#I have google docs and a dream

[mrsselfdestrvct]

translated mammon and leviathans married life Q&A with a friend 💐💐 enjoy

v original interview pic

[who-always-pays-their-taxes]

I understand the appeal of writer!Jason Todd while he’s the Redhood but I don’t think YOU understand the appeal of writer!Jason while he’s a pre-teen Robin. That young man writes a field report like it’s a mystery novel, and like what is Bruce even supposed to say “Hey, chum… while the pacing of the report was very intriguing, I need you to be LESS detailed about the color of the suspects ‘emerald green orbs.’” No, he won’t!! because Jason may be a bit annoying but it’s a vast improvement from Dick “What happens with the titans is between me, god, and the emergency room on 34th ave.” Grayson who used to just write “fixed it :)” on cases he completed.

[iamthemain-character]

Dirty Mind

astarion x fem!reader

CW: Depictions of mental illness, body dysmorphia, self loathing, descriptions of anatomy, nudity without sex, hints at a past of self harm. Please read with caution.

A/N: This fic is dedicated to the most incredible woman I know. Here's to you--and all of you--finding your healing. <3

bg3 masterlist

You knew you were being stupid. 

You had seen villages that suffered under oppressive rule, slain monsters that had shed the blood of countless innocents, fought off gods and demons alike to remain true to yourself. You had seen so much evil, felt it’s burden on your heart, and yet, your greatest battle was waged within yourself. 

It was no dark possession, no cruel and unjust leader that opposed you so vehemently; rather, it was your very own skin you existed within. Or perhaps it was rather your mind, turning within itself to destroy you from the inside. You detested the very body that gave you life, that had carried you through every day of your life. And yet you hated it with a darkness that could put the very nine hells to shame. 

The silvery reflection you gazed upon only furthered your displeasure, the light seeming to glint off the various imperfections that built up the frame you no longer recognized. Your chest, uneven to your scrutinizing eyes, was so lacking that it was a mockery to call them breasts. Where your largeness did come in was from your stomach, as soft and pliable as a baker’s dough, and yet it was considerably less useful. It was duplicated on your thighs, the circumference making you frown the longer you stared. You felt all together uneven, as if some potter had started shaping his clay and had left you out to dry, half finished and altogether defective as a human being. 

It didn’t help that you were covered in marks; your skin looking more like a mis pieced quilt to your eyes than the body of a woman. Scars from various battles stitched the fabric of your flesh, showing off your failures in battle. Worse, however, were the scars from the battle within yourself, where you failed to protect your own skin from your gleaming blade. The shame that each of those marks carried made your body burn coldly, unremorseful yet full of regret. 

You weren’t even sure what your lover saw in you on the rare nights you let him have you wholly. In the occasions where you did not shun the light or keep yourself partially dressed, you let your mind be overpowered by the sensations of his own body,  perfect and glorious as it made love to you in the way only he could. You would forget yourself for a while, until the darkness creeped back in and dragged you from the safety of his arms. Somehow you always came to the conclusion that he must have hated you more than he loved you, and that physicality was a poor excuse for the burden you were upon his life. 

You wanted to punch the mirror where it stood proudly in front of you, mocking your very existence, your futile attempt at being somebody. You envied your lover, cursed to never see the art of his features ever again. It was an undeserving curse, one you wished would be placed upon yourself rather than the beautiful elf. Yet you would not be free from your aesthetic burden until your traitorous eyes were plucked from their sockets. 

“My love, you would not believe what Gale-” The voice of Astarion at the entrance of your tent sent you scrambling, snatching up your cloak to wrap around your body. The pale elf stopped, his crimson eyes reflecting his smile as he looked you up and down. “Forgive me, my darling. I did not realize that this was an art exhibit.” 

His words sunk in your stomach like lead in mud, slowly, yet inevitably gathering at the bottom, unable to ever be useful again. You glanced back at the mirror as he approached from behind you, wishing for once you could see his reflection with you instead of just yours. 

His pale, veiny arms snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. You felt the light sting of his pointed teeth as he dragged them over your neck, inhaling the scent of your freshly washed hair. “Or perhaps you are offering dessert, my love?”  

Perhaps another night, you would have offered yourself, gone through the same ritual of letting him baptize you in pleasure and adoration, praying to his heart that it cleansed you of your offensive form. But tonight the hatred in your heart weighed too heavily; you feared spilling it onto Astarion and staining his affection for you. 

“Have I fallen from your good graces, my dear?” 

Astarion’s voice broke you from your ruminating thoughts, and you realized you had been silent a little too long. Astarion looked at you, face pinched in a little bit of defensive concern. Your own face had betrayed your thoughts, your own features contorted into a look of disgust when he had spoken his teasing proposition. 

“No, no. you are perfect.” You quickly tried to remedy, hoping your tone sounds lighter than your thoughts feel. 

“Then why do you look like you walked past Halsin a little too closely?” Astarion says lightly, resuming his sassy attitude after your reassurance.

You give  a half-hearted laugh, amused at his dig towards your fellow companion, but still too deep within the darkness of your own mind to enjoy the lightness. 

Astarion’s smile softens, and he holds you a little tighter in his arm, his left hand coming up to cup your jaw. You instinctively lean into his touch, your chest becoming feeling more like a cage for your lungs as tears threaten to reveal your weakness. “What is it that troubles you so, my love?” Astarion murmurs, his voice making your body tingle and ache like being close to a fire after a long night in the cold. 

“It is nothing.” You mumble, casting your eyes down, not trusting your emotions to remain in check if you looked into his eyes. 

Astarion’s cool finger presses against the hollow of your jaw, trailing forward to force your chin up. His smile holds a hint of his playful demeanor, but holds so much more love and affection. You briefly wonder if he would still smile that way if he knew just how abominable you were on the inside. 

“It is clearly not nothing if it has stolen the light from your eyes, my dear.” Astarion says gently, his eyes searching yours for your untold burdens. “I am usually so skilled at bringing it back; yet I see that this is an affliction my jovial words cannot ease.” He leans down, pressing his lips to your furrowed forehead. “If my words cannot be of comfort, allow my ears to be.” 

You studied the face of your lover, noting the delicate features and marks that you had come to know and love. “You’re so beautiful.” You whisper, reaching up to lightly trace his cheek. 

Asatrion’s eyes lit up, delighted by your complimentary words. He grasped your wrist, bringing those fingers to his lips, pressing intimate kisses to each one. “As are you, my love.” 

The sour feeling bubbled again in your stomach, and you wondered if you were going to throw up. “Don’t say that.” 

Immediately, Astarion’s features darken, his silvery eyebrows drawing together in a mix of irritation and concern. “Why not? Am I not allowed to return the sentiment?”

You shook your head, feeling very small, and yet taking up too much space. This was it, you were sure, this was going to be the night he walked away from you forever more. He was finally going to see you exactly as you were. “Not when it’s not true.” 

Astarion’s eyebrows rose up from their tightened position, now expressing the astonishment and incredulousness within his chest. “I do not lie to you, my dear.” He says, trying to resist the irritation he feels at being doubted. 

You huff, unconvinced as you pull away from him. “Then you have been blinded. I am not beautiful.” 

Astarion’s fingers curl around your wrist, not allowing you to stray further than his arm’s reach. “No, you are not beautiful. You are gorgeous, a treasure among men, more rare and bewitching than any goddess.” His words are spoken so earnestly, so confident in the truth of them. “You forget, my heart, that I have lived far too long, and seen too many pretty faces. And yet you are more exquisite than any of them.”

“You don’t have to flatter me anymore.” You say bitterly, keeping your face turned away. “You know you have my trust.”

“I’m not–” Astarion starts to snap, but he stops himself, taking a deep breath. He looks at your avoidant face, his heart stinging with doubt. “I thought I made myself perfectly clear about my sentiments.” He says quietly, forcing his voice to remain calm. “I do not continually pursue you because of survival. I do so because I love you. My undead heart is entirely yours, and any affection I express to you is entirely truthful.” 

Guilt gnawed at your already heavy heart, making you feel like an even filthier person than you were before. You knew Astarion was being genuine, you had no reason to blame him. Yet you felt like a caged dog, scared, and biting to find its freedom. “You shouldn’t love me.” You say lowly, unable to keep the disgust at your own behavior out of your voice. “I’m no good for you.” 

 Astarion bristles a little at this, giving a unbelieving scoff. “You are the best thing that has happened to me in my cursed existence. You cannot stop me from loving you any more than you can stop the sun from rising in the morning.” He steps closer to you, his grip on your wrist sliding down to intertwine your fingers with his. “Why are you running from my love?”

His words spoken so gently, without any accusation or judgment, break your fragile heart. Your lips pull into a frown, but you cannot stop as tears rush to ease the burning in your eyes, watering your cheeks in streams. Your breathing becomes choked, every inhale a struggle to get enough air as you stifle sobs. 

Immediately, Astarion comes forward, cocooning you within his embrace, as if the sheer strength of his arms could keep you from breaking. You bury your face into the linen on his chest, your crying violent as it drags up all the self loathing, all the dark thoughts and ideas that had settled into the walls of your body and mind. Your hands cling pathetically to Astarion, trying to ground yourself amongst the sea of your pain. 

He doesn’t let you go, instead holding you to himself, trying to support your trembling body as the tears streamed from your eyes. He didn’t say anything, didn't try to give any meaningless platitudes to smooth over your emotions; all he did was let you cry, pressing his lips lovingly to the top of your head, almost as if he could push out your harrowing thoughts with each kiss. 

Time seemed meaningless and yet all too present as your soul rained down upon Astarion’s shirt. Every time you attempted to calm yourself, to try to regain some grasp of the traitorous emotions, the tears would simply wash over anew, sending you right back into your linen hiding place. 

By the time your body finally wrung itself of its tears, you were left feeling thoroughly spent, tired and melancholy, the embodiment of gray itself. Astarion’s hands left your body, coming up to cup your face, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, down your nose, and across your cheeks before he pressed his head against yours. 

“I don’t like myself.” You whispered, your voice raspy from the strain of your sobs. “I hate the way I look. I hate my body, and I don’t...I don’t know why you can't see it, or when you’re going to realize you could do better, and I…” 

Astarion didn’t let you continue, pressing his lips against yours to silence you. His ruby eyes were shining with unshed tears, pain and worry twisting your empty chest. “You, my love...my treasure, my heart..” He shook his head, overcome with emotion for a moment. “You are utterly perfect to me. There is not a part of you I would change, or that I do not think is the most incredible sight to behold.” 

The twisted feeling in your chest had risen up to your throat as he spoke, threatening to choke you entirely. “There is so much wrong with me.” You insist, unsure of whether you’re speaking of your physicality or your mind, but even further unconvinced of if it really mattered. 

“There is nothing wrong with you.” Astarion’s voice was still loving, but each word was enforced with a firm tone, denying any argument. “Flawed, perhaps, but nothing wrong. And even if you are entirely flawed, that does not make you any less perfect in my eyes.” He paused, bringing his lips to your knuckles as he spoke again. “Or in my heart.” 

Everything inside of you wanted to protest, wanted to fight back; perhaps if you hurt him he would finally understand what you were. But in your heart, there was a tiny flame of hope that craved his words, feasting upon the adoring look in his eyes. It was that hope that shone through your dark mind, a tiny thought blooming that perhaps he was telling the truth. Perhaps you did deserve love. 

“How can you be so sure?”

Astarion’s smile returned, as assured and adoring as ever. “I wish I could show you the way I see you. To open up my heart and give you all my deepest thoughts and sentiments for you.” He gazed at you thoughtfully for a beat of silence, then kissing your hand once again. “Perhaps I cannot give you my mind, but I can still show you how I feel. If you would allow me.”

The instinct to run, to deny either one of you the chance to be open and genuine with one another, burned in your chest. But you loved Astarion, and so badly you craved to just let yourself be convinced that that could be enough. “Okay.” 

Astarion’s eyes were full of love as he closed the distance between you; slowly, he let go of your hand, bringing it to your shoulder. He catches the edge of your robe against his nails, and he brushes it downward, letting the loose fabric slip off. Your body tenses, your heart squeezing, as if trying to tamp down the swell of emotions you feel towards the vampire. 

“Breathe, my love.” Astarion softly whispers, his hand caressing the soft skin of your neck, worshiping the same patches of skin that you despised for their red roughness. “You need only speak your discomfort, and I will stop. But I only wish to show you my affection.” 

The only discomfort you felt was from the fact that you existed as you were, but it was intoxicating to have Astarion so reverently touch you, crimson eyes so intent in their admiration. You could not find it within yourself to pull away. “I want your affection.” You admit softly, wanting only the elf’s long ears to catch your confession. Astarion smiles warmly, looking pleased with the opportunity your words presented him. 

Tenderly, he removed your robe from your body, his actions not unlike how an artist reveals their work. His eyes, usually so hungry when he saw you naked, instead were marveling at your body, taking in every part as if you were a painting that needed to be understood as well as appreciated. “You are so beautiful, my love.” 

Heat rises up your neck, feeling vulnerable and unsure of yourself under his admiring gaze. Yet you still did not want him to stop, your insides fluttering as he placed his cool hands on your waist. His smile unwavering, paralleled by his enraptured eyes, he guided you further into the tent, until he had you lay down on the bed roll. Astarion fussed over you for a moment, making sure your pillow was right, that the blankets were comfortable enough, that you were alright. It was an endearing turn of sweetness amongst the emotionally heavy atmosphere, bringing a hint of a smile to your lips. 

Astarion knelt over you, his hands beside your head; his ruby pools swirling with devotion. “You are truly the light and love of my life. A thousand years attached to your side could never be enough to satiate the desire I feel to have you, body and soul. No matter how you view yourself, you must know that no flower that blooms, no gem set in gold, no god sent divination could ever give my eyes a sight that is more magnificent than you are.” You had only ever heard his voice this raw, this unaffected and meaningful in his words, the first time he told you he loved you. “I adore you. There is nothing that you could ever do to change that, certainly not by being yourself and not even by trying. My heart is entirely bewitched by you and I will not let you go.”  

Your eyes felt misty, your body dried of its tears from your previous bout of crying. Your heart ached, but it almost felt good, to be seen in all your pain and hatred and still be told that you were loved. “Astarion...I love you.” Your voice is trembling, but earnest in its words. 

“And I love you.” Atsarion murmurs back, leaning in to press his cool lips to yours. “More than anything. And I will tell you every moment until there is not a doubt left in your mind that you are my only religion, my goddess.” 

Astarion moves his lips from your own down to your jaw, slowly pressing kisses of amorous devotion over your skin. Like a priest at the altar, he allowed his praises to be felt rather than song, pious in his utter worship to your body. Down your neck, through the valleys of your collarbones, making the pilgrimage to the heights of your breasts. Faithful and unwavering in his piety, he continued down your sternum, making no exception to any mark or hair or scar that came in path. 

You internally cringed as he got to your soft belly, preparing for his disgust; instead, however, you heard his voice murmur against your skin. “Gods, I love you.” His hands splayed over your hips, grasping a little as he pressed his face into your yielding body, sending heat up your core. Your surprise was only furthered as you felt the light scratch of his vampiric teeth catching on your stretch marks, following the rivulets with intent. 

As he moved further, he pressed a light kiss to your pelvis, giving it the affection he certainly knew it was worthy of, but he continued on, wanting his actions to be sensual, but not sexual; you were worth so much more than that. He certainly adored making love to you, but in this moment he wanted to simply convey his love for you through his touches. 

His hands moved to your plush thighs, and he made another sound of contentment as he kissed the skin there, giving equal adoration to the scars you felt so much shame for. You braced yourself for questions, but he asked none, silently accepting that that would be a battle to face another day. For now, he simply kissed over the pocked skin over your cellulite, nibbling any part that seemed particularly alluring to him. Though that proved to only have his fangs bared constantly, every new ripple of your thighs only looking more appetizing as he continued. 

Throughout Astarion’s entire ritualistic worshiping, you had slowly relaxed, melting into the bedroll as you experienced his sheer devotion. Your mind was pulled away from its dark thoughts, not in the way it usually was during passion, but rather feeling like the dark inner person within your mind had been calmed, wrapped in a blanket of warmth. 

Astarion sensed that his efforts had done at least a portion of what he desired, and so he rested his cheek against your thigh, gazing up at you with lazy admiration.  “Shall I continue? Will you be convinced if I should perhaps lick your toes?” He teased, a smirk curling on his lips.

“Ew!” You squealed, instinctively curling the appendages inward. “Astarion!” 

Despite your disgust, Astarion felt content with his words as he heard you finally laugh, light hearted and easy once more. “There she is, my beautiful love.” He murmurs, pressing a kiss behind your ear as he comes up and lays next to you. His arms remain around your own frame, wanting to keep you as close as he could. 

“Thank you.” You whisper, looking into his eyes, your heart warm and full from his adoration. 

“No need for thanks.” Astarion insists, a leg coming over yours to pull you against him. “I love you. And for that, there is nothing I wouldn’t do to prove it to you, for as long as you need me to. You are mine, forevermore, and I will take every part of you and love you for it until the heavens do not rise upon our flesh again.” 

[kaisollisto]

(Based off of the reality of having a metal ring in your back as a constant reminder of your fate and how that affects you as a person set in the Switzerland arc)

“Does it hurt?” 

Ava’s pressed face down into the pillow sleep curling around her limbs. She hums, she can’t remember what she says, she’s exhausted. Her arms are tangled beneath her pillow. She holds her fingers tightly between each other, her bones ache from the pressure but her hands no longer shake. Ava hasn’t experienced this before, a fear that haunts her at night. (She finds she cannot stop dreaming about dying. It’s stifling in the cover of night trying to figure out where she is.) 

She slowly opens her eyes and squints in the darkness. Beatrice is facing her a furrow in her brow that Ava knows she’s doing unconsciously. Ava’s lip quirks a smidgen, Beatrice looks funny. It’s a bit silly to her, Beatrice no doubt working out a solution to an unknown problem that Ava has yet to see in the middle of the night. In her sleepy state she wants to laugh at the imaginary cogs churning in Beatrice’s head. 

Beatrice scooches closer and Ava panics, her skin can taste the dust of Bea’s forearm. She hoists herself up on her elbows, turning to face Beatrice. “Wha?” Ava’s shaking off bits of sleep from her mouth when Beatrice repeats herself. 

“Does the Halo hurt?” 

She doesn’t know if she wants to answer that. Ava peers over Beatrice squinting at the harsh light of the digital clock on Beatrice’s side. Ava loves it, it reminds her of the early 2000’s and the aesthetic of waking up to an alarm to go somewhere. The clock blinks an innocent 1:43 Am, and Ava debates on letting her head thump back down. 

She turns her body on her side, she can feel the halo shifting in her back and it makes her want to throw up. The sides of the halo press against her shoulder blades and Ava resists the urge to yank it out. She grits her teeth and settles ignoring the skin of her back pulling tight to accommodate for the ring. Beatrice is still expecting an answer and Ava can’t lie to her, she pulls the covers of the sheet up to her chest hoping to bide more time for an answer. 

"Everything hurts Bea," Ava smiles, "getting my ass handed to me is hard work."

Beatrice frowns displeased but looks at her through her lashes, it's unguarded, the stress and worries of the world stay out of their room in the dead of night. Her lashes are so pretty and Ava wants to curse the soft glow of the moon. There’s just enough moonlight to illuminate her eyes but overshadow her freckles. Ava swallows down the taste of defeat, she can’t win, she thinks. 

Her gaze is soft, Beatrice is looking at her and it’s different yet the same. The same feeling in her chest constricting her lungs, the same soft gaze of Beatrice. Beatrice who likes what she sees in Ava when Ava can barely see where she begins. She doesn’t like to dwell on it, the truth of the matter being what belongs to Ava.

If she closes her eyes she can pretend just a little longer. She can give herself the hope of the future and what comes after all this. She can put down the fighting and the artifact and live. Ava doesn't want to think about it anymore, at least not tonight when Beatrice is here with her. 

Beatrice is soft. She knows it from hours and hours of training. She's felt it when Beatrice corrects her form, in the way she talks. She speaks from a place of care like she has turned the harsh words in her brain over and over to soften the syllables spoken to Ava. And Ava doesn't linger on it, the meaning behind it, (Ava didn't think she'd make it this far, finding a person who cares quite like Bea does.)

And Ava's got it bad, she knows she's fucked because Beatrice doesn’t say anything about her language and Ava can't not tell her the truth. She looks down, her hand fiddling with the bed sheet underneath them. 

"It doesn't hurt," if she thinks about it she can feel the fibers of the cotton between the pads of her fingers. "But it's very uncomfortable." She doesn't want to find the response in Beatrice's eyes, content to hear it from her voice. The soft British lilting accent that holds her just as soft as a touch. 

She waits, she can picture Bea’s mannerisms with her eyes closed but maybe she should check just to be sure. Ava peers up at Beatrice and she’s suddenly closer. Her eyes really are pretty, there’s a depth to them that Ava wants to spend an ungodly amount of time studying.

“Can I help?” (part 2)

[septfair]

it's me and the rtc production i made up in my head against the world

[hms-incorrect-quotes]

Mind: I suppose you think that’s cute. What it makes you is a fraud.

Heart: yeah but i’m a cute fraud though right?

[mioakem]

season 1 is ctommy joining-l’manburg independence. season 2 is elections-november 16th. season 3 is exile- final disc war. season 4 is cdream imprisonment-cwilbur revival. season 5 is cwilbur revival- jailbreak. season 6 is jailbreak-finale

[wanderingcas]

damn it i'm reading a book about lighthouse keepers back in the 70s and having to sometimes be on these islands or lighthouses in the middle of the craggy sea for sometimes up to 50 days at a time with no one else but the other keepers who are there too and of course my brain goes "dean and cas as lighthouse keepers who fall in love and then have to separate every 50 days to go back to the mainland and keep their romance a secret"

[scryillo]

and also the concept page for my vash podcaster au :)

[absolutelyinlove]

dream putting his entire soul into every single one of his projects means the world to me like at his level of fame it would be so so easy to lose some of that passion. he could put out half-hearted low effort inconsistent content and still be successful enough to never need to work another day in his life and yet. he loves what he does so much that he allows it to consume him. he receives seemingly never-ending backlash for everything he does and i can only imagine it would probably hurt a lot less if that negative attention was being directed toward things he felt less personally connected with and yet. and yet. he has never let them dehumanize him he continues to be vulnerable and honest and wear his heart on his sleeve and i’ll just never run out of ways to express how much i admire the limitless unrelenting love he puts into every single choice he makes. the world has been so so unkind to him and he chooses to put nothing but love back into it anyway :(

[xincountry]

sometimes i wake up in a cold sweat remembering this one instagram post i saw with the caption "tsukishima kei is kuroo tetsurou's legacy in volleyball"

[1loer]

I started writing a fic once about how i think Komaeda’s school life was like before Hope’s Peak. Its basically abandoned at this point but I still think about it a lot…

I basically see him as having a very uneventful school time where basically everyone avoids and ignores him and he’s just completely and utterly alone the whole time. He sits alone and no one cares. He comes in with so many bruises and injuries his home room teacher has stopped asking at this point. His homeroom teacher has given up on him completely, actually, because despite his abilities he refuses to make anything of himself. He’d have a social worker who hardly cared and would only show up to check a box and make sure he was still alive. No one would even have the decency to bully him. They tried once and it was boring because he wouldn’t fight back. He’d be a void of a person a shadow in the classroom. I even imagine any photos that are taken of the class he’s inexplicably blurred or covered or left out. Completely and utterly alone no matter what.

[corviiids]

For the director's cut fanfic thing: ⭐⭐⭐ (these are THREE stars valid for whatever. I'm giving you blank checks)

thank you again <3

blank check 2/3 goes back to as you like it again! but this time i want to talk about my shadow designs for the akechi bossfights we've encountered in the preceding chapters >:3 there are five - the Puppet, the Singer, the Bard, the Dancer, and the Magician.

but this got really ABSURDLY long this time so ill stick to mostly the Puppet, and just do a brief ("brief") overview of the others for now.......

(for context: this is my palace au and akechi's keywords are akechi goro, the world, theatre.)

the Puppet (photos of giant puppets below if that freaks you out!)

the first Wing the thieves encounter is the puppet show, and the boss shadow is a giant marionette:

For one thing, it’s huge—maybe three or four times the size of a human being. It’s also gleaming, carefully polished and buffed, reflecting light more viciously in the areas where it seems the wood might be chipped or worn. The polish throws the lines of joints and pieces into sharp relief, giving the puppet the general impression of something whole that had been cut up and pieced slowly together with hinges and nails. Behind it, mostly concealed by its limp bulk, is a door. As they might have gleaned from the chatter of the audience, the show does not yet seem to have begun. As such, the puppet on stage is limp on its strings. Most disturbingly, it’s draped backward, not forward, snapped unnaturally at the spine and giving it the extremely uncanny look of a corpse on uneven ceiling hooks. They can just make out the side of the thing’s eyes from where they’re standing. Gravity has not been kind to them: the puppet’s eyelids are dropped open, bulging eyes left wide and staring up as far back as the build will let them. They haven’t rolled all the way into the wooden skull, presumably because they can’t. Instead, the unseeing yellow eyes remain fixed on the back corner of the stage. The puppet is entirely still. “I think I’m going to be sick,” Makoto says faintly.

i think the Puppet is my favourite of the five because he's so disturbing. i imagine he looks a bit like the giant marionettes by the french street theatre show royal de luxe:

but i really love these guys, so i think it's uncharitable to say akechi's shadow looks exactly like them. i know giant puppets are always a little freaky but i genuinely love the royal de luxe puppets and i think the workmanship on these does genuinely do a ton of work to dispel that uncanny vibe.

puppet akechi on the other hand is absolutely drenched in uncanny valley, so i guess imagine these puppets but much scarier. the main thing is those places where different pieces of wood are joined, in the joints / on the limbs / etc, because that's very key to puppet akechi's look in my mind, hence "something whole that had been cut up and pieced slowly together with hinges and nails". the Puppet is a marionette, but the way he's been constructed and set up on stage almost calls to mind the imagery of a corpse that's been reconstructed to perform. the way he moves is really unnatural:

Ren is beginning to think they might be able to get past and slip through that door without a fight when the whole creature rears up, back strings going taut, and lashes wildly out at him with a horrible clack of its arms—he leaps back and crashes directly into Haru, who catches and dips him like a princess before twirling him frantically into Ryuji and the puppet gouges a deep gash in the stage floor.    As they watch it screeches, howls an unnatural shriek, eyes suddenly wide and bulging larger. They ‘blink’ a few times, eyelids flipping, then the puppet Akechi goes limp on its strings again, though decidedly more upright than before, like whoever’s pulling the strings is now on guard. Its eyes stay open this time, bright gold and piercing.

very much not like something exercising its own agency, but like a body on strings being operated by someone who did not care to practice in the artistry of operating a puppet to make it look like a live thing - the puppet is literally just a tool to be flailed about.

this also shows in the way the puppet sits when it's at rest. guys do you know how god damn hard it is to find normal pictures of puppets? when you google marionette it just comes up with a bunch of fnaf shit. anyway check this guy out

at rest, they usually just kind of dangle innocently, or might slouch forward if given too much slack, right? it was important to me that puppet akechi look very wrong at rest, as if he's not "at rest" so much as he's just been left to hang. hence: "it’s draped backward, not forward, snapped unnaturally at the spine and giving it the extremely uncanny look of a corpse on uneven ceiling hooks." i'm basically imagining meat hooks, like, in a slaughterhouse or something you know? like he's just dangling from those.

that imagery was inspired by persona 5 dancing, actually - akechi's finishing pose in his dance is this:

this is just such an unnatural pose. when i saw it for the first time, i just couldn't get the image out of my head of a string puppet who'd been hung up and left to dangle without any regard for how it might look or feel (lol). not to mention that blank look in his eyes. i think a lot of the Puppet was born from this dance because the dance itself is so dynamic and silly but then the lead-up to the end suddenly gets very jerky and puppet-like. i really like his dance!

the Puppet's battle mechanic is that the applause will continue as long as the Puppet is either acting or getting hurt (kind of like the mettaton fight in undertale actually?). if the applause stops, then the Puppet will be inflicted with Despair - in p5 the Despair effect means you lose SP for each turn and then instantly die on the third turn. makoto ends up healing the Puppet and yusuke mercy-kills it before it can commit suicide:

Fox silently raises his gun. The Thieves collectively flinch as the Puppet dissipates. The applause starts back up. “If we’d left things silent,” Yusuke says, “it would have only happened again.”

because this is the first shadow bossfight the thieves encounter in the Theatre, i needed it to have some broader implications (vs some of the later shadows who have more specific interactions). so obviously the analogue for akechi is that the performance needs to continue and he needs to continue receiving acknowledgement from the public / from shido / etc because if he's not useful and entertaining and noticeable and such, then he's nothing - his life doesn't mean anything. obviously, if he doesnt perform for shido (perform in the sense of working, but also in the sense of showmanship) he'll probably be killed. but also, akechi really externalises his sense of self to an insane degree. the conceit of the palace is essentially that his entire internal world is the show, it's just this shallow performance, the backstage is empty. if he stops existing in the cognition of the masses, he essentially "stops existing".

i think a lot about third semester akechi in royal and how completely he's faded from public awareness. he doesn't care because he's a dead man walking and has locked into nihilism at that point. but if you look at what akechi says in the engine room:

his voice when he says this says a lot to me. akechi's envisioning the world as it will look when he has to return and face the consequences of the world discovering what's behind the curtain and realising his credibility was all a show. to be honest, i think this also plays a role in his decision to sacrifice himself in this scene. i don't think he wanted to die, but i think he did realise that the post-thieves, post-truth world wasn't a place that held anything for him anymore, and his desire to return to that reality was dramatically weakened, so it was an easier decision for him to choose to make that sacrifice than it otherwise might have been.

um, i had a point. okay, so, i was saying that once the applause stops, the Puppet begins to despair. the Puppet also is the most direct representation of akechi as someone who is being used. all the shadow bosses correlate to some aspect of akechi's need to perform and to the varying reasons why they all have that sense of desperation:

“Kinda feels like they’re just defendin’ themselves, you know,” [Ryuji] says. “Or somethin’. Look too much like him. It’s weird they can’t talk, cos it’s like fighting a dumb animal. Don’t they all seem real scared to you?” None of Akechi’s Shadows have delivered grand speeches about conquering the world. Even Futaba’s Shadow had given them a fairly strong indication of what was going on with her, that overwhelming guilt which had given birth to a resolve to lock herself up in her mind and die. Akechi’s Shadows have lashed out, tried to destroy them, sure. But it feels different in a way that’s growing more and more impossible to ignore. Desperate to fend them off, more than anything, like each one is the final bastion standing for a world that could crumble at any moment.

that's why once you figure out how to stop each shadow's "show" from going on, they instantly die:

ripping the Singer's mask off causes him to cease to exist (see below)

silencing the Bard, who relies on the power of his words to manipulate others, removes his power and reveals that he's pretty easy to take down

the Dancer's feet are always bleeding because he can't stop moving. he's hard to catch, but the moment he stops dancing, he's revealed to have extremely low defence and can be taken out very easily

but the Puppet is literally being manipulated by a puppetmaster. because he no longer has any use when the applause stops, he no longer has a reason to exist. i also just thought this would be a fun effect to start on because it's so drastic as an introduction to akc's psyche and really gives the thieves a sense of what they're working with by throwing them directly into the deep end.

ok let's leave the puppet behind for now. im gonna be more brief with the others i promise (maybe)

the Singer

LET'S TALK about. beneath the mask. a song about ren. but it's also a song about goro.

I'm a shape-shifter at Poe's masquerade Hiding both face and mind All free for you to draw

the fic goes over some of my meta about this:

[Yusuke] I have done some research. [Makoto] Oh? [Yusuke] I believe when the Opera Shadow sang of “Poe’s Masquerade”, he was referring to a short story by Edgar Allan Poe, entitled “The Masque of the Red Death”.

eternally grateful for the scene during the pyramid arc where yusuke loredumps about egyptian mythology so i have precedent to do this

yusuke summarises the story in this chapter (chapter 4), but basically: the story is about rich people abandoning the common folk to a plague, until a personification of the plague wearing a red mask enters the castle. when his mask is removed, it's revealed there is nothing underneath. everyone in the castle then succumbs to the plague.

the superficial connections to akechi are pretty obvious - red mask, plague doctor. etc. but this song is really, really telling for both ren and goro. i briefly went over this in my last dvd commentary post about the palace fic, but this relates to my meta around both of them as mask wearers. the line "all free for you to draw" is a big one - ren is "all free for you," the player, "to draw" - he becomes who you need him to be, and because you need to max out your confidants, he becomes (via you) who his friends need him to be.

goro is similar on a different scale because he moulds his personality to what the public expects him to be. he takes it one step further, because it's less utility for him and more foundational - as i said, to an extent the performance is the substance of his personality, which is the core of the distortion. so both ren and goro are wearing the mask, malleable in character, their actual personality being somewhat questionable, but that emptiness is only true for goro. ren's definitely got something underneath it, but goro feels like he doesn't.

brief cw for suicidal ideation, but i also generally take it as a given that goro doesn't really expect to live past 18 after defeating shido. not that he's actively suicidal, but i think literally or figuratively he knows after shido's downfall, his own life will pretty much be over, and that's part of what drives the emptiness. the show really only needs to go on until that point, and after that there's no need to build a real thing underneath to return to. he's very much living for that goal.

anyway: so the Singer starts out singing the Phantom of the Opera - the Shadow is very much modelled after the phantom - but swaps to beneath the mask and begins to connect with ren. the Singer wears a red mask. i really like this mask! i envision it as looking like someone pouring blood over his face and then the blood freezing in place, so it just looks very molten and liquid but fixed over half his face.

ren defeats the Singer by ripping his mask off:

[Ren] Please don’t take off my mask, revealing dark [Ann] OMG!! [Ann] THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED WHEN WE TOOK OFF HIS MASK!! [Ann] HE REVEALED DARK!!!! [Ann] HE DISAPPEARED!!!!!!!!!!

(i love the thieves because i dont have to be subtle about my symbolism i can just make them say it)

anyway, just like the figure in the Masque of the Red Death, ripping off the Singer's mask reveals "dark" underneath - he ceases to exist.

Just a cage of bones There's nothing inside

the Bard and the Dancer

when i was first plotting this fic, i was actually designing the palace not as a written environment but as though it would be a playable place. so a lot of it is informed by me picturing what this palace would be like to play through and explore, building it out as a video game environment in my mind's eye and then trying to describe it from that point. i took the same approach to the bossfights, so they're all designed around central gameplay mechanics which are largely based on status effects and how the player would strategise around them. (to that end, a lot of the design stuff in my doc never made it into the fic...)

the conceit of the bard was a shadow who can manifest abstract concepts into being by manipulating reality with his words. so the status effects he uses are brainwash and sleep, mostly. his monologues are modified versions of shakespeare's works.

part of the reason why i started writing this fic was specifically to challenge myself in aras of writing im not very confident in: so longform planning, progression of plot, environment description, and action scenes being major ones. writing all the boss fights was and continues to be a real challenge. the chapter that the bard shows up in (chapter 5) ended up taking ages and ages in part because i kept putting off writing this fight. now that it's done, though, the bard fight is actually maybe my favourite fight scene i've written lol. it always turns out that way!!! the reason i like it is because i realised the physical action wasn't the fun part of writing a fight like this. since it was focused on status effects, it meant i got to crawl into ren's headspace when he got brainwashed, which i really really enjoyed doing because i got to drag out some trauma that joker has lovingly repressed.

   to set my fellows, phantoms in the wings    in deadly hate the one against the other…    This isn’t the Casino. This is somewhere else entirely. The Casino, and everything that came with it, that was months ago. How did he forget? The cottonwool that had crept so slowly into his blood dissipates in a mad rush that leaves him dizzy with disbelief. His hands, now that he can feel them again, are trembling. The knife between his fingers, trembling. The cool floor beneath him, the air in his lungs. How close had he come to never feeling that again?    Had he really just been feeling safe about that plan? Had he really felt everything was going to be okay? If anything had gone wrong—anything at all—he’d have been gone. He’d have been dead. How had they made it so he felt okay with that?    A trick? A ruse?    How blasé they’d all been, when it was his life they were gambling with like a worthless set of poker chips! And they’re here—all around him. Safe? He’s never been in more danger.    “Joker!”    Surrounded. He’s surrounded by the ones who left him for dead.

the Dancer doesn't get as much attention in text because i didn't want to slow down the pacing of the story every few minutes to do another huge scene tgat doesn't really serve a purpose, just like the exploration of the Globe Wing didn't. all that mattered was that he was shown to be adaptable, agile, and resilient - the Dancer needs to be in top condition at all times and ready to dodge any threat. the imagery that came through to me the strongest was the idea that his feet are always bleeding, so he leaves bloodstains all over the floor.

the Magician

this was another scene i adored writing. i think environment-wise, the House of Cards is my favourite Wing in the palace because it's the most unique structure. it's not a styled theatre like the others, it's more on-theme to the Magician, like he's set up his own performance environment. so it's just a huge house of cards made of crumbling playing cards which is really difficult to navigate and which joker kind of blends into.

the premise for the Magician was someone who needs to perform miracles and present impossible illusions as reality with a flair for drama. the Magician fools the Thieves over and over and over again, because they are good-hearted people who want to save him.

did you ever see that unused mementos request in royal where akechi tells the thieves about a target to save someone, and doesn't tell them that the someone in question is dodgy themself, and watches to see how quickly the Thieves immediately trust them?

i don't think i based this fight off this request because im pretty sure i had it planned out before i ever saw this, but i was really pleased to see it because it's very much the same idea. even in the engine room, akechi calls the thieves idiots for inviting him back into the team. of course, this isn't a good or healthy worldview lol and it's something he has to unlearn because he literally trusts no one and that's not an extreme anyone should be endorsing, but he also has a point in that the thieves are willing to throw their faith into things way too easily and don't look critically at people or situations. so the magician fools them, victimises them, tricks them into considering him a victim, fools them again, traumatises them, but they all continue to feel empathy for him and try to save him when he's in trouble. akc's cynicism vs the thieves' faith is a big theme of this one i think and the question is like, when to doubt vs when to trust even when you have evidence to the opposition. i think the right position is somewhere between thesis and antithesis (which iirc is not actually the wording hegel used when describing dialectics? lol... i might be wrong. i never studied hegel so my knowledge is pretty superficial. but i think this was a translation thing anyway because allegedly goro doesnt refer directly to hegel in jp? someone can confirm or deny idk)

anyway those are the bossfights we've had so far!!! just the VIP Box to go now......................... :3

[dollsome-does-tumblr]

i do gotta admit, the wwdits finale has left me with a yucky lingering sadness all day. i wanted warmer warm 'n fuzzies than this, somehow! like, deranged warm ‘n fuzzies, but warm ‘n fuzzies still!

[anna-scribbles]

I dreamed that the next chapter of call it even was out and was so so confused and sad when I woke up and realized that wasn’t true. Anyways I’m loving call it even summer, it’s always so much fun getting my brain chemistry rewritten <3

CRYING that is tragic and also kind of hilarious to me. you were dreaming of a beautiful scenario which is call it even ch 6 day (tomorrow)(!!!) I can't make up for the confusion and sadness but I can offer you some of abby's comments on the google doc of this chapter. as a gift

[carlottastudios]

So I think I'm making some decent progress on my unhinged Kaeya lore thoughts post

The WIP of the mindmap is below the cut

I'm really scared that I'm still missing a lot of stuff, but it's past midnight now so I'll be stopping for now and actually get some sleep