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bastart13 · 4 years ago

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I’ve had a lot of fun recently coming with with female mercenary characters for TF2. I really liked where the concept art was going with making them all individual characters rather than simply “if the characters were women”

The design style is fantastic for distinct simplicity so I tried limiting myself to basic colours and shapes to make these

and I’m pretty confident they pass the silhouette test!

Character names/bios under the cut!

Heavy

Name: Marie Jarrett

Age: Mid 30s-40s

Height: 6’5

Nationality: American (Hawai’i)

Bio: Raised in Hawai’i, growing up she developed more and more drastic measures to fend off the tourists swarming her home. Land mines, electric gates, guard dogs, none could stop them for long until she picked up her trusty minigun to send her message. But even still, she hears the click of cameras in the night.

Eventually, she left her home to explore the world. Enthralled with the image of seeing different wonders across different countries, she’s always disappointed. She’s travelled every continent and still finds nothing that lives up to her expectations. No place, no person. She’s outgoing and open to new experiences, only she usually hates them.

Mercenary life is a great opportunity to earn money, see sights, meet new people and kill them after they don’t meet your expectations. She hates New Mexico and takes every opportunity to destroy the buildings and insult her employer’s tastes. She finds some people she tolerates within the mercenaries as she hasn’t yet visited where they live. However much she hides it, she has a deep, instinctual fear of the Engineer.

Soldier

Name: Linda Smith

Age: Early 40s

Height: 5’10

Nationality: Canadian

Bio: Canada’s perfect woman… or so she claims. The star of war propaganda posters and clearly decided for the role because of her great tactical assets. She’s there to motivate people into the fight. To spread the glory of Canada and inspire her allies. She believes she has higher orders than anyone else she’s working for (ignoring the fact she hasn’t heard from them for a good few years) and is determined to follow them to the letter. She may have lost the letter but she remembers it good enough.

She represents the ideals of Canada: polite, friendly, apologetic, and pacifistic. None of these are contradicted by how she throws around rockets. That’s not what Canada means. She’s superior to everyone around her and graciously educates them on how to improve through example. She loves her French and British allies and will kindly tell the Americans how to be better.

She’s motivating and actually fairly competent, it’s just that competency might be misdirected. She’s damn good at rocket jumping, shooting her shotgun, and supporting her team, it’s just that you really need to get it in her head when she’s meant to be doing it.

Scout

Name: Patricia “Pat” Herald

Age: 50s-60s

Height: 5’4

Nationality: English

Bio: In her years, Patricia has learnt fear… and she’s learnt to laugh in its face. She wakes up at the crack of dawn, ready to leave at the drop of a hat, boots polished and laced the night before. Her years have taught her that with a gun and Jeremy by her side, she can survive!

The postal route of Appleby-in-Westmorland.

She’s been chased by geese, dogs, cows, elderly ladies, and when her postal route had her delivering post during the war, she developed a taste for blood. Nothing will stop her from delivering her post on time. Every day before 6am, every postbox will have their letters and parcels. One chucked across barbed wire, another house jumped over a river, another house miles into the country with dogs on her heels, she WILL get there and she’ll get there FAST.

But after a couple of decades, she needs a change of scenery, and the Gravels wars are just the holiday she’s needed. With her trusty black and white cat by her side (ignoring the yowling and scratches) she reckons it’ll be great time to enjoy herself.

Quotes: “Oh, hello, Human Jeremy.”

“Bloody fucking Ethel! Building her house out in the country… surrounded by bloody hills and rivers!”

Pyro

Name: Nikephoros Papadopoulos

Age: Late 20s

Height: 5’11

Nationality: Greek

Bio: Survival of the fittest. Nature gives and nature taketh away. If you’re not prepared for that, well, Pyro is more than happy to teach you the lesson. They embody the old values of the Greek gods: f*ck or fire. She indulges her every whim and unfortunately for the people around her it often involves arson.

One year for the Olympic games, she was given the noble title of torchbearer. On complete coincidence, the Olympics shifted to primarily water sports. Underwater sprints became the hot new trend!

She’s merry and chatty, never missing the opportunity to talk to other people about herself and her world view. She can’t wait to spread her gospel to help other people improve themselves (though she always gets a laugh out of those who go out screaming in the flames). She can’t help it if she has a sadistic side.

Engineer

Name: Mikawo Kojima

Age: Early 20s

Height: 5’0

Nationality: Japanese

Bio: Japan’s early-rising industrial revolutions in technology are best exemplified in Mikawo, a young upstart determined to rise to the top, learning everything she can and building the best of the best. Unfortunately, she’s never been the most creative but when you happen upon other people’s blueprints and happen to construct them first, what does it matter who came up with the “concept”?

At first, she appears to be every bit the quiet and demure young woman people expect, only when silk hides steel, that steel is a massive automatic sentry gun. She’s motivated by a distinct contempt for the people who get in her way. Especially those who try to be better than her. She enjoys the flexibility of English, especially the cusses, and she has no reservations about swearing up a storm, even if she still refuses to give a straight rejection, preferring instead to give a small “I’ll think about it.”

Quotes: “This GUN is fair use on your head!”

Demo

Name: Qingzhao Zeng

Age: Late 40s

Height: 5’3

Nationality: Chinese

Bio: The Zeng family has a long-standing family trade in demolitions and explosives, traced down the line all the way to the Song dynasty. Luckily, Qingzhao has sisters so, you know, it’s not all that important. She doesn’t even have to stop smoking and drinking. She hasn’t blown herself up (that much) so clearly, it’s working. Precision is for other people to worry about. She’s apathetic to a T, having seen everything. Measurements come from the heart. A pinch of gunpowder there, a splash of paint there.

Her family has a deep-seated rivalry with the DeGroots. Long ago in ancient China, a Zeng matriarch woke up in a cold sweat, a message from the stars to let them know of their Scottish rivals. Due to being a continent away from each other, the families have actually met each other only a handful of times, but the hatred needs to be kept up because, what if?

Turns out, Qingzhao has met Tavish even before finding employment under the Mann brothers. One drunken night, the two of them had a short, whirlwind friendship, sharing secrets and declaring each other to be their best friends. Luckily for them, they both forgot the night, merrily hating each other as tradition dictates. However, headaches and flashes of this terrible night haunt them both. Could they really get over centuries of hate and become friends?

Absolutely not.

Sniper

Name: Ansa Aaltonen

Age: 27

Height: 6’2

Nationality: Finnish

Bio: Snow. Sugar. Cocaine. Her life is run by many white powders. Ansa is a professional sniper, with a sharp eye and a steady hand… when she isn’t also high as a kite, lost in the snowy wilderness of Finland and screeching to the sky. When you’re up in the dark and cold, you need something to give you a little pep in your step. It just so happens Ansa liked having a bit more pep than most.

She’s there for a THRILL. There’s nothing better to get your heart pumping at 200 beats per second than a good headshot, embracing the chill, and a hit of sugar. She no longer feels the cold or heat or even pain, shrugging it off until she collapses. It just makes her feel alive. She’s efficient, fast, and determined to get her kicks.

She has an unusual taste, living off fermented fish and tree bark. To most people around the Finnish wilderness, she’s nothing more than an urban legend, but she’s very real and she’s looking for some excitement, happily found in employment in the Gravel wars.

Spy

Name: Yvonne Pleshette [Real name N/A]

Age: 30s

Height: 5’8

Nationality: American (California)

Bio: The silver screen calls to his woman and she’s happy to answer. She trains herself to act in every possible role she can, having a wide range of accents, body languages, and backstories. To truly test herself, she gave up her identity long ago. Lately she’s been going by the name “Yvonne.”

The world of Hollywood is cutthroat and full of backstabbers so she learnt to cut throats and stab backs. While some people tell her the terms are metaphorical, nothing else has given her more roles. Living the mercenary life is simply gathering research for her roles (and earning some much-needed money in the process).

She presents herself as a classic film star, despite being a minor name at best, mostly because she’s always changing it. She has high standards but a cheapskate personality. She’s a bit of a bitch, happily criticising others, especially if they’re working with her. What can she say? She’s a diva.

[Slutshames other spy]

Quotes: “Ugh, actors these days, they know nothing about getting into character. They still have names.”

“’AHHHHH—’ Wait, no. Once more from the top. Scream in agony.”

Medic

Name: Susan Monks

Age: 30-40s

Height: 5’7

Nationality: American (New Jersey)

Bio: The American Healthcare system. Is there a more glorious sight? The exploitation of pain. The money. The debt. The fear it strikes into the entire population it’s designed to help. To Susan, there’s nothing better. She squeezes every last drop from the people she helps, working on a purely transactional lifestyle. She’ll never help someone unless she has all of their insurance information and the payment secure in her bank, and god forbid she ever accept help. It’s not like she can afford her own prices.

She’s very self-aware of her own corruption and proud of it, though she refuses to be exploited in the same way, suspicious of anything “free” but also doing her best not to pay for anything.

That said, she doesn’t much care for how good a job she does. In her eyes, asking for surgery is one thing. Asking for successful surgery is another. She has a variety of skills in both cosmetic and military medicine. She just wishes the license board would stop sending her “malpractice” letters. Ugh, stick to your own business. “Disappearing” all their messengers is becoming a pain.

Quotes: “Why get someone else to do something for you when you can scrounge a way to do it yourself?”

#team fortress 2 #team fortress #tf2 #fem tf2 #tf2 heavy #tf2 spy #tf2 scout #tf2 medic #tf2 sniper #tf2 engineer #tf2 soldier #tf2 demoman #tf2 pyro #character design #art #i'm very happy with how these turned out

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delaber · 4 years ago

Text

Just Friends (Part 9)

Story Summary: After moving to America for a 3-month long internship, you meet two interesting characters on a boring night out.

Word Count: 4.6K

Pairing: Rafael Casal x Reader

Warnings: Alcohol, minor drug use, smut, slight dom!Rafa, swearing, and loads of British references (sorry not sorry lol)

Chapter Note: smut smut smut smut smut smut smmmmmuuuuttt

Tag List: lonelydance mysearchforgratification ramp-it-up blndspotting summerofsnowflakes exrthangel honeysucklechocolatedrippin captaintightpants58

Other Parts: See Masterlist

"What did I tell you?" He laughed as he closed the door behind him, "you don't have to take off your shoes when you're here."

"It's the polite thing to do," you smiled goofily up at him, "what if I stepped in something icky earlier."

"I suppose I'd have to clean the floor tomorrow then," he shrugged, his eyes still bloodshot from the joint, "it's a risk I'd be willing to take."

Easy to giggles, you shot him a laugh.

"You want a drink?" he asked you and held up his index finger, "a quick word of warning; my margarita game is off but I do make a mean Long Island."

You arched an eyebrow at him, "Long Island? Are you trying to get me drunk?"

He sent you a smirk, "Your senses are already dulled from the reefer. How much more could a strong drink possibly do?"

"Okay," you laughed, "Long Island it is then - I do hope it's better than the 'Rafa Special' that you made me on New Years."

"Ouch, you big bully," he pretended to be hurt, "I lay down my guard and show you my true self and this is what it gets me? Some ignorant European tearing apart my cocktail game? I'm telling you; if I had just an ounce of self-respect, you'd be in an Uber on your way home right now!"

"I guess I'm lucky that you're completely spineless," you shrugged.

"Did you just say that?" He put down the lime he'd been holding and sent you a bemused smile.

"Let me just check; uh yes I did."

"Say it again and I'll definitely throw you out," he took a step closer to you trying to look dangerous but failing miserably.

"You're spineless," you whispered.

"One more time for Big Rafa, come on," he motioned a come on sign with his hand, stepping even closer to you.

"Spineless," you squealed and ran away from him as he started running towards you.

"I'll get you for this," he chased you into the living room where he grabbed you around the waist and threw you down on the sofa. He sat down on top of you and grabbed your wrists, "say it again," he urged you, as he easily forced your hands above your head, pinning your wrists together with just one hand. It reminded you of the night after New Years and you became strangely aroused by it.

"Okay, I'll stop," you squealed as he tickled your sides, "just let me go."

He stopped tickling you and went completely still, "never," he leaned in and whispered, lips hovering dangerously close to yours, his right hand warm against your ribs. He could feel your fast heartbeat through your black t-shirt as you made a quick decision and lifted your head up to kiss him softly on the lips.

He gladly reciprocated your tender kiss, looking pained as you withdrew your face after just a couple of seconds.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, "I don't know what just came over me."

Rafa let go of you and got up from the sofa, "Yeah," he cleared his throat, "I'm sorry too," he took your hand and helped you up on your feet, "I'll go mix us those drinks," he said quietly.

While he went to the kitchen, you studied the guys' living room. You had only been in here once before and back then, you had been far too concerned with locating your clothes to really have a look around at the colourful posters and their personal belongings scattered around the room. Your eyes were drawn to a small shelf at the back of the room where miniature figures of Calvin and Hobbes stood. You took Calvin in your hand and examined him more closely before putting the figure back on the shelf, moving along to the next item; a gilded gramophone reading 'National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences, Daveed Diggs, Principal Soloist, Best Musical Theater Album - 2015, Hamilton (Original Broadway Cast)' along with what appeared to be a Tony award inscribed 'Best Performance by a Featured Actor in a Musical: Daveed Diggs as Marquis de Lafayette/Thomas Jefferson, 2015 - Hamilton.'

You did a double take as you read the text on the two awards again.

Rafa came in with two drinks in hand, "I see you've found Diggs' awards," he smiled, handing you a drink.

"Are these real?"

"Very real," Rafa smirked.

"Why didn't you tell me? I had no idea!"

"I wanted to see how long it took you to figure out where you know us from," he shrugged.

"Were you in this... Hamilton as well?"

"Oh, god no," he laughed, "and by your tone of voice I'm guessing you have no idea what it even is."

"Not a clue," you shook your head and took a big gulp of the drink, "So let me get this straight: Daveed is a hardcore rapper and a Broadway musical star? I never would've guessed that!" you laughed.

"Yeah, remember the first night when you came up to us and you couldn't remember where you'd seen us before?"

"Of course."

"We thought it was a weird trick just to get us to talk to you. Ever since performing in Hamilton, Daveed has been dubbed as America's fast-rapping sweetheart," he rolled his eyes.

"Are you jealous?" you chuckled.

"Not the least. But we can never go out anymore without people feeling the need to constantly come up to him and introduce themselves. It was fun at first but now it's kind of lost its glory."

"So you thought I was a groupie or something?" You laughed, "yeah, your reactions definitely make more sense now."

"Sorry for being a dick," Rafa looked pained, "Sometimes it's necessary when you just want a quiet night out with your best friend."

"So you were a dick on purpose yet you still came over to me and apologised?"

"I did," he laughed, "I thought you were too sassy to just let go. Especially after I realised that you'd been completely innocent and that you actually thought you just knew us from work or something. It was kind of cute so I felt bad for acting like a douche."

"I still feel like I know you from somewhere else apart from that night though," you mumbled.

"Yeah, I know. Come here," Rafa said and took your hand, leading you to a room in another part of the house where you hadn't been before. The room was lined with different recording equipment and movie posters.

"What is this?"

"Our workspace," Rafa said matter-of-factly, "We record music in here or write lyrics, scripts for sketches or plays. You know. Anything creative."

"I've never met anyone with a workspace like this," you took in the room with awe.

"...and this," Rafa continued, "I'm guessing is where you know us from," he pointed to a poster titled Blindspotting with a laughing Daveed and a tough-looking Rafa facing you.

"Yeah! Yeah that's it! I remember seeing this at the movies back home," you said excitedly as you took in the poster. You remembered thinking that the two leads were cute even back then, "so you're a musician slash actor?" you looked back at Rafa who was smiling at you.

"I prefer creative genius, but whatever..." he hugged you from behind, "your term is just as good I guess."

"Why didn't you tell me that I'd probably seen you in a movie."

"You were so unfazed by me and Diggs. And I knew it wouldn't impress you so I kept my mouth shut and told Daveed not to say anything," he snickered from over your shoulder, "I wanted you to spend time with me because you like me. Not because I'm semi-famous."

"I can't believe you thought I was a groupie," you chuckled and leaned into his arms.

"You're so much more," he groaned. His lips brushed against your neck and he kissed you softly below the ear.

His movements brought you back to reality, "Rafa," you sighed, "I know you're drunk and high but we can't be doing this."

"Mmh..." he hummed against you as he pushed your hair aside, his lips still tracing along your neck.

Slowly, you turned around, his arms still around you. "I'm serious," you said.

"I know," he groaned and let his arms fall flat to his sides with a sigh.

"Maybe I should go," you said, "this was clearly a bad idea. And I have to work tomorrow."

"On a Saturday?" he arched an eyebrow at you, "or are you just saying that so you have an excuse to leave early?"

"As I told you; I'm not even halfway done with the project I came here to do, so I actually do have to work tomorrow," you booped his nose, "I'm probably going to be quite busy the next week to be honest."

"So I really won't get to see you?" Rafa furrowed his eyebrows.

"Minimally," you frowned back.

"Okay, I have an idea; since my place is closer to your lab, I'll cut you a deal; how about you stay over, I cook you a nutritious breakfast tomorrow morning and then I take you to work?"

"I don't know," you said even though you really wanted to spend the night.

"No funny business, okay? This time I'm serious," he grinned.

"You said that last time as well," you laughed, "and the time before that."

"Look, I'll even take the couch and let you have my bedroom. I just want to spend the last few hours with you if I won't get to see you for the next couple of days," he shrugged.

"Okay," you gave in, "on one condition!"

"Anything," he said honestly.

"You go for a dip in the pool," you laughed devilishly up at him.

"What, now?"

"Yep!"

"You're not serious?"

"As serious as a heart attack," you said as seriously as you possibly could in your high.

"Okay. If that's what you want," he sighed dramatically before he turned around and discarded his t-shirt in one swift motion.

"Oh, you're really doing this," you laughed as you followed him out to the pool via the sliding doors in the living room next door.

"There's a lot at stake," he said as he pulled off his sneakers and socks.

"So for this you take off your shoes?" you teased him.

"Shut up," he grinned up at you before his hands started unbuckling his belt, his pants falling onto the tiles with a loud clank.

"Okay, I was kidding," you said as he was standing on the edge of the pool wearing only his boxers, "you don't have to do this."

"Oh, I'm not taking any chances. I'm definitely doing this," he said before he took a deep breath and jumped into the freezing water. He emerged spluttering, "shit, it's so cold," he bellowed as he whipped his hair out of his face and took a few strokes, "are you just going to stand up there and admire me?"

"Oh, the deal was for you to jump in. Not me!"

"Boo, you chicken!" he grinned up at you.

"Well, you're not exactly making a single selling point."

"If you don't jump in, you're not allowed to sleep over."

"You're not serious."

"As serious as a heart attack," he grinned up at you, as he mimicked your words from earlier.

"Oh my god. I cannot believe you're making me do this!" You squealed involuntary but ended up taking off your t-shirt and jeans, dipping your toe in the cold water as you stood in front of the pool in just your underwear.

"Just jump in," Rafa laughed, "What you're doing up there is pure torture."

"Okay. You're right," you took a few shallow breaths before counting to three, jumping in the pool close to Rafa. As you emerged, you pushed your hair out of your face, "so cold!" you squealed, "why did we do this?"

"I did it for you," Rafa laughed, treading waters in front of you, "I actually don't find it as bad as I had anticipated."

"You stay then! I'm getting the hell out of here," your teeth clattered as you began climbing the ladder, a laughing Rafa following close behind you.

You were shivering as you reached the top of the ladder, desperately clutching your arms to keep what little warmth you had left.

"Hot shower?" Rafa laughed.

"Yes, please," you nodded and followed Rafa to the bathroom where he turned on the shower for you as you immediately started undressing, ready to step in as soon as the water turned warm.

"It'll only be a minu- Oi!" Rafa said and quickly looked away. He had turned around from the faucet only to be met by you standing in front of him wearing only your soaking panties.

"Oh relax," you rolled your eyes at him, "you've seen me naked before."

"That doesn't mean it isn't just as... exciting," he gulped, desperately looking at the ceiling, "Uh, there are towels over there and I'll - uh - I'll find you something comfortable to wear for afterwards, okay?" he edged out the door still not looking at you. From the other side of the door he bellowed, "Uhm, on second thought. You can just use my bathrobe - if that's alright with you."

"It's fine Rafa," bellowed back with a laugh as you stepped into the warm water.

You stayed in the shower for a couple of minutes until you felt the heat return to your fingers and toes. You quickly dried yourself off, and pulled on the only bathrobe you could find, assuming that it was Rafa's. "That was lovely," you said as you met him in his bedroom. He was wearing the same trackies you'd seen him in before. "No shower?" you lifted your eyebrows at him.

"We have a cold shower by the pool," he said slowly with a laugh, "and I desperately needed it."

"Oh how old are you?” You laughed at him, “you can't even see breasts without getting turned on?"

"Not when they're yours," his face reddened slightly suddenly matching his eyes, "and especially with your nipples all hard like that."

A cold shiver went down your spine. "Yeah, sorry," you ended up saying.

"Oh don't be," he grinned, "it was a marvelous sight that I'll definitely cherish when I'm alone in bed at night," he winked at you, "it just excited me... Excites me now just thinking about it to be honest," he looked away from you with a small grin, clearly uncomfortable in his own skin.

"Yeah me too," you admitted, "it feels stupid to not be allowed to touch when we're so close to each other in so little clothes."

"We could just say 'to hell with it'?" He smirked.

"No, Rafa," you said sternly as you sat down on the edge of his bed.

He sent you a challenging look, "...or we could - you know - just... talk about it if you want to?"

"Talk about what?" you arched an eyebrow at him. Your decision was non-negotiable.

"Just talk for a while about what we'd like to do if the situation was different," he shot you a wink, "That's innocent."

"No it's not?" you laughed, "Not at all."

"I know," he smiled at you, "I'm just trying to get creative. We have to work with what we got, you know."

"Friends don't talk about what sexual stuff they'd like to do to each other," you shot him a look.

"Hey - can we just cut the bullshit for a few seconds?" Rafa said quietly, his Adam's apple bouncing in his throat as he swallowed hard, "don't call us friends when we clearly aren't,"

"Maybe this wasn't a good idea," you looked at him carefully

"You keep saying that," he sighed, "yet you're still here."

You put your hand on his arm, "I'm having a hard time too, you know. You're not the only one who wants this."

He shot you a sideways glance, "why can't we just say to hell with it then?"

"Because I know myself and this is what I have to do if I want to return to England with a somewhat sane mind."

"Whatever you say," he groaned as he threw himself down on the bed, his legs dangling over the side.

You lay down next to him and you put your hand on his chest, playing with the straps of his hoodie. He pulled you close and caressed your back with his fingertips, "do you want me to go sleep on the couch?"

"You can sleep in here with me," you said softly, "I'm going to miss you the next couple of days."

He kissed the top of your head, "yeah, me too," he said, "the last time you stayed over, my pillow smelled like you for days. It was pure torture. But it came at a price; your hair was everywhere. It was like having a dog again," he laughed.

"A small souvenir," you laughed, "sorry."

"I forgive you. But only because you look so soft in my bathrobe," he brushed his fingers over your back, "do you want me to get you a t-shirt to sleep in?"

"Yes please," you said and let him go to his closet where he pulled out an old tee with the words Raiders written on the front.

"A pirate shirt?" you eyed the logo.

Rafa shot back his head and laughed whole-heartedly, "Damn girl, don't you dare disrespect my favourite football team like that."

"You mean American football team. Your favourite football team better be Chelsea!"

"I'll be partial to Chelsea in soccer if you're partial to the Raiders in football."

"I can pretend I like the pirates," you teased him.

"Oh shut up," he chuckled and walked towards the door, "I'll let you get changed," he said and closed the door behind him.

You disrobed and pulled on his Raiders shirt, glad that it covered you like a dress as you didn't have any dry underwear to wear. A short dress albeit, but still a dress.

"Are you decent?" Rafa asked from the other side of the door.

"Yep," you said and let him in.

"Ah!" he said when he saw you in the Raiders shirt, "my favourite girl sporting my favourite team."

"Don't get any ideas," you grinned as you crawled under the covers.

He stripped down to his boxers and joined you under the covers, pulling you close, "just a bit of friendly cuddling," he whispered against your neck, his hand trailing up and down your sides.

"Okay," you whispered back, enjoying his arms around you.

His fingers brushed from your waist and down your sides all the way below the hem of the t-shirt, fingers coming to a halt on your upper thigh. He lifted his head from his pillow and whispered, "are you not wearing any panties?"

"Uhm no," you said sheepishly, "they were all wet from the pool."

You felt the outline of a bulge emerging against your backside right before he pulled back from you with a groan.

You turned around and faced him, "I didn't mean to torture you on purpose," you snickered.

"I know," he said in a strained voice, "just give me a minute to calm down." He blew out some air and stared determined at the ceiling.

"What are you thinking about?" you asked him after a couple of seconds.

"I'm trying to remember all the players on the Raider's team," he said, "and I definitely try not to think about you on top of me."

A familiar warm feeling spread in your abdomen. Now you were thinking about riding him as well.

"Too much?" he looked over at you when you didn't answer him.

"Ehm," you cleared your throat, "no. No, it's a... nice image," you smiled at him, the heat between your legs growing more and more.

"It got to you too, huh?" he laughed at you.

"Uhm, yeah," you said, "it's probably because we're high."

"That Long Island didn't exactly help either."

"Definitely not. It's too bad we're not allowed to touch..."

"Yeah..." he agreed, "we could... you know... just go to sleep."

"Yeah..." you said. His suggestion from earlier about talking dirty to each other without touching flashed in your mind. It wasn’t as if it would break your code. “Or we could just lie here next to each other and talk for a while..."

"Yeah?" he looked over at you with an excited smile, "what do you want to talk about?"

"Definitely not riding you slowly," you grinned, "or your lips around my nipples."

He gulped, "Yeah, and not your mouth around my cock either. Let's not discuss that."

"Or how you feel when you're inside me," you breathed heavily.

"Oh fuck, no, no we definitely can't talk about that. Or how I'd start off by kissing you all over your body. All the way from the top of your head and down your neck, leaving small teasing kisses down your breasts and all the way down to your ankles. And then back up again to your little hotdog," he said darkly.

"Yeah!" you imagined his warm lips against your skin and felt the goosebumps emerge on your arms, "...and we can't discuss how I'd respond to your teasing lips by pulling your hair while I open my legs for you. Or what you'd do next.”

"Well... in that case, we probably shouldn't discuss how I'd bring out my tongue and taste you while my fingers were slowly working their way in and out of you," he panted. You let out a moan as you arched your back and Rafa continued, "yeah, and you'd moan just like that for me."

"But regardless of how good it felt, I'd still push you away from me and get on my knees in front of you."

"Fuck!" Rafa hissed beside you, fighting hard to keep his hands above the covers.

"I'd take you in my hand and lubricate your glistening head with pre-cum before I slowly move my hand up and down you a couple of times to warm you up."

"I'm already warm, love" Rafa chuckled.

"Good! I'd grab you by the root and I'd lick you all the way from the root to the tip, bringing extra attention to that particularly sensitive spot just below your head," you said slowly, "my soft tongue would be all wet and sloppy as I run it up and down your length while I maintain eye contact with you, showing you that you're in complete control of the situation. And I'd make sure to massage your balls as I continue to pleasure you with my mouth," you breathed heavily, "and you'd look down at me and caress my hair while my mouth was full of you, slowly bucking your hips bringing you further down my throat. And I'd groan around you as you hit the back of my throat, sending vibrations all the way up to your balls."

"Okay, fuck it, I can't take this," Rafa said resolutely and pulled the covers away to reveal the enormous erection tugged away in his boxers. He pulled out his cock and started stroking it slowly in front of you with a few shallow breaths. He shot you a look, "not... against... the rules," he panted as he continued to pump his hand up and down his length.

"Well, if you're doing it, I'm doing it!" you said as you spread your legs, your fingers immediately flying to your core as you looked at Rafa's movements. "What happens next?" you panted.

Rafa took a couple of shallow breaths before he continued, "I pull out of your mouth just before I come down your throat because you know I'm close and you beg me to fill you up instead. So I pick you up from the floor and throw you on the bed and you're looking at me with this hungry look. And I kiss your tits while I slide inside you. And you're so warm and so wet for me," he groaned.

You moved your fingers up and down your slit, fidgeting with your clit with your right hand, while your left hand pushed up the Raider's t-shirt and started massaging your nipple. A small moan escaped your lips as you imagined what Rafa was explaining to you, "and you fill me up completely," you panted, "and you turn me around before you slam into me from behind, smacking my ass and pulling my hair. And you're so good that I grow tight around you, begging for you to let me cum."

"Yes," he groaned.

"- and you pull my arms and fixate them around my back so you have the perfect angle to fuck me while I grow tighter and tighter around you as you slide in and out of me. And I feel this raw heat starting in my stomach and it's spreading fast to the rest of my body as you fuck me faster and harder than you ever have before. And you pull my hair and I moan helplessly for you."

Rafa started moving his hand faster and faster as he was looking at you narrating your own orgasm.

"- and when you finally let me topple over the edge, I scream out your name with my release like this; Rafa," you moaned, "oh Rafa".

"Fffffuck," you heard Rafa hiss beside you right before he came with a loud groan, cum staining his stomach and chest, "fuck!" he continued to pant beside you with his eyes screwed shut, cum still leaking from his tip. His hand was still laced around his throbbing cock, but no longer moving when he desperately opened his eyes and turned his head. "Fuck," he repeated when he looked towards you with your fingers still at work.

"Fuck you're hot!" you panted beside him, looking at him as you drew in sharp breaths, your fingertips slowly entering yourself.

Rafa's eyes flooded with lust once more, "Fuck this," he spat, "come here," he took your hand and pulled you on top of him, your back lying flat against his cum-stained chest. His right hand found your core immediately and he started working his long fingers in and out of you while his left hand was circling your clit.

"Not... part of... the plan," you panted on top of him while his fingers moved in and out of you, his lips kissing your throat and neck.

"Oh, do you want me to stop?" he said and removed both of his hands from your throbbing core.

"No!" you whimpered on top of him, moving around desperate for friction.

"Shut the fuck up then," he whispered darkly against your neck as his hands resumed their positions. He worked like this for a couple of minutes while you writhed and moaned on top of him, your walls tightening around his fingers as he kissed and licked your neck.

"Fucking cum for me," he whispered as he hit your g-spot repeatedly and sent you over the edge crying out his name with pleasure.

His hands moved slower and slower, until he pulled his fingers out of you, his palm travelling all the way up your body, coming to a halt as he cupped your breasts lovingly, "I could get used to this," he whispered, kissing your neck and sending shivers down your spine.

You stayed on top of him for a couple of seconds while he continued to caress your breasts and nipples, kissing your neck occasionally with small sounds of affection.

When you had come down completely from your high, you climbed down from him and positioned yourself under the covers. Rafa pulled on his boxers and snuggled up against you.

"That was not part of the plan," you yawned as he held you tight.

"It won't happen again. Now shut up and go to sleep," Rafa smiled against your neck

#rafael casal x reader #rafael casal #daveed diggs #blindspotting #rafael casal imagine #smut #rafael casal fanfiction #bay boys

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sharktoothedboys · 4 years ago

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Heavily Tattooed Girlfriend

I love this idea because I myself am a heavily tattooed female and I think we need more representation in the head cannon world!!

This is my second time typing this up because tumblr deleted it as I was finishing typing Todoroki’s and he was the last one! furious!!

For future reference when i take head cannon requests i will be doing them for up to 4 characters, so please keep that in mind if you wish to request anything!

This head cannon will be with Shoto, Katsuki and Izuku!

Anyway lets go!! (Again)

IZUKU MIDORIYA!

Please, this man baby would absolutely adore them! They are what makes you, you and he has memorised every single one, lets not pretend he hasn’t

stares at them all the time and isn’t subtle about it at all

loves to ask about them and hear the stories

You sighed heavily as you finally walked in to the front door of the apartment that you shared with Izuku, a more content sigh as you closed the door behind you finally putting the long hard day to rest, being a pro hero was no walk in the park and today was just more proof to that statement.

You, happily took your shoes off and headed towards the bathroom to shower, grateful that Izuku was not home yet as you stank and were covered in dirt and filth from fighting a villain with a soil quirk, just what you wanted.

However, he wasn’t far behind you, stepping in to the apartment as you stepped in to the shower, he heard the water start to flow as he removed his shoes, smirking he headed to the bathroom to join you, why waste water, right?

He stopped in the doorway to the bathroom as he took in your beautifully painted skin, he watched the patterns dance as you moved, He adores your tattoos, and he loved to tell everyone who would listen all about them and his inked up princess, He could talk about them for hours, he was so proud that you were proud of who you were. As much as he liked to talk about them to others he loved to listen to you tell him all about them and the meanings behind them, not that they all had a deep and meaningful story, but some did and he loved to listen to you tell him as he watched you run your hands over the art work that was on your body, he smirked to himself as he imagined kissing the work that adorned your spine and found himself lost in staring at you. Until you spoke and broke the spell.

“Are you joining me, or are you just going to stare at me all night?” You asked a smile plastered on your face and you look at him over you shoulder.

“Probably both.” He replied as he stepped onto the bathroom removing his clothes to join you.

Damn, he was lucky.

KATSUKI BAKUGO

He absolutely is obsessed with them, loves how they make you look like such a badass!

Pe4ople sometimes whisper wondering if you are in the yakuza, he doesn’t tell them you aren’t...

His favourite ones are the ones only he gets to see.

Another night, another stupid event he was obliged to attend as the current number 2 hero, But you also had tonight off, so tonight was definitely not going to be as bad as he had thought it to be.

You looked stunning, you were in a long line low cut black satin dress with a slit up the left leg to your hip, with silver chains dancing along your bare back that attached to either side of the garment. You were a little dubious of wearing it at first as it was a formal event and it showed off a lot of your body work and you didn’t want to embarrass Katsuki, but he quickly made all your insecurities fade by telling you, you could never embarrass him.

You were just pulling up to the venue in the chauffeur driven car, Katsuki took your hand and you looked at him as he gave you a reassuring smile, these events always made you super nervous. He took in your nervous face and his eyes drifted down you arms, your beautifully decorated arms that he couldn’t get enough of. The car had stopped and you had to pull him from his own staring as you asked if he was ready to go. He nodded and guided you out of the car with ease, his hand immediately wrapping around your waist as you both emerged from the vehicle.

Camera flashes almost blinded you straight away, shouts to look here and there could be heard, and then you heard the horribkle comment come from somewhere,

“Dynamight! can we get one with just you? It doesn’t look good for the number 2 to be seen with a gang member wannabe, and her tattoos will make people not want to buy our material!”

You hung your head down low, you knew this dress was a mistake, you began to step the side when a strong hand grabbed yours.

“No.” Katsuki replied sternly. “Its both of us or neither of us, you dirty rotten extra.” He said, in a surprising calm manner. he took your hand and lead you back to the car, you guys got in and left the event.

“I hope you don’t take any notice of what that no body said, you are beautiful, your body is a temple, so what if you wanna decorate the walls a little?”

You smiled at his comment and sweetly kissed him as he asked the driver to take you to the nearest cafe, and that’s how you ended up spending your evening all dolled up in a coffee shop.

SHOTO TODOROKI

Loved every single new tattoo you came home with, as never surpised when you came home with a new one

loves to trace them while you lay together

his favourite is the half ice half fire heart you had done for him

He stepped in to the apartment, silence. Which was strange, it had been your day off and he expected you to either be cooking up a storm, or lost in your 76th game of Mario kart. But neither of those things were happening, He could see a dim light coming from your shared bedroom so he headed that way, probably napping, is what he thought as he made his way to you. But that theory was out the window when he heard faint sniffles and quiet sobs, his walk quickly turned into a run to get to you.

He threw the door open, his hands in a defensive stance in case of danger, but no, he found you snuggled up with a cushion to your chest, quietly crying in to it.

“(Y/N)?” He quietly asked, prompting you to shoot your head up from the cushion, “What’s the matter peanut?”

You smiled at his cute pet name for you that he had used since 1A, “Nothing, Sho, I promise I am ok.”

“Well that’s a lie” he smirked “Tell me please.

He made his way over to the bed and got in beside you as he opened his arms for you to fall in to his chest. You happily obliged. Snuggling into him tightly, he wrapped his large arms around you.

“Now tell me what has you so upset.”

“I went to the shops today, for some snacks, i was feeling snacky. A little girl recognised me as Data and got really excited and ran over to me, leaving her m other behind, She was speaking to me and asking me for my autograph when he mother let out a scream and began to insult me and telling me to get away from her daughter, saying i couldn’t be a pro because no self respecting agency would take on a yakuza lookalike, then she dragged her daughter away from me.”

Shoto stiffened up at the story, mad at how someone could be so rude, but also at how anyone dared to question your heroism.

“Well she needs to get an education in some manners.” he started, as he began to trace along the outline of your tattoos, his favourite thing to do. “She also needs to find out a little something about art, because she clearly doesn’t know a masterpiece when she sees one.”

You grinned at his comment and instantly felt much more at ease in his arms as he lightly touched your tattoos.

“Don’t listen to anyone like that peanut, they are all ignorant and blind to the beauty of you and your artwork, you are stunning and i love you just the way you are. He said kindly as he kissed your head gently. He felt you nod, if he ever ran in to that woman he was going to freeze her and make her get a face tattoo.

THERE WE GO HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT AS MUCH AS I ENJOYED WRITING IT!!!

PLEASE LIKE IF YOU WOULD BE SOME KIND, I’LL LOVE YOU FOREVER!

#head cannon #my hero academia #my hero academia head cannon #mha #mha headcannon #katsuki bakugo #shoto todoroki #izuku midoriya #fluff #scenario #tattooed girl #tattooed female

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poindexterfics · 5 years ago

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Bathing with their S/O Pt. 1

My first time writing some imagines as a person who normally RPs. Due to someone such as I only being a fan since X, do inform me of any fundamental character mistakes, as they are quite possible. All constructive criticism is welcome. With that, I thank you. Please enjoy.

The topic was originally showering with s/o, until different ideas came to mind. Warnings: Slight NSFW themes, slightly forceful Dark Raiden

Having rewritten many of these several different times, I went through a bit of music. And oddly enough, “It’s Raining Men” really flowed with these gifs at the time...Guys I’m crying

Kuai Liang

Using up all of the hot water was just part of the packaged deal if you wanted to bathe with your Cryomancer boyfriend. It was worth it though, being able to spend some intimate time with him. You undressed while the water was heating up, climbing in at the end where the scalding liquid would not touch you. Kuai would come and save the day, the hiss of the cooling process letting you know it was safe to move closer. And move closer you did, the cooled water rushing over you after it cascaded over him. A ghost of a smile crossed his features as he held you in a tight embrace, his chin resting on the top of your head. His hardass persona melted away when it came to you, he couldn’t help but be an absolute softie in moments like these. “Kuai,” You’d hum sweetly, batting your eyelashes. To a man with experience, it was a dangerous sign. But, Kuai Liang, Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei, was not experienced with the cunning tactics of romantic partners. The shower was where he became easily convinced of anything you said or asked, and you’d take advantage. Letting your fingers trace his muscles, you had him kiss you while you thought of the best way to articulate your question. But, perhaps being blunt was just the best way to go about it, especially since the man was already hooked. As he started to help you with your hair, you could only purr in a devilish fashion, knowing you had him right where you wanted him. “What is it?” He’d finally ask, the curiosity getting to him. You couldn’t help the smirk.

“May I have a cat?”

A blink here, a blink there. But, he quickly nodded when you traced his muscles again. “Of course, my love,” He’d answer, before shivering when you moved to reward him. There were perks when it came to being soft, he found.

Hanzo Hasashi

Being physical with a boyfriend like Hanzo was only ever difficult during the summer months. However, you found ways to work around such an obstacle. You normally weren’t one for bathing in cold water, but, it was all worth it to overcome the objective. When Hanzo followed behind you into the shower, the very heat of his body negated the temperature completely. You faced him to press your body against his, making absolutely sure he warmed you up. It caused him to smile at such clinginess, using a finger to tilt your chin up and kiss you. Grandmaster of the Shirai Ryu, he had worked hard and kept calm the vengeful, hell-spawned spirit inside of himself. But you... he never could figure out whether you were helping or harming in that plight. The more he held you, the more he loved on you, the more he could feel himself grow more possessive. Oh, how the hellfire gripped him, a burning lust building. His eyes grew milky, but he inhaled deeply to try and relax himself, brown and white constantly shifting. You weren’t being observant because you never knew it was an issue with him. You turned slightly to get your shampoo, your slick body still up against your boyfriend’s. Noisily, the bottle crashed against the floor of the shower as you were pinned back by your wrists, your cry of surprise interrupted by a bruising kiss as a blush stretched across your cheeks. Hanzo was, normally, so kind and gentle when it came to these intimate moments with you. But, the one who had you now was not Hanzo.

That night, Scorpion did not allow you to sleep much. Had it mattered, though? You were his, and he was yours. He and Hanzo would not have it any other way. It may have been a surprise at first, but, you learned to accept and also love that side of your boyfriend. The trust you shared with one another grew almost tenfold in only a few hours.

Raiden

Bathing with your Elder God boyfriend... it never came easy. As shy as he was with the general idea of your naked form, it was a wonder you could even get him to participate in the action of kissing. But, then again, that had taken you awhile to get him comfortable with. Raiden was a bit of a prude, and on more than one occasion had to consult with the Elder Gods between each of the sessions you did to try and gradually chip away at his unease. It could get a little frustrating from time to time, but, you knew that patience came with great rewards, and, as you had found out, nothing was truer with your boyfriend. It was an unusually stormy night when you decided to have a quick shower. Alone, you took care of your hair and your body, enjoying the warmth of the water flowing over you. You were almost ready to get out, until the sound of the door opening froze you in your tracks. The bashful Thunder God, ever so slowly, slinked into the shower behind you. Your heart hammered in your chest, knowing not to speak or risk startling him away. His hesitant arms wrapped around you, while a heated face buried itself into the crook of your neck. Neither of you said anything, just basked in the water and in each other’s love while the storm raged outside. When his nerves calmed, he found himself absolutely adoring holding you like he was, unable to help but plant a kiss on your shoulder. The storm, noticeably, eased up.

“Can we... can we do this again?” He whispered, your response an eager nod. It would be the beginning of the next chapter in your relationship with him.

Dark Raiden

From there, you didn’t have much to complain about. Raiden became more comfortable around you, so much so he was finally willing to indulge in his own desires. But, his favorite would always be the shower for which brought you two even closer. It became an unspoken agreement, you jumping in just before he walked in for the usual, scheduled visit to your home. Safe as you were from the troubles of his work, much to his own due diligence in that, you were naïve to the true stress he constantly faced. So much so, that his dark persona was unheard of when it came to you. One night, you had expected the door to quietly open like it usually did. Already undressed, you giddily stepped into the water, only to jump a mile at the noise of his arrival to your bathroom. Raiden had swung the door open so hard that you were sure the knob had cracked a hole in the wall. Before you could speak, he was upon you. He roughly spun you around and pinned you to shower wall, your body quivering from the treatment. “Rai-“ You got cut off by your own squeal, a hand having smacked your ass. You could only whimper submissively in confusion, looking over your shoulder at your much more dominant lover. Red, lust-filled eyes watched you in return. Oh, he so very much adored that. The way you submitted so easily... it was a stroke to his pride.

“You are going to serve your god,” It wasn’t a request, it was a command. “Do I make myself clear?” Your answer was but a simple nod, feeling excited by the sudden change in your boyfriend that you had never encountered before, and by what he had in store for you.

Johnny Cage

King of Hollywood himself, Johnny looked forward to those peaceful moments he could have with you after a long day of shooting for a film or fulfilling a mission. Already having you naked and wet without him having to do anything was just a bonus. Setting his stuff down on the couch, he visited your shared bathroom and gazed at your form through the fogged up glass. “Are you going to keep staring or are you going to join me?” You ponder aloud after awhile, ever so used to the little games he’d play. “Do you need to ask?” Came his sassy remark. Much as he liked to think he was a big shot, he knew just as well as you did that he was wrapped around your finger. Off came his clothes in a scattered mess on the floor, another body joining the shower. Turning to face him, you couldn’t help the small smile when you noticed his stage makeup was still on. He must have rushed home to see you, which was always so flattering. “Are you going to marvel over this work of art or are you going to kiss me?” He asked in a very smug manner, copying the format of your question from before. “Do you need to ask?” You mimicked, pecking him on the lips to entice him as your hands greedily stroked over his toned abs. Eagerly grabbing at your waist, he pulled you flush against himself as he took over the kiss, backing you up against the shower wall. Your nails dug into his shoulder blades from the pure delight of having him so attentive, a small gasp escaping you when your legs were made to hook around your boyfriend’s waist. Johnny tended to be straight forward, but he always could do it in a way that would still surprise you, months into your relationship.

You tamed Hollywood himself, and he’d reward you for it.

Kenshi

He may have been blind, but it did not prevent your boyfriend from seeing you as the beauty that you were. And being the telepath that he also was, he could read just when you were feeling the most insecure about yourself. The best remedy for such a thing? A romantic, at-home date.

Instead of a steamy shower, a hot bath surrounded by candles waited for you after a long, stressful day. Rose petals marked the surface of the water and dotted the floor, forcing a smile on your face. Like a gentleman, the swordsman helped you undress and get into the tub, then provided quite the show of himself disrobing. “Do I please you?” He asked teasingly, knowing just how much you were blushing. “You’re being so cheesy, Kenshi,” You snickered, happy that he was finally getting into the water with you. He found it cute that you hadn’t noticed his endgame of getting you to unwind and laugh. But, then again, Kenshi was as considerate as a significant other could be. No stone was left unturned, no opportunity missed to make you happy. “I am, aren’t I?” He chuckled, pulling you to his chest as he relaxed with you. You obliged and snuggled into him, your steady breathing tickling his skin as you seemed to doze off. Gaining a grin of his own, he kissed the top of your head, enjoying the warmth of the water with you while it lasted.

When it was time to get out, he lifted you bridal style, gently shushing you when you groggily whined at him. He toweled the both of you down with some difficulty before getting you into bed. There had been a cheesy petal heart, but, he did not mind messing it up when he had already gotten you to be your normal, happy self. The rest of the night was just him holding you-- until he himself was lulled into sleep by your ever so soothing warmth.

Erron Black

Your gunslinging boyfriend often came in muddy from his bounty hunting adventures, and you’d have to be the one to get his ass in the shower before he ruined your apartment. “Listen, sugar. I’ll only get in if you follow,” He grinned as you agreed and violently shoved him into the bathroom to keep the dirt from trekking any further into your domicile. “Damn it, Erron,” You seethed through clenched teeth. “I just finished cleaning, too!”

To Erron, you resembled an upset Pomeranian. All of the cute, none of the intimidation. “You know it gets me hot and bothered when you’re mad, baby doll,” He teased, ever so amused at your reaction. Nostril flare, puffed cheeks, and an annoyed stare. Suffice it to say, he knew how to piss you off. But, he also knew how to wriggle himself right back into your good graces. He waited until after he had undressed and you were halfway through the process before giving you a kiss from behind, right on the collarbone. “I’m not in the mood, cowboy,” You huffed, but, couldn’t deny the racing of your heart. You knew what he was doing. It was the same shit he had pulled last time. And the time before that. And the time- “Could have fooled me, darlin’,” He hummed as he pulled you into the water with him once you had discarded your last item of clothing. You yelped at the speed of it, loosing your footing and slipping into his arms. His handsome chuckle resonated in the small space, watching you get even more frustrated. “You..you..!” He had done this last time, too! Yet, you couldn’t resist pulling his head down so you could reach up and kiss him. You missed the bastard, and he knew that. But with the way he held you, you also knew he shared the same sentiment. You were his one and only.

Kano

“Kano.”

“... Kano.”

“Kano!”

“Fuck, what do you want?” Came the grumpy reply you were expecting. Your boyfriend was completely hungover and exhausted from last night’s activities with you, his face buried in your chest. The man was slightly crushing you, and frankly you were tired of him drooling on your bare skin. “Don’t you use that tone with me,” You snarled, pushing at him with all the might you could muster in your sore arms. Finally roused from his sleepy state, Kano couldn’t help but laugh at you, making you hit him in the face with your discarded shirt. “Nothing personal, love. But, you couldn’t stop me even if you wanted to,” The mercenary stated in regards to your previous demand. “Okay? But, I know that you love me enough that you’ll stop on your own,” You pouted as you pushed him into the bathroom to share a shower.

“Says who?”

“Kano.”

“Fine, fine. Grab a man by his balls, why don’t you,” He sighed, unable to keep down the smile that tugged on his lips. He still couldn’t believe that he had found someone like you to enjoy, as shitty of a person as he was. He didn’t deserve you, and yet, here you were. He normally didn’t get mushy, but, once in a blue moon he liked to reflect on his life and the relationship he had with you. “...You okay?” You asked in concern, surprised that your boyfriend hadn’t tried the usual sexual advance in the shower. “Hm? Oh, yes... I’m better than okay,” He replied, surprising you even further now that he was helping you wash your hair. No longer did he see you as a person he could fool around with. No, he was truly seeing you for the gem that you were, and he would be damned before he would ever let you go.

Kabal

When the mercenary wasn’t spoiling you with his riches in every possible way, Kabal would spoil you with his love and affection. It wasn’t everyday that one found a partner who didn’t care about appearances, after all.

As much as you would try and downplay yourself, Kabal would have none of it. “Kabal, babe, really, it was no big deal-”

“Ah, ah, ah,” A gloved finger was pressed against your lips, silencing you. Playfully you bit at it, but, relented. “Fine... what is it that you wanted to show me?” You asked curiously. The man had spoken of rewarding you for the kiss you had given him the night before. Was it overreacting a bit? To you, yes, because you had given him plenty of kisses in the same spot and in other places. But to him, it was the least he could do for his special someone. He led you into the bathroom, where your jaw instantly dropped. Before your eyes was a computerized steam shower, sauna, and jacuzzi all in one, with a little flatscreen tv included! You could feel the stress melt out of your body just looking at the damn thing. “K-Kabal... I don’t even know what to say,” You whispered. No boyfriend had ever been so kind, let alone would gift you as lavishly as he did. “Then don’t say anything, baby. Just try it out with me,” He whispered huskily, wrapping an arm around your waist. You could only nod in excitement, beginning to undress in front of him, much to his own bashful delight.

Kotal Kahn

The royal bath had been prepared and scented with many a luxurious herb, candles lit to give off a soothing, yet romantic vibe. Kotal himself enjoyed such things, even without the presence of company. But, now that you were here, he was inclined to focus on your needs. As you disrobed and entered the water with him, he pulled you closer to himself in an effort to help you relax. While you appreciated everything your Ko’atal did for you, the constant supervision of bodyguards had truly gotten under your skin. This was one of the few moments you got to spend privately with your man, and you were going to enjoy it.

You closed your eyes as you rested against Kotal, the Outworld emperor sighing in contentment.

“Mm?” You hummed as you peeked a glance up at him, having mistaken his sigh for something being wrong.

“Rest, my love. Everything is fine,” He replied, smiling at how beautiful you were. He cupped some of the warm water and brushed it through your hair while you closed your eyes and complied with his request, letting out your own sigh. “...The guards grow tiresome,” You finally stated.

“They do, but, it is for your protection. I cannot allow any harm to befall you,” He reasoned, using a few well placed strokes to convince you of such a truth. Biting your lower lip, you took the time to feel his muscles, the Kahn watching you ever so closely. He had completely forgotten that he had asked you to take it easy, in favor of marveling your form and perhaps indulging you further. He wouldn’t admit it to you since you had seemed so happy, but, there were a few guards posted just outside the door, who could hear everything that was going on.

The two of you shared a romantic evening regardless, him deceiving you only for you to have less to worry about and more to enjoy. You were his everything, and that was more than enough to convince him that he need not feel guilt.

*****

And that’s the end of part one! Part two, if desired, will contain Kung Lao, Ermac, Shao Kahn, Kollector, Rain, Reptile, Bi-Han/Noob Saibot, Quan Chi, and Shinnok! The 10th character could be voted in :)

Also I would just like to point out that the computerized (Triborg: NUT) shower looks so cool. Search that thing up on Amazon.

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mikumoduleoftheday · 5 years ago

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I also have... thoughts on the new Mirai game. Don’t get me wrong — I played it for 6 hrs straight w/o realizing bc it was so fun and I’ve been waiting for it to come out in English we since they made the announcement for the Japanese version. 💖 But Project Mirai DX’ on 3DS controls are waaaay more comfortable for me and seem more in sync With the right and left hand?? I don’t really know how to explain... What are your thoughts on it??

I will NEVER stop my promoing for Project Mirai DX. I want Project Diva to be MORE like Project Mirai. I genuinely wanted a new, amazing installment of Project Mirai on the Switch as opposed this Diva game. This is my unpopular take and I will not repent for it. Also, I hope you realize what a wall of text you unleashed by asking for my thoughts.

About Mirai vs Diva in general:

The use of the track that notes were placed on in Project Mirai was so good and I really miss it going into Diva. The random placement of upcoming notes in Diva, especially with busy background pvs or fast notes, leaves me scrambling sometimes. Not to mention the way the track would be incorporated as almost another level to the PV in some songs, like it tracing rabbit shapes in Lots of Laugh or making liberal use of the rainbow colored hold bonuses in Reverse Rainbow. It really felt like an extra level of care from the creators.

Also the timing is so much harder in Diva oh my god. Project Diva is so demanding. Janitor Mod enjoyed the few songs that had an Extreme Mode chart in Mirai, but is struggling with Hard Mode in Diva. (Edit: I found out recently that her issue is most likely caused by lag from the joy-cons while I had the Switch hooked up to the TV. There’s a way to calibrate your lag, although I wish the game would have told you up front about the option kinda like Taiko no Tatsujin does. It really seems either playing in handheld mode or with a wired procontroller is the most recommended.) As someone who objectively sucks at rhythm games, it’s been kicking my butt.

I loved the level of customization in the outfits. The outfit swaps were not limited by character, only by gender. I think this would be appreciated a lot be people who’s favorite character is less loved in the outfit department too, it really expands the outfit selection when Meiko can wear the other girls’ clothes and whatnot. Not to mention that some outfits have recolorable sections that allowed you to really tie more disparate designs together.

Minor and inconsequential note in the grand scheme of things, Mirai felt like a bigger game with all of the tiny random things you could do, like the mini games and music editor and the buddy system. It probably doesn’t matter to people more invested in core rhythm gameplay, but even when I wasn’t in the headspace for rhythm games (or in a physical space that would prevent uninterrupted timed play), I still had other options to be engaged with. I miss that in Megamix.

About Megamix specifically:

Most of the issues I have are minor. This is my first Project Diva game, and as such, it doesn’t bother me in particular that its basically a simple rehash of Future Tone. I never had any of the previous games to get bummed that this is the same thing. Obviously, your mileage may vary. From what I’ve heard from others: don’t bother if you already have Future Tone really.

I’m also kinda peeved that there’s no physical English release, not even a limited preorder run. I’m a huge proponent of physical media for a few reasons, but come on. Previous English Diva series got physical releases.

I really dislike the art direction of the actual characters. I prefered the look of the models from Diva F and Diva X more than these. I just like the less exaggerated anatomy.

And yeah, the shader sucks. I tried not to hate it, but it does just look like someone was abusing the saturation sliders in a bad photoshop. It’s too bright and washes away already subtle facial features, almost always leaving them noseless. Characters look especially out of place in any stage that isn’t entirely abstract lights or shapes, as the backgrounds seem to use a different shader? If they really wanted to use the toon shader for the whole game, I wish at least they would have used the Diva F models. I think the simpler style of those models would have fit better at least.

Also, why no new modules besides Catch the Wave?? I know that the ones that stick to 2D pvs are by choice of the producer, but what about the 3D pvs? Seriously why couldn’t they have added Magical Mirai 2016 in for 39 Music?? They already have the design for it. No new design for Alien Alien, nothing for Teo or Hibana. And Roki just reuses the modules that are for Kodoku no Hate.

I personally don’t find any of the the DLC packs as enticing enough to actually buy. None of them have more than one or two songs I want. This will obviously vary on your taste.

I can’t wait for touch play mode to be added to the English version, I really preferred tap mode in Mirai so I’m was really pleasantly surprised to hear it would be added to Megamix.

That said, the menus are clean and mostly user-friendly with the exception of a few confusing names. The game play is fun, the load times are quick, and the song choices are safe but fine. Very Miku heavy, but that’s what I like. The shader means Future Tone’s unholy lighting bloom issue is reeled in (even it just looks bad in a new and different way). I’m glad the hairstyles are interchangeable even if I miss Mirai’s outft swaps not being character locked. The important points of it, you know, being a rhythm game are good. I’m just forever, and probably annoyingly, bogged down in aesthetics.

Post Touch Play addition edit: The system for choosing Touch Play vs button mode, quite frankly I’m sorry, fucking sucks. Having it be buried under layers of menus instead of a separate category like Mix Mode is infuriating. Just have the option come up along with the other two in the selection page. If you didn’t know it was an option, you would never find Touch Play. You would never even know about this whole game mode. As for how the mode actually plays, it’s fine. It feels really crowded on the bottom of the screen, but I’m not sure how else I would have done it? I don’t actually know which I prefer, button or touch screen.

I hope that if you’ve never played a Project Diva game before due to not having a Playstation, that you can get Megamix, I certainly don’t regret the purchase.

#Anonymous #haha sorry for the long post but you asked and i love to talk #not a module #answers #mikumod

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yeojaa · 5 years ago

Text

TO THE MOON AND BACK - ft. ???

You feel winded and you're not sure why. Like you'd been walking on cloud nine and were now falling through the atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speeds. When you speak, it doesn't really sound like you. "Yes." Because he was exactly right - you were a hopeless romantic. Always had been. It was hard not to be when your parents were childhood sweethearts and love was the thing you'd been chasing your whole life.

alt summary. You use your one brain cell for love. It doesn’t always end well.

pairing. who knows, honestly. the obvious ones are kim taehyung and jeon jungkook, though.

tags. blind date, strangers, strangers to friends, strangers to lovers, getting to know each other, alternate universe, alternate universe - modern setting, romantic comedy.

rating. general (for now?)

word count. ~4000

chapter 5.

By the time you've finished dinner, tumbling through the doorway like two giddy school children, you feel like you've known Taehyung for a lifetime.

He'd told you all about his family, his little brother and sister that he loved dearly. You'd sensed that same wistful longing from the interview, a sadness that presented itself in the way their names fell from his lips. You were the younger sister of a relatively nuclear family, so you didn't know what it was that coloured his words or turned his blood to battery acid. You could never understand. Instead, you'd held his hand, offering comfort in the form of coiled fingers and a gentle squeeze. You weren't sure if it'd had any effect but by the effort he'd put into his smile, you'd felt it had.

He'd brought up photos of his beloved Yeontan on his phone, swiping through albums and albums of the little black and tan Pomeranian. You'd squealed with each new revelation, hands clapping with mirth at a particularly cute video of he and Tannie curled up in his bed. You'd even been so bold as to ask him to send you a photo, insisting you needed one for his contact profile. (He'd obliged, all too happily.)

You'd talked about your passions, your current internship and enrolment in composition. You'd poured your heart out to him, hoping to convey everything it made you feel. How it was your first love - guiding you through the best of times and holding you in the worst. You'd felt like you'd lost him a couple times, only to have him repeat your words back like they were the single most interesting thing he'd ever heard.

You'd admitted your short comings, providing a few brief tales of sordid affairs that hadn't ended well. He'd laughed when you'd included your kindergarten crush, detailing the way Jeong Jisung had broken your heart when he'd kissed your cheek one day and ignored you the next. You blended self-deprecation and otherworldly self-awareness so well, like a character breaking the fourth wall.

Together, you'd swept dust from old books, flipping through pages of memories together and baring secrets open for the other to see.

He'd made connections where he could, filling the missing gaps in your knowledge like golden thread in kintsugi. He'd been friends with the same group of men since he was sixteen - the ones you'd met at breakfast, sans one important member. Modelling had been something he'd thought to pursue, straight out of university, but he'd found comfort behind the lens rather than in front of it. What a shame. He was a curator at a gallery and still dabbled in art himself, finding beauty within the tiny square of his viewfinder. Neon pink had painted every edge of his skin when you'd compared him to a Caravaggio.

"Thank you for dinner. I ate so well." Words are driven home by the way you're sluggish and soft beside him, a glutton for food (and for love).

Taehyung beams like you've done him the biggest favour. "You're welcome. Did you have fun?"

You meet his stare and your heart trips on itself, nearly lodging itself in your throat. You swallow thickly, trying to find the words when you're about two seconds way from ruining everything with your over-enthusiasm. It's impossible to think straight when he's so close and the streetlight above you is casting a makeshift halo around his head. He's straight out of your wildest dreams - heaven sent.

"Can I kiss you?" Whether he's whispered it, you're not sure. It hardly registers, dull behind the pounding of blood against your eardrums.

Still, you nod dumbly, in case you hadn't just pulled the question out of thin air.

It's otherworldly. That's the only way you can describe the way he kisses you, with hands cradling the slope of your jaw. His touch is tender as he tilts your head to meet his, his mouth soft and dry, lips barely parted with the chaste peck. It's over far too soon and you chase the ghost of him, ever eager for more. You think he's like the first day of winter when the cold sinks into your skin and suffocates you. It's piercing, digging into every fibre of your being and making you tingle like frostbite.

He laughs again and the sound is breathless, like somehow you're the one that's stolen the air from his lungs and not the other way around.

"Can I kiss you again?"

You're ready this time and you meet his half-lidded gaze boldly. "Please."

The feeling of his lips on yours again kicks your heartbeat into overdrive, a hummingbird come to life within the cavity of your chest. He moves with such languid purpose, slanting his mouth sweetly. He's never rushed, taking in the subtle taste of you and your bubble gum-flavoured lip balm as his palm adjusts, trails heat over the line of your neck and fits itself comfortably against your pulse. Fingers tangle, gentle as a lover's touch, in the inky strands, and you hum a noise that borders on a whimper.

You feel him smirk against your lips. You want to rebuff him, warmth spiking across your cheeks. You're not sure whether it's embarrassment or all-encompassing want that turns your insides to jelly.

When his tongue glides over your bottom lip, you know it's the latter.

That same half-whimper escapes you, swallowed whole by the cavern of his mouth as he coaxes you open with careful ministrations. It feels so good and you're breathless, lost in the feeling of his exploring tongue, drawing your own to his in an intoxicating game of cat and mouse. It doesn't even matter that you've known each other for all of five minutes and that you're crowded under an awning in the middle of Hongdae.

To you, it feels like the beginning of a fairy tale.

"I should probably get you home." It's the best parts of him that have him drawing away from you, allowing you to regain your breath. His hands have fallen from your neck, trailing affectionately over the royal blue wool of your cardigan until he's found your hands. Your head is still swimming and you're grateful for the way he anchors you there, fingers interlocked.

"Probably," you answer, reluctant. You're like a child whose favourite toy has been taken away, pouty and petulant despite your best efforts to appear as nonchalant as possible. It's endlessly clear in the way your cheeks puff, fill with air you won't release; your shuffling of feet, rubber toe of your sneakers dragging through a line of gravel. It rolls off you in discontented waves and he's smiling, twisting your joined fingers until you're flush against him once more, your hands trapped in the space between you.

"We have lots of time." He's reassurance in the form of another kiss, one that just barely grazes skin.

You know he doesn't mean to tease you but you can't help chase the feel of him as if there's a string connecting you two. A single red ribbon that spans his lips to yours, knotted in a noose around the thing that palpitates heavy in your chest. You're greedy for another taste and you know he is too when he doesn't manoeuvre out of your way, instead revelling in the way your mouth finds purchase against the underside of his jaw. You can taste his pulse there, just beneath the thin membrane of skin, and you think how easy it would be to go too far - to dive headfirst into the siren song of his heartbeat.

Instead, you withdraw, hoping against all hope that fate will reward you for your patience tonight.

"I know," you breathe, still a little morose and all the more endearing. When you meet his stare, it's coquettish and sly, narrowed behind thickly layered lashes. "Take me home." You trace the words like they're a treat, mouth shaping around the last word to drag it into debauchery.

He knows you'll be the death of him. He thinks he wouldn't mind. "Lead the way."

You walk together like you've done it a hundred times, falling into comfortable silence as your feet mirror one another's. His hand remains steadfast within yours, your cheek pressed to the soft wool of his coat as you amble along. He hums a tune you don't recognize and you do your best to join in, dipping into your own music box when he trails off. You sneak glances at him when he isn't looking and yet somehow, always meet his playfully patient stare, colour burning intensely across your cheeks when he meets you with no shame.

"Who would have thought," Taehyung muses when he catches you staring for the third time, tongue swiping across his bottom lip in that way you've come to recognize.

"What?" You're tilting your head, studying him closely. You can already see the words that are weaving through his mind, coaxing others out of their hiding spots and slotting into place.

"That we'd connect like this."

The sincerity is a little too much, so you do what you're best at - pretend like it's nothing. "You didn't think you'd meet someone as incredible as me? On a random YouTube segment?" A scoff to drive the point home, eyes twinkling merrily, though perhaps a bit too brightly for the guarded tone that wedges itself between your teeth.

"I thought it would be fun." He's undeterred by your indifference and he continues, an unstoppable force. Fitting. "Jungkookie said it would be too good of an experience to pass up - that I would have nothing to lose." Whether he notices the way you stiffen at his side, you're not sure. He seems completely lost in his own thoughts, spying patterns in the sky above your heads, and you're grateful. You don't want to think about him right now.

"Well, he was right." There's a casual lack of concern in your voice, a subtle steering of the conversation. "But you've also only known me for like, a day." You wiggle your eyebrows before remembering the fact that you're really quite terrible at it, and settle for opening your eyes as wide as possible. You're sure you look ridiculous but Taehyung doesn't laugh directly at you, instead having the decency to hide his amusement behind a tight-lipped smile that threatens to blow open. "You hardly even know me. What if you end up hating the way I eat or the fact that I drink six coffees a day?"

"I've seen you eat and it's cute - and that just means more cafe dates." Perhaps your examples were poor or maybe he can just read you that well. You're not sure which it is and that scares you more than you want to admit. "But even if I don't know you well..." He's looking at you with those impossibly dark eyes, ones that threaten to pull you underwater and drown you in their depths. "I feel like I already know you better than most people do."

You hate that he's somehow always so right. It's infuriating and terrifying all at once.

Because he knew things even your so-called friends didn't, had you offering up your secrets like they were casual hello's. He'd seen your lovesick heart and offered it a home, a quiet place to lay its head and in doing so, he'd swept into your life like a hurricane, uprooting all of your carefully constructed contingency plans. He'd torn the excuses right from your mouth, taken your hands captive like they belonged with his. You, who'd always kept everyone at arm's length out of fear for falling and shattering into a million tiny pieces.

So you say nothing, letting your silence speak instead. He seems completely fine with this, a self-satisfied settling over his face like it belongs there.

"This is me." You've reached your block in no time at all and you can't help the disappointment that colours you when you pull to the side of the street, bringing him with you.

"Goodnight then," He says sweetly with the tiniest edge of teasing. He's about to move away, leave you high and dry, and you're doing your best not to hold too tightly, unfurling your fingers from his. He's right - you had all the time in the world. You repeat that in your head when the weight of his hand is gone and arrange a megawatt smile on your face, ready to wish him goodbye. You don't expect him so close, however, his eyes lit up like the sky above you, full of promise. It's easy to get lost in them. "You didn't think I'd leave without a kiss, did you?"

When your lips meet again, tentative and lingering, you're not sure whether it's his laughter or yours that bubbles into the air.

You're on cloud nine when you swan into your apartment, gently nudging the door closed with the heel of your foot. You sweep your tiny furry roommate into your arms, nuzzling your face into his soft slate coat and you beam at the way he returns your affections, like he's keenly aware anything else would be a mortal offence. You don't even bat an eye at the mess you'd left behind this morning, the unfolded blanket hanging haphazardly across the loveseat, your laptop half-shut on the table beside a cup of forgotten tea.

"I had such a nice date, Po."

You stare expectantly at your feline friend, cradling him under his front legs in a position very reminiscent of a certain Disney film. He mewls what you think is understanding and you laugh, the sound breathless and sweet, dipped in fairy floss. You settle onto the couch, legs tangling in your throw as you settle among the cushions. Upo takes a front row seat, resting his paws upon your chest like a regal prince. A low rumble starts, quiet at first and then louder, filling the small spaces between you. You beam, stroking feather light over the turn of his chin, the sensitive spot behind his ears. You're overflowing with love, like a balloon about to burst.

"He's the one from filming, with the big boxy smile." Speaking the words draws a picture in your mind, charcoal shading the contours of his cheeks and the sharp line of his nose. It tries to mimic the kindness in his eyes, the way his cheeks grow ten sizes when he smiles, the full swell of his lips. Your imagination is feeble in comparison to the real thing. "I really like him," you relent in hushed tones, as if you're admitting a shameful secret.

Upo doesn't react beyond a flick of his left ear and a nudge of your now-stilled hand, a silent demand for more. He's seen you through enough heartbreak - often by your own hand - that he takes everything you say with a grain of salt.

At least, that's what you think as you resume the gentle scritching around his skull. He's not very talkative. "You'll get to meet him soon, I'm sure," you muse, aloud. There's a drop of hope in the turn of consonants, softening the way they fall from your lips. "I wonder if he likes cats." You think back to his adorable dog, all black and brown and as endearing as his owner. "Would you like to meet Tannie, Po?"

It seems your companion has tired of your wishful crooning. He rises, the soft beans of his toes kneading you like bread once, twice, before he hops off of you. He doesn't even glance back as he disappears down the hallway, tail held aloft. You can't help but snicker to yourself. Normally, you'd be dragging him back against you, ignoring his yowls of complaint and only releasing him when he'd dug his politely sheathed claws into your flesh.

Today, you were satisfied. Full.

It's a nice feeling. Not unfamiliar, but different. Tinged a specific shade of rose that reminds you of Taehyung.

He's not sure what had possessed him to dig through his belongings, rummaging through school work he'd neglected to shred or burn when he'd graduated. All he knew is that he wanted to find it.

It, being the external hard drive he'd used for the duration of his four years in undergrad.

So, there Jungkook was, legs tucked beneath him as he pulled box after box from under his bed. He rifles through each one with deft fingers, narrowly avoiding collections of paper cuts across his inked fingers and hissing through bared teeth when he manages to get an even worse cardboard cut along the slope of his palm.

He knew it was somewhere. But where?

Frustration presents itself in something that more closely resembles a whine than a huff, the sound breaking the relative silence of his apartment and joining the constant stream coming from the far corner of his bedroom. It's repetitive and loud, punctuated with expletives and directives that don't hugely make sense out of context. He's streaming Overwatch, of course.

When his palm brushes something cold and heavy, he nearly upends the crate he's currently elbow deep in, fingers curling around the root of all of his troubles. He hoists it into the air like it's buried treasure, glittering diamonds and rubies rather than a piece of hardware covered with a comically drawn sticker.

He tells himself he'll put the boxes back later - a lie - and crosses to his computer in four long strides. Even in his sweatpants, worn black and terribly soft from years of wear, he's all leg.

The hard drive is connected and booted up almost before his butt sinks into the seat, his top of the line model-O mouse sweeping deftly across his gaming mouse pad. He navigates through neatly labelled folders, clicking in and out of them like he's on a mission. The irony that his electronic files are so perfectly kept - near obsessively, in fact - when it took him the better part of a half an hour to find the drive isn't lost on him. Priorities, he thinks.

Once he's found the file, he pulls his headset over his ears and after a brief hesitation, he opens it.

Black swallows the screen and then you're there, reflected in the mirror beside him. You're both in black - he in an too-big hooded sweater that swallows him whole and you in a leather coat. There are passports fuzzy in the replication, two dark green covers gripped tightly in your hand. He's grinning at himself - or you, it's impossible to tell - and you're bouncing from foot to foot like a kid on their first day of school.

It cuts to the airport and there are people milling around you, nearly swallowing you whole. You dance past them, quick on your feet, and toss a cheery smile over your shoulder. Then you're at the ticket counter and you're stepping past the gate agent as Jungkook's own tattooed hand comes into view, accepting his passport back as the ambient noise of the terminal fills his ears. He follows you down the panelled glass hallway and the focus never cuts from the back of your head, midnight curtain spilling across your back and over your shoulder.

You make a noise when you're nearing the gate, turning to wiggle your eyebrows - or really, widen those pretty dark eyes of yours - at him. He'd cut his laugh but he remembers it now, filling the enclosed space as you began swinging your arms back and forth like a chicken. You stop right before you reach the aircraft door, flailing arms slackening to fall at your sides, the picture of normalcy. If he hadn't known better, he would've thought you were crazy.

There's a shot of his boots - combat leather with laces running up the front. You'd made fun of him about them, insisting comfort was key as you'd wiggled your toes in your own yellow suede Vans with dirt marking the soles.

Music pours in from the headphones and it's a montage.

Shots out the window of the plane, blue sky stretching far and wide above cumulus clouds. The front seat of a taxi cab, unfamiliar Japanese characters shining back beneath the revolving door of lights that filtering through the windshield. Your profile, crowded in shadow as you take in the sights, the characteristic little cars and city lights. A single elevator button lit up beneath your finger, then all of them by his as he drags his hands down the cold metal. The briefest flash of your face, mouth wide open before you double over in laughter and shove him; the camera shakes.

Your figure again, draped in a soft flannel that stands in stark contrast to the denim of your jeans. Your long hair sits pretty down your back, two space buns knotted on the top of your head and held in place with soft-looking grey pompoms. The video follows you out of a hotel and into the backseat of a taxi, cutting from you taking a halfhearted selfie - he's reflected in your phone screen, though largely obscured by the lens of his camera - to you walking down the sidewalk, hands raised above your head as you wiggle your fingers like they've got minds of their own.

He tracks you like his life depends on it, catching all of the little expressions that make his heart skip in his chest.

Your occasional look back, just to make sure he's still there and within reach, no more than five feet between you. The way you spin in awe when you cross Shibuya Crossing, child-like wonder written into every line of your smile. Excitement in a hall of infinity mirrors because it's not just a perfect photo opportunity but because you love Yayoi Kusama and you've been talking about it all day. The track overlay steals your words but he reads the movement of your lips.

"It's so beautiful." He couldn't agree more.

More of you. Some, up close, with you waving your fingers in your face as if to rebuff the attention. Others, further away as you window shop, passing by gorgeous storefronts. A long continuous shot of you finally finding the place you'd decided on for dinner - a kaisendon restaurant - and your grace as you'd skipped down the steps and inserted bills into the automated ticket machine. Flashes of you shovelling rice into your mouth and his own portion growing smaller and smaller with each transition.

Tokyo's sprawling streets, lit up at every corner. Hazy outlines of the people you roll by. Then darkness, again, before it's you, jumping frantically in front of the Tokyo Disney Resort sign. You look a little spastic, trying to land the perfect pose despite the fact that it's video. You don't really care.

He can practically hear your laughter through his monitors, the giant Minnie Mouse ears askew on your head as you spin together in a teacup. You'd had to do most of the work, with his filming and all, and you're out of breath, exhilaration staining your cheeks bright enough that he can make it out beneath the level adjustments he'd done. It's like every dream he's ever had come to life in the shape of your mouth, your delighted grin when you let the centrifugal motion carry you through the rest of the ride.

His heart stops, trips and hardly has time to right itself, when he catches sight of your intertwined hands. They're there, just barely in frame as you drag him around the happiest place on Earth.

Your face is suddenly illuminated, by lampposts and further away and dim, the fireworks that are going off above your heads. The aperture focuses on them briefly before returning to you. You've got your phone up and you're on the balls of your feet, swaying to and fro as you try to capture the moment in your hands. Then, all at once, you're turning to him and his line of sight is obscured, jumbled with lights and darkness. It centres just in time to catch your faces, his cheek pressed to your hair, one of Minnie's ears scratching his eyebrow, and your teeth blinding around a smile.

Then there's his name and the year - 2018 - flashing across his screen.

As his wallpaper returns, Discord and Twitch maximizing to full size once again, Jungkook wonders where it all went wrong.

notes. yes, i put the "G.C.F. in tokyo" video into words and every minute of doing so was excruciating.

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tsthrace · 5 years ago

Text

White Knuckles

Awhile back, I asked y’all to send me a song so I could take its energy, lyrics, and/or feeling and write you a 1,000-word Clexa fic.

This one shot meandered way beyond 1,000 words. It’s based on White Knuckles by Tegan and Sara, as requested by @damiana-atx.

Angsty academia AU. No content warnings except for some swearing.

You can also find it on ao3.

-----------------------------

“Fuck, this is good,” Clarke said aloud to no one as she tossed the journal on the table. She leaned back in her chair. Godlessness Centered: Negotiating Queerness in The Left Hand of Darkness by Alexandria J. Woods, PhD. When Clarke had first picked up the journal, she scoffed. The Left Hand of Darkness? Really? And queerness? How overdone.

But it was brilliant. A discourse on Le Guin’s own spirituality and how it defied casual dualities.

I should have thought of that.

She looked at her watch. Twenty minutes.

---

Lexa smoothed the lapels on her blazer, though they were already perfectly flat. She gazed at herself in the hotel mirror, staring at the buttons on her shirt. She had a choice to make—the choice of the one awkward button. Button it, and she would seem, well, buttoned-up, uptight. But unbuttoned, it was a bit...revealing. There was no middle ground.

She pushed her glasses up on her nose and took a breath. Then buttoned the button.

---

They met in Bloomington, Indiana. All the sci fi literature conferences seemed to be in random small cities in the Midwest. They were strange events. Mostly men in khaki and tweed carrying beat-up leather satchels, experts on Vonnegut and Wells (H.G., that is). But there was also the overt geek element. Undergrad boys carrying frayed copies of Asimov and Gaiman, their laptops covered in Star Trek and My Little Pony stickers, and the occasional girl wearing a Strong Female Character t-shirt.

Then there was Lexa, sharp in a plain black cashmere sweater and grey herringbone slacks, her glasses suggesting both intelligence and the ability to break you. The geeks followed her but kept an admiring distance.

Clarke, for some reason, seemed more approachable. As she sipped her gin and tonic at the hotel bar, the kids (as she called college students) would creep up to her, their eyes down.

“Dr. Griffin?” they’d ask.

“Call me Clarke,” she’d say, smiling.

“I just had some questions on your takedown of the Darkover series.”

Clarke would always give them about twenty minutes then politely end the conversation, turning back to her drink.

She had had three such conversations when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Clarke didn’t mind the attention, but she was getting tired. She spun around, ready to dismiss herself.

“Dr. Griffin.” Lexa stood above her.

“Dr. Woods,” Clarke replied, nodding politely. She had read all of Lexa’s work. She had to. They were two of the only feminist sci fi lit scholars who were regularly publishing. But they’d never actually met.

“I don’t really prefer the term ‘doctor.’” Lexa said, looking just past Clarke. “It’s a little....” She didn’t finish her thought. After a moment she tilted her head. “Do you really think we should stop reading Bradley because of her scandal?”

Clarke put her drink down. “Scandal is kind of an understatement. And I didn’t say we should stop. I just said it’s hard.”

Without invitation, Lexa sat down at Clarke’s table. “If we bring every artist’s personal life into how we engage with their work, we probably won’t be able to enjoy anything.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “I never took you for a modernist.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“That sometimes shitty people create amazing art.” Lexa’s eyes lit up with her smile, like she was issuing a friendly challenge.

“Are you flirting with me?” Clarke returned her version of the same smile.

Lexa sat back and shrugged. She took a sip of her martini.

---

A few hours later, Clarke was sprawled across Lexa’s bed looking up, her hair in tangles across the pillow, a corner of the sheet pulled over her midsection. Lexa was curled up next to her, sweaty and wondering what just happened. She took a few breaths, looking for words. She squinted to herself, couldn’t think of anything to say. She felt Clarke shuffle a bit and prepared for the awkward banter that would come when they’d get up to look for their clothes.

“Do you believe in God?” Clarke asked instead. She didn’t get up.

“Pardon?”

“Do you believe in God?” Her tone was so casual.

“I...I don’t know.” Lexa looked up at the ceiling. She suddenly felt cold and reached down for a blanket. “Why do you ask?”

“I think I do,” Clarke said, not answering the question.

“Why?”

“I just look around this world, and it seems pretty incredible to me. Like it wasn’t an accident. Someone had to have created all this. Created us. Then made us creators.” Clarke shook her head and looked past Lexa. “It all seems like such a miracle.”

“Are you a Christian?” Lexa felt her face crumple.

Clarke laughed. “I don’t know. I do like the idea of the trinity.”

“When I grew up, my parents took me to one of those born again churches.” Lexa looked down. “It was mostly Jesus. I mean, I know what the trinity is, but…” Why was she telling her this?

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Clarke shook her head. “Not like God as some guy who makes you love him or else you burn in hell. That’s bullshit.”

Lexa squinted.

“The trinity. It’s like a dance between these three ways God reveals herself.” Clarke smiled. “It’s beautiful actually.” She looked at Lexa. “Did you ever read A Wrinkle in Time?”

Lexa side-eyed her. “Clarke, I’m a sci fi scholar.”

“Okay, so there’s Mrs. Who, Mrs. Whatsit, and Mrs. Which…”

They stayed up the rest of the night, moving from L’Engle to Shelley to Jemisin and the spiritual worlds of their stories. Evil and suffering, goodness and hope. Retribution, sacrifice, and justice. Beauty and joy. Mouth to neck, hands to curves, skin to skin.

By dawn, Lexa had found God.

---

Lexa went back to UC Irvine and Clarke returned to her adjunct job at Georgetown, but they emailed constantly. Long, meandering messages about particular chapters of The Stone Sky and Spinning Silver. Clarke sent her Marilynne Robinson essays, and Lexa responded with questions. Together, they laid theologies over imagined worlds, mapped them out and connected them to other imagined worlds. They took down Ender’s Game, built up The Hainish Cycle, and even let themselves dabble in Stardust, which they both had to admit they secretly admired. Back and forth, tens of thousands of words over the course of months. They only talked on the phone a few times, but the emails were constant.

Not long into their messages, Clarke had mentioned how her father had died when she was young. Lexa hinted at being on her own at age 16. These details were wrapped in blankets of analysis and metaphor, the theological undercurrents of the imagined worlds they studied, the anthropology of beings who only existed on pages and in minds.

They made plans to meet in Cleveland to present together at a lit crit conference. A week before, Lexa bailed. “Sorry,” the text said. “An emergency came up.”

“Everything okay?” Clarke responded.

Nothing.

The conference was rough. Clarke knew it would be, but she thought she’d have Lexa’s powerful presence demanding attention. The lit crit crowd all secretly loved what they called “genre” fiction—sci fi and fantasy—but they publicly derided it as “unserious” or “not literary.” She held her own, but it wasn’t fun.

She texted Lexa when she got back to her hotel room. “Wish you had been here. Same straight white male bullshit as usual.”

Silence.

“Did I say something wrong?” Clarke texted a few days later. At that point, though, she knew Lexa was gone.

A heaviness set in on her. Clarke reread their messages looking for hints, but Lexa’s words seemed wide open, even joyful. What happened?

She immersed herself in a chapter she was writing for a textbook on book fandoms and lecturing on feminism and postmodernism in Harry Potter—not her favorite topic, but it was a popular course. She had almost let herself forget about Lexa when, six months later, she was flipping through Foundation: The Journal of Science Fiction and saw her byline in the table of contents. Justice & Joy: The God Revealed in the Feminist Imagination. By Alexandria J. Woods, PhD.

Clarke turned to page 137 and ran her eyes down the columns. She bit her lip. The essay was essentially a catalog of their emails, one idea bridged skillfully to another by Lexa’s pointed and lucid prose. But they weren’t just Lexa’s ideas. They weren’t just Clarke’s, either, but a stream of their thoughts flowing together like a river. It was beautifully done.

Clarke didn’t notice that her hands were balled into fists until she felt her nails cutting into the skin. She opened her laptop and pulled up the messages. Lexa had been careful to rephrase Clarke’s words, but it was all there, even with citations of Marilynne Robinson. The Death of Adam.

Clarke pounded out an email. How dare you...couldn’t even ask for me to be a coauthor...you hadn’t even thought about these things until you met me. She knew Lexa wouldn’t see it. She probably had blocked her address. She didn’t bother hitting send.

Her face fell into her hands. She remembered that night in San Diego. Lexa’s smile—that curiosity despite herself. The way her hands traced the skin over Clarke’s side.

That woman wouldn’t have done this. But there it was. Twenty-six pages of shared conversation now claimed for Lexa only.

---

Clarke’s department was buzzing about it the next day. The religious studies chair was also a huge geek who kept up with Foundation, and he had been blown away by how seamlessly interdisciplinary the article was. “I hadn’t thought to connect the Christian trinity and A Wrinkle in Time, but it’s really so obvious when you think about it.”

Clarke seethed. She thought about printing up the emails, sending them to Foundation and the UC Irvine Disciplinary Committee, but something stopped her. Allegations of plagiarism would ruin Lexa’s career as a scholar. And was it really plagiarism? Clarke wanted to be sure, but she wasn’t.

So she wrote instead. A deep and cutting rebuttal highlighting where Alexandria J. Woods’ religious arguments were rudimentary at best, illustrating how shallow her connections were, and then plunging further, mining Catherine Keller and other theologians for an even deeper exploration of the worlds of Butler and Clarke (Arthur C., that is). Foundation published her essay the next quarter. Lexa answered, bringing in Buddhism and Humanism. A spotlight grew around their debate, so they continued writing—back and forth between literary, cultural, and religious journals. WIRED magazine picked up the story: Feuding Feminists Shifting the Sci Fi Landscape.

That’s when the invites started rolling in. A conference on spirituality and pop culture invited them to speak on a panel together, but Clarke refused. She couldn’t bear to see Lexa in person. Instead, she accepted an invitation to lecture at NYU while Lexa spoke at Cal.

Clarke’s classes filled with long waitlists every semester, her success intertwined with Lexa’s and their endless intellectual feud. They both thrived. Lexa’s ideas sharpened Clarke’s, and Clarke’s sharpened Lexa’s. She couldn’t admit it, but she needed Lexa as much as she despised her.

---

Lexa was in her office when the call came.

“Dr. Woods?” A male voice.

“It’s Professor Woods.”

“Excuse me, Professor Woods,” he corrected himself. “This is Dr. William Porter at Georgetown. The chair of the Department of English.”

Lexa felt something jump in her chest. “Good morning.”

“I’m calling because a very generous donor has recently endowed a tenure-track professorship here specifically for women in science fiction studies.”

“You’re kidding me.” it felt like a prank, and a mean one at that. Lexa had never heard of such a thing.

“Uh, no.” Dr. Porter seemed thrown off. “We’re inviting only a few people to apply, and you’re on our short list. Is this something you’d be interested in?”

They hung up with lingering plans to arrange flights and meetings.

Lexa sat for a few minutes, her fingers tapping idly on her closed laptop. Clarke would be one of the other candidates—and maybe the only other candidate—she was sure. She looked down and shook her head, thinking back to that day when she made the worst decision of her life.

She had printed out some of the emails she had sent Clarke to reference them against some short stories when the dean knocked on her door. He noticed a copy of L’Engle’s Walking on Water open on her desk.

“What’s that about?” he asked.

“Uh, just a side project I’m working on.” Her face burned with the exposure of her new interest in religious studies.

“Mind if I look?” he asked, picking up one of the print-outs before she could answer.

She bit her lip as he read, his forehead creasing.

After a few minutes, he looked up. “Professor Woods, this is good stuff.”

She took a deep breath and let it out. “Thank you. I’ve been working with Professor Griffin at Georgetown—”

“But these are your words, right?”

“Yeah, what you’re holding. That’s mine.”

“You need to publish this. It could be really good for you and the department.”

“Yeah, Professor Griffin and I—”

“Lexa,” he said in that kind but firm I’m-A-Man-In-Charge voice, “there’s a distinction to be made between attribution and inspiration. I’m inspired every day by the ocean, by James Joyce.” Lexa hid her contempt. Scholars who pretended to understand Joyce were pretentious liars. “But I’m not citing them.”

“Dr. Titus.” Her voice was firm. “I couldn’t have written that without Professor Griffin.”

“Professor Woods.” He looked her straight in the eye. “This department doesn’t need a co-authored paper with someone from Georgetown. We need a win.” He tapped the paper. “These are your words. Are they the product of a broader conversation? Sure, but what isn’t?” He looked out the window at the budding trees. “We took a chance on your genre work. And I’m seeing some good stuff. But I need to see more if we’re going to keep you on.”

Lexa looked past Dr. Titus and took in a silent breath. Jobs in her specialty was rare. UC Irvine had invested more than most schools to create a department where someone like her could thrive. She nodded.

“Get me an abstract and outline next week,” the dean said. “The managing editor at Foundation is a former student.”

When he left, she took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She would need to cancel her panel with Clarke in Cleveland. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to look at her again.

---

Clarke let out a deep breath as she stepped into the crisp fall air. It had been a long day of interviews. She stopped on the stairs. She knew Lexa was close by. She had to be. They were the two people in the country most qualified for the job. She’d been on these interview panels before. Two, sometimes three, a day, candidates rotating between deans and panels. Clarke was surprised she hadn’t seen her yet.

She shook her head. Maybe she should have said something about that first paper. The job would be hers if she had. But would she even be considered without that paper? It had launched her career. Her public debate with Alexandria J. Woods, PhD, got her lectures around the country, a longform article in The Atlantic, and the keynote spot at conferences that two years ago would have never taken her seriously. Their refusal to appear together added to their mystique. Geeks and academics alike lined up on reddit and twitter to take sides.

Her success was bound to Lexa’s, two sides of the same double helix.

She bundled a scarf around her neck. It didn’t matter where Lexa was. Clarke loved the work she did, and she had rocked the interviews. But she was tired. It was time for a drink. She pulled out her phone to call a Lyft. Something about the fading purple sky changed her mind, though, and she decided to walk.

The cobblestones on O Street felt somehow comforting under her feet. Solid. Old. Not going anywhere. She thought about calling Dr. Reyes from the engineering department to join her—Raven was always good for either a loud night of much alcohol or a quiet night of raw, stinging truth—the latter of which was why Clarke had never told her all that had happened with Lexa. She shook her head. Maybe she just needed some gin and silence.

She sat at the bar at L’Annexe and ordered a Tom Collins. Bartenders always smiled curiously at her when she ordered one. Funny, you don’t look like a 75 year-old man to me. She’d smile back impatiently. Just make my damn drink. When the drink arrived, she took a sip and let out a deep breath as the gin started to glow through her. No one can fuck up a Tom Collins. It was simple and always felt good and sharp and bright going down.

She was halfway through her drink when a man sat next to her and ordered a scotch. Clarke glanced at his plaid scarf, wool sweater, and worn leather shoulder bag. Definitely a TA. He noticed her looking at him and smiled.

“I’ve seen you,” he said. “You teach that Harry Potter course.”

Clarke’s stifled a sigh. “That’s me.” She tilted her head back and drank the rest of her Tom Collins in one swig.

“Can I get you another?”

“No,” she said, picking up her bag. She made eye contact with the bartender. “I need to pay.”

“Whoa,” the man in the scarf said, raising his hands. “I’m just trying to be nice.”

“And I was just trying to be alone.” Clarke nodded towards the guy sitting on the other side of him. “Maybe you can be nice to him.” She dropped some cash on the check that had arrived and made her way to the door.

It was darker outside than when she’d arrived. And colder. She buttoned her wool coat and started making her way down Pennsylvania Ave. towards the bus stop.

---

Lexa was sipping a Syrah at a window table when she saw Clarke walk by outside. She took in a breath, remembering how Clarke’s eyes got soft when she asked, “Do you believe in God?” She shook her head. She could just let her keep going, and they could go on avoiding each other forever. Unless Lexa got the job.

Shit.

She grabbed her coat, leaving a $20 under her mostly full glass. By the time Lexa got out the door, Clarke was halfway down the block, almost lost in a crowd of loud students. Lexa didn’t button her coat, and it billowed out as she jogged down the street.

“Clarke!” she shouted as she got closer. She saw Clarke stop, her back straighten and stiffen. She didn’t turn around.

---

Clarke wanted to be angry. When she heard that voice, she wanted to spin on her heel and unleash a cascade of expletives that would make the passersby uncomfortable. She not only wanted Lexa to hear the words traitor, cheat, betrayed, she wanted her to feel the force of them rip through her body like a landmine.

But she froze. When she heard that voice, she felt tears sting at the corner of her eyes. She felt a slow storm in her chest, all rain and no lighting. She closed her eyes. She wanted to be angry, but all she felt was heaviness. She held her breath and waited.

When she opened her eyes, Lexa was in front of her, her eyes uncertain and her arms folded in front of her. “Hey…” she said after a few moments.

Clarke bit into her lip, hoping not to draw blood. She looked up, her blue eyes blazing, about to spark. She could tell Lexa was waiting for her to say something, so she stayed silent.

Lexa nodded. “I’m so sorry, Clarke.” She didn’t know what else to say.

Clarke’s eyes locked on Lexa’s, but she refused to respond.

“I don’t expect you to understand...” Lexa trailed off. “It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.” She looked past Clarke to a stoplight turning from yellow to red.

Lexa’s open coat revealed a gray plaid suit, smart and uncompromising, the top button studiously and chastely buttoned. So she had interviewed today. In this moment, though, it all felt wrong. Lexa seemed so small to Clarke. She wasn’t the woman she met at the hotel that night, but she also wasn’t the woman who submitted that article. This woman was drawn in on herself, her hair falling around her face like a curtain. Clarke remained silent.

Lexa sucked in her lips. “I know you probably hate me, and I get it.” She looked down. “I hate me, too.”

“No.” Clarke’s voice was deep and quiet. “You don’t get to do that.” She felt confused when she saw a shadow of relief cross Lexa’s face.

“You’re right,” Lexa said. “That’s not fair.” She took a long, deep breath and let it out. “I’m going to tell them.” She looked Clarke in the eye. “I’m going to tell Georgetown, and I’m going to tell Foundation. I’ll—”

“Don’t.” Clarke cut her off. “It’s done.”

“But—”

“Fuck you, Lexa.” She barely looked at her as pushed past, a slow fire burning through her as she walked briskly towards Dupont Square.

---

Lexa was freezing by the time she got back to her hotel room. She had stood on the sidewalk for a long time, watching Clarke get smaller and smaller. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting. Forgiveness? Punishment? Clarke had given her neither, which is what she knew she deserved.

She had never written a paper more carefully, never thought about the ideas so closely, never danced so delicately around sentence structure and tense. In a twisted way, she was proud of it. It was sophisticated but accessible, and completely defensible. Even if Clarke had tried to accuse her, she was sure she would have won.

She shook her head sharply. That’s not who I am. But it was. She was intelligent and ambitious and ready for a breakthrough. She knew Titus had been threatening her, but she also knew that what she had been writing with Clarke was good. Really good. She had never felt so alive in her work as when she was in conversation with Clarke. No one had ever challenged or inspired her like that. Even after that first paper, her debates with Clarke from essay to essay were electric, almost feverish. Clarke tapped something in her that was insatiable.

She picked up her laptop and opened some of the first emails she and Clarke had exchanged after Bloomington. She couldn’t help but smile. There had been a giddiness to them, this breathless excitement to constantly share new discoveries, interesting connections. They had sent seven, sometimes eight, messages a day. Thousands of words.

And that night in Bloomington.

She closed the laptop. Was it worth it? For months, Lexa had tried to convince herself that it had just been one night, that she didn’t even really know Clarke. When she saw Clarke on that sidewalk tonight, though, she knew that was all bullshit.

They had been falling for each other the best way they knew how. Lexa had betrayed all of it.

—-

Lexa was sitting on the floor outside Clarke’s office when she arrived the next morning.

Clarke sighed. “Seriously?” She didn’t look at her as she slid her key in the lock. “What are you doing here?”

“I had a meeting to cancel.” Lexa shrugged, not getting up.

Clarke pushed her door open. “I don’t have anything else to say to you, Dr. Woods.”

“I withdrew my name.”

Clarke froze. “Why?” Clarke noticed jeans and a sweater under Lexa’s coat. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun. She was serious.

“You know why.”

Clarke’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” Lexa said steadily as she stood up. The smallness from the night before was gone. She stood tall, her shoulders thrown back. “I don’t know who else they’re interviewing, but I’m not your competition anymore.” She swallowed and looked into Clarke’s eyes. “I don’t want to be your competition anymore.”

Clarke let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She wanted to say, Good luck, Dr. Woods, and close the door behind her, but instead she felt herself pushing the door open, heard herself saying, “Come in.”

Lexa bit her lip. “You sure?”

Clarke nodded and ushered her in. The door clicked as it closed behind them. Clarke set her bag down and sat at her desk. She shook her head, frustrated. “I just want to hate you. That’s all. I want to tell you to fuck off, and I want to go on with my life.”

Lexa sat in the reading chair in the corner of Clarke’s office. She nodded, looking down at her hands. “Then why don’t you?”

Clarke huffed, a cynical laugh. “I can’t get away. You’re everywhere.” She threw up her hands. “I saw you on the fucking New Yorker site this morning. How did you land that?” A rhetorical question. “I assign your essays for my classes. I have to. I hate how good you are.”

“You’re good, too, Clarke,” Lexa said quietly. She looked up. “Very good. I keep researching and writing because you keep responding.”

Clarke closed her eyes. She knew it was the same for her, but she didn’t want to say it. Finally she looked up. “Why did you do it?”

Lexa looked past her at Clarke’s diplomas on the wall. Undergrad at Cornell. She shook her head, almost said I don’t know, but she didn’t want to lie. “I wanted to do something big.” She gathered the courage to look at Clarke’s face. “I wanted to do it with you, but my dean pressured me to take solo authorship.” She closed her eyes, ashamed. “And I was a coward.”

“Yeah.” Clarke leaned back in her chair. “You were.”

Everything that came into Lexa’s head to say felt like an excuse, so she kept her mouth shut. They both did, the loud ticking of the cheap clock on the wall cutting through the silence.

Finally Clarke shook her head. A corner of her mouth curved up. “It was really beautifully done.”

Lexa looked up, her head tilted.

“I was so fucking angry, Lexa.” Clarke breathed out like she was letting something go. “I should have been a coauthor, but, fuck, it was well written. Like it was on a whole other level.”

Lexa’s green eyes were bright as they locked in on Clarke’s. “You inspire me, Dr. Griffin.” She sat back. “It’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She paused and sucked in her lips. “I think we should write a book together.”

As soon as Clarke heard the words, she knew it was a good idea. Maybe the best idea. But all that would come out was, “Fuck you, Lexa.” It was almost a laugh.

Lexa’s face was stone, but her eyes were alive. “An editor already approached me. If I brought you on…”

“You can’t buy your way out of the shitty thing you did, Lexa.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Lexa ran her hand over her hair then looked up, her face suddenly soft. “I meant it, Clarke. I’m better with you.” She shrugged. “And I think you’re better with me, too.”

Clarke bit her lip. She took in a heavy breath, and let it out in a long sigh. She stood up. “Come here.”

Lexa squinted her eyes.

“Just come here, please. You owe me that.”

Lexa stood up in front of Clarke. Clarke lifted her hand to her face and leaned in, her lips barely touching Lexa’s. Lexa didn’t move, but Clarke felt her shiver. She leaned in and kissed her softly. Then she pulled back.

“I just…” Clarke didn’t know where the end of that sentence was supposed to go, and she didn’t tried to find it. Instead, she lifted her eyes and looked at Lexa as her chest rose and fell, rose and fell.

Lexa held her breath.

Finally Clarke smiled, almost laughing at herself. “That’s not a yes, Dr. Woods. But it’s not a no.”

#clexa #clexa fanfic #clarke x lexa #CLEXA AU

115 notes · View notes

the-voltage-diaries · 6 years ago

Text

When Demons Prevail - Soryu Oh

Warning: Implied character death(s), Angst (but with a happy ending)

Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Your time is running out, Soryu Oh.You just have one day left.

Soryu scrunched up the note angrily, his frustration getting the best of him. It had been three weeks since Samejima had disappeared, and three weeks since Soryu had gotten proper sleep. These notes came in everyday, crippling his sanity little by little, everyday, that is, if he had already not broken down completely by now.

It had been three years since Soryu had been made the leader of Ice Dragons, and needless to say, he had fulfilled his role dutifully. It was moments like these, moments where someone else got hurt because of him, where someone else’s life was being played with because of his position, that he truly wished to escape this life, even if for a day.

Even today, if he closed his eyes for a moment, he saw flashbacks of that one incident that made him shudder every single time. It had been two weeks since the incident had taken place, but it still made his eyes burn with un-shed tears, whenever he thought of it.

He remembered that one day two weeks ago, when Ota and Baba were supposed to come back from their trip to Las Vegas. He had just gotten up from the breakfast table, munching on a toast, when he got the call from Eisuke, asking him to hurry up towards the harbor. Eisuke’s voice had cracked, indicating the seriousness of the situation.

Just as he was about to open the door of his car, a note on the windshield had caught his attention.

Surprise, surprise, Mr. Oh.

Thinking of the note as an empty threat to scare him, just like what he thought of the previous ones, he crumpled it up, motoring his vehicle to life, starting towards the harbor.

Little did he know, the notes weren’t an empty threat.

That day, he had felt so broken for the first time.

He still remembered it, the way Ota and Baba’s bodies were floating on the ocean, lifeless. One shake of head from Eisuke was all it took for him to know that this wasn’t a prank, that it was indeed Ota and Baba, his friends, the ones he had spent the last decade bantering with, laying there without an ounce of life in them. He had shaken their bodies, wanting for them to wake up, tell him it was a prank, laugh at him for being so gullible. He wanted to hear Baba give one of his overly-sexual suggestions, or Ota be the brat he was.

But alas, they didn’t open their eyes. That was when Soryu realised that they had closed their eyes once to never open them again.

Eisuke had asked his staff to leave him and Soryu alone with the bodies, and the moment the staff had left, he had seen Soryu shed a tear for the first time in all the years he had known him.

Eisuke had walked over, and rubbed his shoulders in sympathy as Soryu remained crouching, not believing the fact that this was the last time he might see the two so-called “banes” of his life, that after this, there’d be no sexual references to anything and everything he and Eisuke uttered, there’d be no fun and games, no talks of wanting to inspire people through one’s art, no debates on whether he was really straight or was he asexual. There’d be no life in the penthouse, for the two lifelines responsible for carrying out that work were lying right there, in front of his eyes, with their bodies as cold as ice.

That was when he knew the notes weren’t just empty threats.

That day, he had told Eisuke everything about the notes he had been receiving, while Eisuke already knew about Samejima’s kidnapping. They had decided not to call Mamoru yet, for he was in his hometown, spending some quality time with his family. Mamoru had seen his fair share of bad times, and they didn’t want to taint one of his happy memories with dark ones.

Eisuke had promised to do everything in his power to find out who was behind this, his eyes red, indicating how affected he was by the death of two of the five people that mattered to him the most, as of that day. He was barely holding himself together, but he had promised Soryu to see this through with him.

A knock on the door to his office cabin shook him out of his reverie, as Inui entered, his face crestfallen.”No clue, sir. We have no idea where the notes have been coming from, or who was responsible for Mr. Kisaki and Mr. Baba’s deaths,” He said, his eyes nearly watering from uttering Ota and Baba’s names.

Soryu nodded his head, acknowledging the piece of negative news Inui had given him, and turning his gaze back to his laptop, he lifelessly started typing away at his keyboard, not noticing the way Inui’s brows furrowed in concern, yet again.

Ever since that incident at the harbor, Inui had noticed a change in his boss. Soryu had stopped talking to his mob members, he had stopped asking them how were they doing, he had stopped eating, sleeping, he had stopped living life. He didn’t talk unless absolutely necessary, and stayed cooped up in his cabin, looking at the pieces of evidence he had on his hands, trying to figure out how to find the mastermind behind all of this, and it concerned Inui. He knew the death of two of his close companions had had its effect on Soryu, but he was still worried. Shaking his head at the inability to do anything to change the situation, Inui had just walked out of Soryu’s cabin when Taichi, another mob member had stopped him in his tracks.

“Inui, can you give this to Soryu? It was at the door, with ‘To be opened by Soryu Oh only’ written on it.”

Inui hurriedly grabbed the small envelope, once again knocking on his boss’ cabin. Once he got the green light to enter, he opened the door, immediately handing Soryu the envelope.

Opening the envelope, Soryu’s eyes widened as he saw something he was not prepared for.

If you want Samejima, come to the XXX Warehouse at 6 in the evening. Be late, and you might want to bring a bouquet to give to your subordinate’s dead body. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Your time is ticking, Mr. Oh.

Soryu got up faster than the speed of light, calling Eisuke as he left the Ice Dragons HQ, already entering his car. Looking at the time, he saw it to be 4:57 P.M. He cursed under his breath, for it would approximately take him 45 minutes to drive to the location, considering there was no traffic on the road. Connecting his phone to the Bluetooth speaker of his car, he waited for Eisuke to pick up as he stepped on the gas, already on his way towards the destination on the note.

“What is it?” Came Eisuke’s voice through the speakers, and Soryu quickly gave him a rundown of events, not wasting any time on pleasantries.”I am coming with you too, Soryu,” Eisuke spoke, after hearing about the progress of things from Soryu. At the latter’s opposition, he clicked his tongue, “Soryu, you don’t get to order me around. If I say I am coming with you, I am coming with you. That’s it.”

“No, Eisuke. What if something happens at the hotel? I need someone with a calm head to be there, making sure everything is okay. Anyways, I have already informed Inui, he is coming with the other Ice Dragons. Okay, take care, I’m hanging up.”

Eisuke scowled when he heard the line going dead, and as much as his instinct was telling him to go after Soryu, he chose to stay behind, knowing that Soryu was indeed correct. He needed to be at the hotel to make sure nothing went awry.

On the other hand, Soryu kept looking at the time, internally cursing the traffic he was met with. As soon as the traffic cleared, he sped up the vehicle, cursing his luck for having wasted 15 minutes. It was 5:30 P.M. now, and he had to make it in the next 30 minutes or else... he didn’t wish to even think of the consequences.

As soon as he reached the location, he went inside the warehouse, only to find it empty, except the single piece of paper that was lying there.

You’re late, Soryu. Whatever happens now is your fault, for it was you who didn’t reach in time.

He immediately looked at his wrist watch, only to see that the time was indeed 6:02 P.M. He was two minutes late. Looking around, he found nothing; no trace of life whatsoever. Turning around, he picked up his phone, trying to dial Eisuke to make sure everything stayed okay back at the hotel.

His heart beat sped up when Eisuke didn’t pick up for the fourth time. Maybe he is looking after the security of the hotel, Soryu thought, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut, telling him something was wrong. He turned the vehicle onto the road leading to the Ice Dragon HQ, not being prepared for the sight that was about to hit him.

As soon as he entered, he was met by an eerie calm. Looking around, he didn’t see a soul. The sinking feeling in his gut only got stronger as he neared his cabin, remembering Eisuke’s text. While he was on his way back, Eisuke had texted him that he’d meet Soryu at the Ice Dragons HQ, for he had some news to share.

What Soryu saw in front of the door to his cabin made him feel as if the ground beneath his feet had given out, his eyes widening at the two lifeless bodies slumped together in front of him; Inui and Samejima.

Although he couldn’t believe what was happening, and he didn’t know what to do now, something in him told him to keep it together. Choosing to listen to that internal voice, Soryu’s trembling hands moved the two cold bodies away from the door to his cabin, and he fearfully opened the door, holding on to that silent thread of hope that he’d find Eisuke in there, waiting for him, helping ground him and telling him to keep it together.

Alas, he did find Eisuke. But just not how he expected to.

The shock of what Soryu saw made his legs give out, and he fell on the floor in a heap of bewildered mess. Gathering whatever energy he had left in his body, he slowly crawled towards the human lying there on the floor, right in front of his table.

Reaching the said body, he touched it’s face, not wanting to believe that it was him, even though his clothes gave him away. He touched the ice cold face, turning it over to see the one man who had been by him when he didn’t know what to do, the one man who had promised to see things through with him.

Soryu barely chocked on a sob at the face of his best friend, Eisuke, lying there in a pool of his own blood. He did nothing to stop the tears that now streamed down his face, he was too tired to keep it together now. He was too broken to care.

His fingers moved over Eisuke’s face, refusing to believe it was him. He remembered Eisuke’s words of wanting to come with him. He laughed self-deprecatingly, blaming himself for not taking his best friend with him. At least he had the chance of securing Eisuke’s life, and he had lost it too.

Soryu sat there, with tears streaming down his face, for over an hour, with Eisuke’s stiff face in his lap, his eyes sorting through the memories they had made together in the short time they had, his eyes shedding new tears at every new expression of Eisuke that surfaced in his mind, his fingers clenching on Eisuke’s clothes every time he remembered his cockiness, his smirk, his micromanaging everyone.

Needles to say, that was the day Soryu not only felt, but also heard himself shatter.

He couldn’t help but think about how there would be no Eisuke who would irritate him, promise to be by his side, be the protective older brother, the cocky younger one. His shoulders shook when he thought about how he wouldn’t be able to tease Eisuke about his sweet tooth anymore.

Soryu looked up at the ceiling as his tears refused to stop, silently saluting Eisuke for being the diamond among the countless stones in his life.

He was just about to get up to wash his face and call Kenzaki to set dates for the last rites when he noticed a letter clenched in his best friend’s hand. With shaking fingers, he took it out, opening it and silently reading what was written.

Soryu,

I don’t know who this person is, but I do know that I don’t have enough time. I might not be able to say this to you face-to-face, but this time even I won’t be able to stop the worse from happening. I have already signed the papers giving away all my resources to you, so use them wisely.

Since we might not even get to see each other in time, treat this letter as my last message to you.

In whatever the years we had with each other, thank you for being the rock of my life. I know, this sappy stuff sounds unusual coming from me, but you need to hear, or read, this.

You can’t give up now, Soryu. Stay strong, for you know, I don’t keep losers as my friends. Keep it together, Soryu. Remember, I believe in you. Don’t let me down.

Until we meet again,

Farewell.

()

Soryu woke up with a start, tangled in bed sheets with cold sweat dripping down his forehead and back. Looking around, all he saw was the darkness of his room. Turning to see the time, he noticed it to be 2:37 A.M.

He ran his fingers through his hair, not knowing what to believe anymore. Had Eisuke, Ota, Baba, Inui and Samejima really died, or was it all just a nightmare?

He didn’t know what to do, so he did the first thing his instinct told him. Getting up, without a care about how bad he looked, he rushed out of his suite and stepped onto the elevator, pressing the button that would take him to Eisuke’s personal suite.

The ride in the elevator seemed like that of an eternity, but as soon as the doors opened, he scrambled out, knocking on the door of Eisuke’s suite repeatedly.

“What the fuck is it at two in the morning, Soryu?” Eisuke asked, not prepared for the tall mobster to gather him in a tight embrace. Before he could ask what in the world was happening, he felt the man’s shoulder’s tremble, and that was when he noticed Soryu’s sweat stained shirt, his tired but red eyes, his one silent tear of relief that had shed out.

Calling Soryu inside and having him sit down, he waited for Soryu to calm his trembling down before he asked Soryu what had gone wrong.

As soon as Soryu finished telling him about his nightmare, Eisuke burst out laughing, his signature smirk soon taking over his features, “Heh, that’s interesting. You think you can get rid of me that easily, do you? Nice daydream you have going on there.”

Soryu looked at him, exasperated at his sense of humor, when he noticed the sound of someone knocking at the door. Eisuke sat back on the couch with a scoff, motioning with his chin for Soryu to go and open the door. Soryu, although confused, did get up from his place on the couch, walking towards the door.

Soryu didn’t have the time to register what was happening when bodies crashed into him in a hug from both sides. Looking up to see Ota and Baba being the jerks practically crushing his bones, he pushed them off of him hurriedly, looking for him gun, only to remember he had forgotten it at home in his hurry while coming to the Penthouse.

“Aww Soryu, we knew you loved us!” Baba stated, laughing as he got up from the floor after Soryu had pushed him. “Unfortunately for you, even though I am 35 and single, I am ready to mingle with only ladies, so I can’t kiss your sadness away.”

“Stop it, Baba. You sound creepy as fuck,” Ota retorted, smirking at the fake hurt expression Baba made, trying to gain his sympathy.

Mamoru, on the other hand, was already dozing away in one corner of the room, not the slightest bit bothered by the ruckus the others were creating.

This time, instead of hitting them on their heads to knock some sense into them, Soryu chose to let it slip just once. While Ota and Baba were busy bantering away and Eisuke was too focused to try to get them to shut up, they all failed to notice the small smile that crept its way onto the mobsters face, glad to see his family alive and well, being the weirdos they always had been.

#kbtbb #kissed by the baddest bidder #eisuke ichinomiya #soryu oh #ota kisaki #mitsunari baba #mamoru kishi #nightmare #angst #happy ending #when #demons #prevail #voltage inc #friendship #character death

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tessatechaitea · 5 years ago

Text

Text Adventure Review: “Border Zone”

The main reason I'll probably need to pause the game is to masturbate when I meet the sexy double agent and type, "Fuck sexy double agent then fall asleep".

In the picture above, try not to read the three chapter titles because there's a spoiler in the third one that says "The Assassination." I'm going to forget that's a plot point and start playing "Chapter 1: The Train" because Marc Blank suggested that's what I do. CHAPTER ONE The protagonist (that's you! The person you play in the game! Or it's me! I'll probably go back and forth using first and second person pronouns so please don't be confused by my amateurish writing style) is just a regular non-spy person who does a little importing and exporting across the Iron Curtain. This game is from 1987 so nobody remembers what the Iron Curtain is anymore. It really wasn't that important anyway, at least not to those of us living on the Western side of it and never had to really think about its implications on the people trapped on the Eastern side of it. Am I supposed to have enough time and compassion to worry about the state of other peoples' worlds when I can barely keep my world from disintegrating?! If you want Levi's, people dumb enough to be born in countries annexed by the USSR after World War II, maybe you should have thought about that up in heaven when God was asking you what uterus you wanted your soul implanted in! Idiots. The train story begins, as all good espionage train stories do, with a probably dying secret agent breaking into your compartment to hand you the documents that will stop the assassination if only you can get them to another secret agent by responding to a coded phrase with a coded phrase of your own. I think I've practically got this part of the game won! Except I've forgotten both of the phrases already. I should probably restart and make a note of them, right? Okay, I've figured out what the secret agent will say to me and what I have to respond and I've even translated the sayings into Frobnian because I understand how Infocom games use their non-digital printed material as copy protection! Somebody without the phrase book that comes with the game wouldn't realize that the American agent is telling you the English codes but his contact is Frobnian! I'm so far ahead of Marc Blank right now he would say something like, "Whoa! That guy is super far ahead of me! And totally not a virgin." As an experienced business man who has dealt with border control for my entire business life (the fictional me in the game! What, you think I actually work for a living?!), I know that I can't just keister the document. The searches at the border are brutal. And I don't have a fake mustache so I'm flummoxed already. Plus the wounded agent left a big blood spatter on the floor of my cabin. So to even make it out off the train so I can meet my contact, I've got to clean up the blood and figure out what to do with the document. The blood was easy but to keep the document, I had to get caught a few times to figure out where the evil trench coat wearing man's interrogation weaknesses lay! Or lie (I knew I should have phrased that differently. Stupid lie/lay is worse than who/whom). Because apparently even if you flush the document down the toilet underneath a huge nervous stomach shit, the border patrol will dig it out and bust you. So I cleaned up the blood by doing all of the boring and inane steps like turning on the faucet and wetting the towel and turning off the faucet and scrubbing the floor and returning to the bathroom and flushing the towel. In Infocom games, it isn't enough to just tell the protagonist to clean up the blood and then, like a normal adult human being, the protagonist would think, "Oh yeah! I know how to do that! Let me get right to it!" I guess Infocom games are less about ordering some jerk around and more trying to pretend that you are that jerk and that that jerk is kind of stupid. After cleaning the blood, I had to figure out what to do with the document. No matter where I tried to hide it, border control sniffed it out and traced it back to me. So the only thing to do was to tear it up and shove it up my ass! I mean throw it out the window. But that meant I couldn't complete my mission which really wasn't my mission anyway and why did I care if some ambassador was assassinated?! I didn't ask for this responsibility! It's not my fault if somebody dies today. It's the fault of the clumsy American agent who got himself shot, stumbled upon a useless dolt to complete his mission, and then fell off the roof of the train! I should just throw the document out the window and get on with my life! And maybe I will! But before I did that — you know, just in case my conscience berates me continuously for the rest of my life — I figured I should probably keep some photographic evidence of the document. After doing so, I couldn't help worrying about how there was another picture left on the roll of film and I was probably going to have to completely restart this stupid game when I realized I needed to take one more picture before removing the film and hiding it up my ass from the border patrol. Stupid Infocom games always have me worried that I'm in a walking dead with a roll of film up my ass scenario! Being the super chill American businessman turned spy kind of Lothario I am, I totally and easily complete my new mission and probably fuck a hot double agent too! But not the young girl I handed the roll of film to! The double agent was probably older than that!

I know this screenshot is different from the previous screenshot! But the Apple IIe copy I found crashed when you examined your clothes or photographed the document. And the Commodore 64 version seems to think people who play Infocom games are already wasting their lives so why not make every move take an interminable amount of time. So I wound up playing the browser MS-DOS version on Archive.org.

For an Infocom game, that first chapter was simple! All you had to do was act like a boring idiot who totally wasn't involved in political espionage at all and you succeeded! I bet every nerd who tried their hand at this game beat Chapter One. But the next chapter will be different because the player takes on the part of the American spy! What greasy nerd knows how to act suave and sophisticated and super sexy? I mean aside from me! I was born to play this role! CHAPTER TWO You begin the story of the American Spy after he falls from the roof of the train. He claims he jumped for it but when I was the businessman, I know what I saw! I'm a clumsy oaf! I mean he's a clumsy oaf! No, wait. I guess I am the clumsy oaf! And I'm not clumsy at all! I totally jumped for it and looked hot doing it. Now I just have to survive the freezing weather and try to get past the border patrol or else I'll die out here in the ... BORDER ZONE! Hopefully I'll also get another chance to fight my rival Viper to the death! Ew, I'll show him! Or her! Or not! After playing this chapter for about ten minutes, I realize it does every single thing I don't like in text adventures: time limit, characters that go about their business while you're off in other areas, and a puzzle that relies on knowing so much about the timeline that you have to play the scenario dozens of times to work it all out. I feel like I've got the gist of what you have to do (although I'm probably wrong on one key point because I haven't played more than a handful of times) but I'm not sure I'm willing to keep at it. After you bail from the train, the border guards begin searching for you. So you've got some guys in a vehicle driving around and a pack of dogs (not to mention the searchlights and fences at the border) hunting you down. Early on, you have to get to a small house because it has a parka in it to keep you from freezing to death. You have to time this with when the guards arrive to talk to the owner so he's distracted while you sneak in the back. There might be more to do inside the shack other than gather up all the crap in the storage room but, as I mentioned, I haven't really explored the scenario yet in multiple ways. As a spy, you have an explosive pen on you. It has a timer which means I have to figure out how long to set the timer for and where to stick the pen to get something further in the story to happen. I feel like I have to stick it on the guard's automobile so that it explodes near the border, distracting the guards at the spotlights so I can make a run for the other side. Realizing that that might be the solution is what has really made me dread continuing with this game. Another puzzle is to get the dogs to stop following you. I'm fairly certain you do that just by putting on the work boots and trudging through the swamp a ways before leaving the swamp in a new location and leaving the boots behind. If there are any other puzzles (aside from staunching your bleeding gun shot wound), I haven't found them. I suppose the biggest one is sneaking about to get the pen on the guard's car and figuring out how long to set the timer for. Do I want to bother with that? I feel like that's the big puzzle that allowed Infocom to tack on hours and hours of gameplay to Border Zone. Because now I have to follow the car around to see where it goes and how long I'll need to set the timer for and where I'll need to be when the pen blows up. I have other things to do with my life, Marc Blank! I mean, they're not very important things. But they're things I'd rather be doing than messing around with the timer on my imaginary explosive pen! I'm not cut out to be a spy, especially when that spy has to know things he couldn't possibly know on the first playthrough of this game. Does Marc Blank know how real life works?! Oh, your argument is that this is a game and not real life and that maybe I should chill out about it?! Well if this game is a game and not real life, why the fuck does everything keep moving along even when I'm not entering any commands?! Who wants to play a text adventure like that?! Even Bioshock doesn't demand that kind of effort out of the player. Bioshock is the only other game I could come up with. It isn't even a fair comparison. If Border Zone were a first person shooter, I'd absolutely finish this chapter! I could see the guards moving and physically hide from them. I could observe how everything moves in the game by following them around. But in a text adventure, it's fucking impossible. Sure, the game tells me if the dogs are to the north or the west. But when I'm hiding behind the shack, it sure would be a lot easier to figure out what I'm doing if I could see the guards interacting with the owner of the shack and milling about searching the premises! I don't think my imagination is good enough to handle this bullshit tension. I'm so fucking stressed out right now!

Apparently you can get close to the border without doing any of the stuff I previously mentioned except stealing everything from the storage room.

It doesn't seem like I've done enough before getting to the border but I guess I should explore this area a little more before writing Marc Blank a letter about how terrible some of his decisions were early in his career. I suppose I need to use my explosive pen here to blow a hole through the fence which I won't be able to climb through because the guards will hear it. Unless I time the explosion to blow when both guards are at the same spot, killing them? Then can I rush through in the chaos?! Figuring out the answer to that means doing math, I bet! That's because you get a timer and a little ASCII display of the guards' motion as you watch them. This is way too hard! I miss the Infocom days when you could just type "kill thief with sword" and hope the random number generator gave you a good result. Once you get through the fence, you can climb up a guard tower where there's a bolted ladder leading up to a locked door with a guard inside. But even if you can hide on the metal bit bracing the ladder, knock on the door, and shove the stupid guard off of the tower, you still can't jump across the border from the top of the tower. You just wind up dead. Which is when I thought, "Hey! I need the exploding pen for this part! I bet I can just climb over the fence and save the explosives for this scene!" And I was almost completely and absolutely right except for a few small details which would have frustrated the fuck out of me if I hadn't gotten completely lucky on restarting Chapter Two to try out my new solutions. You see, there's a small shed in the forest near the shack. A small shed that is almost impossible to find due to my apathetic attitude toward mapping Border Zone and the way every location is described as "You move 100 yards north and find you're still in the snowy forest. What did you expect, jerk?!" Sure, the shed has been drawn on the map that came with the game so that people who actually purchased Border Zone would have explored long enough to find it. And I have access to that map because everything is free on the Internet. Right? Am I making a terrible assumption there? Um, anyway, when I restarted, due to not having mapped, I couldn't remember exactly how to get to the shack before the guards got there. While stumbling around lost, I found the shed with the rubber gloves and bolt-cutters inside. And like in most text adventure games that aren't Infocom, the main puzzle was simply finding the right items where they were hidden. Because as soon as I found the bolt-cutters, I knew I had this chapter beat. What I didn't know was that the border fence I'd previously blown up to get through was electrified! Luckily, I had found the rubber work gloves right there with the bolt-cutters. Marc Blank practically gave that puzzle's solution away for free! Idiot. He should have hid the gloves somewhere in the forest where you weren't ever clued in to dig in the snow. That's more like a proper 80s text adventure! Of course, that's not Infocom's way! Infocom wants you to succeed! They want you to realize you wasted the pen explosive and needed a new solution where you use the pen to blow up the tower so that it falls over the border fence with you inside of it! But at least in the actual solution, you still get to push that stupid Frobnian Nazi off of the tower. Eat snow, grumblebutt!

I'll accept my Champeen of Infocom crown now.

Chapter Three The first two chapters were way too easy for Infocom games so I'm really nervous about this third chapter. Have I just gotten more brilliant as I've grown older or did Marc Blank save all of his dreadful Infocom ingenuity for this final chapter?! Hopefully this chapter doesn't have dozens of NPCs whom I've got to track across multiple playthroughs just to figure out where I should be every minute of the scenario. I really do prefer text adventure games with static environments that simply react to the things I do. I'm already stressed out thinking about my race against the clock to save the ambassador! Remember when I didn't even care if the ambassador died during the first chapter?! Why am I suddenly invested in saving that asshole?!

In this chapter, I'm the sexy double agent!

The sexy double agent is also — and this is a huge spoiler for all you Infocom fanatics who just haven't, for some reason, gotten around to playing all of the Infocom games — Viper, the man in the trench coat trying to get the documents back from the importer/exporter in the first chapter! If that's the case, you'd think I could just go to a coffee shop and hang out for the rest of the game. If I'm trying to stop the people trying to stop the assassination, then can't I just stop trying to stop those people so they can stop the assassination?! Maybe if I just hit "z" and "enter" until this chapter ends, everything will work out for the best! Seventeen in-game minutes later, the ambassador has been shot and killed. What the fuck?! How incompetent are the American spies? I guess that's why I'm a double agent. Because I'm double the agent all of these other jerks are. I guess I need to get to work saving the day all by myself! If only that stupid American businessman had given me the documents, I could have saved the day myself. Except when I did get the documents in Chapter One, the game still ended with the ambassador getting assassinated. I should just get on with saving the day already. I bet when I'm done, I'll run into Topaz (that was my secret agent name in Chapter Two, apparently) and we'll share a deep, passionate kiss. I do run into Topaz chilling at a coffee shop exactly like I was planning to do!

I guess Topaz doesn't feel the same way that I feel about him.

Topaz is probably still important to the story, so I decide to leave him alone for now as I got about my double agent business of stopping the assassination that I put into place. It's actually not too hard to do if I don't mind sacrificing the rest of my double agent career. I meet my contact, learn the sniper's password, figure out what window he's sniping out of (by checking the apartment directory, you just have to find which eastern facing apartment is empty on the fifth floor (maybe other floors at time but it always seemed to be the fifth floor on my multiple restarts), and go shoot him in the back. But that puts a lot of suspicion on you and you wind up pushing papers in Siberia. Better to trick Topaz into stopping the assassination! I guess that's why you have to save his life in Chapter Two. To do that, you have to get him to chase you back to the sniper's nest without getting caught by him or the local police. At one point, you get to push over a hot dog vendor's cart so it really feels like you're in an action movie and also that you're a fucking prick. Once you lead Topaz back to the sniper, the difficult part was not also being killed by Topaz. After making him a huge hero, he kept shooting me in the face because he's a huge bastard whom I wish I never helped cross the border now! At first I thought, "Well, this is an Infocom game. It was bound to get difficult at some point! And I guess one or two moves away from completing the game is as good a time as any to get stuck." But then I thought, "Well, even though the sniper doesn't let me move or do anything, and the sniper's apartment is completely bare, maybe I can try to hide so Topaz doesn't fucking murder me when he kicks in the door?"

Oh fuck. Easy as that, was it?!

And with that final move to hide in plain sight, I fucking defeat Marc Blank! You stupid son of a bitch! You thought you were so clever, didn't you? "Oh, look at me! I'm an Infocom imp! I write the hardest text adventure games in the world and I only mattered for like four years in the mid to late eighties because I hitched my star to the most boring entertainment ever! Only stupid virgin assholes would keep playing the games I wrote, the dumb bastards!" Hey! Fuck you, Marc Blank! How did that Marc Blank imaginary soliloquy get away from me so badly?! Anyway, suck on this, Marc:

Seriously though. I can't believe I beat this game without any hints. I'm fucking chuffed.

SCORES Game Title: Not great since it basically drove me away from this game for years. I suppose if you're into espionage stories, it's a great title because it's so evocative of crossing a border! That's like the hardest challenge in the espionage genre! I think. I'm not a fan so what the fuck do I know? My favorite espionage movie is Run, Lola, Run. Does that count as espionage? I guess that's more heist fucks time travel while fingering romance's anus. Puzzles: As far as modern day Interactive Fiction "rules" go, the puzzles in Border Zone are terrible. Nearly all of them rely on playing through and losing dozens of times to see how the NPCs react to different situations. It's the only way to learn how they behave so you can act accordingly. But compared to a non-Infocom game, the puzzles were generally satisfying. Because of the way the game works, I'm not even sure some of the things I did were solutions to puzzles or just wasting my time. Did I have to go through the swamp to lose the dogs or could I have just done everything quicker? Were there alternate ways to solve puzzles or were things like the binoculars and the wood saw in Chapter Two just red herrings? Generally, once I saw the way the other characters reacted, it was long before I figured out how to thwart them. I believe Marc Blank was relying on some puzzles to be difficult due to the player losing track of the story. Like in Chapter One, you can get all the way to the end and still get caught when you try to pass the documents to your contact because you were wearing the stupid white carnation the entire time. But once you realize you seem to have done everything correctly and some guy on the platform is still following you, it's not hard to realize you need to not stand out and to keister that stupid flower until you actually need it. Gameplay: Fucking annoying. I hate adventure games where the story continues no matter what you do. I hate timed adventure games. Border Zone decided not only to use those two aspects I hate but to invent a third one that — Hey! Guess what?! — I hated even more: time passes even when you're not typing! Is there a word that means both "innovative" and "Goddamned fucking annoying as fuck"? Whatever it is, Marc Blank should copyright it. Graphics: Normally for a text adventure, I'd say none and be done with it. But this one did have graphics! It had a little ASCII bit to show two guards marching around the base of three towers! And it absolutely did nothing for me because the dumb guards barely even notice you when you cut through the fence silently instead of blowing a huge hole in it. Hell, even after blowing a hole in the fence, the idiots keep to their regular patrol only slightly more alert due to hearing an explosion. Concept: I think I more than adequately covered my apathy toward the concept. I will compliment Marc Blank for his work in making a game about a really stressful experience into a really stressful experience. Good job, jerk! Fun Time: I keep forgetting to track the amount of time it takes me to play these games. Maybe I'll get better at it eventually. But I think I spent maybe six hours (at most. I might even drop that to four or five) playing this game over the last week and a half? I did think about it more than that though. But not a lot more. And the third chapter which I thought would be dreadfully hard took the least amount of time of all. Probably not even an hour. The good news is that the amount of "fun time" I had with this game is equal to the amount of time I played it. That doesn't often happen. Usually the "fun time" gets expended quickly and I force myself to trudge through the rest of the game, adding the experience to the long list of things I'll regret when a doctor finally says to me, "You have three months to live due to your malignant finger cancer caused by typing."

#Border Zone #Text Adventure #Infocom #Marc Blank

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noodlyvan · 6 years ago

Note

Can I get some uuuhhhhhhh Tarnma with dom Pharma

Control was notsomething Pharma had, it was something Tarn gave to him. He wasgranted this boon when – and only when – Tarn was in the mood.None of the flimsy ropes Pharma secured around the heavy limbs wouldactually be able to hold the tank back, none of his commands had evena fraction of the effect Tarn's voice had on others. When Tarn kneltin front of him, it wasn't because Pharma wanted him to, it wasbecause Tarn wanted to be ordered.

But oh, howvulnerable he could be for someone so proficient in the art ofkilling. How he would tremble when Pharma touched him with nothingbut the barest tip of his fingers, tracing his biolights and watchingthem light up. Sometimes Tarn would beg for praise and rewards,sometimes he confessed his sins and hungered for punishment. Andsometimes, like right now, he just wanted to be used, like a tool.Pharma had suspicions on where all of these cravings came from but hekept his mouth shut and played along. Thankfully Tarn was alwaysstraight forward with his own desires and Pharma prided himself onalways being able to deliver, whether it was t-cogs or this littleextra service.

Tarn's face wasbeautiful. Getting to see it had to be another boon, a reward fromTarn for a role well played. The damage didn't bother Pharma in theleast, he even dared to say that was what gave the face character.Pharma touched his cheek gently, a quiet reassurance that hopefullywouldn't break character too much. Tarn leaned into the touch butalways watched Pharma with these hungry, expectant optics. Pharma'stouch changed, holding Tarn's head in place and pressing his spikeagainst those incredible imperfect lips. They parted and Pharma wasgreeted with a wet heat, sucking diligently.

Usually it wasPharma strapping Tarn to a medical berth and using whatever he had onhand – his fingers, his glossa, tools or even his spike – onTarn's valve. He loved to lick over the little biolights that linedthe valvelips and he loved to bring Tarn so close to an overload thathe could already taste it, just to withhold it from him and hear himbeg.

This? This wascertainly new. And while he would never admit that out loud, it madehim nervous. Because he did not have actual power here. If he was toorough, if he did something Tarn didn't like, this would all be overin a flash. But if anything, Pharma knew how to stay calm instressful situations. That came with being a surgeon.

Pharma's grip onTarn's head tightened and more of his spike was swallowed. It feltgood and Pharma felt tempted to just enjoy it. Usually he put Tarn'spleasure above his own, only overloaded inside when Tarn wanted himto and sometimes he even had to wait until after the session to takeout his spike and fantasize about what they had just done whilestroking himself to completion.

It wasn't alwayslike this, though. The also interfaced normally, whatever could beconsidered normal for them. Tarn was thick and stretched Pharma justright. And he was strong, able to lift Pharma up against a wall anddo him like this without a problem. But it was then that Pharmarealized that he didn't know who else Tarn did this with. If that hadbeen all they were doing, maybe Pharma would not have been special.Tarn could press anyone against a wall and fuck them silly. But this?This game they played? Tarn didn't do that with anyone else. Hecouldn't, Pharma just knew.

Tarn reached thelimit of what he could comfortably take in his mouth and startedbobbing his head. Pharma's hand never left his head, guiding him andencouraging to go faster, take him deeper. Pharma had to bite his lipto keep himself from moaning, it felt so good. It wasn't even the actitself, not entirely at least. It was the knowledge that this wassomething special.

Because really, whoelse was there? There was no way Tarn would do that with anyone onhis team and compromise his position as their leader. And Megatron,the actual object of Tarn's affection, was nowhere to be seen. Therewas only Pharma and he was there and reliable and someone who wouldkeep quiet because he had to. Pharma was someone Tarn could bevulnerable around and show his innermost desires to without fearingfor his reputation.

Pharma knew thatTarn would come back for this again and again, just like Tarn took injust a bit more of his spike each time he pulled his head closer.

Yes, this. This wasthe kind of control Pharma had. And the thought pushed him over theedge easily. He pulled Tarn's head close, made him swallow, notcaring about any repercussions at the moment. But Tarn let him andswallowed, only moving away when Pharma was done.

Pharma's thumb foundits way to those beautiful lips. He wanted to kiss them and he would,but later. For now, he collected a drop of transfluid from the cornerof Tarn's mouth before pushing it past his lips.

“You did well.”

#Valveplug #goodeye cyborg

17 notes · View notes

preserving-ferretbrain · 6 years ago

Text

Sarah Monette, the Victim Dilemma, the Aesthetic of Suffering and the Uncanny Valley of Arse Rape

by Wardog

Monday, 27 April 2009

Wardog fails to finish Sarah Monette's Corambis.~

Massive massive massive massive spoilers for about 1/3 of the book. Also, as the title suggests, this article is about nasty things so don’t read if you’re likely to be upset

Preramble (like a preamble but … d’you see?)

This is a bleak day indeed. I just got my hands on a copy of Corambis, the much-anticipated (by me at least) concluding part to Sarah Monette’s Doctrine of Labyrinths quartet and the truth of it is, I don’t think I can finish it.

Oh, Sarah, what happened? I do still love you, I just don’t think it’s working out.

I think it’s partially problems associated with reading through a series over a lengthy period of time. When I read Melusine, The Virtu was already out in hardback and I tore through at them enthusiastically, so drawn into the world and the characters that I barely noticed they were so heavily saturated in angst and woe that one could drown in it by simply opening the book a little recklessly. There was a bit of a wait for The Mirador – which I seem to recall I felt slightly less positively about but still adored – and I fell upon Mehitabel Parr’s I’m sure welcoming bosom to save me from the tidal waves of A&W. As much as I love Felix and Mildmay, it was Mehitabel’s narrative voice that made The Mirador bearable for me. It was such a necessary contrast to the boys: someone with some redeeming sense of self-irony, hurrah!

Of course, Mehitabel isn’t in Corambis. And, God, I miss her. There is a new viewpoint character, Kay Brightmore, blinded and imprisoned and weighed down by the terrible military failure that kicks off the book. He’s basically lost everything that ever mattered to him, can no longer fight on account of being blind and, needless to say, he has angst out the wazoo about it. I was broken and crying by Chapter three.

And, quite frankly, I just can’t take it. I know there is redemption in the future of these characters (characters I really care about, having spent three books with them), I know there is self-actualisation and the potential for happiness, I know because I cheated and looked, but I’ve really really struggled with Corambis. The worst of it is, I’m sure it will be a triumphant and satisfying conclusion to the quartet. Sarah Monette is an excellent writer, I love her world, I love the way she uses language, I love her characters, I love everything about her but I think I’m going to have to accept the fact I simply can’t read her.

Oh, Sarah, what happened? I do still love you, it’s not you, it’s me.

Maybe in a couple of years we’ll be able to work something out.

I think circumstances might be playing into this unhappy state of affairs as well. When I read the early books, there wasn’t a cloud in my sky. But having emerged from a rather bleak year, there’s something a little too close in all that guilt and grief and self-loathing and despair, and I can’t distance myself enough from it to enjoy it. There is a systematic aestheticisation of suffering to be found in all of Monette’s books. I’m not going to try and argue that as either a positive or negative quality in her work. I think it’s probably neutral: it’s

something

art

does

sometimes

. I acknowledge the difference between literary suffering and real suffering, in that there can be a romance in the former which is impossible in the latter. Also literary suffering exists in a wider, symbolic and allegorical sphere than that of an individual having shitty things done to them by life or others, mainly, I suspect, because it’s not real. Take madness – there is something deeply attractive and romantic about the artistic representation of madness (like Felix’s madness in Melusine) and it’s perfectly possible to appreciate that, and to find in it a kind of beauty, without ignoring the genuine distress suffered by the mentally ill. In short, Ophelia is not my friend who killed herself last year.

But the boundaries between the fictional and the real are not comprehensively signposted. There isn’t a traceable spectrum between Lavinia, daughter of Titus Andronicus, and Elizabeth Short. And ultimately I think there comes an impossible point when the literary and the real collide, corrupt each other and prove they are utterly irreconcilable and yet simultaneously inseparable. Yes, they must be understood as different things operating in a different way – a painting of St Sebastian is not the same as footage of the prisoners at Guantanamo bay – but there comes a point when it is necessary to remember what it is that’s being aestheticised and ask yourself why.

Page 152

Okay, so, there’s a gang-rape scene in Corambis.

Felix – former prostitute, broken gay wizard with ex-cruel master and traumatic past - ends up subjecting himself a thaumaturgic orgy in order to earn money to pay for his ailing brother’s medicine.

It’s awful.

It’s not that it’s explicit, just awful.

And I’m no wuss, okay. I’ve read Last Exit to Brooklyn. I’ve read The Wasp Factory. I’ve read American Psycho.

But something about this scene in this book bought me a first class ticket on the ARGH! Train and whizzed me straight out of my comfort zone.

It’s strange to say that something is “outside your comfort zone” in that it feels like a confession of personal failure (also something that’s outside my comfort zone). And then I thought about it more, and I thought: hey, so what, gang-rape is outside my comfort zone. Surely that’s normal. Gang-rape is absolutely something that should be outside all our comfort zones. But here’s where it gets complicated: in fact, fictional gang-rape is not outside my comfort zone. I play H-games, for God’s sake, where they’re ten a penny. You can’t take two steps in an H-game without stubbing your toe on a gang rape. So it’s something more specific than that. It was something about this particular portrayal of it.

It’s not shock value. Felix gets himself sexually abused on a pretty regular basis, so much so, in fact, that it’s kind of part of the fun, and it’s very much tied into Monette’s aesthetic of suffering.

I could not see, and I could barely hear, save for my own harsh breathing. But I could feel. I could Malkar’s hands like silk, running up and down my back, tracing the scars, the old palimpsest of pain. I could feel his body arching against me, his bulk, his heat. I felt his hands slide under my hips, stroking, exciting, felt the stiffness of him against my thigh. Pain, then, but not too much. Pain … and arousal all woven together like a tapestry. I was moaning, gasping; the only word I could form were “Please, Malkar, please, lease,” and I didn’ tknow if I was begging him to stop or continue. Not that it would made the slightest difference either way.

Let’s pin our colours to the mast here. That’s beautiful. Terrible, but beautiful and absolutely literary in its unrealness. It’s also about as accurate a portrayal of sexual abuse than St Sebastian up there is of martyrdom. Perhaps I’m just an irredeemable sicko but I’m pretty sure it’s there, to an extent, to be enjoyed, partially as spectacle (straight women do not generally write about beautiful gay boys sexing each other manipulatively because it’s a Serious Social Issue) and, also, partially as vindication for all the crappy things that have been done to innumerable female characters in a seventy years of fantasy fiction. I’m not, of course, advocating backlash (more manrape!) but there is something compelling and, even perhaps comforting, in characters like Felix, Alec and friends, these beautiful men, who are as sexually vulnerable as women, suffer and fear the sort of things women suffer and fear, and are very much created to be subjects of an extra-textual female gaze and the intra-textual male gaze. I’m not saying that men don’t get raped and looked at, but the sheer saturation is demonstrably less. I am not trying to say that what happens to Felix at the start of Melusine isn’t dreadful. It is. But it’s a literary violation, and it reduces him to a literary madness that is as terrible and as beautiful as the horror that creates it.

But let’s talk about gang rape. Now there’s something you don’t say everyday.

The scene itself written in a very similar style – opulent, not too explicit although more explicit than above, and contains the same awkward issues of dubious consent. In Melusine, Felix chooses to go to Malkar in a fit of self loathing. In Corambis he agrees theoretically to an orgy in order to raise money for Mildmay’s medical treatment. In both cases what ends up happening to him is far more devastating than what he originally signed up for but, equally, there’s an element of complicity to it. If you return to your abusive master, expect to get abused. If you agree to be the centerpiece of an orgy, expect to get fucked. This abject stupidity is granted a psychological plausibility because Felix is a messed up little bunny, with a supposedly tragic conviction of his own profound worthlessness.

Obviously I don’t want to get into real issues here, but I think the reason the dubious consent became one of the bothering aspects of the scene in Corambis is that the sex abuse came plot-approved. I mean, if Felix was walking down the street and happened to get jumped and gang raped by a bunch of guys I think many a reader might rightly cry “Sarah Monette, what the fuck?” as there are very few occasions in which it is either appropriate or necessary to get one of your characters gang raped. But this way he has a “real” reason to put himself voluntarily into a position where he might be. It’s even, perhaps, meant to be on some level noble – in a hopelessly fucked up way, of course. So what you end up with is a deeply uncomfortable situation in which everything conspires, including (conveniently) Felix himself, to create a scenario in which a horrible but beautifully written gang rape is, to an extent, okay. And this is where the aesthetic of suffering starts to come apart at the seams.

Essentially this scene falls right into the uncanny valley. If it was purely designed for titillation I wouldn’t have a problem with it, but as it is there are elements are titillation and elements of horror. We are meant to be shocked and appalled – and it is shocking and appalling – but it’s framed in such a way that we are simultaneously liberated to relish the aesthetic. And quite frankly that leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I think there’s something profoundly hypocritical and, indeed, deeply disturbing in the idea of enjoying both moral outrage and illicit sexual excitement (see Joss Whedon’s Dollhouse). The scene bears all the hallmarks of erotic non-con (there are elements of psychological exposure as well as physical, the victim is physically aroused throughout, the abusers are appreciative of his beauty and his apparent eagerness, and so on and so forth) but worked through a guilt-appeasing filter of “oh gosh, isn’t this terrible.”

My ankles were still chained and somebody had me scruffed like a kitten; I was keening in protest, but I was dragged upright, forced to straddle someone’s thighs, while he continued fucking me with the same relentless steadiness. I was displayed for all of them, my arousal jutting out shamelessly, the tear tracks on my face attesting to my weakness.

Now, I know that, unlike erotic non-con, Felix is not secretly into what’s being done to him and that he’s breaking and being broken here but you still have a scene that’s running in two directions simultaneously and trying to have its cake and eat it. It goes out of its way to tick the non-con wink-wink boxes but then slaps you face in the face with its insistence that this a terrible and traumatic event. Essentially you can’t have a gorgeously written gang rape that positions itself within a carefully constructed aesthetic framework and a psychologically accurate and traumatic portrait of a terrible ordeal.

And, ultimately, I guess you have to ask yourself if it’s okay to have an aesthetic gang rape scene full stop. The idea bothers me less as pornography but here, I would argue, that it gains an added erotic piquancy from the fact it really is annihilating Felix, which, again is troublesome. Essentially it’s why raping Clarissa is so much more interesting than raping Justine, and why it’s all right to get off on the latter and not the former.

The more I’ve thought about this and tried to articulate my issues with it, the more complex and convoluted it has become. There is, of course, an element of the purely personal about – I didn’t like it and it upset me – as well as these more abstract, intellectualizations of it. I dug around on Monette’s Livejournal – on which is usually charming and sensible – to see what I could find and, lo and behold, she has written quite comprehensively on the subject, which I shall now quote pretty much in its entirety:

I knew from very early on that Felix was going to turn back to prostitution to get the money for a doctor for someone he loved (I knew this was going to happen before I knew Mildmay existed), and I knew that he was going to end up in a situation that was completely out of his control and that hurt him badly. Because Felix is reckless and self-destructive and because under all his vanity, he doesn't think he's worth protecting. And because it is a kind of answering horror to his being raped by Malkar at the beginning of Mélusine. And because he needed something that would force him to confront these issues--force him to see that he doesn't deserve to be abused--and it had to be something superlatively unbearable if it was going to get through to him, because Felix has way too much experience at ignoring his own pain.

Say what? So it’s redemptive gang rape, the sort makes you a stronger and better person? What … the … fuck? It’s like those Hollywood amnesia plotlines (one blow to the head gives you amnesia, another blow cures it) except with sexual abuse. I know, again, we’re operating in a fictional sphere but this is so made of wrong that I’ll just content myself with linking to Dan’s article on

the victim dilemma

and throw my hands up in despair.

I quite enjoy Monette’s aestheticisation of suffering, I could probably navigate the uncanny valley if I really had to but I am sick to death of male fantasy writers using sexual abuse as a textual shortcut for character development and I’m damned if I’m going to deal with women doing the same thing. Sarah Monette, you are better than this.

Sexual abuse is not good for you. It happens and people react. Constantly depicting characters who react to it in courageous and life-enhancing ways is not empowering, it’s fucking demeaning to people who struggle along every day as best they can.

I’m sure in a different time in a different mood I’ll pick up Corambis again and I’ll get to page 152 and I’ll shrug and go “gang rape, meh” and read right on.

But not today.Themes:

Damage Report

Books

Sarah Monette

Sci-fi / Fantasy

bookmark this with - facebook - delicious - digg - stumbleupon - reddit

~Comments (

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)

Arthur B

at 14:44 on 2009-04-27It's depressing when series go south like this. It's especially annoying when they burn down the virtues of the earlier volumes. I was looking at your first Monette review and you were saying how you were impressed by the fact that Felix was gay, but it kind of wasn't a big deal; I'm getting the impression that as the series goes on that becomes less true, since that LJ extract makes it sounds like Monette intended all along to reduce Felix to a weepy gay man being abused by angry gay men. (If I'm interpreting that right - if Felix pimping himself out predates the existence of Mildmay, that means that Monette was planning to make this happen since before the first book, right?)

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Wardog

at 15:11 on 2009-04-27Mmm, that's part of the problem though. I don't actually think it's "gone south" - despite the Xtreme angst I was quite absorbed until page 152. It was merely that scene that tripped me out. I'm sure if I could put it behind me and just get on with the book, I'd probably really like it.

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Rude Cyrus

at 20:32 on 2009-04-27Great, now I need a shower.

While I suppose rape can be presented as being aesthetically pleasing, like in erotic non-con, I still don't like it. I've always found consenting sex between happy, willing partners infinitely more pleasurable -- don't ask me why. This sort of stuff just makes my skin crawl.

What's funny is that I can make it through The 120 Days of Sodom without blinking, but I think that's because De Sade insisted on using the driest, most tortured language possible.

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Wardog

at 21:15 on 2009-04-27Sorry Cyrus. I'm not sure but I think it's probably easier to be into erotic non-con / rape fantasy if you're a woman than a man, either because you're more likely to imagine yourself as the rapee rather than the rapist which is slightly easier to deal with morally speaking or because the world seems generally reluctant to admit that women can rape people too. Whereas if you're a man who fantasies about forcing women to have sex with him ... well ... hostility many ensue from quarters unwilling to concede the very real difference between fantasy, reality and simulated non-con.

Hmm, I think the thing about 120 Days of Sodom is that, as you say, it's incredibly dull. And de Sade is a terrible writer. There's only one thing worse than a rape scene and that's a badly written rape scene!

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Arthur B

at 21:18 on 2009-04-27I do wonder sometimes whether deSade was an early pen-and-paper troll. Most of his books seem to be the literary equivalent of telling someone a particular link goes to an interesting and thought-provoking philosophy website when actually it points to goatse or 2girls1cup.

I mean, he went to jail for it, but you have to make sacrifices for "the lulz", as I believe the young people call it these days.

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http://roisindubh211.livejournal.com/

at 02:43 on 2009-04-28"Constantly depicting characters who react to it in courageous and life-enhancing ways is not empowering, it’s fucking demeaning to people who struggle along every day as best they can."

I have to disagree here- not with the point you make, but with the accusation being levelled at Monette. Felix has spent three books getting abused and every reaction to it has been, basically, "I was right all along, I am worthless. Hmmm, should I hurt myself again or just re-alienate everyone who cares about me tonight?" The enormity of the gang-rape is something he's not prepared to consider his just desserts, and it isn't the only influence on his growth as a person. A lot has to do with having Mildmay -who has been developing his own self-confidence, on his own, without the help of shitty things happening to him- be there for him and push and push to get him (Felix) not to hurt himself any more.

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Wardog

at 09:13 on 2009-04-28

The enormity of the gang-rape is something he's not prepared to consider his just desserts, and it isn't the only influence on his growth as a person.

I do see your point and I wasn't really dissing Monette, who I actually adore. There was just something about this scene, or the way it was presented, or *something* that was a bridge too far for me. And at first I was inclined to just ignore it and tell myself to stop being a wuss and then I got interested in *why* this scene was so problematic and, secondarily, I realised that, on a wider level, it should probably be okay to stand up and say "for me, this gang rape is not okay."

I will at some point finish Corambis, because I have *hugely* enjoyed the Doctrine of Labyrinths quartet (I have some reviews knocking around here in which I give much sweet sweet love), I think I just need some time to get away from the gang rape.

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Wardog

at 09:29 on 2009-04-28

I do wonder sometimes whether deSade was an early pen-and-paper troll

Dan and I like the idea of historical trolls, and also explains the Marquis far more than most of pop-psych nonsense I've read does =P

Lucifer, of course, would be the first troll - complaining about the mods.

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http://miss-morland.livejournal.com/

at 11:54 on 2009-04-28*giggles at the thought of de Sade and Lucifer as trolls*

I haven't read Monette's books, but I still found this post very interesting - it articulates my issues with non-con and dub-con in fiction very well. (I do wonder, though, if ambiguous portrayals of rape scenes are sometimes meant to make the readers think and question their own attitudes, instead of jumping to the safe reaction of 'OMG so horrible'?)

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Dan H

at 14:25 on 2009-04-28

I do wonder, though, if ambiguous portrayals of rape scenes are sometimes meant to make the readers think and question their own attitudes, instead of jumping to the safe reaction of 'OMG so horrible'?)

You might well be right, but even if that is the intent, it's a deeply flawed one.

Perhaps I'm just an arrogant shit, but I really hate it when people try to make me think about stuff unless it's in a medium *specifically designed* for that.

If you want to challenge my preconceptions about rape, write a book that is *about* challenging my preconcieved notions about rape. Don't try to do it in the middle of a fantasy series that is mostly about hot gay wizards gettin' it on.

If I want to have my ideas about absuse challenged, I'll read Lolita, or possibly I'll track down some abuse-survivors' weblogs. I won't read an otherwise ordinary fantasy novel or, for that matter, watch

Dollhouse

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Dan H

at 16:05 on 2009-04-28

The enormity of the gang-rape is something he's not prepared to consider his just desserts

I can't speak for Kyra, but the problem I have with this is that it suggests, falsely, that the more traumatic an experience is the less likely you are to blame yourself for it. I'm by no means an expert on the subject of abuse survival but from my limited experience people's tendency to self-blame for things is wholly unrelated to the severity of the abuse suffered. For that matter, the whole idea of rating abuse experiences in order of severity is a bit of a dodgy precedent.

Essentially I think there's an important, and worrying, difference between "Felix has experienced things like this before but, because he has grown as a person, and because of the influence of Mildmay, he does not blame himself for this experience" and "Felix has experienced things like this before but, because this experience is so much worse than the others, he cannot blame himself for it".

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http://sistermagpie.livejournal.com/

at 21:38 on 2009-05-01I haven't read this last book yet, but I'm glad for the heads-up. Having read the other 3 I can definitely see how this kind of thing would play, and I'm not surprised that she'd planned something like this from the beginning. It does make you think thought, about the idea that this character is constantly going through situations like this, and it's finally when he acheives the kind of abuse he might have always thought would be what he deserved, that he realizes he didn't deserve it. Even if Mildmay and other experiences are also part of his turnaround, I don't know whether that kind of catalyst will click for me the way another one might.

Like, rather than having him be in a situatio that's the same as before, but with one clear difference that makes him see it clearly, it's almost like Helen Keller at the well. Repeated fingerspelling over and over and finally he gets it.

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Wardog

at 15:28 on 2009-05-11I lost this temporarily in the deluge of comments about other things.

It is possible I've over-reacted to the gang rape; I suppose responses to these sort of motifs are always going to be extremely personal. I feel almost hypocritical because, as you say, there's plenty of indication previously that we were on the Sex Abuse Superhighway and something like this was probably bound to happen. But the way it's framed and written, combinated with its narrative function as a catalyst for change really really squicked me out. I know it's not necessarily meant to be psychologically plausible but there's something deeply worrying in the idea that there is a scale of sexual abuse, the extreme end of which teaches you self respect.

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valse de la lune

at 14:04 on 2011-07-12I tracked down

this interview

and I'm now extremely, thoroughly grossed out with Sarah Monette:

I think this does happen to gay male protagonists (the most obvious example is Mercedes Lackey's Last Herald-Mage books). And I think Felix does fall into this trap to a certain extent, although in my defense I will say that the reason he gets raped is because I was interested in the tension inherent in a character who could be both rapist and victim. Which could have been a woman, or a heterosexual man, but it was most obvious and easiest to mobilize with a gay man. I also chose a gay male protagonist because my abiding interest is in the power dynamics of human relationships, especially sexual relationships, and it is VERY VERY HARD to write about that with a heterosexual female protagonist without pigeon-holing her and yourself into either a re-inscription of patriarchal gender roles (male dominant, female submissive) or a simple gender reversal (female dominant, male submissive) (which I did work with some in my novella, "A Gift of Wings," in The Queen in Winter). A lesbian relationship is also a possibility, but it's far more interesting and attention-grabbing to take power away from a man than it is to give power to a woman. [...] Also, because we live in a patriarchal society and have for several thousand years, there's nothing new or shocking about the idea that women are victims. (I'm not saying this is a good thing, mind you.) You can get more narrative charge out of victimizing a man and you aren't reinscribing the same old gender role patterns into that ever deeper groove of men act and women suffer.

What the fuck, Monette? My word, lesbian relationships aren't just ~hawt~ enough unlike slender

yaoi stereotypes

wizards sexing it up and... female empowerment is just too boring? Female victimization is just too

banal

to write about so gay men being degraded (and in this case, often raped by women) has more "narrative charge"? There's also something toward the end that basically goes "well, if you are writing about male rape it's super

titillating

shocking so people will recognize RAPE IS HORRIBLE whereas women being raped is just so

every day

so... hey, manpain! That'll get people

thinking

, right? Right!"

I don't know, all of this reads like the slash fangirl's justification why she's not interested in writing girls but wants to write hot boys instead, all disguised under a pretend layer of ~*soshul justeese*~.

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Wardog

at 23:33 on 2011-07-12Oh dear. I'm actually really annoyed with myself that it took me to Book IV to unpack what was going on with the, err, sexay mainpain and all the arse rape. I did quite like Monette initially - I think partially because when I first read Melusine I was still under the impression that gay characters were pretty rare in fantasy. To give Monette credit, when she actually bothers to be interested in them, she does write interesting female characters - I mean I *loved* Mehitabel from this series.

I think what freaks me out the most is that, as you observe, it's blatant titillation under the label of trangression. I have no problems with people getting their kicks from whatever they get their kicks from, as long as it's a carefully demarcated fantasy space, but pretending it's anything else is deeply toxic.

Also that interview was just awful :(

Maybe it's just because it doesn't apply to me but I don't understand why so many women find two dudes so unbelievably hawt but two women apparently tedious. Ho hum.

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valse de la lune

at 05:06 on 2011-07-13I think gay characters are still pretty rare in fantasy, but the gay dudes all seem to come from the same wellspring of fanfic tropes. I've read all the arguments as to why dudeslash is a female-positive space that enables women to explore their sexuality and I do get some of it, but I can't shake the feeling that so much of that is hot air; no matter how hard a slash fan argues I can't really see how spamming rape at gay dudes is particularly, y'know, feminist. Maybe it plays with power dynamics and whatnot but, on the other hand,

rape culture

I don't get the thing with YAY HAWT BOYS EWW GIRLS ARE BORING either, though it's been explained to me that most female characters aren't decently written so people'd sooner generate fanfic about boys instead. But that doesn't fly because fandom churns out great volumes of fanfic dedicated to minor male characters, even though some of them barely have a presence in the book/show/movie--see Figwit of the LOTR movies fame--whereas women, primary or tertiary, still get written out or villified. There are even

bingo cards

. Somewhere in that

a valid clause regarding how we're trained to look at media through male gateways thanks to patriarchy and we internalize that. Still don't get it on a personal level because I've always preferred female characters over male, but there it goes.

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Melissa G.

at 06:30 on 2011-07-13

Maybe it's just because it doesn't apply to me but I don't understand why so many women find two dudes so unbelievably hawt but two women apparently tedious. Ho hum.

Speaking as a straight woman who gets paid to translate yaoi, I can understand that pretty well. :-) It's not that I find girls boring as characters, but as someone who isn't sexually attracted to women, I find myself gravitating toward situations where I can look at/write about two sexy boys instead if I'm looking for smexy times. (Though I'm very, very picky these days about yaoi because of tropes I'm sure I've mentioned before.)

I feel some sympathy for Monette because I do have a hard time verbalizing my tastes without resorting to those same basic arguments about power play or feeling the need to judge the female character and how she is portrayed specifically because she's female (which I wish I didn't, but I do so...). What I find odd is the fact that everyone insists on asking me *why* I find male-on-male romance so appealing, and then I'm stuck in this hem-hawing, putting-on-airs defense because I'm too embarrassed to just go, "Two guys doing stuff to each other is hot?"

(Uh-oh, now I'm having Dorian Gray flashbacks. Oh, Ben Barnes, you scamp, you!!)

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Steve Stirling at 07:07 on 2011-07-13

I don't get the thing with YAY HAWT BOYS EWW GIRLS ARE BORING either

-- you get exactly the same in reverse from male writers a lot, so I don't see that there's any mystery about it.

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valse de la lune

at 07:20 on 2011-07-13I don't think Kyra's asking "why male-on-male?" but more "why do people find women inexplicably boring?"

but as someone who isn't sexually attracted to women, I find myself gravitating toward situations where I can look at/write about two sexy boys instead if I'm looking for smexy times.

That doesn't make sense to me because, even outside of sexual context, a lot of slashers just don't want to write women period and I'm sure we don't always only write about what's sexually/romantically attractive to us (or no straight man would ever write male characters).

It also doesn't really answer why women are so villified and hated by fandom at large: why people like Monette believe "it's more interesting to take power away from a man than to give power to a woman," or why slash is passed off as some wonderful female-positive space when it involves a lot of female-negative things, including but not limited to slut-shaming and othering women. Ogle hot boys, whatever (but even so, why so much fucking rape all the fucking time? Why the infantilizing tropes?). But I think you can do that without contributing to misogyny and rape culture.

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Steve Stirling at 07:24 on 2011-07-13

I don't think Kyra's asking "why male-on-male?" but more "why do people find women inexplicably boring?"

-- I don't. I actually had to start flipping coins at one point to make sure my characters weren't predominantly female.

Maybe it's because I was in single-sex schools for a lot of my adolescence, but I just find women more interesting than men. More complex and variable, on average.

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Steve Stirling at 07:38 on 2011-07-13

Ogle hot boys, whatever (but even so, why so much fucking rape all the fucking time? Why the infantilizing tropes?). But I think you can do that without contributing to misogyny and rape culture.

-- I don't read much (any, really) slash, but the actually-published equivalents like the book described here don't seem particularly misogynist to me. Just obsessed with Hot Boys in Chains.

As for the rape and stuff, a lot of people get off on that. Trying to tell people that the sexual fantasies which ring their chimes aren't permissible is roughly equivalent to trying to scold water until it voluntarily runs uphill. Much effort, little result.

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valse de la lune

at 07:45 on 2011-07-13

I don't. I actually had to start flipping coins at one point to make sure my characters weren't predominantly female.

Thank you, Minority Warrior, but if you are a bloke that's not exactly addressed to you.

I don't read much (any, really) slash, but the actually-published equivalents like the book described here don't seem particularly misogynist to me. Just obsessed with Hot Boys in Chains.

I've only read the first book and the gang-rape scene in the fourth, but a lot of the women in this series like to rape gay men for some strange reason.

Melusine

opens with an anecdote about the pure, true love between men. Two women get between it; one proceeds to rape one of the men repeatedly until he wants to kill himself. So, yes, both fandom slash and published slash perpetuate a lot of the same crap. Then there's Monette's interview and strange leaps of illogic which read sexist as hell to me.

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Melissa G.

at 08:48 on 2011-07-13

I can't speak to that. I don't know why so many writers are so anti-female characters, and it would take me pages of musing to try and come to a conclusion. I was referring specifically to sexual situations (by which I mean stories centering on sex) because the comment I was particularly responding to was "why do so many women find two dudes so unbelievably hot but two women apparently tedious". Which I read as "why do so many women love writing about two guys (sexually) but find writing about two women so boring (sexually)". Perhaps I misinterpreted what Kyra was saying. I stated clearly that I don't find women boring as characters to read and write about, but that I understand why many women gravitate toward male homosexual relationships and why they might find it arousing when they are writing merely to titillate themselves/others.

I haven't read the series in question so I take everyone's word for it that the rape isn't handled well and misogyny abounds. And trust me, I'm the first person to get fed up with the kind of tropes male-on-male stuff tends to come with - especially when written by someone who's probably never even spoken to a gay man before. I got fed up with one author in particular because her protagonists kept falling for their rapists, yuck. But just because a lot of it sucks and perpetuates some seriously shitty stuff doesn't mean that it's not okay to find guy-on-guy stuff hot. And I really don't appreciate being made to feel like because I like it, I am somehow in danger of losing my feminist card.

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valse de la lune

at 09:57 on 2011-07-13I don't think I have been suggesting that if you like slash, you're in danger of losing your feminist cred; being a feminist doesn't exactly mean everything you consume must be feminist, after all, and we all enjoy things that are problematic to some degree. I just don't like how it's put forward as a YAY WOMEN field when it's not really. Likewise, I've been shouted down in fandom spaces for calling out misogyny in slash, something along the line of

you will find it is you who is misogyny

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valse de la lune

at 10:06 on 2011-07-13(Sorry that I'm coming down harshly such that you feel you're being discredited as a feminist, though.)

One more thing--I've been told over and over that there is a strong presence of queer women in slash circles, so for some it's not so much a matter of "I'm straight so more cocks yay!!!" In fact, with so many queer women around--so many lesbians even--you'd think there would be more F/F fanfic. But there isn't, so...

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Melissa G.

at 10:23 on 2011-07-13

I don't think I have been suggesting that if you like slash, you're in danger of losing your feminist cred

I think I was responding defensively to this comment:

Ogle hot boys, whatever (but even so, why so much fucking rape all the fucking time? Why the infantilizing tropes?). But I think you can do that without contributing to misogyny and rape culture.

It basically felt to me like my entire sexual preference/fetish/whatever was being boiled down to "ogling hot boys". It’s those kinds of dismissive, judgmental comments that make me feel like I need to somehow justify what I find arousing. That’s why you have people arguing that it’s pro-women or empowering or whatever to write and read man-on-man love stories. When an attraction is called into question, I think often women in particular feel the need to base that attraction in something intellectual and philosophical. Because it would be wrong for a woman to just find something titillating or arousing. Because women aren’t supposed to like sex just for sex.

I think there are ways that it can be empowering (I wouldn't go so far as to say 'feminist'), but most of it fails in this regard. For me, when I read a story with a male bottom that I can relate to as far as sexual behavior, it makes me feel less weird. There's something freeing about the behavior being related to the position and not the gender, for me anyway. I think that also relates to why an author might find it more interesting (and by interesting I mean because they find it hot) to take power away from men. For some women who are attracted to men, there is something very fascinating and seductive about a man submitting (either sexually or emotionally), probably because it's something so commonly associated with female behavior. So again, it becomes less of a gender thing and more of a relationship role thing. If that makes any sense....

I just don't like how it's put forward as a YAY WOMEN field when it's not really.

I totally understand that. I actually avoid fan written slash like the plague because most of it is just not good. Most of it is (I think) influenced by yaoi, which oh dear god, has such problems. There is so much rape and questionable consent and a lot of "I'm only gay for that guy" and such overly traditional female behavior (even though one of them is male, go figure). And the kind of people you've probably argued with are likely the kind of people who make me afraid to admit I'm part of the yaoi subculture.

But there is good stuff out there. I promise. :-)

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Melissa G.

at 10:26 on 2011-07-13

Sorry, I made my long post before I saw this! That is odd. Why don't they focus on yuri? Yuri is slowly becoming a more female dominated genre. It's kind of cool actually that the female authors are slowly co-opting a genre that was once basically male-written lesbian porn for men. To each their own, I guess?

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valse de la lune

at 10:59 on 2011-07-13

It basically felt to me like my entire sexual preference/fetish/whatever was being boiled down to "ogling hot boys".

But... I said that because I think it's pretty dandy if you're just in it for the ogling of hot boys, or balls being cupped gently, or even self-lubing anuses. I don't think you, or anyone else, need to justify it any further than that. Think it's hot? Go for it! That's excellent. Objectifying

men

in and of itself, separate from the concern over straight people fetishizing homosexuality, doesn't really bother me. I'm not questioning the appeal of slash: I'm questioning some of the tropes, the homophobia, the misogyny. Which certainly aren't universal, but there sure is a lot of them to go around. Hell, gay male characters written by straight men also get raped an awful lot (hi Richard Morgan, thank you for that graphic schoolboy gang rape).

Disclosure: I think lesbians are awesome. I'd like to read more stuff with lesbian representation. Being homoromantic does have something to do with it, though.

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Melissa G.

at 11:11 on 2011-07-13

:-) I think it just came off as hostile because of the swearing, lol. To be honest, I was probably overly defensive because it's kind of a touchy thing for me.

I'm not questioning the appeal of slash: I'm questioning some of the tropes, the homophobia, the misogyny.

Yes, I'm with you here. I have a lot of trouble with a lot of boy/boy stuff that's out there.

Re: Lesbians

If you're looking to try out some yuri, I can lead you to some scanlation sites. I haven't read much yuri so I can't totally vouch for the content, but these are sites that I know of:

Lililicious

Payapaya

Just be sure to check for ratings and such. There was one on Lilicious I read years ago that I was enjoying.

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valse de la lune

at 11:14 on 2011-07-13OMG yay :D :D :D Thanks for the links. My friend's been sending me some too. I'm also quite pleased to see that a lot of yuri writers are female. Awesome.

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Cammalot

at 15:23 on 2011-07-13I JUST WANNA WATCH DUDES EMOTE. ;-)

I actually got into yaoi (not slash for whatever reason) because I was attracted to what I thought was the innate equality in such a a relationship. There are a variety of reasons I don't really seek out much fanfic anymore (one of which is the decade-plus that has gone by) but one of them is that I don't really see that equality getting embraced. (I'm necessarily truncating this, I have to imitate being a productive employee at the moment.)

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Melissa G.

at 19:40 on 2011-07-13

I JUST WANNA WATCH DUDES EMOTE. ;-)

Ooh, yes, good observation. I like that too.

I actually got into yaoi (not slash for whatever reason) because I was attracted to what I thought was the innate equality in such a a relationship.

Ditto. That's what I really like about it too, which is why I hate when they skew the power dynamic too far in one direction without somehow compensating for it in another way. I've never been into fanfic, but I do love doujinshi.

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Cammalot

at 19:48 on 2011-07-13I wrote up this whole long comment yesterday, but today with you guys' further conversation I realized I was addressing something that Pyro was not talking about, so I'm tweaking, but I don't think I'll have a chance to get to it today.

The extremely short version is that there's a very definite blockage that some women seem to have about writing women, and I had it myself for some time (and that some more extreme versions of it outright baffle me), and have spent a lot of time trying to process, discuss, and debate what the fuck that is about. With theories. I have theories.

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Melissa G.

at 19:53 on 2011-07-13

The extremely short version is that there's a very definite blockage that some women seem to have about writing women,

Definitely noticed this myself at times. I gravitate toward writing male characters, or at least I used to. I'm very interested to hear your theories whenever you find the time to write them up. :-)

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Sister Magpie

at 20:07 on 2011-07-13

I would guess that that's probably not all that related to the whole "that's my kink" thing, only not all kinks are sexual. That is, expecting them to explain it would probably be similar to having anybody explain why they find one thing more hot than another.

For instance, I like het and I like slash, but there are certain kinds of stories that could definitely be considered non-sexual kinks that I am more likely to read about in a m/m pairing than a f/m pairing or f/f pairing. I suppose I could try to relate it to power issues with gender IRL, but it's probably more just a kink if it's something I've pretty much always been drawn to.

I don't find that rape or "I'm only gay for that guy" seems to dominate most of the slash I come across, but I think that might often come down to different pairings leaning towards different dynamics. Or else also some authors being better than most.

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Steve Stirling at 22:44 on 2011-07-13Pyrofennec:

-of the women in this series like to rape gay men for some strange reason.Melusine opens with an anecdote about the pure, true love between men. Two women get between it; one proceeds to rape one of the men repeatedly until he wants to kill himself.

-- that is odd. I'd say it was evidence of misogyny if a guy wrote it, but I have trouble -imagining- a guy writing it, even a gay man. You'd need a very strange set of quirks to do so.

#Ferretbrain #Corambis #Sarah Monette #Wardog

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megatentious · 6 years ago

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Shin Megami Tensei 3 Nocturne is still incredible

I just finished a replay of Shin Megami Tensei 3 for the first time in a decade, so I felt compelled to write a big long unstructured essay about it where I’m going to sound like an overwrought crazy person. That’s okay though. There’s just something about this game that really speaks to those of us who find our way in. When you sound like a hyperbolic cultist writing soaring prose to try to meet the game at its level, it’s not a unique reaction. We’ve all been spellbound in the same way, the game is designed to do it. How is it designed to do this? Basically, in every conceivable way! The music and sound composition, the moment-to-moment battling, the environmental art and location choices, the progression systems for both the protagonist and demon fusions, the scope and method of storytelling, the density and depth of the mythological references, everything fits together like a symphony to inspire these feelings. Tension, immersion (lol), and utter absorption. Nocturne is a clinic in how to structure every aspect of your game around a unified vision (finding the strength to survive in a cruel and barren land) without hugely compromising ambition. That this level of design can be sustained over the course of 50 hours for the average playthrough and 70 for those of us determined to reach the lowest depths of the game’s enormous optional (!) Amala dungeon is insanely remarkable. Some of the more adolescent fans of the Shin Megami Tensei series and the broader Megaten franchise lionize this one in particular as being the most “dark” but that’s a kind of stupid and narrow way of looking at it. If you’re a cool person you don’t love Nocturne because it’s “dark” you love it because the game makes you feel like you’re hallucinating. SMT3 is unconcerned with providing detailed exposition and light-hearted character moments, but it’s a game that is overrun with “story” at every turn. And not just in the environmental, piece-it-together Souls series storytelling sense people love to talk about, there are actually a bunch more NPCs around straight up delivering dialogue for you than you’d think! Pair that up with the demon chatting, the compendium entries, the audiovisual cues and the gorgeously directed cutscenes, and the common complaint that SMT3 has no story just seems like nonsense to me. The game isn’t necessarily just dour or unambiguously somber either. Megami Tensei’s roots are in the pulpy trash of 80s light novels, and you see this in some of the humorous demon-focused crassness, the bits of comedic negotiation dialogue, and the seeming mish-mash of myth as aesthetic influences. But the funny paradox of SMT3 is that it’s a game built on a punk-rock foundation of rebelling against what’s proper and mainstream (see any interview with the creators) that is also simultaneously downright austere by today’s standards. Grand and lonely and visionary in tone, careful, measured and meticulous in its design, without an ounce of bloat, nothing wasted or incoherent, it’s just so impressive on every level (I promise I’ll get more specific with my gushing soon). There’s an attitude among some Megaten fans that Nocturne is the one that doesn’t fit in the series, that it’s too different from previous Shin Megami Tensei games, but I don’t think that’s right. To me there’s a very clear throughline, it’s just Nocturne’s antecedents aren’t necessarily found in its immediate numbered predecessor. When it comes to the main and numbered games in this series, you can very easily see the path from Megami Tensei 2 -> Shin Megami Tensei 2 -> Shin Megami Tensei 4, all of which begin years after the apocalypse has occurred and concern themselves with how society persists and political factions collide decades and even centuries into the aftermath. They are the three most readily described as “cyberpunk”, they’re chattier, they’re a bit more clichéd in their own ways (amnesiac gladiator and military academy recruit openings for SMT2 and SMT4 respectively), they let you use guns and their general sensibilities are similar.

SMT3’s lineage is, I feel, more directly traced from two other games. SMT1 and (hear me out!) Revelations: Persona. I think it’s easy to link these three games together for several reasons. In all three you begin in relative peace in a current day city, in all three the inciting incident is an occultist ritual, and interestingly in all three the hospital is your first dungeon, deliberately chosen for its uncanny familiarity to create an immediate sense of unease (and also the pretty obvious birth/death location symbolism). These are games centered around the immediacy of disaster and apocalypse, and take modern day locations that are meant to be familiar and subvert them to make them unnerving. Atmosphere is a word I see frequently used to praise all three games (yes there are at least 1 dozens of us, [dozens!] who like Persona 1) and the dream-like, surreal atmosphere in these three games can be strikingly similar.

So yeah, good lord, Nocturne’s atmosphere. This game is simply filled with astonishing imagery at every point. The art directors managed to make each scene feel somehow weighty and mesmerizing, with aesthetic choices made throughout that are just so thoughtful and cultured. Angels and demons look terrifying and awesome, in that they inspire terror and awe. Gods and goddesses appear benevolent, their facial expressions neutral and lacking in human emotion. Jack Frost remains the best mascot in videogames. There’s well-researched details in the animations and all aspects of appearance (see here for a bit on Baphomet’s posing). The vocal and sonic choices are perfect, like that unsettling blaring soundblast when the statue of Gozu-Tennoh speaks, as if a great and mighty terror is deigning to communicate across worlds.

There are posts that dissect the spiral imagery of the vortex world that repeats over the course of the game. There are entire sites devoted to breaking down the wide range of inspirations for the game's transcendental demon design. Random tumblr people compare the cutscene direction to Ingmar Bergman films, and it’s interesting to see how the cutscenes are frequently in first person or otherwise hide the protagonist, which not only hearkens back to series roots (while saving budget $$$) but also conveys solitude and makes the scenes with multiple demons and figures appear that much more spectacular. On any given day you’ll find a tweet or two or three of people overwhelmed by the game’s aesthetic choices, its virtuoso game over sequence, or title sequence, or pretty much any sequence. It’s the purest expression of a world class artist’s singular vision and is the reason why all of us sound so annoying whining for Kazuma Kaneko to return from his flower field exile.

There’s also a very ingenious way SMT3 supports its themes and that is through the combat. Nocturne is a game about stealing turns. It’s the fundamental principle of the battling, it’s why everyone tells you to keep the skill Fog Breath, and it’s a carryover from the simpler system in SMT1 where the method of stealing turns was using charm bullets or casting Zio to paralyze the enemy before they even have a chance to act. The battle system has a famous Engrish name called “Press Turn,” which is distinct and not to be confused with the One More system from newer Persona games or the alignment based combat bonuses of Strange Journey.

In SMT3, any given press turn encounter depends upon the party composition choices you’ve made, not only the resistances and repels/drains you enter with (two very different things in terms of battle consequences!) but also the moment to moment decision-making of turn management, weighing how to strategically pass to maximize damage output over the course of the fight. Every battle is an opportunity to demonstrate your efficiency and mastery of the systems, and the goal of each encounter is to use foresight and preparation to demolish your foes before they have the chance to even act. Steal turns and survive in a barren land of death upon death, this is the elegance of Press Turn. You’ll hear endless discussion around this game’s difficulty, and encounters generally have teeth to them yeah, but there is a very principled fairness to the battling where combat swings do not occur as dramatically as they do in say, SMT4. SMT3 is balanced perfectly by virtue of its lack of save anywhere option, providing you with tension at all times but also most importantly the tools to mitigate disaster over the long term, which is a deeply deeply rewarding way to survive.

Press Turn’s UI really adds to this rewarding feeling. How terrifying is it when a boss casts Beast or Dragon Eye, and suddenly a string of new turn icons appear? How satisfying is it to see a row of flashing turns, knowing that you’ve fully exploited your enemy? The enemy composition really accentuates this as well, with encounters often designed to avoid easy spam of single elements or physical skills to mindlessly coast to victory. SMT3 doesn’t want you taking any shortcuts, if you want to take advantage of a given demon or magatama’s skillset, you need to pair your choices to mitigate the corresponding weakness, or the enemy’s AI will press their advantage in the exact way you would. It’s a really satisfying symmetry.

There are also other paths to battle that are just as viable. Exploiting weaknesses with a multipurpose magic build is another way to steal turns. Building battlers around skills that maximize critical hits is another way. And if you are terrified of the infamous one-shot deaths that people like to say are the franchise trademark? Equip null-death magatama in between level ups. Raise your luck. Resolve battles before enemies even have the chance to use the spell against you. Raise your speed so enemies don’t get the chance to go first. Get endure as soon as possible. The tools for success are all right there for you! Nocturne tasks you with growing strong enough in this world to ascend to creation, and it provides you with multiple paths to reach this goal.

So, about these multiple paths, let me talk to you a bit about SMT3’s famously unique alignment system. Other games are lauded for their ultimately fairly stupid morality systems but Nocturne breezily operates on a completely different level. Instead of RESCUE and HARVEST in dumb giant gothic font or literally color-coded paragon and renegade meters, in SMT3 you align yourself naturally through story progression with factions concerned with stillness, power, solitude, freedom, or rebellion. Instead of the grand binary moral choice being telegraphed through hideous-looking “Little Sisters” (god I hated that stupid name haha) there’s a rough analogue in the actually sympathetic but far more complex unsettling-looking Manikins, whose character motif is described by the creators as representing those who lose themselves to the strength of numbers. There’s unfortunately a tiny amount of material in the game to support extremely tedious “canon” discussion, but the game actually works best and most purely as an abstract, impressionistic vision of grand universal themes. Playing through any one of SMT3’s six endings makes the universe feel vast and overwhelming, and asks you to contend with a broader suite of philosophies than ‘good’ or ‘bad,’ and that’s ultimately what I think the developers were most interested in going for.

Something about the prose in Nocturne is also special in a way that is extremely difficult to accurately describe. Like everything else in this game it feels elegant and detached, gods and goddesses are appropriately otherworldly without sounding like haughty stereotypes, lower demons are funny and crass in a way that’s not so on-the-nose. Again it’s very difficult to pinpoint but something has been lost in the writing of the newer games, even a bit as small as how angels and demons in the game actually never name anything directly as God, but instead refer obliquely to a Lord, an Absolute, or a Great Will, Nocturne just gets all the little details right.

As I run out of steam from this braindump, I notice there’s still an essay’s worth of observations in so many other topics that deserve to be discussed. The Tokyo-focused but somehow universal theming of the game’s alignment principles and locale visuals. The insanely expansive but unfortunately compressed soundtrack (see over three hours of unreleased material alone here), where dungeon music regularly evolves to indicate progression, and battle and boss music quantity is generously varied both between and within song. The extremely rewarding fusion system can be plumbed to frankly insane depths, with a demon bestiary that is reasonable to 100%, and the lack of “use it or lose it” demon quality that hits other SMT series games contributing to a better feeling of progression and customization opportunities. The demon negotiation, which rewards your knowledge of mythological connections among pantheons with unique one-time only dialogue. The dungeons, the DUNGEONS. With the exception of an early set of sewers, an apparent shitty dungeon theme RPG tradition, each of these are little masterpieces of aesthetics and design, with their own thoughtfully introduced and iterated gimmick, planned wonderfully for both third and first person, often wrapping in and around themselves in spirals in that very Shin Megami Tensei-specific way.

Even if you think a game like Nocturne seems too dense or impenetrable or boring or random-encounter filled or whatever, it’s worth giving it a real shot for yourself to see if it manages to grab you. We’re no longer in those days in the late 2000s where the game cost exorbitant amounts of money to get, a digital version can be found on PS3 for $10 (with only rare emulation issues in certain dungeon sections), and the disc itself was reprinted and can be found brand new on Amazon if you have a PS2 or want to emulate on PCSX2, where the game looks even more breathtaking. Either way, find a way to treat yourself to an RPG where it is actually appropriate to throw around the term masterpiece. I didn’t really write any of this text no one’s going to read to make a persuasive case to anyone, but sometimes games will inspire you and it feels good to ramble about them. Games like this one are nearly impossible to make nowadays, and SMT3 is something worth cherishing.

#smt3 #nocturne #smt nocturne #unparalleled #why doesn't that last gif work here oh well

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