then the why comes back into the picture with a new how––a new equilibrium––but readers are left unsatisfied. The producer fails to provide the escapism people have been seeking for ten years. Because yes, Midoriya can be a hero––he has his suit after all—and his motives are intact. He still adores Yagi. He’s still verbose and awkward and resilient.

It is funny; approx. 100 chapters prior, Lady Nagant said; “History will just repeat itself.” And she is correct. We do not get to see why Midoriya continues as a hero, even though he knows the crime rate has lowered and the system needs a huge transformation (which, if it were not for the lazy time skip, we perhaps would have seen besides an inept Quirk counsel.)

Midoriya is a shallow protagonist. Above all, he is an empty shell and not worth believing in. His motives are all over the place or completely invisible. His flaws are erased once he can become a hero again––his critical thinking skills are dropped. He ends the manga the same way he began (cognitively, so anyone reading this, it is advised you consider the narration and not the legitimate ending), which is fighting for the moral good and kindness and whatnot.

As readers, the issue at hand is perilous and comical. This story, throughout all its highs and lows––complex societal commentary to stupid analogies––is far from reality. Neither is it tangible in its own reality. It is not satisfying, educational, exciting, or beneficial for anyone. With this conclusion, nobody wins but those who yell huzzah for novice writing. One could posit that MHA could be erased from existence and no one would move an inch.

The most frustrating aspect? Horikoshi executed fantastic arcs for other characters. Todoroki had a tangibly terrific arc and his motives––again, his why––have changed because he has been challenged. This is an improvement. Even Bakugou, whose arc is often controversial, displays immense growth and maturity. From these characters audiences learn lessons and, if the message does not resonate, at least it could entertain––the gratification and escapism is achieved. Bakugou is hugely popular for this reason (beyond others; consider context again please.)

The conclusion?

History repeats itself, anyway. Good for you, Midoriya and co.

#izuku midoriya #mha #my hero academia #mha analysis #my hero academia analysis #deku #izuku #one for all #all for one #i outdid myself with this one #its not that good #anyone willing to join me in this discussion please feel free #062 analysis #ill admit i wrote this very angrily #i was just like #oh my God this is serious #i love izuku by the way pls dont misunderstand

16 notes · View notes

stervrucht · 10 months ago

Text

Steve Harrington\Eddie Munson | Rated: M | cw: Blood, Death, Gore | Tags: Alternative Universe: Vampire, Horror, Dom/Sub undertones, Implied Mind Control, Dubious Consent, Vampire!Eddie, Hotelclerk!Steve | AO3

Previous Next

The Graveyard Shift - Part 2

They are heading northwest from their last gig in Cincinnati. The highrise of the city center quickly makes way for long stretches of road until the city is nothing more than a bunch of lights in the rearview mirror.

The guys are giddy, strung up from another good show—another good hunt. Eddie is happy to leave Ohio behind; to be returning to his home ground of Indiana.

True, the state itself isn’t much to look at, but in the darkness of the night, he doesn’t care much for a scenic view.

When was the last time he laid his eyes on the vast green fields, the rich yellow of dried wheat, or the cerulean sky? Eddie can hardly recall—it has been decades after all.

Compared to the first half of the 20th century, the 80s are a spectacle to behold. The morals are looser, the clothes more revealing, and hunting was never this easy—never this fun. Eddie likes the way he can walk around at night now, bathed in light and color like he’s living once more.

And the music is something else.

It’s hard to believe he might have missed out on this—on the leather and the smoke and the loudness of it all. The shrieking of guitars and voices that perfectly captures the chaos of the world; to instill darkness in mortals, not through death, but through music.

What a splendid age indeed.

Indianapolis shines like a beacon of light in the distance and in this new age, this time of neon lights and secondary colors, it might as well be Eden itself. It shines in darkness much more than it ever did in the light of day.

When they arrive in the city, Gareth drops him off at some gaudy hotel, and it’s their usual spiel. They stay at separate hotels, avoid suspicion, and then once their show is over, they leave again. Ditch the city and trade it for another.

Rinse and repeat, for centuries to come.

The hotel looks different from the last time Eddie stayed there a decade ago. New owners have tried to put their mark on history. Tearing down the old and replacing it with artificial plastics that seem so prevalent at this time.

It’s cute, the way they try, but few are ever remembered. Most will disappear into obscurity—just another name on a tombstone until that erodes as well.

Most, but not Eddie.

Not Corroded Coffin.

The new marble floors are laid in a checkerboard pattern—polished to such an extent that they reflect anyone who walks on them. It’s a giveaway, but Eddie doesn’t worry about that. Humans are remarkably dim; remarkably easy to fool.

Not that he minds. Eddie prefers his food a little dim.

Behind the front desk stands a boy. Eddie could smell him from outside—the smell of lifeblood and light. It matches his looks in every way. He has an easygoing charm to him.

The boy doesn’t notice him as he massages his temples and Eddie feels like a fox stalking a rabbit unaware of its impending doom.

After so many decades, it’s easy to move without sound—it’s thrilling, the way people jump, the way their eyes go wide as they grow uncomfortable.

Unconsciously they are aware that something is wrong, but humans have grown out of touch with their instincts. They push the feeling down because in this age, evil can be found in board games, books, and the wrong kind of love.

Evil comes in human form—it needs no horns or teeth or claws. It comes in clever tongues, greedy hands, and an insatiable hunger for more, m ore, m ore—

When Eddie sees the boy, he thinks goodness may persist in equal measure. It gnaws at him, the familiarity of it, but he can’t allow himself to go there—not again. It’s a specific kind of anguish. A yearning he can’t mute.

He yearns for Steve before he even learns his name.

And it sounds like a melody, the way his heart rate spikes when Eddie grabs his wrist; his scent a perfect blend of nervous curiosity and excitement, unpolluted by the stench of fear.

Eddie feels his mouth water as his nails dig into his flesh. He pulls back. He has indulged himself too much already.

Not this one. Not yet.

Around 4 AM, Eddie orders room service, and some kid with freckles shows up at his door.

Tommy

He smells like trouble—it radiates off him like perfume as his cheeks flush with expensive wine and stuffs his face with the food Eddie provides.

Call it his last supper. Eddie does have some humanity.

Eddie watches him with a lazy swirl of untouched wine in his hand. Tommy doesn’t notice he doesn’t drink. Tommy doesn’t notice much of anything.

Tommy talks.

He talks a lot and it’s all bullshit. But, fuck, if that isn’t the type of person Eddie enjoys toying with most—cocky and a little rude. They break so beautifully.

The guys have given him shit before, called his tastes fancy. And maybe they are right, just a little, because Eddie has a type.

Tommy isn’t it, but he’s close enough.

He’s sure the guys are fine with this one. Someone unreliable, who oversleeps and skips out on work. Someone who won’t be missed—not until it’s too late.

Yes, Tommy will do , Eddie reminds himself as he sinks his teeth into the boy’s neck. Tommy whimpers helplessly, somewhere between pain and pleasure. The initial resistance wears off fast as the venom fills his veins. Eddie feels his heat seep into his body and he moans against his skin; grabs the back of Tommy’s neck to pull him closer.

There’s nothing quite like blood. Nothing quite like the overwhelming pleasure of life on his tongue as Tommy’s pulse grows weaker and his skin pales.

When Eddie feels Tommy’s heart hitch he knows it’s time to stop. He pushes himself away and creates some distance as he watches. Pupils blown and white-faced, Tommy’s jaw moves helplessly for a minute or so before Eddie sees him fade.

Eddie stands up then. He hates the final spasms—hates the actual dying part, no matter how often he does it. It reminds him of himself, and how he skirted death before he became what he is now.

He moves to his window and stands in front of it. The city is alive with lights, regardless of the hour.

Reflected in the window he sees Tommy’s body give a singular violent jerk.

Death throes.

“It won’t be like last time,” Eddie whispers as he thinks of the boy named Steve.

—

It is morning and Robin is seated at their little breakfast table with a slice of half-eaten toast and a newspaper in front of her. The kitchen smells of bread and coffee and it instantly makes Steve relax. It’s the scent of coming home, especially now that he works night shifts. He makes himself a cup of tea and sits down next to her.

Robin takes another bite of her toast and looks at him. “Alright, spill it.”

“What?”

“You have something to tell me. I can see it in your face.”

Steve sends her a playful frown before pulling the two backstage passes from his breast pocket and sliding them toward her like they’re business cards.

Robin studies them a moment before looking back at Steve. “Remember when I said they were weirdos? That definitely extends to them backstage.” She pushes the passes back to Steve. “How did you even get this?”

Steve steals her toast and takes a bite. “Their lead singer—”

Robin snatches her toast back and pulls a face. “Dude, swallow before you talk.”

“Sorry.” Steve swallows heavily, “As I was saying, their lead singer is staying at the hotel. Tommy didn’t show up tonight so I had to pitch in on room service duty. Kinda sucked balls, but hey, I got something good out of it I guess.”

“And you were so good at pushing a cart this guy just happened to give you backstage passes?” Robin gulps her coffee and eyes him over her mug.

“So what if I was?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Okay, fine. He invited me into his room and made me have wine with him. Happy now?”

“Steve, that’s really weird.” She frowns into her mug.

Steve fiddles with the handle of his mug. Robin is eying him intensely and she’s probably right. It’s a little weird, but she’s also overly suspicious. “He was just being nice. It was nearly morning. Maybe he felt guilty about the food.”

“Food? He ordered food at what, 5 AM?”

“Hotel guests are always weird. You don’t know half of it. This actually only classifies as mildly unusual.”

“So, what say you? Will you join me tonight?”

“There’s no talking you out of this, is there?”

“No chance.”

Robin seems to be giving in and Steve feels strangely victorious. “Okay, I’m coming with you tonight, if only because I’m pretty sure this guy has some unbecoming intentions with my sweet Steve.”

Steve laughs and takes a sip of his tea. Robin smiles back at him, tentatively.

“Highly unlikely. I’m not a girl.”

“That means nothing, Steve. Believe me.” Robin flips the newspaper to the next page and they sit in silence for a moment.

It’s a rainy morning and Robin will have to leave for class soon. Steve hates how their schedules contradict each other now. He squeezes her hand affectionately and gives her a reassuring smile.

“It’ll be fun.”

Robin smiles back, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

—

“Are you really wearing that?” Robin asks him that evening.

Steve looks himself down. He’s wearing a polo and jeans. Hardly an offensive outfit. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Oh Steve, they’ll eat you alive,” she says affectionately. “Hold on.”

Robin leaves the room and Steve moves to one of the mirrors to study himself. His outfit isn’t like Eddie’s on the pamphlet, nor like the people in the record shop, but he can’t see what’s wrong with it.

“Catch.” Robin throws a black fabric ball at him and Steve turns around, just in time to get hit square in the face. He yanks it off his head and unfolds it.

“ Heart ? Isn’t it a faux pas to wear shirts of other bands?”

“I didn’t know you spoke French, monsieur Steve. Did you pick that up at that fancy hotel of yours too?” Robin is smiling at him.

Steve rolls his eyes. “It’s the cross-words okay. Now answer the question.”

“It’s fine…ish. Besides, it’s the only thing I have close to your size. It’s better than your polo, believe me.”

Steve sighs. “Fine, I’ll be right back.”

—

Robin is right, this isn’t his scene. Steve self-consciously tugs at the slightly too-tight shirt. He’s glad she made him change because people are indeed dressed differently here.

Steve hasn’t attended many music events. Music has always been in the background, not something he consciously paid attention to.

Corroded Coffin hits differently.

It’s the darkness and heat of the small concert hall. People are dressed in black and leather, drenched in defiance and sweat. But the ambiance is magnetic and it lures Steve in. It makes him believe he can become one with this collection of misfits as the drums pound in his head with Robin at his side. Guitars cut through him and Eddie Munson’s voice stitches him back together.

Robin sticks to his side, hands on his arm. She’s wary and Steve doesn’t understand how she’s not taken by this, by the music that sounds so much like love feels.

Robin eyes him suspiciously. Her eyebrows are knit together as she holds his face and scans his eyes. “Did you slip in some alcohol while I wasn’t looking?”

Steve swats her hands away. “Of course not. Where would I even get that?”

Steve isn’t drunk. He can’t be, but the atmosphere feels charged with it. “Just relax Rob, have fun,”

The music is loud and talking is hard. Bodies are squeezed against them from all sides as they make their way back into the crowd.

When Eddie announces their last song his eyes briefly meet Steve’s in the darkness of the crowd. And surely Eddie can’t see him, not really—it’s too dark and the stage lights are too bright. But when he hits his guitar and runs his lips against the metal grid of his microphone, Steve thinks he looks like a god come to life.

Steve is mesmerized by it. Can tear his eyes away from the way Eddie’s mouth moves over the microphone like a lover would. Steve hardly hears the music at this point. The world is faded at the edges and it feels like nothing exists except for Eddie and himself.

Eddie looks at him, and this time Steve is sure he sees him. Eddie’s eyes hold his, lips moving over the microphone as he sings his final note.

The crowd erupts in cheers and the spell is broken.

When the band moves off the podium, chaotic mumbling rises and fills the concert hall. The lights come back on and suddenly all intimacy seems gone.

Rob squeezes his arm, her eyes shooting towards the exit in signal for Steve. She pulls him along, making her way through the mass of bodies around him until she comes to a halt, so suddenly Steve almost crashes into her.

In front of her stands a bulky man dressed in a suit.

“If you’ll follow me,” he says. He doesn’t wait for an answer, but briefly turns his back, walking towards the stage rather than the exit.

Robin shoots Steve a wary look, but he ignores it, grabbing her by the wrist to pull her with him. She resists for a second before giving in.

The man leads them through the crowd to a door near the stage. He holds it open for them and beckons them to go through. The man steps past them until they arrive at another door. He holds it open again and when Steve walks through he is greeted by several other people lounging around.

They’re all girls.

Pretty girls with dark clothes and drinks in their hands—champagne flutes and elegant wine glasses. Some seem a little buzzed; somewhere between the softness of alcohol-induced relaxation and nervous anticipation.

The door falls shut behind them and the girls look up at the sound. They greet them, some with a soft ‘hi’, others with a wave. Some of them ignore them altogether.

Steve doesn’t really care. He isn’t there for them. The girls don’t seem to care either—mostly focusing on themselves or the friends they brought.

“Let's get out of here Steve,” Robin whispers in his ear. She’s glued to his side, antsy to get away, and Steve has to admit the situation feels strange. Now he’s not engulfed by the crowd the high is starting to wear off, and the atmosphere unsettles him a little.

The room is pretty barebones and all the girls are wearing VIP tags around their necks, just like them.

“Let's just get one drink, then we’ll go.” Steve offers. He makes his way over to a table with various drinks—mostly alcohol. Steve decides to be responsible and grabs a soda for Robin and himself. Robin seems nervous enough as is, she doesn’t need Steve’s drunk ass on top of everything.

A little while later the man who led them earlier is back and asks them to follow him once again. Muffled music sounds throughout the hall until a door opens and suddenly music is blasting.

The room is dark with a few lights scattered around casting warm light and dark shadows. The room is hazy with smoke, walls lined with brick, and Persian rugs scattered on the hardwood floor. It must be one of the rooms for performers to relax before and after the show, Steve realizes.

Loud cheering erupts as one of the band members downs a glass of red liquid in one go. Some of it runs past his stubbled chin and he wipes at it with his sleeve.

The large man clears his throat and the band members look up towards the door opening.

“Come in, come in!” A guy with blond curly hair motions. They disperse and the members seem to gravitate towards their respective guests.

“Steve!”

Eddie walks towards him with open arms and Steve feels that familiar pull again. It tugs at his mind and swirls in his gut with a sense of unfounded longing.

Before Steve can react, Eddie has him engulfed in a tight hug and Steve can feel the buttons of his denim vest dig into his chest and the skin of his cold bare arms stick to his own sweat-slick skin.

“And you must be his friend.” Eddie releases him and turns to Robin. He doesn’t hug her. Instead, he takes her hand with a cordial bow and introduces himself as ‘Edward Munson, but call me Eddie’.

The tension in Robin’s posture seems to relax a little then. “Robin,” she says.

Eddie’s attention turns back to Steve and he eyes him up and down.

“Dig the shirt,” he says, clicking his tongue. Steve looks down at the tight fabric stretched over his chest and pats at it self-consciously.

“What did you think of the show?” Eddie looks at Robin, then at Steve.

“It—it was great. I’ve never seen anything like it,” Steve says. Next to him, he sees Robin’s eyebrow move ever so slightly. It’s a tell, but Eddie won’t know that. Robin thinks Steve’s full of shit. Is probably judging his life choices at this very second. That’s fair. Maybe Robin is just having a bad day.

“Great show,” Robin echoes, but there is little passion behind her words. She looks at her watch, and honestly, Steve thinks it’s a little rude with Eddie right in front of them, but Eddie doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are glued to Steve. A handsome little smile growing on his face as he throws an arm around his shoulder.

“Say, we’re heading to a club after this. Afterparty kinda deal. Care to join us?”

Steve opens his mouth to answer, but Robin beats him to it.

“We have class tomorrow morning.”

We. Now that was a lie. Robin really wants to get him out of here.

“I don’t,” Steve corrects her, “An after-party sounds fun. Can’t sleep anyway—night shifts you know.” Steve shrugs.

Robin shoots him a desperate look. “Can I steal him for a moment?” She asks Eddie. He nods and releases his grip on Steve’s shoulder.

Robin leads him to one of the corners of the room. The music is loud, and the other band members are chattering with the girls. One of them has a girl on his lap as they engage in a very intimate conversation.

Once they’re out of earshot, Steve focuses his attention on Robin. “What the hell, Rob!”

“Steve, something about this is off. I swear.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Steve says, but it doesn’t sound convincing. Robin quirks a skeptical eyebrow as she folds her arms over her chest.

The thing is, Steve doesn’t really care. This is the most fun he’s had in a good while. Life has been boring these past few months. He is just finding his footing again after Nancy dumped him. He doesn’t understand why Robin can’t let him have this.

“Steve, I mean it. I’m going home. I really do have class in the morning. If you know what’s good for you, you will come as well.”

“I’m staying, Rob. I can take care of myself.” He crosses his arms over his chest and stares her down.

Finally, Robin relents. She sighs, pulls the VIP badge from her neck, and shoves it in his hand.

“If you’re about to do something stupid, look at my name and maybe—don’t do that thing,” she says. She gives his arm an affectionate squeeze and makes her way to the door, looking back once with furrowed brows before closing it behind her.

Steve stares after her. His excitement tainted with a strange guilt as he stands there alone.

“You alright there?”

Steve turns around and sees Eddie looking at him with worried eyes.

“Yeah, I’m fine. My friend—” he looks at the door again and frowns, “she had to leave.”

“That’s too bad, man. Listen, we’re about to head out, yeah. I got us a taxi, we’re sharing with Gareth and his harem.” Eddie points a thumb over his shoulder towards the guy with curly blond hair. He’s surrounded by three girls.

Steve shoots him a smile, and when he stares into Eddie’s impossibly dark eyes, he feels all guilt wash off him and that strange sense of longing and anticipation return.

The taxi is a tight squeeze. One of the girls takes the passenger seat, which leaves Eddie, Gareth, and two additional girls in the backseat.

A blonde girl decides to share a seat with her friend by sitting on her lap and Gareth squeezes himself into the middle seat next to the girls. That only leaves one window seat.

“Not a bad idea,” Eddie says, staring at the girls, “you can sit on my lap,” he offers, sending him a little smile. Steve laughs sheepishly until he realizes Eddie meant what he said.

“Won’t you be uncomfortable? Maybe we should get another taxi—”

“It’s only ten minutes. It will be fine,” Eddie waves his hands.

Steve relents and settles himself into Eddie’s lap. They’re both guys, it isn’t weird at all. He was on the basketball team in high school. He knows guys can be close without it having to mean something. Maybe if he were a girl, he would be worried.

Somewhere in the back of his head, he hears their morning conversation echo.

‘That means nothing, Steve. Believe me.’

He shakes her off, even when he feels her VIP pass poke into his thigh from the pocket of his jeans.

The car ceiling is low, and he has to bend his neck a little with the added height of Eddie’s thighs beneath him. There’s no shifting or moving about. He sits planted firmly, full weight on Eddie’s lap. They can’t wear a seatbelt like this, which annoys him somewhat. It thrills him too, the edge of danger, however small.

Everything about tonight is strange and exciting.

The car ride is short indeed. He feels Eddie’s bones dig into the back of his legs, and Eddie holds him, arms wrapped around his waist, but it’s only to steady him. Steve tries not to move too much. He doesn’t want to make it more uncomfortable for Eddie than it has to be. It’s a tight squeeze as is, with all five of them on the backseat, and it doesn’t help that Gareth keeps messing with the girls on his side. His elbows poke into Steve’s side now and then, and it makes him shift in Eddie’s lap.

“We’re almost there,” Eddie breathes against his neck. Steve feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His will is soft and pliant and he feels like he’s drunk again. He wonders how Eddie’s doing that; wonders why Eddie even invited him along when he could be surrounded by a cohort of girls as well, although he loses that train of thought quickly.

Steve stumbles out of the taxi once they arrive, and Eddie steadies him when he steps out behind him. There’s a large line in front of the building—so long that it cuts around the corner— and Steve can only imagine how long it will go on from there.

The red neon sign spells out ‘Candlelight’ and it casts a warm hue on the concrete sidewalk. It makes Eddie’s hair look a deep auburn and fire-red reflect in his black eyes.

Steve hasn’t been to many nightclubs in Indianapolis. Before, when he was dating Nancy, there was little reason to, and now that he has his job at the hotel, his nights are often otherwise preoccupied. Robin indulged him once after he and Nance broke up, but after getting hit on by several guys, she quickly decided she never wanted to do it again.

Not that it matters. Steve liked spending whatever free night he had watching movies with Robin just fine. And he would like to meet his next girlfriend organically anyway, not in nightclubs through beer goggles or whatever.

Their entourage is moving towards the double doors of the nightclub and Eddie lays a heavy hand on his lower back. He feels his fingers grace his skin where his shirt rides up; feels Eddie’s sharp nails rest on his skin like talons. It sends a shiver down his spine.

Once one of the other guys talked to the bouncer, they’re allowed in, and Steve is a little starstruck by the way they get to skip the line.

As they walk through the double doors, Steve is engulfed by light and moving bodies to music that thumps so loudly he can feel it in his bones.

A strange night indeed, he thinks as Eddie guides him in.

---

@shunna

@bookworm0690

@stripey82

@sexymothmanincarnate

@gaydrieeen

@ilovecupcakesandtea

@hiscrimsonangel

@eddie-munson-addict

@limpingpenguin

@bloodrising

@dotdot-wierdlife

@wheneverfeasible

@cryptid-syste

@lawrencebshoggoth

@scoops-aboy86

@ignoremyworld

Please leave a comment or send me a message if you wish to be included/removed from the taglist for this fic.

#steddie #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie fic #steddie horror #steddie au #vampire!eddie munson #hotelclerk!steve #thegraveyardshift #my fics #ster writes steddie #TGS

56 notes · View notes

bonebeautyart · 4 days ago

Text

A brief analysis of the literary work: Robespierre, by Javier García Sánchez.

(Recommendation: read this post with the music on)

Having put off reading this work and finished it in one sitting the night before, I have various points of view. But first, I think it's important to explain the plot, no matter how diffused it may have seemed to me. The story revolves around Sebastien, a young man between 15 and 16 years old, who is sent from Blérancourt (yes, that same Blérancourt) to work as a scribe for one of his father's friends: Robert Lindet.

Throughout the book, we are framed because the young Sebastien as a character is a die-hard dreamer, capable of sensitivity to his surroundings. Once the plot has been briefly explained. I have a few points I'd like to clarify. The novel itself is quite good in terms of the reflections it promotes throughout its writing. It is an interesting attempt to combine a historical novel, with its touches of horror and an apologetic essay about the most emblematic figures of the revolution: Robespierre and Saint Just (the latter of whom the protagonist will feel more affinity for; perhaps the author took on the task of breaking with the clichés of Saint Just in literature. Al already being quite accustomed to being a sort of deity or devil, Javier manages to make him more human, without excluding the distance that he describes as "funereal loneliness") Regarding Robespierre, at first he is introduced as most people have known him: rumors through the surface of history.

I can imagine that further into the reading, perhaps I'll have the opportunity to explore this Robespierre, which will undoubtedly be an attempt to clean his image. Something that one may come to observe during reading is its linguistic complexity. Somewhat less in its original language, which is Spanish (my native language). The author's style may often seem outdated, as he uses too many obsolete words that hinder the continuity of the novel and, I dare say, blind the reader to the complexity described in its pages. At the same time, translating into other languages would cause the work to lose its linguistic style, because many of the words used there are specifically Spanish, with no apparent English translation, for example. Another point that makes the narrative heavy is the amount of things the author tries to describe. It is a rhetorical skill with two edges: on the one hand, it helps us create scenarios that immerse the author in the environment, and on the other hand, it can become tedious if this descriptive catharsis is expanded. Well, the novel seems to be both descriptive ambivalence. At key moments, the author describes the main character's mental image of Paris: the first thing he sees, and what he feels. We are gradually delving into his thoughts, feeling the languor or perhaps the character's disorientation as it was his first time entering the great metropolis; however, this is where those flashes of a great work happen, with a single stroke the author manages to describe the most disgusting images of the environment, whether it is the guillotine described as "obscene and geometric" or the putrid air, combining the unpleasant aroma of the Seine with the "sweet" aroma of the flesh freshly cut by the guillotine.

These descriptions made me pause and close the book because they are so well done. Thus, the cycle of the character's self-absorption is repeated, almost as if he were entering a fervent dream or a hallucination. Material that is perfect for a magical realism of absolute terror.

Is it worth reading? Yes, although I repeat, it is a slow novel with a baroque style, overloaded and not very digestible at first. The descriptions and the protagonist's (and therefore the author's) reflections are the reasons why it is worth reading. If you know Spanish, take the trouble to read it in the original language, it is a great work.

Some excerpts from the work in the original language.

Una ligera brisa en el cuello. Eso fue exactamente lo que a guisa de heraldo sintió Sebastien al cruzar con su carruaje junto al Artefacto, sobre cuya hoja suspendida en lo alto, y en medio de un estrepitoso zureo de palomas, golpeaban en escorzo los incipientes rayos del sol matutino.

Parpadeó instintivamente y, al notar cierto olor acre, le sacudió un escalofrío. Porque, al cabo de unos segundos, aquel olor se convertía en algo penetrante y dulzón, con una vaga reminiscencia a canela. Sabía lo que era. Cerró los ojos y durante varios segundos su respiración se detuvo.

Sebastien volvió a ser consciente del olor que había detectado entre otros muchos en aquel hormiguero humano que era París, para algunas provincias la Babilonia del Espíritu, para otras la Sodoma de la Razón. Sencillamente, París respiraba.

De ella todo se decía, aunque en realidad poco se hablaba. Y se decía, sí, que el cuello, con sus arterias, venas, músculos, huesos y vértebras, quedaba como una sandía tronchada o una bolsa de higos que revienta la certera pedrada. El chas-quido, un apenas presentido estertor de luz que pronto, casi en el acto, la súbita y glacial oscuridad cegaba. Ya no había hombre, pues de el sólo un par de desproporcionados trozos quedaba. Ya no había vida. Allí lo único vivo era la Máquina.

Era un olor que llegó a perseguir a Sebastien durante muchos meses. Lo hizo hasta el más remoto confín de sus sueños. Fue una pesadilla hecha olor que consiguió que los gatos se escondiesen con el lomo erizado y los perros ladraran fuera de sí, gimiendo de inquietud más que de hambre, porque detrás de aquello había no sólo sangre, sino carne fresca.

Olor aquel que también excitaba a los siniestros habitantes del subsuelo, hasta el punto de que en varios enclaves paredaños al cadalso la gente afirmó haber notado que la tierra vibraba bajo sus pies.

Arrastrando su equipaje miró, al pasar sobre un puente, las quietas aguas del Sena. De ellas emanaba un hedor característico, mezcla de heces, jabón, algas y algo más en lo que él no quería, no debía pensar.

Así lo explicaban ciertas luminarias. Ella, que esperó a que el Verbo se hiciese Carne, que luego siguió esperando casi dos mil años para ver si el Reino de los Cielos podía ser gozado, aunque fuese un poco, por los hombres en la Tierra, y viendo que eso no ocurría decidió dejar de ser Carne, y fue entonces Madera y Acero, pues el Verbo se hizo tajo. Ella, ciega y argéntea hoja-espejo donde se peina la Muerte segundos antes de depositar un beso de amor en tu nuca helada. Ella, la Guillotina, estaba ahí, sobre todo, para ser mirada.

You can find it here.

Thanks for reading.

#frev #french revolution #saint just #robespierre #personal stuff #thermidor

15 notes · View notes

katyspersonal · 3 months ago

Note

❤️‍🩹

For Miquella.

( @izunias-meme-hole )

I actually think the ongoing trend about him trying to copy Marika's homework but to make it "gentler", without the cruel and oppressive sides of it, is so good? As well as him being a little Marika, but "gentler". His Haligtree is a "gentler" version of the Erdtree that I can see would not consume the sky in the same way even if it grew bigger, and his associated color is pale shade of yellow rather than saturated yellow of the Erdtree. He decided to ascend to Godhood like she once did, and choose a warmonger as a consort like she once did, but believed in "cleansing" everyone from hate and "sin" rather than devouring others through territorial aggressions and oppressions, and his warmonger is stated to have a much kinder side.

At the same time, there was a difference, even if very small. Malenia was cursed and kinda harmful for what he (previously) was trying to build. Her rot for his Haligtree was as dangerous as Messmer's flame (and inherited curse) was for Marika's Erdtree. Miquella tried everything to heal Malenia's curse, like how Marika tried everything to heal Messmer's, and both Miquella and Marika abandoned their cursed family member. But whereas Messmer barely holds back his vitriol towards Marika and snaps to curse her upon death, for Malenia the faith in Miquella is the ONE thing keeping her sane (?) and she speaks very fondly of him as her last words. He was so loving towards Malenia that her faith in him never faltered no matter how much time passed, but Marika failed to instil same sense of faith in Messmer and was always letting her fear win. I think this just speaks of how Miquella did do something different and history didn't fully repeat itself. Malenia's attitude compared to Messmer's reflects that difference. Makes me wonder whether ascension to Godhood was truly not necessary at all and he COULD have just pulled off role of an Empyrean, overcoming the "rotten roots" started with Two Fingers on his own effort.

#elden ring #miquella the unalloyed #ask replies

16 notes · View notes

karinta-agogobell-unified · 11 months ago

Text

youtube

A song I wrote, inspired by Turn A Gundam.

Lyrics:

I blink the frost from my eyes

as the sun seeps into my bones

My house is overgrown with vines

I planted ten generations ago

They give me a stallion to ride

and the reins are placed into my hands

I am the moonlight that shines

on these ancestral, long-forgotten lands

I can’t recall my mother’s eyes

nor the features of my father’s face

I’m sure they must have been like mine

but now I’m their only living trace

Long is the history untold

and long have we waited to return

But as our plans now unfold

I start to see peace’s promise burn

And though the great machines have started to move forth without me

I still must bear the consequences of my sin

But now my own reflection in the flesh has dared allow me

to see through others’ eyes and hear the changing wind

And though we come from different places, times, and circumstances

we dance together to the same eternal tune

The past repeats itself and comes back bearing second chances

just like the phases of the moon….

#turn a gundam #∀ gundam #ターンエーガンダム #∀ガンダム #dianna soreil #ディアナ・ソレル #fan music #fan song #my music #Youtube

47 notes · View notes

hlficlibrary · 10 months ago

Note

Hey! Do you have any good longer fics that take place in New York? I’m going there tomorrow and wanna set the vibe with my reading.

Hope you’re doing good! And thank you!

Hi, anon! Hope you're getting these recs in time! Have fun in New York and also you're very welcome!

Mine Would Be You by @crinkle-eyed-boo

Louis blinks his eyes open, his eyelids fluttering as the room swims around him. He takes several gulps of beer once he confirms that he’s definitely not hallucinating, that the very first portrait Harry Styles ever painted of him is hanging on that wall.

Louis stares at the wall, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest as he realizes that there’s not just one painting of him, there’s five, the portraits lined up like they’re some sort of storyboard depicting the rise and fall of his deepest love. His greatest heartache. A pain that cut him so deep that he left the fucking country, severing all ties with his life in New York, now suddenly surrounding him as if he’d never left.

Fucking shit motherfucker fuck.

Louis returns to New York City five years after he left it – and the love of his life – behind. He didn't intend to see Harry again, but fate has a funny way of pulling them together, whether they like it or not. After making a begrudging truce, they both start to wonder: Would it be so bad if history repeated itself?

a yuzu grows in brooklyn by @stylinsoncity

harry is a recent implant in new york and a young chef opening a restaurant called yuzu. louis, a music teacher and broadway lover, has been around the block for a while. in a city that's so fast-paced, they're slow to catch on to each other.

Desperation Was My Sanctuary by @insightfulinsomniac

As a PhD student and transplant to New York City, Louis is struggling for both money and companionship. His roommate, Zayn, introduces him to a friend who is involved in New York City's sugar bowl. Reluctantly, he signs up for a sugaring app knowing he’s probably the least conventional sugar baby on the market. If he can find a sugar daddy who will pay his bills without asking him to sacrifice his own preferences and boundaries, he might just be willing to earn a bit of extra cash by faking a relationship with a millionaire.

At the age of 35, Harry’s spent his entire adult life devoted to his career as a fashion designer. With his label, Eroda, steady and flourishing, he finally has time to settle down. When he reflects on his adult life, he realizes that he’s never been in a relationship and therefore feels behind. Shy and insecure in his inexperience, he turns to a sugaring app to manufacture a “test relationship” on his terms.

Turns out, they’re both looking for something unconventional.

A smutty, non-traditional strangers-to-lovers story about finding yourself, friendship, safety, sexual discovery, and an unexpected collision with tender, profound love.

#ask #anon #minificrecs #ficrec #newyorkcity #crinkleeyedboo #stylinsoncity #insightfulinsomniac

26 notes · View notes

reductionisms · 1 year ago

Text

circle, line

A circle and a line look different, right?

What about now?

Time in gintama is a useless subject. Unfortunately, it is also a prerequisite to the gintama-human ontology. Thus, with a heavy heart, I look at lines, loops, and other unlikely time-mechanics in order to construct a gintama time for the gintama-human.

Throughout this pseudoscientific inquiry, I locate gintama time– which I eventually call [time], for lack of better notation– in my thematic abuse of two mathematical concepts: irrationality and uncountable infinity. To give away the end, [time] is an uncountable infinity born in irrationality. Which, even to its own creator, makes little sense.

Finally, this is my defense of the gintama time loop. Why? Well, I like loops and loop-like things, and, after all, we want good things to last, to repeat. So this turns out to be a love letter to algebraic topology. Sorry time loop fiction.

Onto more interesting things.

preliminary time notes

To think about time in gintama, I bracket [real world time] from [the narrative structure of gintama, which follows a time] and [time as characters in gintama experience it, i.e. personal time]. The latter two time-categories reflect [real world time] because gintama is written by an author, who, by virtue of existing, lives in [real world time]. That is, while narrative is fun because you can play with reality to make something new (e.g., time loop, time travel, non-chronological narratives in general), creation still requires building blocks, which are ultimately some sort of known assumption, that inevitably require some understanding of actual Time.

All this to say I look at [narrative time] and [personal time] through philosophies about [real world time], which themselves are not especially real; in other words, my methodology is kind of shit.

the situation– personal time

Otae announces the whole of gintama in chapter one.

This is gintama’s genetic code.

To speak of time here is to note a few things:

1. amanto possess advanced technology;

2. humans are forced to throw away their physical swords;

3. the sword of the soul.

The sword is a tool*; later chapters tell us that it “carries the soul”. So the sword represents, or, rather, is, something irreplaceable to humanity, that relates to the soul and personhood. This much is corroborated by the plot cycle.

With contrast to the sword, time appears impersonal. We conceive of time, at least scientifically, as the movement between past to present, present to future, stretching infinitely before and after, where our existence does not matter to its flow.

But would “time” exist without anyone to observe it?

Alternatively, how can “time” be experienced as time– as a movement– without anything to measure it?

The human must “create” “time”, if only because it would not be “time” without a person to observe and call it as such. What this person perceives, they conceptualize as movement (measurement); and thus there must be a prior position to reference, or, in the least, a default– a memory.

So “time” requires the present to be given by a prior; that is, for “time” to be experienced, the human who observes it needs already given into a past. The past itself (“knowledge” of the histories that make us who we are, “knowledge” of the tools that allow us to intend various things)– i.e., its inherent “given-ness” to us– depends upon it outliving those who live it. Thus various contexts, with their technologies, arts, and writing (though these are not really separable), function also to contain the essential past-as-memory for those who use and engage with them.

Alright, great, but what does this have to do with the dick-and-balls manga? Nothing, really, except for everything. The amanto (with futuristic technology, in futuristic contexts**) force humans to give up their swords. It would be ridiculous to talk about what the “sword” means here. Suffice to say that it carries (an assumed) cultural-historical weight, an (idealized) memory. We would expect that its dispossession disrupts temporality. And it does– hence the “time loop”.

People love to talk about cyclical time in gintama. It is the same situations, over and over again; that no one ages, injuries heal by the next chapter, and, more than serial-typical regressions, that there is a sense that things won’t work, that important change won’t last, that life “just gets worse and worse”. Time as lasting change– or what we like to call “linear time”– doesn’t feel like it exists.

To return to chapter one. Here the central conflict is not actually between amanto and human; it is between Shinpachi and Otae. Their dying father tells them that even if they give up their physical swords (memory, past), they are not to lose the sword in their soul (?unknown). Sword-less Shinpachi resents him. Rather than “cling to the past”, he tries to adapt to the “linear time” of the amanto: he works in modern food service, gives up on the dojo, and, most importantly, opposes Otae.

What does Otae do? We might expect her to inverse Shinpachi, that is, to “embrace” cyclicality, which would be to give up. She doesn’t. Otae tries to adjust, to make a living and survive, but, unlike her brother, she does so also to protect the “thing she can never take back”. This, as Shinpachi points out, is ridiculous, unrealistic, and makes no sense. And yet it is Otae who is thematically vindicated in the end.

From the first chapter, then, we can construct a sense of [personal time (to the characters)]. Again, for change to exist, there must be a prior form; that is, a certain sort of time is what makes change (technological, political, situational advancement) possible. Further, the self is involved in the process of time. Thus when the self is not whole (lacks the sword), time, and thereby change, becomes cyclical. So “time”, to the amanto, advances, because they can work with their external “selves” (technology, worlds, knowledge-memory) to “make change”. But time, to humanity, loops back on itself, is stopped, because humanity is bereft of its self and can only return to the starting point.

We notice that humans still live in a world where time progresses– where time goes on without them. There is a split between the time of the self and the time of the world. Shinpachi decides to do away with memory and join the world-time, the “linear time”, that is, the time of futuristic technology and change; but his sister, who goes along with this and drags the past with her, does much better.

For a more thorough application of this thought, please rewatch the monkey hunter arc.

*It is also (obviously) a dick. **This reveals some connection between the concepts of “tool”, “context”, and time. Though I say so inverse-facetiously, since nothing about gintama can be taken as if it were serious.

time loop– narrative time

So what about infinity?

Personal time is not infinity. In a first sense, it simply is not infinite– characters die. In a second sense, even considering that memory can be (haphazardly) preserved beyond a lifetime, especially in a story, humanity as a whole is finite– there comes a point, eventually, where no one is left to do the remembering. And in a third sense, personal time is still a string of pasts that were once presents, into futures that will be presents; though this finite string might divide into an infinite number of presents, its divisibility renders it still essentially patterned, which is to say that it is not really “infinity”– it is still mathematically countable.

I mentioned a dysfunction of personal time into cyclical (“un-change-able”) personal time. This is associated with sword-less-ness, equivalently memory-loss, equivalently not being a whole self. The fun of stories is that “character” can be projected into the structure of the story itself; it would make sense for cyclical personal time to have some correspondence to, or at least effect on, narrative time, that is, narrative structure.

At this point I should be more general about the time loop.

The time loop is thought to stand opposed to “linear time” in the stagnation-change, lack-presence, circle(hole)-line([censored]) dichotomy. Specifically, the time loop is opposed to “linear time” in the sense that nothing (usually) changes in a time loop. Or, more exactly, change is slow, nothing gets “better” in any real sense. Again, only where time flows “linearly" can we build off of what is prior, can we intend and achieve a future, can we change for the better (or so we assume). Thus the time loop carries a sort of moral condemnation in its very structure— a karmic debt, if you will.

Characters in plots get thrown into time loops because something has gone wrong. Whether or not they are the direct cause, the character must “figure something out”, “learn a lesson”, that is, address the problem that created the time loop, which will almost always be related to a step within the story of their self-development, in order to escape it. The point of the story is to escape it. This is just how stories go.

Then the gintama narrative “time loop” is barely a time loop. It repeats itself, sure, and no one ages, but that’s because no one should age in a wsj serial and sorachi tried to be funny about it. Still, some lingering sense of futility, or maybe just the sheer repetition of the same event for 16 years of serialization, weighs on anyone who reads it. This kind of feels like time loop fiction; there should be a point to the plot cycles. What are they trying to force Gintoki to do, to show us in his character? What are they aiming for, what is driving the “time loop” in the first place?

Takasugi is driving the time loop.

(More specifically, Takasugi’s crushed eye-ball (soul), his eyelid; inaccessible past (memory), is driving the time loop.)

Another clarification. Personal time is time as experienced by the person; it is pure interiority. Thus, while the world moves on– personal time is time as movement– the person may not.

For the person to move on, they must be able to make change, that is, from a prior form, give birth to the next form. This is because only the person can observe, know, and experience “time”, which itself is a movement (a change in position) from past to present, present to future, that is defined by the person. So change and time-as-movement, within personal time, look synonymous.

Further, movement in personal time requires the given past– the memory, from before me, passed down to me by people and places and things and contexts that I outlive– to be held by me, to be part of the “I”, and thus for my bodily self and my non-embodied self to generate personal time together. In gintama, I locate “memory” as the sword. But gintama’s sword is also part of the Self; so personal time in which the Self can move is only born out of a whole self. Equivalently, personal time is not the Self, but it is intimately related to a change that can only be wrought by the Self, which is to say, both my body and my given memory are necessary to the movement of personal time.

In any case, “gin-tama” is about Gin-toki, and, quite literally, his soul, so we would suspect that narrative time is a projection of Gintoki’s personal time. But narrative time cycles weirdly, and Gintoki still has his sword. Alternatively: if Gintoki was not already a Self, that is, if he had to learn some lesson to become a Self through the time loop, how could he have saved any of the endless roster of villains that conveyor-belts around him? So maybe Gintoki holds his sword without remembering– except that he doesn’t, and the story makes this clear (“I haven’t lost a single thing”). He does, however, seem to possess a slightly different personal time. He and his sword remind antagonists of what they’ve forgotten, and these antagonists sometimes move forward with him into the next cycle. In other words, there is some sort of movement, a change, in the narrative, in the structure, associated with each loop.

But cycles stay cycles, up to a very particular moment.

At which point I revert to the most obvious advantage of narrative time: it interacts with the readers. Gintoki “is” a Self (in the sense that an electron is both a wave and a particle), who carries his sword, who remembers, who hasn’t lost a single thing. Yet the time around him repeats the same events, over and over again. Why? Well, in part for the above: every gintama villain needs to learn the same lesson. But every gintama villain is also Gintoki, and even if he remembers, we don’t. To risk being redundant, we, as readers, have no idea what actually happened to him until chapter 519, when it is fished (unwillingly, I think) out of Takasugi’s eyelid.

Then narrative time functions in several senses. It relates to Gintoki’s personal time, but indirectly; more generally it looks like a projection of the Losers’ personal times, where a Loser is one who has lost their sword. Still every Loser is also Gintoki, and every lost sword is lost memory, and even if Gintoki hasn’t forgotten anything– and even if Gintoki carries his past, his sword, with him– we, the readers, don’t. Surely enough, historical time in gintama only begins after chapter 519. The revelation must precede it.

So the gintama time loop is driven forward by whatever it takes for this memory to be revealed. Each iteration brings us closer, but there is no lesson for Gintoki to learn that would speed this up; the heart of it is that he is waiting, he has to wait, for memory to return, for his past to come back to him, and this past is exactly Takasugi.

Why? Takasugi is the past (his eye, his eyelid, is the past); his eye is therefore Gintoki’s sword, the sword of the soul we need for time to move on. But 10 years jump before Takasugi can make the approach, and even then only from behind. Worse, it takes hundreds more chapters for him to work up the resolve to face Gintoki head on. So if Gintoki somehow constrains the world to cyclical time, equally so does Takasugi.

In short, narrative time cannot move until Takasugi’s eye becomes Gintoki’s sword. Thus half of the loop is about Gintoki always standing up again, always waiting for Takasugi to face him, and the other half of the loop, that is, its motivation, is about Takasugi working up the guts, or whatever he does throughout the series, to finally come at Gintoki* face to face. Yes, I’m equating circles and lines, which is silly. But I did this in the beginning anyways. Rewatch the final.

So why does this matter? Readers well-versed in gintama sword theo-ontology may recognize that the sword which is memory is identical to the sword of the human. This is partly because I’ve defined personal time to require the whole Self (the human) to move, which itself requires both the sword-as-memory and its human wielder. It is also because I’ve equated Takasugi to memory instead of treating him like a character (sorry Takasugi). Nevertheless, creation of the human sword (the memory-sword) is now essential to creating time, and creating time is now equivalent to completing the Self, that is, to becoming “human”. Put another way, Shouyou isn’t killed until Gintoki kills him in 519.

More specifically, Gintoki killing Shouyou undoubtedly completes (undoes) his humanity**. It is also the only way for anyone in gintama to have a future, because it creates, gives birth, to time, the time of the series. Further, its revelation births time in the present just as its actuality births time in the past: the Gintoki who swings his human sword, who cries, in Takasugi’s eye, is the one who swings it at him now. Gintama doesn’t actually timeskip until Gintoki kills Utsuro in silver soul.

Then the movement of time, both personal and narrative, requires three things:

1. a memory-sword (the human sword) (the sword of the soul);

2. a human to wield it;

3. and a decision on how to swing

I have discussed one and two to exhaustion. Now we turn to three.

*Gintoki is always Takasugi, in every case. The inverse holds as well. **It also completes Shouyou’s, but that is for later.

in defense of the time loop

Birthing time looks like an escape from the time loop.

This is where the division between time, self, and change becomes essential. Why does the time loop, in many treatments, depress its readers? For the same reason that any tragedy is depressing: fate, un-change-ability, specifically, un-change-ability of things we want to change.

The time loop is a “literalization” of tragedy. The person trapped in the time loop, at best, loses the ability to determine their future, accomplish their projects, do what they want and have it last, that is, to find lasting (exterior) meaning (this is all exterior). At worst, this person carries their incapacity into a loop that is the same tragedy, over and over again, which they are helpless to prevent or change in any way.

This setup is not exclusive to the time loop– other variations could be immortality, reincarnation, oracles, endless linear eternity, et cetera. In every instance, though, the tragedy is that people cannot change the things that matter. And while the time loop usually removes external change to provoke internal change in its protagonist, gintama characters also struggle with the impossibility of changing themselves.

More generally, though, real time isn’t actually cyclical or linear. We move through time, changing form, towards our death– and so the common thought of time is “linear time”, which is really about “linear change” and an inability to “go back”. But time is only known to us, only countable, because of its cyclicality. There are 60 seconds to a minute; 60 minutes to an hour; 24 hours to the day; and then this repeats the next minute, the next hour, the next day; and then the next month, and then the next season, and then the next year; and then it repeats all over again. Time is only measurable, knowable, existent to us because it repeats. If it wasn’t known beforehand, how could we measure the present, the future, against it? And for it to be knowable, it has to be familiar; and for it to be familiar, we must have encountered it before; and here is the inherent repetition– we can’t stop the cyclicality or flow of time anymore than we can avoid our deaths. Real time makes possible our “change” just as it is unchangeable, just as its existence is conditioned on unchangeability.

Gintama is a story, and story time works differently than real time, so maybe in the story we can separate “linear time” (change-ability) from “cyclical time”, from “time loop” (un-change-ability). Even still, what happens after you escape a time loop? Equivalently, what happens after you escape the tragedy? In the usual time loop– at least the usual time loop in our minds– the loop is escaped into linear time, or, more appropriately, it is escaped into the time where linear change is possible. But why is “linear time” the happy ending? Even granted that it exists (which is questionable), what makes linearity better than repetition, that is, why do people love “linear change”?

The Joui 4 lived “linear time” during the war. They fought enemies, and won. They progressed towards something, and believed in it, too; they were the main characters of a power-scaling, battle-shounen manga. And yet, their linear time ended, or more accurately, was never “linear”. Shouyou’s death, if anything, only proved the inherent impossibility of their shounen dreams. So narrative time twists into defeatist cycles, and Takasugi is doomed forever to repeat, and this is probably more accurate to the condition of the actual world they inhabit, because, most importantly, time was always like this, linear change as linear time never existed.

But again, the tragedy was never about the time loop. From its inception, the tragedy has always been about intentionality versus ruination, “I” as capable actor versus “I” as acted upon, and the utter inability of anyone to change any of this. We want out of the time loop because we can’t do anything; we want out because we can’t act out of ourselves to make external change in any way that lasts. Ultimately, we want out of the time loop because we discover that our intentionality actually means jackshit. The world does what I don’t want it to, and traps me in this; I cannot act, and yet it acts on me. My despair at the exterior world which rivets me to itself quickly translates to despair in, at, my self. I can’t make change, so what does being [x person] matter, so this is my fault, so there’s no point in changing myself, so I can’t change myself in any way that matters, because even if I do everything right, there’s no meaningful effect on the world that holds me captive, et cetera. Thus everyone wants out of the tragedy, the time loop.

Including gintama villains, who usually try to get out of it by killing themselves. This never works.

The time loop is tragic because it makes its inhabitants absolutely passive to it and acts on them eternally. The gintama cast is supposedly full of “losers”; its villain of the week, while beating Gintoki, calls him a masterless dog, a ghost, the one who lost, along with the rest of the samurai, et cetera; and the loser here is inherently passive against a winning actor. Nevermind that Gintoki never fought for the Romantic Japan that lost to the amanto– his loss is even more infinite for the narrowness of its scope.

And yet, you’re not supposed to kill yourself.

Escaping the time loop– or, more generally, the tragedy– never guarantees linear time, because we always have to end the book on the happily ever after. So what really happens after you escape the time loop– is linear time actually a relief? Either things start going wrong, which isn’t the linear time ideal, or you achieve every dream, you make possible every impossibility, and come to the end of the infinite series by continuing on within it infinitely. Is that really “happy”?

Alternatively: the cycles of narrative time drive towards the birth of a new time. But the tragedy of the cycles is intentionality/ruination, and the cycles can’t be escaped into their “opposite”. Gintoki, a human, with a human sword, kills Shouyou, and thereby brought forth a new time. And yet, this new time was still cyclical.

Then what’s the solution– killing yourself? Takasugi, repetition Personified, asks this to Gintoki the entire series. Why won’t you stay down?, [Why are you crying?], [Why can’t I comfort you?], Why keep living in this world? Villainy aside, he does have a point– if you look carefully, living in the gintama world is incredibly, incredibly stupid.

Gintoki says: no matter how many times I fall, no matter how many times I fight the same fight over and over again, no matter if it never ends, I will always stand up.

This is the height of stupidity.

[time]

So narrative cycles aim at the revelation of Gintoki’s memory, which would identify sword with eye, tool with wielder, that is, complete the “human”, and thereby give birth to a new (non-linear) time.

Here we get to mathematical infinity.

Mathematical infinity is not a number, or even properly a concept. It’s more like a sign at the edge of a cliff that says, there’s a cliff here, here’s the end of the world– except that this sign also signifies whatever, and everything, that might lie beyond the cliff, which cannot really be called “essence”, or even be said to exist in the first place. In other words, infinity is a marker for a point of no return, that in of itself is nothing.

Some things are said to be “infinite”. Usually, these are patterns. A line is infinite, as is a parabola; but these infinities are predictable, that is, countable, because patterns are rules. Their comprehensibility allows us to treat them like fancy numbers.

Conversely, some functions decompose into situations that are entirely ungraspable. This edge of knowledge, where it devolves into paradox and nonsense, looks like uncountable infinity.

Uncountable infinity is the infinity whose name itself means nothing. It signifies to something that is, by axiom, impossible impossibility, ungraspable. When infinity “interacts” with the mathematical world– or, rather, when we push far enough to reach it– we come to paradox, chaos, and unintelligibility. Certainly, science could advance sufficiently to reconcile the mysteries of particle physics; but the fun of mathematical concepts is that you can define them in any way you like, even if they’re fake. And uncountable infinity is, by my definition, the “thing” that is always uncountable.

So gintama narrative cycles aim at something, while those in cyclical personal times suffer for them. Cycles, better, change-less-ness, correspond to sword-less-ness, to lack of memory, and historical time only “restarts” when Takasugi brings us the past. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

This doesn’t mean our new time won’t be cyclical.

In the end, “time” is associated with sense of Self. This is an unavoidable relation, because time is a human word, in a human language, that describes what is ultimately only known to us as human experience. But “Self” is (itself) a problematic concept. After all, what determines one’s Self? Relatedly, who, and/or what, and/or where, and/or why, gets to possess Selves at all?

Within concepts of Self is often embedded an instinct towards differentiation. The (western philosophical) impulse is to originate this difference in agency: that is, through my free determination of my Will, my Projects, my Actions, and et cetera, I differentiate “I” from “other” and thereby constitute Me. Needless to say, concepts of “agency” are inextricably linked to “change”. Thus, in this particular conception, “time” is bound to “Self”, is bound to “agency”, is bound to “change”, and to invoke any one is to invoke the other three.

Here, “knowing” (as agency) finds itself imperiled. That is, though the “unknowable” would strip agents of acting-ability, “knowing” would also consign existence, life, the universe, et cetera, to determinism. In both cases, “(un)-knowledge” renders the agent passive. Thus someone might long for an unknowable magic in order to undo determinism, just as they might long for the knowledge to successfully determine their life; yet the one who longs for agency could find agency a disappointment, a not-agency. Equally, if the time loop embodies both desires before they collapse into paradox (I can continue into the unknown future if I escape; something is tying me down, my knowledge is insufficient to escape), “linear time” does so as well.

But now we return to infinity, to irrationality, to uncountability, in short, to paradox. The bulk of the previous 5000 words has been to determine that the dichotomy is false. To be straight, knowing and not knowing, agent and non-agent, the linear and the cyclical, are not separable from each other. Their binary is an illusion, and the suggestion of one carries within it the absence of the other; they are synonymous at the exact and every moment they are not. Clearly, this is not not-knowing, and not knowing, and not not-either of them at the same time. I call this uncountable infinity, the mathematically irrational.

The mathematically irrational is paradox. Consider: we can graph, and look at, certain functions, and yet never grasp their value (put x(sin(1/x)) into desmos). Similarly, we know exactly what “pi” is– the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter– and we can define it, use it, find it in every instance. And yet, pi is an irrational number, because its decimals trail off into uncountable infinity. Knowing and not-knowing, united in the same action: irrationality is knowing in not-knowing, not-knowing in knowing, and also neither.

I will be ridiculous and find this paradox in gintama. I want to claim, in the first place, that the self never generated time at all; in the second, that this is never irreducible to agent/acted, knowing/unknown; and in the third, that time is generated by [time]. To do so, we must investigate the moment of its birth, in 519.

the cliff—519

Tools, given memory, etc., together with the persons who hold them, produce an actor-self, a time of possible change (a “linear” time). It is in 519 that Takasugi finally faces the camera.

Now Gintoki grasps the sword (memory, Takasugi). This should give us “linear” time.

But 519 is not so willing. Where we hope for capable agency, we find none. Instead linear/cyclical, active/passive, presence/distance, collapse into irrationality.

Take the archetypical moment. To Takasugi’s why, Gintoki says he’ll stand up. Specifically, he says, too bad– I (you) won’t fall.

Standing up is what Gintoki (a person, with a sword) does. It is how he defeats each suicidal villain, kills Shouyou, and kills Shouyou and Takasugi all over again. This is what the “time loop” would require of him.

Gintama antagonists, those paragons of rationality, tell us that it is irrational.

Otae is also irrational. Her irrationality doesn’t fix anything (⇔escape cyclical time, make change), and she knows so herself– “If I’ll suffer either way, I’d rather suffer protecting it.” 518 chapters later, Gintoki says: “I won’t fall until you [Takasugi] fall, until you stop, no matter how many times it takes, I’ll stand up again… even if I have to walk over my teacher’s corpse, even if I have to walk over your corpse, I’ll protect his disciple, our companion, Shoka Sonjuku’s Takasugi Shinsuke, his soul.”

So Gintoki stand(ing)s up until something– until Takasugi stops, until time is born– in order to protect Takasugi’s soul. This might look like an “end” to the cycle, but it doesn’t feel like one. “Even if I have to walk over your corpse”?

Alternatively, “saving” Takasugi should be the change that the cycles want to make, that would break them in any normal work of time loop fiction. It is “agency” (capable action, material change) at its purest. But Gintoki says he will stand up and kill Takasugi and stand up again. No matter how many times the same thing repeats, no matter if time never moves on, no matter if he is forced to kill the very person he’s trying to protect, Gintoki will stand up. How could Gintoki possibly care about escaping any cycle, when he is the one “perpetuating it”?

So gintama is not actually about escaping the time loop, which is the rational thing to do. Gintama is about, do you have the strength to keep living in the time loop, even if it never ends?, or, do you have the strength to kill your teacher and your friend, and lose everything all over again?, or, do you have the strength to eternally suffer for the thing that can never be taken back? In short: forget the capable actor– gintama is about being foolish, and irrational, and embracing the time loop by standing up.

If we look to chapter one, [standing up] is [protecting the thing that can’t be taken back]. Neither can be appropriately confined to cyclical or linear time. Otae says she’ll suffer either way, and Gintoki says he stands up to protect what Shouyou held precious, Takasugi’s soul.

Otae protects a thing that cannot be taken back. This is the past. Gintoki acts for– and this is also a protecting– the past. Takasugi is, in a literal sense, pierced by this past every moment of his life.

The past that we can recover, that we can fully integrate into ourselves, is the past that can be used to generate the future in “time”. Thus “accepting” the past “to move on” – accepting, making entirely part of oneself, making entirely interior – because only then can the past become knowable, comprehensible, and usable. The person must accept their past to change things, i.e., to make linear time. Time, change, and agency coincide.

Yet Otae’s past “cannot be taken back”. Certainly, even the accepted past cannot be “returned” to. But Otae’s past is the past that pierces Takasugi’s eye– that is, the past whose “revelation”, whose self-same existence, drives the completion/generation of gintama time itself.

So this is the past that “cannot be taken back”, in more than the literal sense. Takasugi is scandalized by its distance, even as he dies satisfied; Gintoki, ever-silent, still loses his composure at its provocation, is emptied by it, cries in 519 (in all of gintama), in 703. It is a past that refuses total use or incorporation; instead it acts on those who carry it, even after person is reconciled to sword (to its memory).

Its paradox in position. Though “the past” is always present (“I haven’t lost anything”, “how long will you keep looking at that crushed eye of yours”), it is simultaneously kept from us by an irreparable distance. Distance, of course, suggests space, which itself suggests a space that is surpassable. But this distance is not spatial– it is temporal. Gintoki carries the past, yet never reveals it to anyone, much less to us; in the end it is Takasugi who has to do the revealing, and even then only after 500 chapters. Further, its revelation actually increases the distance. We grow used to our proximity to Gintoki’s “point of view”, to our role, through him, as protagonist of the story; and here his defining moment is told not through his eyes, but through the eyes of the distant antagonist, whose breaking point is the discovery of the distance between him and Gintoki. Gintoki is reflected– more, revealed to have always been– across a distance that is unsurpassable.

This distance is equally time, because Takasugi and Gintoki were separated always, and only, by “the 10 years”. Takasugi comes to Edo– there is nothing stopping him, spatially, no physical restriction or meaningful law imposed, from making the approach– and yet he cannot make it. Or so we assume. We only know its universal separation axiom: 10 years, a distance between two points that could never be overcome or recuperated.

So the past is across an unsurpassable distance. In this sense, it cannot be taken back. It is simultaneously carried in, pierces, Takasugi’s eye, who struggles because he cannot reconcile it to himself. Just as it is always with him– “every time I look, the beast…”– it is also the one thing he cannot bear to see (your crying face). Though its revelation is necessary to New time, it is also what sent time into irregularity in the first place. And though it is irreparably distant, it pierces every moment of the present, which is to say: it degrades time, it makes things weird.

Its paradox in times. The cliff is pre-originary to everything by narrative position. Gintama narrative cycles press towards its revelation as first dilemma. It is before even the corpse field, before anything else. It drives each time Gintoki swings his sword and reenacts it. The very first moment that Shouyou finds Gintoki, is predated, predicated upon, generated, made possible by, the fact that Gintoki kills him with his sword.

From this past, Gintoki is (in the verb sense). It is ahead of him (in 519) and behind him (before 1). For its sake he “acts” towards a “change” (stands up) that he knows is impossible (“if I have to walk over even your corpse”*). In other words, for sake of this past, Gintoki lives as if he belongs to a “linear” time, even as he knows he doesn’t. The past brings forth itself again.

Finally, its paradox in agency. What is burned onto Takasugi’s eyelid is a single moment he cannot recover or recuperate. Instead, this moment acts on him, it pierces him, against his will. This sort of past is not an empty concept, that could be filled with any given circumstance. Takasugi is tortured because the content matters– because what happens on the cliff that day, matters.

The cliff is not what Takasugi, Gintoki, Shouyou, or anyone else, wanted. Worse, it is not what they fought for: Takasugi to save Shouyou, Gintoki to protect Shouyou’s disciples (in an act that he knows will destroy them), Shouyou to protect his children. Instead Takasugi is stripped of agency, and the eye that would acquire it; in the present he acts on everything because he is, in every moment, acted on. Equally, just as Shouyou tries to protect his students, he destroys them, and Gintoki, who is forced (acted on) to choose (acts on) between two wrongs, two denials of his self** (of linearity), that is, two losses, is the classic agent paradox most of all.

So the past cannot be taken back, and this not only in the sense that no one can return to it. The past cannot be taken back as a memory, nor can it be incorporated as part of the self, nor can it function as the essential memory that projects forward normal time, even as it is known at every single moment. It cannot be domesticated.

Gintoki killing Shouyou, and crying, is unacceptable. It is distance itself, just as it is proximity; it is simultaneously known (Takasugi sees it), unknown (no one can reconcile it), and neither (we still move on). It should not have happened. It is irrationality itself.

And yet, by virtue of being “a past”, in its relation to the present, in its position as driving force of the time of the entire series, it still is time. The human, with the human sword, who cuts off someone’s head, is [time] itself.

Clearly, this is something outside of normal time. The question becomes, who needs to be killed, and where, and why?

The one who gives birth to a future.

*–and he does.

**“No need. They’ll never hold a sword again.”

the future

That Gintoki kills Shouyou is essential.

The start of gintama’s “historical timeline” is the corpse field. Here the time that Gintoki sits in carries a heavy sense of eternity. The moment where Shouyou finds him could be forever; historical time is out of place.

What breaks this time is very particular. It is not that person and sword = human = time in the automatic sense, because Gintoki, who holds a successful sword (“before meeting you, I never lost to an adult”), remains inhuman. Rather, Shouyou, a human (to Gintoki), must give his sword to Gintoki for time to start. This is also what makes Gintoki human. Gintoki, the human, had to be given his humanity– and thereby time– by someone else.

Equivalently, it is not enough for gintama’s [being human] that the right person holds the right sword. Only a human can progress time, that is, give birth to the future, but reconciling self to past, sword to eye, escaping the time loop, is insufficient. That Shouyou finds Gintoki is predicated by the cliff; sword can only become eye through the cliff’s revelation (and the cliff happens concurrently); self and past are reconciled only after Gintoki kills Takasugi; and the Shimura dojo is restored only once the Shimura siblings kill their mentor. It isn’t enough just to hold the sword– you have to actually swing it.

This swing must be something irrational, because everything else is just the natural extension of a person with a sword (it is the person and the sword). Further, the person must make the swing themselves. For it to be a swing they make, they need to choose it. So the swing is a decision made in irrationality.

Swinging a sword at– beheading someone— who is clearly the irrational choice. What goes against the logic of the world, of time, of all the meaning you sought after? Gintoki fought to protect Shouyou’s disciples; but Takasugi tells us that he wanted to save Shouyou more than anyone. Narrative logic says that Shouyou’s disciples should die to save him, and the logic of their linear time– their humanities and their swords– is to rescue Shouyou and progress into the future. Gintoki swings against everything. And cries.

Gintoki stands up, is irrational, for the past that can never be taken back. This past completes his humanity (person, sword, swing) in the moment that it ruins it (he cries). Gintoki kills the one before him(先生) to make them the one behind (into the past); which itself is a loop, is a cycle, but also a line. It is a [being human] that gives birth to an irrational time.

Gintoki kills Shouyou even though it changes nothing. How does this birth time? “Time” comes out of a self, but Gintoki loses his self; “time” is what renders change possible, but Gintoki cannot “save” Shouyou or Takasugi. Certainly Gintoki knows this, and kills Shouyou in spite of it. But how does this bring forth a future at all?

Gintoki does kill Shouyou for something, for some reason, and this is concretely the survival (into the future) of Shouyou’s disciples. Abstractly, though the purpose is less clear– “even if I have to walk over your corpse” – it is still what drives (is the purpose of) every instance that Gintoki, or anyone, stands up.

Gintoki’s purpose is Shouyou’s purpose, and Shouyou dies to give birth to the “future” (a future that is born in irrationality). So when Utsuro comes to kill him, Shouyou sees also Gintoki, and smiles. Sakamoto calls this “hope”.

We are told that Shouyou gives birth to hope– his students– almost as if to invoke the analogy. Shouyou’s disciples– his “children” – are him, because he gave birth to them, and they are not him, because they have a futurity beyond his imagination. Equally, this future is knowable, because the child is you, and time repeats, just as it is not, because the child is not you, and you will not be there to see it. This is the substance of “hope”.

With regards to the structure of his world, his time, and perhaps even his own humanity, Gintoki makes the irrational choice: he stands up. But to stand up is actually for, to give birth to, the uncountable future. Sakamoto tells us that Gintoki “gives birth” to this future in every shounen-bond he ever makes. And here is the paradox, something more generative than irrational dilemma– Gintoki’s “descendants” inherit his soul to be in ways unimaginable to him.

This future pierces every moment, and in the same moment it escapes. Take that Shouyou knows, and cannot know, what his disciples will be. Their possibility is imaginable, in the sense that he can delineate it– “I hope you all find your own bushidous” – but it is also uncountably infinite, because your child is not you and not beholden to your patterns. Equivalently, Otae’s happy memories end when her father dies, but she still keeps the sword of her soul, this unspeakable thing, that past, and it is her purpose in standing up.

Gintoki, with the sword he has been given by a human, kills Shouyou. This gives birth to an uncountable future– uncountable because it is born in irrationality, beyond the possibilities and expectations of pattern, either linear or cyclic– that is an uncountable infinity, and this is [time]. [time] drives, again, pierces, every second of all of time, and in the same moment it escapes. It is also irreparably beyond the one who births it. This is why gintama had to end.

So the human is constituted in the moment of death (⇔the moment of irrational swing), which is to release the future— [time]. In the same moment, humanity, and [time], escapes. But the moment of constitution (⇔ [time]) is what births the next instance of being human, that is, the rest of time.

In the moment before Gintoki’s irrational swing, each [time] was truly infinite. Here possibility is as unthinkable as Gintoki’s heart; there is no better way I can describe this than an uncountable infinity. Gintoki did what he should have (not) (not) have done. Neither he, nor Shouyou, nor Takasugi, Katsura, Oboro, or anyone, could have imagined any possibility for the future that was to come. In its sheer impossibility, this was infinity: the past that cannot be taken back.

But the past that cannot be taken back is also the sword of the soul. By definition, this generates an impossible impossibility, that slips away as soon as it is born; and as the uncountable, that is, the mother of all irrationality, and also its child, [time] has little to say about lines or circles, aside from that they are essentially the same. So gintama never cared about time loops or not: all that matters is if you follow [time] by standing up.

When Gintoki recovers his sword (Takasugi’s eye, Takasugi), he does so amidst a wreckage that looks like pine trees, as Takasugi (the one who finally stood before him, who now will stand behind) dies in his arms. Here, we find that the “cycle” repeats: Gintoki stands up, and the sun rises.

This is the dawn of a new, impossible day.

I don’t think that’s so bad.

#4 months later. i cant articulate the suffering this has brought me. anyways. happy 5 years since 703 LOL #goose tag #gintama

30 notes · View notes