#it's about his perception of the universe. his pragmatism.

[glados-kisser]

gauldoth half-dead is kind of hot ?

[cloudwifey]

Dissecting Naruto’s Ending in Good Faith

Let's consider the possibility that Kishimoto's ending was deliberate—that things ended how they should've, and some plots weren't mistakes (looking at you, Kaguya).

Okay, hear me out. By assuming this, we can explore the series with a good-faith reading. Recently, I’ve been reflecting on the series as an adult, and it’s shaken up many of my beliefs and perceptions—it's somewhat distressing, so I’ve been processing all this in therapy too, and coming to key conclusions. I think It's crucial to understand the motivations behind Kishimoto's choices, not just within the Narutoverse but also within the Kishiverse. Why did he make the decisions he did?

Why did he suddenly introduce reincarnations and fate? Aliens? Why the couples that seemingly came out of nowhere? Why doesn't Naruto quite change the system, or help the Hyugas? The final arc, overall, just seemed quite jarring, with some plots (like fate) seemingly subverting the message of the series.

I wonder, then, if Kishimoto's ending shows more of a realistic world rather than an idealized one. Reality often unfolds messily and sadly, devoid of perfect resolutions. Whether intentional or not, Kishimoto's storytelling may reflect his acknowledgment of the imperfect nature of existence. His reality bleeds into his creation, and he's subject to the same harsh realities his characters face.

Fate, Justice, and Change

In this unideal depiction, Naruto and Sasuke's actions are tied to fate rather than free will, Sasuke doesn't achieve his revolution, Naruto doesn't dismantle the shinobi system, and both end up in marriages that seem sudden and unsatisfactory.

If Kishimoto indeed intended this, why? Well, change often takes time, and sometimes change doesn’t even happen at all. People can become tired of fighting for a cause in certain ways, and settle for smaller victories. Relationships may not always align with desires, leading to compromises for convenience.

It's intriguing that Kishimoto explores themes of defying fate while ultimately making Naruto destined to save the world anyway. By making even the protagonists constrained by destiny, Kishimoto echoes historical cycles of rise and fall. Perhaps there's something inevitable about human love and hatred. We can begin to see Kishimoto's philosophical musings on how the universe came to be—the First Cause theory, that there's a divine Creator behind the universe. Or, perhaps, no matter the circumstances or our destinies, we must try to make our own decisions.

And, Sasuke's lack of revolution may not be a complete surrender. He doesn't fully support the system, remaining detached from the bureaucratic and familial norms by traveling. He pursues justice by roaming the world as a vagabond, championing justice as a vigilante. Sasuke has never been one to adhere strictly to Konoha's rules; he eschews the headband and prioritizes loyalty to his morals and loved ones. His rebellion does not manifest as he initially envisioned because his youthful idealism inevitably wanes. But this doesn’t take away from his fight, because Kishimoto portrays him as insightful and intelligent, showing that Sasuke can recognize the pragmatic benefits of partial conformity. He forever remains committed to his pursuit of justice by traveling and aiding others. Thus, his true surrender lies in acknowledging that he can be loved without compromising his strength, refuting the notion of love as a weakness.

As for Naruto, he isn't ignorant—he does comprehend the situation fully, sharing a deep understanding with Sasuke that transcends words (“I know your heart, and you mine” telepathic conversations). While it doesn't seem like much has changed, the events in Boruto unfold merely two decades after Naruto's era, a short span in historical terms. Significant societal transformations typically require centuries, not mere decades. Nevertheless, Naruto succeeds in establishing an era of peace, which Kishimoto shows through the relatively low stakes in Boruto. And when there are threats, they often manifest on a cosmic scale involving gods and extraterrestrial beings. While Naruto and Sasuke have brokered peace among nations, they acknowledge the inevitability of conflicts and warfare. Naruto's focus shifts towards fortifying the system itself, striving for safety within the constraints of reality.

Unexpected and Reluctant Couples

To thoroughly analyze the series, we must also examine the role of romance, as Kishimoto's introduction of romantic pairings significantly impacts plot themes, character development, and motivations. Whether we embrace it or not, these pairings alter the essence of characters in ways previously unseen.

In the canon material (manga and anime main story only), Sasuke and Naruto exhibit no romantic interest in Sakura and Hinata throughout the series. In fact, neither actively pursues romance in general. Sasuke states as such to Kakashi, and Naruto tells Jiraiya he’s not interested in girls. While Naruto initially does have feelings for Sakura, he eventually relinquishes them. Both protagonists prioritize their ideological missions above all else, with exceptions made for their friendship with each other. Sasuke, for instance, abandons his vendetta against Itachi when he sacrifices himself for Naruto in the Land of Waves, while Naruto is willing to forsake his dream of becoming Hokage to die to save Sasuke from loneliness and hatred.

So, how does Kishimoto portray their eventual marriages? Sakura pursues Sasuke persistently, repeatedly confessing her feelings until he ultimately relents and agrees to a family life with her. Meanwhile, Naruto displays no romantic interest in Hinata, even disregarding her confession during the battle with Pain. When he eventually marries her and starts a family, it feels contrived and dispassionate, a jarring image contrasting the boisterous Naruto we know. These relationships seem to emerge out of duty and resignation rather than genuine affection. Both Sasuke and Naruto appear worn down by their wives' persistence, leading them to reluctantly accept their marriages.

These couples have sparked considerable debate within the fandom, and rightly so, because they are not healthy or truly romantic relationships; rather, the depiction reflects the harsh realities of many real-life relationships. Kishimoto portrays Naruto and Sasuke's marriages with little prior development; perhaps a deliberate narrative choice rather than an oversight, highlighting their dissatisfaction through their roles as absentee fathers.

And in terms of specifics, Naruto's marriage seems to revolve more around Hinata than anything else. Consider this: why is Naruto portrayed as uncharacteristically serious and subdued when interacting with Hinata? Even during the pivotal moment when he finally confesses his love to her, his demeanor remains stoic and solemn. Where is the goofy and expressive Naruto we know and love? Additionally, why does Kishimoto include comments from other characters urging Naruto to "treat her well"? Because Naruto's marriage is not primarily about him; Hinata simply happened to be there, and it’s his duty to follow up on that.

And for Sasuke, why do we see panels like the family dinner in Boruto where Sasuke appears utterly miserable? Why is Sasuke never around? Why didn’t Kishimoto even give them a kiss scene? Why does Sasuke mostly display emotions when he's engaged in combat or interacting with Naruto? It's because Sasuke finds purpose and vitality in fighting for his beliefs, and Naruto is the only character depicted by Kishimoto who truly understands Sasuke's innermost thoughts and feelings. Sakura doesn't get Sasuke's essence. Isn't a marriage supposed to be built on true understanding, and progression?

One way we can see it is, Kishimoto, as an artist, is deliberate with his drawings, and these details are not mistakes. Canonically, both Sasuke and Naruto are depicted as tired or subdued in their relationships. Despite Kishimoto drawing them blushing in various situations before, neither of them ever exhibits such reactions when interacting with their wives. This deliberate choice by Kishimoto, despite them being his beloved main characters, shows that Sasuke and Naruto are not in love with Sakura and Hinata.

Love and (lack of) Romance

Sasuke and Naruto are not portrayed as romantic individuals; rather, they are depicted as traumatized fighters and idealists driven by a desire to change the world.

Kishimoto remains true to this characterization throughout the series, extending into Boruto. While Naruto is largely a series about love, it's not focused on romantic love. Instead, it delves into the concept of transcendent love and optimism amidst adversity, encompassing love found in seeking revenge, striving to change the world, and fostering bonds of friendship and loyalty. The relationship between Naruto and Sasuke is the one Kishimoto gives the most development to in the series, and embodies nuances of love, rivalry, loyalty, and compromise. This love isn’t necessarily romantic, but it can also be anything because it is transcendent love. This part is up to you to decide and I believe doesn’t take away from their story either way.

Another question that arises is, does Kishimoto really just suck at writing romance? Well, not really. He’s demonstrated his ability to craft compelling romances, such as those between Minato and Kushina, and Asuma and Kurenai. However, he chose not to apply this to Naruto and Hinata or Sasuke and Sakura. Although, he does show that Sasuke cares for Karin at one point, even awakening a new power for her, but takes it back as their relationship ultimately falls victim to Sasuke's madness at the time (although I believe this relationship, along with Naruto x Sasuke, can tentatively be argued for, but I digress for now).

These decisions reflect 1) the fact that Naruto and Sasuke's characters are not about romantic love; their goals and convictions for justice are prioritized above all else 2) Hinata and Sakura are not The Ones for them. Thus, their seemingly unhappy relationships serve as a reflection of their de-prioritization of romantic love in favor of their greater missions.

Further, realistically, people don't always end up with their ideal partners. Many people settle in relationships because they desire families or because they are pursued by others, rather than actively seeking out their soulmates. Kishimoto chooses to depict Naruto and Sasuke with a lack of emotional expression with their respective spouses. Even in the presence of their own children, Naruto and Sasuke are not depicted with joyful expressions, suggesting a lack of fulfillment in their familial roles.

The Whitepill

Ultimately, the way things turned out seems disheartening at first because shows are meant to inspire and provide an escape from reality. Throughout the series, Kishimoto led us to believe in the possibility of an ideal ending, where change is attainable and love conquers all.

But, Kishimoto's decision to depict Naruto and Sasuke's inability to achieve 100% of what we desire is, in fact, profound. The truth is, we can't always get exactly what we want, but we can make small compromises and strive for justice in whatever ways we can. This struggle is something humanity has faced throughout its history. Our world is far from ideal. But, we are still able to achieve bits of justice in ways we can; we get just enough to keep us going, to leave us with the thirst for more.

Perhaps Kishimoto portrays Sasuke's surrender not because he believes Naruto is unequivocally right, but because Sasuke wants to choose love, and is inherently kind and idealistic. He cares deeply about his friend and desires to see positive change in the world. Sasuke's journey leads him to become a protector of not just Konoha, but all villages, reflecting his compassion for people everywhere.

Similarly, Kishimoto may depict Naruto continuing on as part of the existing system not because Naruto is complacent, but because he's someone who seeks to work within established frameworks rather than tearing them down completely. This approach doesn't diminish Naruto's convictions or his commitment to change; rather, it reflects his pragmatic approach to achieving his goals while minimizing disruption.

Naruto and Sasuke's best efforts serve as inspiration for us to take up the mantle and continue the fight.

Ideal World and Optimism

Despite this, Naruto’s ending does not really make sense in an ideal world. In an ideal world, there would be a more perfect compromise, we wouldn't be bound by our fate, and the oppressive shinobi system would be dismantled. Naruto and Sasuke would have more time to heal and explore the world alone, and eventually find fulfillment in their love lives; Sasuke would find someone who truly understands him, while Naruto would enjoy a relationship where he can be his true, expressive self. Sakura would be able to move past her childhood infatuation and grow personally, while Hinata would gain confidence and develop her own identity.

Therefore, reading from a purely Narutoverse standpoint, the issues I mentioned do, in fact, undermine the themes and relationships built over the course of the narrative. Maybe Kishimoto fumbled after all, and Boruto sucks, and is simply a cash grab. Or, he intentionally wanted to troll us—suddenly breaking all conventional storytelling rules is suspicious, right?

Perhaps what really happened is a mix of all these things. While there are many external influences that led to this bleak ending, Kishimoto's intentions surely play a vital role.

Regardless, Kishimoto's big mistake is being too subtle and abrupt in introducing the new concepts at the end. However, in doing so, he has successfully sparked ongoing disagreement and discourse that persists even a decade after the series concluded.

In this sense, he has effectively brought attention to the messages: make love, not war; seek change, not complacency; and find The One, don’t settle. And even if I’m wrong in everything and this whole essay is just a copium, it's a lot better to believe in my ideals than to accept defeat. Because, Naruto taught me one invaluable lesson—no matter the odds, never give up.

[slowd1ving]

IV. REVISED: THE CONCEPT OF FRIENDSHIP .・゜DAN HENG NSFW

One of the theories pushed forward in this universe—a common conjecture between scientists throughout the stars—is that there are disturbances in a system that is being observed, versus one that is not. This is astutely named the observer effect. And this situation is the first proper example he’s seen of that. Dan Heng feels that as soon as he takes his eyes off you, you’ll phase back to a space between these dimensions, like some specter there are only myths about. when data nerd Dan Heng finds the forbidden dictionary and masters the hidden art: synonyms male! engineer reader warnings: eventual nsfw, kind of but not really spoilers to dan heng's backstory, amab reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART

There’s a certain art that comes with avoiding people, and Dan Heng has practically mastered it by now. From evading the monsters that habitually trespass on his path, to eluding the red-eyed man from Dan Feng’s convoluted past—no one can deny his experience in these twisted matters. 

Unlike his predecessor, he has no qualms in ridding himself of problematic situations by simply taking his leave. And though he may be labelled a coward, he can’t find it within himself to care. Honour and dignity is important—he’ll acknowledge that gladly—but making the pragmatic decision is something he’ll continue to prioritise. 

When you’re a fugitive, it’s all you have left. 

So, why hasn’t he left the Express yet?

A week prior, the brief vacation finally reached its conclusion and he stepped back onto the train. It was easy at first—you were busy reading over the contract negotiated by Mr. Yang with Argo-II for their bronze. There was no time for you and him to be alone. Not even in that fateful kitchen. 

His nightmares had ceased temporarily due to the lingering effects of the Argonian booze, so there was an easy excuse to save him from the regular nightly rendezvous. But at what cost?

All the rational cells in his brain are urging him to leave the Express far behind. It’s a honey-trap, they scream—he’s becoming too dependent on its security. There is also the pressing issue of your presence, but he’s intentionally avoiding thinking about it. 

He should leave. 

Dan Heng has overstayed his welcome. 

“—oh, Dan Heng, perfect. Do you remember where the information for the Migrides Embassy legislature was, from when I asked for it a few weeks back?” Himeko’s request jolts him from his reverie, and before he’s even aware of it, his deft hands pick out the correct file from the archive shelves. “We’ll use their own courts against them to uphold our honour.”

He frowns. I’ve gotten too acclimated to living here. 

“Are you feeling alright?”

The man in question tears his eyes away from the small bag that sits in the corner. It’s a sharp reminder of his obligations—moving on before he lands himself in an even bigger mess. 

“Perfectly fine, Himeko,” he bites his tongue, afraid that his sour mood will taint his polite words with curtness. 

She tilts her head, and her blood-like hair spills from her shoulders in a clean decapitation. The action is an ominous prelude to her next words. 

“You didn’t have an argument with him, or anything?” 

Sometimes, she’s also annoyingly perceptive. 

“No,” he replies carefully. “We’ve just been busy with our respective lines of work.”

“...If you say so.” It’s clear she doesn’t believe him, and the long look she gives him only reinforces that notion. He can’t bring himself to meet her eyes; they seem like they’ll unearth his unease about being near you, forcibly prying any reason from him. Behind his back, his nails dig into his palms. “The tension doesn’t suit you. Talk to him sooner rather than later.”

She exits the archives then, and he’s left wondering about the meaning embedded deep within her words. 

What tension? That dream was an error; like the fields of ‘Asphodel’, he would’ve never dreamt about you had he been in his right mind. 

Sure, he might be avoiding you, but he’s not tense. He’s my friend. The awkward feeling will dissipate in due time, so Dan Heng’s making the tactful decision to elude you and get over himself. And Himeko’s right, he reluctantly accepts. If he wants to inoculate himself against making things even weirder than they normally are, it’s necessary to ease back into the regular back-and-forth of friendship with you. 

Friendship—the word’s bittersweet on his tongue, for some strange reason. 

It’s both fortunate and unfortunate that he’s unable to see you for the next few days. 

After all, you personally descend to the Migrides cluster alongside Himeko—an unlikely pair, but one that absolutely makes sense—in order to finally beat the Embassy at their own game. It’s strange, though. Where he should find relief in his chest, there’s only a heavier, tighter burden to carry. 

It hurts. There’s no rhyme nor reason to his erratic pulse, not any more. For those few days, there’s not a trace of your presence and he’s growing listless. 

Contradictions. He’s full of them, forcibly driving a wedge between the two of you, yet he can’t deal with the overwhelming lack of you.

“You’re spacing out,” Mr. Yang cuts into his thoughts. There’s only a wooden chequerboard between them, but it feels more like a chasm that simply cannot be bridged. “And losing.”

Check. His rook is promptly sacrificed in the bloody battle, but it’s not like he’ll win. With a drawn out sigh, he tips his king flat onto the board. 

“There’s something on your mind, I’d wager.” Mr. Yang stares long and hard at the easy victory he’d gained—one of Dan Heng’s most embarrassing moments in chess, but it’s not like he’s particularly engrossed in the game. 

“What gave that away?” 

It’s a curt response; he’s tired of the constant reminders of you. Still, he holds onto the hope that maybe—just maybe—the bespectacled man isn’t referring to you like Himeko had. 

Mr. Yang simply looks at him with that flat gaze, and he loses that kindled ember of hope he nurtured. 

“Forget it,” he shakes his head, and for a brief moment Dan Heng feels relief that the topic has been dropped. 

“I’m sure you’ve got it under control. I’m sure you’re not running away from communication.”

Sometimes, he’s reminded that Mr. Yang is more sardonic than he lets on. 

And there’s something so hilarious in the way he musters up his courage to approach you first, only for you to slide open the door to the archives first. 

Thump. For a heartbeat or two, he’s spellbound by your return—yet he can’t bring himself to say anything. He ducks his head back into his book when you look over: piercing eyes glaring right into his soul. There’s a faint rustling of plastic against plastic as you slide out several files, though not a singular word from your lips. 

Aeons. He can feel his face heat up as the rough mixture of soap and metal hits him. You’re here, but he can barely think, let alone formulate any sort of sentence. 

When he looks up after a few minutes, you’re still there—and noticing his eyes on you, you give him a brief nod whilst you read over your selection. 

It’s too much. It really is. 

Dan Heng leaves the small room with paper trailing behind him and a pulse too erratic to be considered healthy—the rushed action elicits a small noise of surprise as he brushes past you. He avoids your eyes, but can’t evade the mandarins still clinging to your clothes and now his. 

The bathroom door is locked, yet your presence is etched onto his skin. 

This is friendship?—he scoffs. Friendship shouldn’t taste so bitter, not when his stomach is writhing uncontrollably. Not when he feels his tongue go leaden and skull grow heavy. There’s something wrong with him. It’s clawing from his insides—raw scars are left on tender flesh. 

Even when he knows the coast is long clear, it takes more than a half-hour for him to slink back to the archives. Why? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know, not when the lingering remains of you still hover around the enclosed space. 

If he had one word to describe this feeling welling up inside, it would be torturous. 

Shameful. 

He can’t sleep. 

Long past the time he usually takes the first steps into the dream world—or in his case, the cacophony of nightmares—he’s still tossing and turning. It’s not the sticky heat that seems to plague him, but rather the anticipation of something finally happening that keeps him up. It’s stupid. His mind is hazy as he checks the time on his phone, yet not hazy enough to slip into that wreck of a slumber. 

00:34

His fingers tap mindlessly on the screen. Nothing. No messages, no mail, not even a scammer he could mess with for once. He’d work on finally updating and organising information about the smaller planets near Penacony, but even that’s barred from him via Pom-Pom’s stern insistence that there not be more than one sleep-deprived fool on this train. He doesn’t particularly wish to know the conductor’s wrath, so he does what they say. 

00:40

It’s a disgusting sort of lethargy. He can’t will his eyes to stay closed, yet he can’t bring himself to summon Cloud-Piercer either to numb his mind from his thoughts. 

He grits his teeth, and he can feel each molar grind against another. Bone against bone. 

Pathetic. 

He checks his phone one last time, and turns it off for good. Perhaps if he wasn’t so unlucky this night, he might have seen the message that came up just a few minutes after it powered off. 

01-04-XXXX

<Frankenstein & Co.> 02:59 > [robot.jpeg attached]  02:59 > Yeah this one looks like you lmao

<You> … < 03:04 Wow. You’re such a comedian. < 03:04 If you ever need a gig with the Masked Fools I’m sure they’ve got plenty of vacancies. < 03:05

03:05 > Cope bro 10:56 > Btw Welt picked up takeout from the Space Station 10:57 > Hurry up before I eat your share too

(+4 unread messages)

21-04-XXXX

<I’ll get you a satanic… mechanic> 00:55 > We’re both shit at communicating  00:55 > I’m coming to the archives in half an hour to put back the files, since I know you’re probably awake. Might as well talk it out.   00:56 > If you’re sleeping I won’t bother you  00:57 > We’ll just figure it out tomorrow I guess

Dan Heng has never been particularly fortuitous. Perhaps that’s why the message only gets delivered and not read. Perhaps that’s why he staves off the urge to check out his schedule for tomorrow in favour of rest. 

When they call him unapproachable, maybe luck also thinks of him that way. Sure, Dan Feng’s had his own share of misfortuned days, but tonight might just be the unluckiest night in this incarnation's life. 

When does it start?

In his memories, it might’ve been triggered by the gradual heat spreading across his limbs. His skin is molten across flesh: scorched to its very bones. Everything’s so tight—it’s no wonder that he throws his shirt into the corner next to him. He’s left breathing heavily in only sweatpants, and still they’re too cumbersome, too constricting. 

What’s the cause of it all?

It might’ve been catalysed by the dizzying feeling playing on his mind that started a while ago. He’s entranced: wandering through a fog that seems to have no end, all in the hopes of catching a glimpse of whatever’s making his heart flutter all hummingbird-like. 

Or maybe it’s the faint traces of you still clinging to the air. 

At first, he can’t quite pinpoint where it’s coming from. When he turns his head on his pillow, the strands of a clean soap grow stronger—so he reaches out. His fingers brush against soft fabric, and the man freezes with his fist clenched around your sweater. 

It’s yours. 

Somehow, your presence hasn’t yet been washed out from the threads. And for whatever damned reason, pressing it near his face is lulling him into a better stupor than that cursed drink ever did. 

It’s not enough. 

He buries his face in the material—by now, he’s practically drinking in all the intricacies of your scent. Inhale. Notes of orange peel, the subtle shift of soap, and the disorienting tang of diesel. Exhale. His mouth is half-open: too caught up in the throes of whatever this is to close. Unbearable. That’s what it is: a deep tension right below his navel that forces him to slowly lose his senses. 

One hand is firmly clenched around the fabric pressed to his face, while the other discards the stifling blanket that’s only suffocating him further. But as he does so, he accidentally brushes against the front of his sweatpants.

His heart skips a beat, then bangs against his ribcage particularly loudly. 

“Ah,” he gasps out. A chaotic pulse registers, deafening, along his ear canal. There’s a realisation that trickles honey-slow through his brain. It’s not like he’s explored this way of tiring himself out.

Aeons. 

He’s never felt so perverted. 

He’s never felt so conflicted. 

Was it not enough that he had that dream about you back on Argo-I? 

Aha must be gleefully orchestrating this twist of fate—he’s sure of it—as this defies rational thought. He should not be getting turned on to the smell of his friend that invades his senses and overwhelms him so completely. 

It’s not him, he justifies weakly. It’s just the feeling of there being another person. Well, with that sort of logic, Nous is itching to accept him into the folds of the Genius Society. 

There’s that strong, bubbling shame that lays heavy in his chest; however, the tightness in his lower abdomen is catalysing its destruction. It doesn’t help that he’s losing himself in the warm scent of you, and the shortness of breath that comes with covering one’s mouth and nose in thick fabric. No, it definitely helps. Shame aside, he somehow hasn’t crossed the precipice of perversion; the hand that isn’t lodged firmly against the material is merely resting atop his bare torso. 

He can’t bring himself to trail his fingers lower. 

It’ll help with sleeping, he rationalises once more. His head is heavy, and his self-control is slowly slipping as he keeps breathing you in. 

What would he say? If you saw him—face flushed, nuzzled into your clothing; chest bared with hardened nipples from both his arousal and the stream of cool air; sweatpants tight across his hips—what would you do? Would you leave in disgust (eyes trailing briefly across the body of what can only be called a pervert)? Would you curse him out in that rough voice of yours (then never speak to him ever again)?

Would you help him out?

The very thought of it makes his pulse bloom vibrant in his head—desperate to be heard, desperate to rip through his skull. It is also a sobering notion. 

He turns his body until he’s flat on his stomach with his face buried in the sweater currently draped over his pillow. The action is meant to rob his breath and calm his racing thoughts, but this really isn’t his lucky day. 

“Mmh,” he whines into the fabric when the pressure of his weight exerts itself right on his crotch. It was an accident, he later swears, but he can’t bring himself to move from this position. His mind is growing numb—not in the way he wants it to—but something so carnally perverse it brings an even greater flush to his face. 

Despite the futility of the gesture, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut in one last desperate bid for sleep. In his mind, he’s begging for slumber without having to resort to that. However, it’s fruitless: pointless in every sense of the word. Him attempting to relax even further just makes the warm sheets brush against his naked chest—and with his eyes closed, it feels more like hands gently cupping around the area. 

He gives up. 

He feels so much shame that he’s delirious on it as he grinds against the thick material of the futon. Dan Heng knows he shouldn’t be doing this��rutting himself against his bed desperately while his teeth leave small marks in your sweater—but the irrational part of his mind has long taken over. 

It’s not enough. It’s nothing more than a brief morsel of pleasure—far from being able to sate his hunger and quench his thirst. 

The hour is late enough that he doesn’t feel particularly cautious as he turns back to face the glimmering ceiling. There’s an unspoken rule on the Express: don’t step into the Archives once the light goes out. Therefore, he abandons the caution he usually employs in this small space and slips his cold fingers past the waistband. 

He hisses as his frigid hand wraps around himself, thumb brushing just past the leaking tip in a way that is simultaneously overbearing yet simply not enough. 

It’s not like he’s never done this before, but it was more of a perfunctory experiment rather than anything—and being chased by a homicidal maniac does little to get him off. 

His other hand abandons the plush material of your clothing to tug sharply at his nipples—jaw clamping down on the threads to prevent the rushed moan from leaving him as he rolls them with gelid fingers. He’s sensitive: every harsh application of pressure shoots straight through his neurons and into his brain, and that’s slowly frying. 

“Mmh—” he slurs around the fabric in his mouth, practically gagging on it as he paws at his tits. 

The garment obstructing his vision and airways feels so empty that he can’t help but assign some sort of meaning to it. What would it be like if it were replaced by him instead?—he thinks, and the very notion causes his cock to twitch within the confines of his fingers. Your hand might be twined through his hair just like this: tugging on the strands as you manoeuvre him to fit exactly against you. Your thighs might clamp around the sides of his face like this: locking him there while he takes you down his throat. 

It could be him, and the concept is shoved to some disused, forgotten corner of his mind with just a phrase. 

He’s just a friend, and the words taste bitter in his mind.  

As if to forget, his fist hastens its pace and he’s rocking his hips into the motion. It’s rough—nothing like how he usually would be so methodical with this. Then again, it’s clear that he’s not trying to emulate his own ways while his hand wraps around himself; but he doesn’t want to acknowledge exactly who he’s imitating. 

It’s still not enough.

The garment stretches taut across his motions: too constricting for him to reach that high that he senses clouding the edges of his consciousness. Before, these sorts of actions were experimental—not meant to induce pleasure or buzz his mind, but simply a perfunctory exploration of his own body. Yet now, it’s clearly evolved into him chasing the haze as though he’s nothing more than some slut. 

He hisses as he slips the waistband of his pants down with a tacky hand—the darkness enveloping him only makes the cold air sharp against his sensitive skin. 

The darkness also grants him reprieve; it reminds him that he’s alone in this moment, and no one will know of his sins come morning. 

An absence of light also leads to his other senses growing more profound. Neuroplasticity. The term refers to the nervous system and senses rewiring themselves due to various stimuli, such as losing a sense. 

Without sight, he can clearly hear the sticky shick-shick as he fucks into his fist. He can hear every shift of skin against skin—every lewd squelch when he pumps his hand downwards. He can hear the rustling of clothing as it adheres to the pre-cum spilling from his tip. He can hear each bitten groan as it leaves his lips, muffled against you. Or at least, your sweater. 

Most of all, he can hear the desperate drumming of his racing heart as it acclimates to his sudden hunger for ecstasy.

+8 unread messages

21-04-XXXX 

<I’ll get you a satanic… mechanic> 00:55 > We’re both shit at communicating  00:55 > I’m coming to the archives in half an hour to put back the files, since I know you’re probably awake. Might as well talk it out.   00:56 > If you’re sleeping I won’t bother you  00:57 > We’ll just figure it out tomorrow I guess 01:14 > You really should turn on your read receipts sometime 01:14 > I can’t tell if you’ve read these or not but I’ll assume you’ve seen them  01:14 > Since you’re usually still up and around at this time 01:15 > I’m almost done with writing up the Migrides report for the Society, so I’ll be there in like five to ten minutes? I’m turning right back if you’re asleep though 

His pulse damn near bursts out of his chests as he speeds the motions of his hands up: one clenched tight around himself, while the other draws crude circles into his hardened nipples. It’s not perfect, not by any means—it’s sloppy and undignified, so unlike how he is that he half-wonders what possessed him. 

But the rough, hurried pace allows him to dissociate from himself briefly. It’s not he who ravishes himself, but the careless approximation of you pressing hard against his weeping cock: jerking it this way and that as tears leak down his flushed cheeks. 

As he imagines you knelt between his legs, the debauchment—the shame—paints his cheeks a garish red. There’s no way to take it back; he’s already crossed a line he shouldn’t have, and he can’t stop himself from doing so. Every time he forces the image into the forgotten recesses of his mind, you’re there again: spreading his legs while you make a mess between them. 

He can’t stop. He can’t stop. You’re not allowed to stop, not when he’s almost trespassing the brink of pleasure. Hurriedly, he twists his hand—your hand—just so and his stomach heaves as though on a particularly rough starskiff. 

His skin feels feverish—on the very brink of delirium and madness—but there’s still something missing. 

More, his body begs. He’s so empty, and the feeling is so foreign he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Or, more accurately, he knows full well what to do, which is precisely why he’s so hesitant to even formulate the thoughts and go through the motions. 

Slowly, his fingers trail down the vertical dip in his stomach, past the valley of his waist, and nestle neatly between his spread legs. 

There are two crucial things that he’s unawares of, much to his detriment. One, that the time is precisely nineteen minutes past the system hour—the sand in the hourglass paves the path to your arrival. Two, the door to the archives isn’t nearly as soundproof as he thinks. Of course, he’s experienced this himself—hearing the bass thrum through the panels of your own door—but it’s not occurring to him that this applies to his own as well.

Instinctively, he muffles his whines and moans, just in case. But honestly, it’s hard to focus on cutting off his noises when he’s roughly jerking his palm while fucking himself on his fingers. 

It’s hard to focus on anything, except the faint trail of metal still lingering in the air. Human-loved liquor rarely weaves those blessed by Long into its viscous spell, yet somehow the merest whisper of your presence forces upon him unmatched drunkenness. 

And you’ll never know the effect you have on him. Not when he’s so painfully hard, not when he’s stuffing himself with his fingers and pretending it’s you. Sweat laves him tonight, and he is baptised in the filth of his own lust. 

“So close,” he slurs in his delirium. At least in the cover of the endless night, when the only light comes from the glow of data, his body is as honest as his thoughts. 

Which is to say, not very honest at all. 

There’s something missing—something so slight, yet profound enough to add a counterweight to his tipping into ecstasy. He can’t move past the precipice; blankness simply eludes him. Though, whenever he thinks of you, that path to hedonistic pleasure is that much clearer. 

The steady hum of data calibrating itself to Astral Express standards should be the primary sound washing over this enclosed space, but the low whir is delegated to the sidelines. He’s chanting your name in broken, garbled syllables; if it were any louder, there wouldn’t be any relative machine humming to speak of in the first place. 

In fact, the same word practically drowns out any other awareness he has of the environment. Maybe if he hadn’t been mindlessly spilling your name from his lips, he might’ve been just the tiniest bit luckier. 

Alas, Dan Heng’s soul is far less fortunate than one can imagine. 

This set of banal coincidences—a lack of soundproofing, his weakening senses, and his decision to turn his phone off for the night, him avoiding you—all culminate into his impending doom. 

In the first heartbeat following this revelation from fate, your footsteps slowly make their way from your room: feet sinking into plush carpet with a languorous sort of amble that doesn’t belie the neurotic twitch of your hands as you walk towards the person who’s avoided you successfully for however many days. In any other set of circumstances, he would’ve picked up on the tiniest of disturbances outside and nearby his door: down to the very buckles of your outfit clinking together, down to the creak in your boots as you shifted impatiently. 

In the second heartbeat, you pause outside the door—hand poised to knock in an awfully ironic mirror of him just a few months ago. 

How naive. If he saw this picture right now, he would’ve told himself to never board this Express. 

You pause outside the door, and it’s reached a point where the sounds escaping his parted lips are lulled. Or, more accurately, they escape with each exhale—natural as crying, to the point where one might think he’s having a particularly vivid nightmare. There’s nothing to suggest what’s actually going on.

This, therefore, is the last moment he has to not screw this up any further. 

But—

There is a very strong ‘but’.

—Dan Heng has already established his inaptitude for fortune. 

Had he seen you right now, he would’ve witnessed the turn in your shoulders as you accept the small noises as him just having a nightmare. Plausible explanation. There’s enough circumstantial evidence and midnight encounters to immediately come to that conclusion, then leave him to inevitably wake up on his own. 

However—however—you simply don’t turn away fast enough. Or, Dan Heng has the worst timing to ever exist. Maybe it’s the first reason for this calamity, maybe it’s both, but looking back on it, it was definitely the latter explanation. 

He’s so close. 

As he’s hastily sliding his hand up and down his weeping cock, while his fingers probe at unfamiliarity, your name slips from his mouth once more. These fateful sound waves ripple and poke past the wooden door, far enough to reach your ears and freeze your steps. 

“Dan Heng?”

He must’ve hallucinated it. But that’s your voice, so hushed and tender that his flesh throbs beneath his fingers. 

Shivers descend on his body—so profound his vision goes white for a brief moment—and thick ropes of cum spurt out onto his stomach. He’s so sensitive, but he needs so much more: rocking back onto his fingers while his slick walls clamp down onto them. 

“Ah,” he whines out, in tandem with the door opening. 

Finally. 

That grabs his attention, and his hips stutter to a grinding halt as his head turns to the side. Glossy eyes lined with unshed tears stare at the mirage to his right—it’s you, illuminated by the low glow of the data banks and the dim light in the background. 

No. 

You’re real. 

His breath hitches. Like a deer caught in headlights, he’s frozen; except in this scenario, it’s much worse than a quick hit-and-run. Dan Heng’s a mess right now. There’s globs of white pearled across his chest and stomach, there’s the fact that one hand is still cupping his hard dick, there’s still the image of the fingers of the other hand nestled deep between his legs. There’s the drool leaking from his parted lips; there’s his fucked-out, hazed expression complete with burning cheeks; and perhaps the most incriminating factor, there’s your sweatshirt still draped across his pillow.

Aeons. No amount of explanations will ever save him. It’s why he can’t bring himself to scramble to piece together his shredded dignity.

“Uh,” you begin intelligently. There’s some sadistic (wholly unconcerned with his own situation) part of him that notes that this is the first instance he’s seen of you being struck dumb like this. 

It’s dim enough that you need a moment to process it, but he watches your eyes adjust. You take in his half-naked state, exactly where his hands are still positioned, and finally, that damned sweatshirt. 

He swallows, but no words escape his mouth. And frighteningly enough, he can feel himself twitch against his cold palm. 

“I really wasn’t expecting this when I came to confront you about avoiding me,” you mutter, firmly looking elsewhere as he pulls the sheets so they cover his legs and sits upright. “Did I cause some crisis within you? Is your attraction to me the reason you’ve been so distant?”

“I’m not…” Distant? Avoidant? Attracted to you? 

“I’m not interested in my friend like that,” he replies thickly. “I just needed to sort myself—ah—out before I could continue that relationship.”

If this were anyone else, this conversation would’ve ended a few minutes ago. If he were any closer to you, he would’ve left this area as soon as possible. Maybe it’s because you’re so distant that it’s possible to keep talking like this, like he isn’t still getting off on your words and the texture of his sheets on his painfully hard dick. 

There’s the evidence of his shame on his cheeks—such a dark red he feels lightheaded. 

“Ah, right,” you nod in understanding. “Because I didn’t hear my name being called out, and that’s definitely not my jumper lying there. You’re not interested.”

“Exactly,” he lies. He can’t gauge what exactly you’re probing him for, but he knows that you’re offering a chance out of this mess. 

This was a mistake. He screwed up—letting his irrational mind entrance him with you. No doubt, this was all due to the strange dream he had back on Argo-I that catalysed this disaster. He’s not interested in you—his friend. 

“Dan Heng,” you breathe. “You’ve been evasive ever since we returned from the Argo.”

He stiffens, watching cautiously as you lean against the doorframe. 

“I’ll leave after you truthfully answer one question of mine.” Your cadence is casual enough that he can’t hear judgement nor disgust within. Just kick me out, he wants to say. If he could, he’d want to undergo rebirth this instant so he’d forget all about this. 

“Why aren’t you yelling at me?” he blurts out.

“Do you want me to yell at you?” you counter. “It’s natural behaviour for people, is it not, to release tension this way?”

And perhaps, it is your indifference that is the most galling facet of this situation. 

“What do you want to know?” he instead asks, rather coldly. Do anything other than look at me like that! But here you are, picking at your nails as if he’s not just bared his vulnerable body in your presence. 

It’s weird, so weird, and if the Masked Fools ever picked apart his memory and witnessed this scene… Well, he doesn’t even want to think about the numerous ways they’d publish it. This is perhaps the most humiliating and bizarre experience he’s ever had; worst of all, it appears completely one-sided. 

“Dan Heng.” You shake your head in disappointment. Slight mockery coats your tongue, and he flinches with the sudden heat in his abdomen. To think, you’ve never called his name in this realm before today—but the shame he’s experiencing has caused the sudden influx in your vocabulary. It’s hilariously, painfully ironic. “I was wondering why it was the Argo cluster in particular that triggered this.”

An ominous prelude to your question.

“You lied to me on the last day, didn’t you?”

The dream. The damned dream. You know. Somehow, you’re aware of what exactly it was that he’d dreamed. 

He holds his breath. 

“But I won’t be as cruel as to ask that just yet.” So what will you ask in its stead?

You shift until you’re at your full height, and he’s hyper aware of the piercing—knowing—glint in your eyes as you assess him. “Out of all your days at that bar, did you happen to spot the blinding red poster behind the counter?”

Now that you mention it, he does faintly recall the edge of crimson in the deep recesses of his memory. Mutely, he nods (after all, he doesn’t trust himself to not stick the final nail in his own coffin).

“Perfect,” you drawl sarcastically. “Then, can you tell me what was written on that poster?”

No. He finds that he can’t. And what is the reason for that? He doesn’t know. 

(He does know. For the same reason his blood chases the heaving gulps of oxygen, his gaze flitted only to you for that brief week—but that will go unacknowledged by him.)

“Archivist—” and it’s the first time you’ve used his title so callously, so bluntly. “—for someone whose job it is to collect information, you sure didn’t do a good job at knowing that overconsumption of anything is bad for your health.”

His fingers twitch. Shameful. How utterly shameful it is—how abhorrent—that even as your words cut through skin and flesh and reach tender marrow, his heart rate quickens with adrenaline. 

“Do remind me,” he mutters. Perhaps if he were a little wiser, he would’ve searched up the drink as soon as he left the Argo, ignoring the prickles of chagrin that pierced him as he thought about it. 

“Overconsumption of this particular drink can lead to migraines and hallucinations.” Yes, he faintly recalls the sound of those words as the bartender warned him about all those neatly lined coupe glasses. Just like a fool, he didn’t pay much heed to the warnings he heard as though it were mere alcohol. Easily handled, easily managed. Except it wasn’t. 

“That’s not all, is it?” For the first time, he can see your slight hesitation as you mull over the final consequence. 

“No. There’s also the ability to project into dreams that aren’t wholly your own.”

Oh. Oh. His mind reels. 

You were there, and you saw all of it. 

“You—” he cuts himself off as he notices you standing only a foot or so away, peering down at him as you reach for your sweater. Your scent invades his senses—so much more potent than the insignificant material bearing only traces of you. 

“I’ll be taking my leave.” You’re still leaning over him. The folds of your clothes brush just right past his naked torso, and he flinches back as though he’s been scalded by the proximity. “Thanks for confirming what I needed to know, friend.”

It happens as you’re beginning to move back. Unprompted, his hand reaches out to grab your wrist and you drop the sweater you were holding. 

Surprised, you stare at him with your lips parted. The distance is insignificant; in fact, he can feel the warm gusts of your breathing right on his collarbones. 

“So you do want me,” you comment smartly, and he averts his eyes to look anywhere but your laughing gaze. 

“I still don’t,” he mutters, but his voice quivers far too much to hold only truths. He’s my friend, and nothing else. 

“Then, should I go? Leave you to deal with this alone?” The words brush honey-sweet against raw skin—they brutally remind him of your position. You’re kneeling slightly on the futon, back bent a crude seventy degrees as you lean over his legs to grab your sweater once more. A rough palm is firmly planted by his side (he’s terribly conscious of the warmth it radiates) while the other is locked in his own grasp. 

“Are you offering?” he challenges: pure irreverence dulls his cadence. 

“If you ask nicely, I might help out my dear friend.” A crescent smile is present on your face; innocuous enough, but he can sense the sharpness just waiting to cut him. It was a mistake. Getting involved with the Express was a horrible mistake. Every time he inhales, he can smell those mandarins and the soapy scent of you—the metal, the caffeinated drinks, you. Even your terrible, doom-ridden smile has long turned sweet; the only danger it brings is the heated surge straight through his stomach. 

He’s willing to help. 

“And if I don’t ask nicely?” It’s not like him to be this brash, but Aeons know just how insane he’s feeling tonight. 

“Then I bid you good luck in whatever you were doing before,” you whisper, moving to disentangle your fist from his shaking fingers. 

And he admitted I’m just a friend too. 

Selfishly, he refuses to let your arm go. 

“Dan Heng?”

“If it’s just for tonight…” he exhales. After tonight, the regular back-and-forth would be reestablished, right? His bottom lip wobbles, and he catches your eyes flickering to the small motion. 

“You act like you’re doing me a favour,” you sneer. Is it normal for his pulse to accelerate as you look at him with such disdain? Is it normal for his heart to drop when you wrench yourself free of his grasp and stand to head to the door?

“Where are you going?” He hates how it sounds like he’s whining like some damn mutt, hates how hard he feels at the slightest hint of your displeasure, hates you for making him feel like this. 

“Locking the door,” you remark. “I’m not like you—so desperate that anyone can just walk in and see you with your legs spread.”

“Mmh,” he sighs out at each blunt syllable that leaves your cruel lips. He’s too far gone to feel shame about it; more accurately, you made him this way. Nothing’s in his head except you—his mind’s whirling as you kneel back down at his side, heart pounding desperately out of his chest. 

His eyes squeeze shut as you ghost closer; fear poisons his vessels as he moves back slightly. 

“No kissing,” he insists, since that will feel far too much like that dream. Something so intimate doesn’t belong here—his only goal is to break away from this night and resume his friendship as cleanly as possible. 

“Okay.” He can picture your raised brows as you wonder exactly what about a kiss is more amorous than the very act of intercourse. “Just the lips, or everywhere?”

Against his will, his face flushes a far deeper red than it had previously. Crimson is fading into your vision—as visible as his glossy, tear-lined eyes—and he knows you see it clearly. How can you not? After all, he can feel the heavy pressure of your gaze as you look directly at his face. Not his body, nor his clenched fists, but right at his face. Strangely, that feels far more intimate than anything else. 

“Just the lips,” he stammers. 

Aeons willing, his heart won’t stop anytime soon. While it feels like his very cells will collapse in on themselves with how hard his pulse thuds, he hopes they’ll continue enduring just a little bit longer. 

“Okay,” you breathe once more—except this time, he doesn’t hear it so much as feel it brush gently over his collarbone. Blooming like flowers, your mouth leaves a meadow behind on his clavicle; he can’t help but throw his head up to be closer to you, to allow you to mark him up more. 

Every place you suck a bruise into burns white-hot. He knows he should pragmatically stop you from claiming the base of his throat and above (if only to preserve his dignity when he faces the rest of the Express come morning) but he can’t bring himself to hide this: for one night, he lay in your arms. 

He knows that he should’ve limited you from placing your warm mouth anywhere. What will he do tomorrow? When he sees the blossoming violets seeping into his dermis in the morning, how will he look you in the eyes cordially while knowing it’s your fault? While he waits for his sore body to recover, how exactly will he maintain friendship?

“Don’t worry your pretty head so much,” you whisper, and oh, you must’ve seen the furrow in his brows while getting some air and admiring your handiwork in the dim light of data shelves. A palm splayed flat on his bare chest—warm, just like the man it’s attached to—pushes him firmly onto his futon once more, until his back hits his pillow and his elbows prop himself up. It’s a testament to your words: forget the turbulent thoughts, and just think about this moment. 

Pretty, he thinks drunkenly. He thinks I’m pretty. And though it’s, quite frankly, stupid to be flustered over that when there are plenty of better reasons to be flustered right now, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut even tighter at the word. 

Your mouth moves lower, teeth grazing the grooves of his abdomen—and his back arches into the sensation of soft lips. 

“Aeons— ah—” he moans as you lave your tongue across where the still-sticky rivulets of cum remain. To make matters worse, the rough pad of your thumb rubs callous circles against his nipple: sensitive from his earlier toying. But oh, it feels so much better than when he’d given them his amateur attention. He can’t help but shudder into the touch: so robotically precise he wonders whether you view people like your machines too. Does he do this with others as well?

The question creates a sickening, furious heat in his gut. One of his hands lifts and grips your shoulder, digging through the loose shirt you wear and into the firm skin beneath. 

He finally opens his eyes to look down at you—your brows slightly raised as you continue cleaning up the mess he made from the side, tongue darting out to catch every last drop—and his dick stiffens painfully from where it’s still covered. 

Salty, he thinks he hears you mutter to yourself. Maybe that’s the last straw, or maybe it’s you washing your tongue over your lips as if not to miss anything. Neither of those things matter—he needs you to expedite whatever you were going to do, now.

“Hurry– hurry up,” he gasps as your other hand brushes his hip bone, dangerously close to where the sheet covers. 

“So impolite,” you mock. Suddenly, that same hand wrenches the sheet down, and he lets out a groan as his naked flesh is bared to the cold air once more—he sees you don’t miss his reaction. “Not even a please.”

You’re the one who’s impolite, he thinks—ogling at him while you’re still fully clothed. 

“Sure have a lot of demands for someone who got caught calling out my name,” you reply, and it’s then he realises that maybe he didn’t think that at all. Still, with a fluid motion, you discard your shirt to the side and he’s left gazing at the expanse of your skin once more. Just like in that dream. 

“Now who’s ogling?” you continue quietly, but he’s much too fixated on seeing the bare flesh that unconsciously, his hand reaches back up to trace the plains of your shoulder. Then, his focus shifts as you reposition yourself so you’re practically straddling his legs, essentially trapping him under you. 

His tongue flickers out to wet his lips. 

Thankfully—thankfully—that’s not the thing you notice as your eyes finally trail down. 

“Mmh—” he whines as your calloused hand grasps his stiff cock. You’re gentler than he thought you’d be—though it’s precisely that sort of friction he’d been looking for in the first place. It’s almost cautious; you swipe your thumb across his leaking slit experimentally, and he can hear his own breathing become more rapid and shallow. 

“So pretty,” you murmur. “Just like the rest of you.”

He blinks, and suddenly he’s looking down to where your gaze lies: where your hand almost dwarfs his flesh, where his mushroom tip glistens from his earlier release, and where you’re slowly pumping it from shaft to base. 

Yes, he thinks, it is a pretty sight—but only because you’re in it too. 

He freezes. 

I can’t think that way. 

Dan Heng gasps as you remove your hand from him, shamelessly licking up the remaining liquid from your hand. The very sight causes his mind to go blank: body burning, stomach churning.  

“Why’d you stop—” he slurs his words, lids blinking slowly despite the scalding flush of adrenaline spreading through his limbs. “—not fair.”

Gently, you grab the hand that rests on your shoulder, pressing a small kiss to it while he hears the sound of a zipper. The sweet gesture forces his eyes open completely—if you moved any closer, you’d be able to hear his maddened heartbeat. 

“I’m not stopping,” you assure him. Warm fingers easily thread through his, and he gasps as your dick presses against his. His teary pupils can’t bear to look down—feel how you’re rubbing the pieces of flesh together in a dizzying rhythm.

Just like clockwork, he presses his freehand to the back of yours: stuck together in perpetual motion. He can hear the soft shick-shick as you move your palm up and down; feel the heat of your skin as it radiates into his own cold hands; see the faint smile as you stare at him beneath you. 

It feels so good—and normally, he’d never give in to the facetious pleasure that waits to slit his throat while he’s in its tender embrace. 

Pressing his lips together, he removes his hands from yours and loops them around your neck. If he feels closely, he can sense the steady race of your pulse—something that belies the surprise you hide in your languid expression. Like this, your body is forced closer to his (or more precisely, his body is forced closer to yours). 

You sigh out as his nails dig into your fragile human flesh; he’d think you were in pain had it not been for the small exhales you’d let out as you sped up your pace. When you hiss out—breathing shallow from him, from the man cursed to be Dan Heng—he can’t help but throb in your hold. 

He’s had that effect on you. Not anyone else, not those people pressed against you in the club who wanted your fragments, but him. 

“So infuriating,” you grind out with gritted teeth. He buries his face in the valley between neck and shoulder, breathing in the soapy scent from the juncture as your hands become harsher. Rougher. 

Dan Heng occupies his loud mouth by suckling right onto your neck—stealing his breath away while the pleasure builds up in the pit of his stomach. 

You lean back slightly, and suddenly the hand that was propping your weight up firmly grabs the side of his waist—and he thinks he can see the stars within the confines of these four walls. You notice—of course you do—the ragged panting coming from him, and he can see the grin forming on your face in his mind. 

How shameful. 

He stares back with crescent eyes and dark red cheeks lining them. 

“Pervert.” Two syllables. Two syllables, accompanied by a harsh squeeze of his side, before he comes undone. Arching into you with a choked cry, more strings of cum spurt from his tip: coating his stomach and yours with an unmistakable affirmation of your words. No, word (singular), because for whatever Aeon-forsaken reason, his body chose in particular to respond to your insult. 

Spit connects his mouth to your skin—face still in your shoulder as if to hide from you. His chest rises and falls rapidly: tits pressed against your own chest as he whines with the overstimulation. 

It’s no good. Your hands keep moving, and he’s still so painfully hard he can barely breathe. 

“‘M– I’m not,” he garbles, even as you poke at the sticky liquid dripping from his sides. 

“Are too,” you murmur, but the teasing doesn’t comfort him the way he thought it would. No, tomorrow when your regular back-and-forth is reestablished, he’ll only think of this night—how you feel on him, how well you touch his body. 

“Don’t stop,” he whimpers as you pause the movements that keep driving him to many brinks. 

“I’m not.” He’s putty under your hands as you twist his body with such deftness that he wonders where you get it from. Lugging around heavy machines certainly does leave you with some muscle there—he doesn’t realise the position he’s in until he feels your torso move against his plush ass. 

His chest presses down against the futon, face barely escaping the same fate as he turns it to the side to avoid suffocation. If he had to describe this situation, it would be humiliating—arched straight into the air with you kneading the soft expanse of flesh like it were fucking bread. 

It finally sets in. 

He’s about to get fucked by his closest friend in this cycle—and he hates how stiff the thought makes him. 

But surprisingly—since you’re so damn full of surprises—you instead part the sensitive flesh of his thighs and instead fill the gap there. He’s so empty, but in this position, your tip catches against his every time you drill into the space; that (begrudgingly) makes up for it. Somewhat. 

“Stop delaying it,” he groans as he feels more of his cum dribble down onto his sheets. What more do you want from him?

“Dan Heng,” you instead hover over him, grasping his waist like handlebars. He hates this so much—how easily you manoeuvre him, how good the pain of your nails feels against his touch-deprived skin. 

Most of all, he hates how depraved he feels—using his closest friend for this. 

“Has anyone ever told you how pretty your thighs are?” you groan above him, and he swears he can feel the vibrations right against his cock. “Or how gorgeous your waist is?”

It should be insulting. He’s a guard and archivist, not some object to ogle at under your heated gaze. Yet, contrary to his expectations, he can only suppress the violent urge to just cum on the spot from those words. You like his body. 

Not as a warrior, not as a weapon for the protection of the Luofu, but simply because he’s beautiful in your eyes. 

“No,” he replies through a breathy moan, clutching desperately at the shirt you discarded that’s lying right next to his face. You notice, of course. Nothing really escapes your sharp eyes, not even when it’s dark and he’s trying to hide. “I can’t say anyone has.”

“You’re so cute.” And when you say those three words, you press a quick kiss to the nape of his neck while one of your hands lazily jerks him off. 

However, that’s not what pushes him to the brink. It’s when you finish—hot streams dripping down his inner thighs as you let out a muffled groan right next to his ear. That’s when he shivers. That’s when his heart pulses extra loudly for one beat and his breath hitches. That’s when his body tightens and he spills once more onto his sheets. 

“Ah,” he gasps as he continues thrusting weakly into your hand. Your body’s heavy as you lean your forehead into his neck: warm breath tickling his nape and making his whole body shudder from the sensation. 

“Are— are you finally going to–” he’s cut off as you pull away from his thighs; scalding residue is left between them, and every time he shifts it squelches. 

“Man, your biology really is different.” He can feel you smile against his skin as you don’t let go of him. He’s practically caged in by your body at this point—but strangely, he doesn’t seem to mind. “Already eager to go?”

“Don’t avoid the question,” he grips the material of your shirt so tightly he can feel his nails dig into his palm. “Actually, don’t answer my question with a question of your own.”

“Still so vocal,” you shake your head slightly. Much too casually, you tighten your grip around him in a ring and he has to clamp his jaw shut so as to not let out any more wanton noises. He can’t give you the satisfaction of proving yourself right.

“You’re just too slow.” He doesn’t know why he’s provoking you. 

“You’re just too impatient,” you hiss. 

It’s worth it. It’s worth it when you nudge at his hole with your tip; worth it when you stretch him out just around the shaft. 

“Mmph— more,” he moans shamelessly at the burn. When he attempts to sink down further, your hands grip his waist in such a way that prevents him from moving an inch. It hurts, more than his fingers did—but he can’t help wanting to just take it. 

“You sure?” 

In one fell swoop, you bury yourself to the hilt in his tight hole—and he practically screams at the sudden intrusion. His body tightens almost immediately, yet the relief never comes when he feels your fingers tightly wrap around him to prevent release. 

Tears stream down his flushed cheeks, and he can clearly see the sadistic smile on your face as his glossy eyes meet yours—ruining his climax while there’s not a single speck of remorse in your ruthless gaze. 

“Fuck you–” he grits out. Stemming his tears is a futile attempt. 

“That’s your job,” you grin. Pulling out just so your tip remains, it doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure out what you’re going to next. “Remember, Dan Heng, patience is a virtue.”

He’s still reeling from the ruined orgasm when you slam into him again. The man swears he can feel you in his very throat as his chest tightens from the impact—and the broken moans he’s been suppressing come out once more at full volume. 

You don’t give him any time to adjust; rather, you set a pace so thorough that the gummy spot inside of him is hit every time. Still, there’s no mercy for him—your hand prevents his release on each occasion he gets close to it. 

He can feel your own body tense up. Maybe, as a gesture of goodwill, that’s when you finally let go of him and take hold of his waist once more. On his skin, your hand is tacky from a mixture of both you and him. 

Using both hands, you pull him into you just as your pelvis collides with his own flesh; with each plap of sticky skin against skin, he lets out a cut-off mewl that simply fades into the next. Over and over. 

This is a special form of madness. 

“Please, please—” he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, only that it’s the only thing he can say at this moment. 

It seems this has some effect on you—he can feel your abdomen stiffen as you grit out a question. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” he breathes. Perhaps that’s your last straw. Perhaps his voice like this is too much for you; not even a minute later, he can feel searing rivulets seep deep into him—so warm and slippery. 

“Hng–” he moans out. The feeling’s too much. With a desperate sob, he’s finally allowed to cum too: an awful, mind-numbing sensation that wracks his whole body with ruined pleasure. His chest heaves up and down—milking you for all you’re worth as he continues to ride it out. If you look closely, you’d see his legs practically giving out as you loosen your grip on his waist ever-so-slightly. 

Your body looms over his trembling one, pressing kiss after kiss to his spine as he cries it out. 

Discordant breaths slowly dissipate into calmer ones—your comforting weight grounds him firmly to the present. 

When… did I start thinking that way?

As he’s soothed into stupor, he notices how your scorching palms slip from his sides and hold down his clenched fists—twining finger against finger in such a tender gesture he can feel his very shoulders deepen into carmine. 

You’re half-hard inside him, but he still needs so much more. When his sniffles die down, he notices you staring unabashedly at him: a mess, he’s sure, but he sees how enraptured you are. That, for some reason, makes the comment die down in his throat and replaces it with a poignant question. 

What do you think about me?

(But that’s not a question you should be asking your close friend, not when he’s firmly lodged within you with his chest pressed against your back.)

You rub circles against the slight veins that line the backs of his hands—rough shapes that somehow retain the essence of your mechanical certainty. It’s so fucking intimate he can’t help but feel his whole face burn: to the bitter point where he’s pressing it right against his tear-stained, sweat-stained pillow. 

“Want more,” he slurs, hissing sharply as you lean back far enough on your heels that you manage to seat him firmly in your lap. It’s so much deeper that he has to stifle his whines while you gaze at him with that annoyingly perceptive look. 

He’s reminded of your strength when you tug at his legs and manoeuvre him so he’s facing you, on your lap, while still stuffed full of you and his cum. There’s fat globs of white dripping from him in a frothy ring, but you clearly don’t care about any of that as you lean back on your palms impassively. 

“Your turn,” you prompt. 

And oh, as he feels himself get split apart at this angle, it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall apart at that instant. It hurts, relying on his legs to rise and fall on your dick—over and over—but by the Aeons he can’t stop his tears from being shed and his mouth from letting out some of his most embarrassing sounds. 

He’s so dizzy he almost collapses—but his hands digging into your trapezius muscles provides a tentative support to his shaky frame. 

“Jerk,” he gasps out as you palm him callously, meeting each bounce of his hips with your pelvis thrusting upwards. He can’t stop the whines that leave his spit-shined lips; every sticky skin-on-skin sound is accompanied by such. 

He can’t go as fast as he wants, nor can he go as high as he wants, but that allows him to observe the irritated glint in your eyes as you duck your head. 

“What are you— ah—” he whimpers as your teeth graze his puffy nipple; his back curves into an arch unconsciously to press his tits more to your face, and he can’t help but feel embarrassed at how easily his body responds to your motions. 

As your tongue laves wet circles round the areola, while your hand roughly strokes him and you fill him up so, so good, he clutches at your body for dear life when he feels that familiar feeling building up in his stomach. 

“So close,” he bites out, shuddering in your grasp as you bite lightly around the nipple. Combined with the twisting motion of your hands, and the irresistible smell of sweat and metal bleeding from your skin, it’s no surprise that he cums in glistening ropes: painting your skin once more. 

More tears leak from his eyes as you don’t slow down. Well, you do, but only to use the tight grip he still has on your shoulders to push him down so he’s under you once more. You resume just as quickly; by this point, it’s clear you’re chasing your own release. 

Beautiful, he thinks through hazy eyes. 

He glances to the side briefly, spotting the bag he vowed he’d carry out of here in time—then back at you. 

There’ll be more passengers. More people, vying for your attention like this. Will you treat them like this? Like friends, as he’s so aptly put it?

He pulls himself closer to you, watching as your eyes widen in brief surprise at the sudden proximity. 

“What’s wrong?” you murmur. “Want me to–”

You’re so considerate it makes him sick. Is this how you view friendship too?

Where is the boundary?

Gradually, you bring your hips to a slow roll as he continues staring directly at you. He almost whines at the loss of motion, but the dilated look in your pupils is enough to keep him sated. 

Need him. He squeezes tight around you; as soon as your eyelids flutter shut, he kisses you on the lips chastely—the brief contact of your lips against his is enough to almost make his eyes roll back in delight. 

Your eyes practically flinch: blown open in abject surprise as you stare at his bashful, flushed expression. He definitely can’t leave, but Aeons this attention makes him want to retreat back into himself. 

“Dan Heng,” you whisper. “What happened to your rule?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “Not anymore.”

He’s not expecting you to immediately cup his face with a shaky hand, kissing him feverishly while you continue grinding against him languidly. The salt on your lips—the taste of himself—is enough to have him cum against you one last time in weak, watery spurts. 

He moans into your mouth: hands clutching at you for dear life while you shudder with your own climax. Never has he felt so spent; not even after hours-long battles. Sure, he’s felt cold detachment from the blood on his palms, but he’s burning at the moment. A veritable comet streaking right across the galaxies, made of all the cold ice he can imagine—but lit up as white-hot as a star. 

If he had to explain the feeling of prodding his tongue into your warm, wet mouth, it would most likely be the best sensation he’s ever experienced. He can’t stop: too drunk on your taste to think about anything else save you. 

When you have your best friend’s dick in you, it’s pretty hard to think of him as just a friend. 

“Not going anywhere,” he mumbles into the scalding skin of your neck. “I’ll stay right by your side.”

“What—changed your mind about us just being buddies?” you query mockingly, running your fingers into the valleys above his hips. This weight; it feels safe being caged in your arms like this, as though he’ll sleep without nightmares every night he’s entrapped like this. “Felt too good for a friends with benefits situation?”

“Shut up,” he huffs, weakly poking at your arm. “Don’t want you treating your other friends like this.”

He can feel you stifle your laugh. 

Perhaps, if he really looks at it, the standard TUL dialect definition of friendship applies to this situation. Mutual trust and affection. 

“Okay, okay,” you accede. There’s a fluttering sensation in his chest that accompanies his reddened cheeks, and it’s not due to the strenuous activities from a moment prior. “You’re mine, then.”

The clumsy framing somewhat fit at the beginning, but no longer. 

And if he really looks at it, he should reread the whole dictionary to make sure he doesn’t misunderstand any more of these concepts. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

[flightyalrighty]

Hi, it's me again, flightyalrighty! (๑•̀ㅁ•́ฅ✧

Anyway, about the whole Sonic versus the Police thing, yknow, punk era Sonic. I don't think Shadow had ever seen that punk side of Sonic? He's more exposed to his heroic side, so will it affect his perception towards Sonic? It's been so long since I've read Archie Sonic and Shadow seems to have little screen time as far as I could remember, I'm just picking up the IDW comics since it's starting to intrigue me. Plus, he was busy trying to destroy or save the world in the games (SonicA2 of his first appearance and with 06 where Sonic keeps running around with the princess from Eggman) to even properly notice Sonic's rebellious spirit. Is your comics going to have some panels about Sonic exposing his hidden distaste towards the authority to Shadow and others(?) I would love to see punk era Sonic in action again ᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟ

Btw, I've seen some clips from TikTok n YouTube of your panels and they intrigued me, glad I managed to find you on Tumblr! Been waiting patiently for your updates ٩( ᐛ )و

Hi! While I've allowed some people to dub my comic on Youtube, I've most certainly not allowed for anyone to post my comic on TikTok, and it sucks to hear about that, though it's unsurprising. Now, on to the question:

I wouldn't necessarily say Shadow got very little screen time in Archie! In the main book, sure, he wouldn't pop up as often as, say, Knuckles (I think?) but the guy did have like six arcs in Sonic Universe (seven if we count Worlds Collide) where he was one of the main characters (or at least showed up a bunch again if we're counting Worlds Collide), and 24-28 issues of Shadow is nothing to sneeze at! That's about a fourth of that series's run if I'm doing my math right!

In the early Flynn days of Archie, he was also showing up seemingly at random. He appeared in issue 160 for seemingly no reason (was he really just there to wish Sonic a happy birthday) iirc, and shows up in that Enerjak Knuckles arc to get his ass kicked, to name two off the top of my head.

Remember, Shadow is the second most popular character in the franchise, and Archie was well aware of this. They were absolutely using him to sell books.

To be honest, though, and now I promise I really am answering your question, I think Shadow's already seen Sonic's rebellious spirit plenty within SA2. Busy destroying the world or not, Sonic was rebelling against him, and he was doing that successfully. That is, I believe a part of what made Sonic so intriguing to Shadow.

Now, at this point in Infested, Shadow considers himself an extension of G.U.N. Sonic rebelling against them is, in a way, rebelling against him once again. That said, it's different now. Sonic wasn't just being annoying and getting in his way, he was wasting time and looking to run off and put more people in danger. His rebellious spirit, the thing that Shadow once found admirable in him, is now a threat to the world he's currently trying to protect.

This version of Shadow, based on Archie Sonic with events from the games as part of the canon, is also willing to believe that whatever mistreatment he takes from the military is justified. He's already done plenty of harm. He knows what he's capable of.

That comment, though, from Sonic. That comment about how those special handcuffs were already built and ready for Shadow. How far in advance did they begin work on that thing? How long had it been in storage, waiting for him? Was it right when he had joined them? After the incident with Black Death and Eclipse? Were those handcuffs born from a cruel pragmatism and paranoia from an organization he'd already sworn total loyalty to, or simply in response to what has already occurred?

This will haunt Shadow.

[ms-lirio]

"You hurted yourself. Again."

"I guess I should say: I am deeply sorry."

"Do not act so reckless, Alfred."

"—Promise. And you should take a rest, you look tired."

"I am fine. Do not worry about me."

I have MANY pending books to read, whether diaries, reports, story books, Brazilian Pracinhas and Nurses and much more.  But to save time, I decided to just read a few quick articles to prepare this post.

All pointed here is in a historical view.

Brazil was officially the only South American country to send troops to the conflict under its flag.

Historically, Brazil's actions prevailed in Italy.  It was where Brazil sent its troops, and its participation in the war was delayed as Brazil wanted to maintain its relations with both sides and remain neutral throughout the conflict.  After German and Italian attacks suffered by Brazilian ships, Brazil gave up its neutrality, siding with the Allies.

American military bases were built in the Northeast region of Brazil and Brazilian troops received American training.

"In 1939, with the beginning of the Second World War, Brazil remained neutral, in continuation of President Getúlio Vargas' policy of not defining itself by any of the great powers, only trying to take advantage of the advantages offered by them. Such "pragmatism " was interrupted at the beginning of 1942, when the United States and the Brazilian government agreed to transfer air bases on the island of Fernando de Noronha and along the north-northeast Brazilian coast to receive American military bases (if negotiations had not result, with Vargas and the military insisting on maintaining neutrality, the US had plans to invade the Brazilian northeast, codenamed Plan Rubber).”  (WIKIPEDIA)

"Natal, the capital of the state of Rio Grande do Norte, in northeastern Brazil, has a very important strategic global geographic position. This fact made the city host the two main American military bases during the Second World War: the Naval Base and Parnamirim Field – at the time it was the largest US Air Force base on foreign territory.”  (WIKIPEDIA)

// Getúlio Vargas flirted with the Fascist ideology even tho, he went to ALLIES' side. 💀

HCs: (don't take them too seriously)

⚠️ Remembering the following content: we are still talking about Hetalia, so my HCs and lore are not absolute truth, but my perception of my oc's participation during the conflict.  Even though it has a historical basis behind it.  And also, this is historical fiction (ofc, it's hetalia).  WWII is an extremely sensitive topic to many. I ask for caution, I will be careful with what I have to say.

— Alfred used his charm and charisma to make Mayara fight alongside him (Good Neighbor Policy). What worked and they formed an alliance based on a mutual exchange of interests.

— Mayara had developed a strange feeling that intensified for Alfred (something between admiration and wanting to be like him, a complex feeling, which perhaps was confused with platonic love and which sought certain privileges in that alliance), even if she was reluctant to give end her neutral stance towards the conflict (something similar to what happened in WWI).  She would later do this after torpedoing of vessels by German and Italian submarines, retaliation due to Brazil's accession to the Atlantic Charter;  thus, she broke ties with the AXIS and declared war on Italy and Germany.

— In my universe, Mayara also served as a nurse, and spent most of her time with Alfred, often tending to his wounds.  Sometimes just chitchatting together or learning about militarism and things like that. He trained her. He was the one who supported her.

— I changed my conception of another topic, which was May's direct participation on the battlefield.  I think that Mayara, in addition to serving as a nurse, also fought on the front line when necessary (due to the fact that she was the representative of Brazil) and needed to be on the front line.  In my former HC she didn't go to the front. (I disagree with the 2021 me xd).

—  I don't believe that Alfred reciprocated any kind of feelings for May. She was an important piece for him, and so he courted her, to secure a new ally.  It was a benefits relationship.

— Besides Alfred.  There were FEW times where dialogues with England took place, this was due to the participation of Anglo-Brazilians on the English side (if I'm not wrong, in the area of ​​aviation, but I need to delve deeper into the topic).  An almost tiny interaction compared to the prevalence of Alfred's actions, which was immensely greater and also generated impacts.

PS: I don't ship BrAme/AmeBra, they are just friends.  However, Mayara, as I said, had strange feelings for him at some moments in history (I was reading an article about diplomacy 🇧🇷-🇺🇸, I realized that Brazil had a greater interest in getting closer to the USA for economic and regional power, that is, an admiration that aimed for benefits/just as the US aimed for strategic support/Mayara would support Alfred in anything, as she thought she would get support in return).

I used the word "courtship" as it was stated in this old History book (which I no longer have).  Alfred... used his charm against May. Lol.

Evidence of a strange obsession with Alfred:

Meet the United States of Brazil:

(I showed this damn flag to my dad he got disgusted lmfao)

[helionauts]

ok hi let's introduce my Rogue Trader!!!

(a caveat here that I know absolutely fucking nothing about Warhammer or the wider universe l m a ooooooo I am flying 10000% blind. you can blame @nadas-dirthalen for any mishaps here. also I have only just made it past the prologue. RIP Theodora u were a real one 😔✊)

anyways!!!!

her name is Minerva von Valancius. nickname Min if she likes you, Vera if she tolerates you (this is the most common), and Lord Captain for everyone else. she's an ex-Commissar soldier from a forge world, 38(ish) years old. dedicated to the protection and development of humankind in the name of the God Emperor. stoic, pragmatic, intelligent, perceptive. the perfect soldier.

orphaned young and pulled into the Imperium's service, she knows little but loyalty to the Imperium that "saved" her and gave her purpose. forge-born, she has an affinity for machine, technology, and augmentations - unafraid of body modification and understanding of the tech-priests' piety (though doesn't go so far as to worship machine spirits herself). as for her own mech, I like to headcanon that she has at least one ocular implant, and a titanium-reinforced skeleton because chronic pain rep ✌️ my girl has never slouched once in her life and she won't start now, even if her bones ache.

this new role as Rogue Trader is ... an inconvenience. it jars with the understanding she has of herself. as a soldier, she knows how to follow orders, not give them. and while, as Commissar, she achieved a certain level of command, there was always someone above her. now, she commands the voidship - with no one to turn to for direction but her own sense of moral imperative.

A Perpetually Tired(TM) queen.

(and I have zero idea who I'm going to romance. stay tuned!)

[thesunbums]

❀ you’re not from around here , are you? i figured because you totally just missed ELARA "ELLE" LOCKHART walking by. don’t tell me you don’t know who SHE is? they kind of look like BELLA MACLEAN and i could be wrong but i think that they might be 24 year old right now. they’ve been living in palmview for the last TWENTY-TWO YEARS...

STATS

NAME: Elara "Elle" Quinn Lockhart

BIRTHDATE: December 22, 2000

BIRTHPLACE: Savannah, Georgia

HOMETOWN: Palmview Grove, FL

TIME IN TOWN: 22 years except (Except for 4-years of university)

NEIGHBORHOOD: 550 Pacific Drive, Emerald Point (Childhood Home)

ORIENTATION & STATUS: Heterosexual & Single

OCCUPATION: Vet Tech at Dune Animal Rescue

PERSONALITY TRAITS: + Empathetic, Bright, Gracious, Hardworking | – Worrier, Timid, Reserved, & Stubborn

AESTHETICS: carrying your heart on your sleeve, knowing it is better to love than hate, loyalty beyond compare, tenderness is a virtue, laughter like sodapop, a pile of books with the edges folded over, sharing an affection amongst friends, honey jars filled to the brim, the first bloom of spring

CONNECTION: Half-Sister of Alyssa Lockhart (@sunshinesfm)

BIOGRAPHY

Elara Quinn was born in Savannah and raised in Palmview Grove with her head of the PTA, former pageant queen of a mother, and a reserved and pragmatic businessman of a father. Picket-white fences with the two golden labradors and the beach within walking distance were the backdrop of her life. Elara was raised to be the All-American girl who came from the dutiful and beloved All-American family in their town that was Palmview Grove.

Every second of every day of her life was perfectly curated. From the things she ate to the friends she had, to the things she studied and did. From sunrise to sunset, Elara's schedule was packed out. Beyond maintaining a perfect GPA throughout her schooling, she mastered fluency in French and Spanish, eloquently played the violin and flute, won every equestrian competition, and stood high on the top of the cheerleading pyramid as a premier flyer. While she did her part, her parents perfectly rounded the Lockhart image in town with her mother's notable holiday parties and luncheons, and her dad's annual golfing fundraiser at the country club.

Little did she know that her parents had perfected this image to mask the life and past of her father. A few days before she was supposed to start her senior year in high school, with a clandestine resume packed and ready to be submitted to the colleges of her dreams, Elara learned who she was. She was no longer just the only child of her father's, but the youngest of four. A man who had a life long before her and her mother. One with a previous woman and a family of his own. That truth derailed Elara's perception of her world and the people she loved and trusted.

Breaking away from the expectations of her parents who had wanted Elle to simply go off to a prestigious university, to follow in her mother's footsteps of being a trophy wife connected to a well-to-do family, she chose herself for the first time. Incredibly terrifying, she trimmed the things that were forced upon her to the things that truly brought her joy and it was caring for her horses throughout her childhood. So, she decided to pursue to become a veterinarian as she rewrites her narrative for once.

As Elara immersed herself in her studies across the country, she discovered her unique quirks, interests, and dislikes about the world. She also attempted to connect with her half-siblings but encountered more resistance than acceptance. Nonetheless, she remains optimistic that everything will fall into place in time. Over the past few years, Elara has found security in her authentic self and has never been happier. Now, in her second year of veterinary school in her hometown, Elle can confidently express her true identity within the community she has always known and loved.

[duckiemimi]

hi i am going to ask a silly question as a newer fan. why do u (or other people) consider gojo morally grey? am I missing something about his characterization? i thought he was similar to yuji, but more "realistic", I suppose? i realize how crazy off that could be, I'm really asking out of curiosity!

hi! this isn't a silly question at all, don't worry!

to clarify, i don't quite consider him morally grey! i think of him as someone with motivations that align with the protagonists' big-picture ideology (i used to call them the "good guys," the colloquial way people usually refer to protags, but i think people get the wrong idea when i use that term, so i'll use "protagonists" from now on!). to put simply, his morality generally lies on the side of the perspective jjk is told from—a perspective pushed to be seen as favorable by us readers!

i think "morally grey" has become a buzzword people throw around to describe characters who aren't borderline altruistic or characters who don't have explicitly stated emotionally-driven motivations. could you really label a character "morally grey" if in their universe, combat is commonplace and power systems exist? what context-appropriate lines will we use to distinguish what's black, and white, and grey? we'll get to that later. now let's talk about the specifics: his individual motivations.

characterization-wise, i think most people consider gojo "morally grey" because of his teenage apathy and some of the less tactful things he's said (he's very point-blank and he doesn't sugarcoat). i also think that nanami's description of him in the afterlife scene retconned what was already established of him, in turn affecting the perception of his character as well (click for a post i wrote on this). and now the concept of "monstrosity" in relation to his character has been introduced into the story, too.

gojo is a very pragmatic character for the most part. i don't think gojo sees things through a rigid "right and wrong" lens. i think he sees them for their practicality in reference to what he already knows to be true. for more context, i'd say compared to geto (his foil), who put righteous meaning to his duty pre-defection and self-justified meaning to his ideals post-defection, gojo's idea of duty towards non-sorcerers is an extension of his learned role. it's not something he feels particularly strongly for—it's just something he was born and bred for.

but that doesn't mean he doesn't care! he does care, otherwise we wouldn't have a story in the first place. he just shows "care" differently, less towards the subject of jujutsu protection and more towards his peers, the people he's been surrounded by his whole life. but even then, he takes his duty of protecting non-sorcerers (protecting all of humanity, really) very seriously and that's apparent in the shibuya arc!

if we were to look at his actions (not surface-level attitude!) throughout the story, chapter 261 included, gojo has never done anything that isn't aligned with the protagonists' big-picture ideology. looking at it more abstractly, if we were to frame the major clashing ideologies in jjk on a "morality" spectrum with "good" on one end and "bad" on the other ("good" being analogous to the protagonists and "bad," the antagonists), then he'd be a relatively "good" person. he's never really been an ambiguous guy, i'd say. just emotionally constipated.

i think he could be compared to yuuji, yea! they both have this crippling tendency to place blame wholly on themselves. but i guess compared to yuuji, gojo is a very "do first, feel later" type of guy and he often compartmentalizes to operate. he's got the world on his shoulders—there's no time to think about what that means for himself, only for what it means for the world. alas, jujutsu's atlas has fallen. but yea! thanks for asking!

[deeptrashwitch]

Hello! I’d like to learn about Charles, please!

🌹🔍.

Thank you ;u; have a lovely day!

Hello dear! Hope you also have a lovely day ☺️☺️

About Charles? Coming up!

🌹: Who worries the most about them?

On his daily life? No one, to be honest. He doesn't have close people to him in the US.

And during his days on West Berlin? Well, two people. Probably Aleks (@alypink OC) since she always tries to stop him of start fight with half of the soldiers inside the safehouse and tries to not let him do all the work alone (he'll never admit that he felt comfortable working with her and has been worried for her during so much time). And maybe Vasili (@welldonekhushi OC) because they were the closest, maybe even friends, and Charles expressed concern for Vasili/Bell's well being more than once.

🔍: What they think about themselves?

Charles sees himself as an intelligent man that has worked his way up until where he is, someone that at first wanted to get in love with the world...well, that until he started the major. From there he has been cynical, to say the least, as he knew more and more. Also he thinks that people that only is following orders without questioning them are just part of the problem, that's a big part of the reason why he's especially bitter and disrespectful with Koa (@islandtarochips OC), Mason, Sims, Lazar and Woods.

But he also sees himself as someone pragmatic, that's part of why he accepted to work with Adler, he promised him sources, funds and protection if Charles helped them analizing information. And his mentality about women came from his father and mother, since he was raised in a very conservative home, he has seen the deep division and difference between roles and hasn't done much to change that perception.

And about why he mocks everyone who hasn't gone to university...well, that's his own perception tbh. He's just like that.

*smack Charles in the head* Asshole

[birds-n-knives]

Inkheart fusion AU

If you've been unlucky enough then you've probably heard of this before. Inkheart fusion AU was originally created in 2018 as a means for me to dive into the 'two minds learning to go by as one' idea and the psychological aspects of it but with Inkheart characters because I was so fixated on this trilogy. As of 2023 I officially renovated it lol!! It's no longer linked to Steven Universe and they're all just people now but with a little twist to it. Everyone is about established in this AU, but I'm going to get started with some useless trivia about these guys first

Basta and Dustfinger

- ADHD creature.

- Surprisingly not hotheaded at all.

- Dustfinger's deceitful nature and Basta's loyalty to Capricorn contradict each other, wailing on him mentally and rendering him unable keep himself together in the long run or form an ideology of his own.

- So in a way he's a living example of "expectation vs reality", having picked up Dustfinger's fire powers and Basta's skill in weapons, as well as Dusty's inability to wield them and Basta's fear of fire, making him inept at both. He seemed great in concept and Capricorn was greatly disappointed with came of him.

- Even Dustfinger himself finds him very freaky because of two sets of arms.

- He has a great sense of sight though. Peripheral vision? What's that?

- All in all he's basically Dustfinger but with more backbone. Literally and figuratively.

Basta and Cockerell

- Often had one of them vying for control at the beginning. Over time this became less apparent the longer he existed.

- Picked up the worst from both. Combine Cockerell's propensity toward violence and Basta's impulsive anger and you have him.

- He dislikes being referred to by either of their names.

- Doesn't care for them old wives' tales but still sports a good-luck charm around his neck to put a little voice in his head at ease.

- Unlike with Dustfinger and Basta, he has poorer eyes and a sucky depth perception due to his inability to move each pair of eyes in unison.

- Probably hit his head on multiple doorframes.

- Can be an imposing individual.

- His penchant at proving himself as pragmatic to Capricorn toned down Basta's fear of fire.

- Most of his clothes are either hand made by maids or passed on to him from Flatnose.

[true-blue-sonic]

If Tails Nine came to Iblis timeline Silver with his offer to make a new world then would he take it? Also what if the Iblis timeline was one of the Shatterverses?

I don't know enough about Nine to really say anything about his personality, other than that he seems Jaded And Rude. And that... might not be the best way to communicate with Silver, haha. I think Mephiles managed to completely enthral Silver doubly due to his "I know what I am talking about" vibes and his incredibly calm, pragmatic indicating of who was to blame for the ruined future. That together gave Silver a clear goal he didn't even question, until basically everything was pointing towards his perception of Mephiles being wrong. And what little I have seen of Nine does not really match such vibes, to be honest. Though, I think Silver at the point where '06 starts for him is desperate enough to consider any option, so though he might be uncertain about a huffy and snappy pipsqueak coming to him with promises of rescuing the world, he'll definitely at least hear Nine out.

But regardless, I think once Silver realises the truth behind that 'new world' (I believe the rest of the Shatterspaces and Sonic's home dimension are jeopardised if Nine were to create it?), he's out immediately. Silver would never accept having his world be rescued through harming or sacrificing another. Plus, it does nothing to undo the bad future of the Iblis timeline to begin with, I believe. I can see this go two ways: Silver either tries to convince Nine this isn't the way and they should not undo multiple universes just because Nine is angry and hurting (or whatever Nine's deal is, I don't know; but I do think it nicely ties with Silver's 06 dilemma about whether or not it is good to harm one person to help many, or harm many to help one). Or, Silver gets quite mad Nine is considering taking things this far, and begins to fight him about it, with all consequences that leads to. In any case, I cannot see him take up Nine's offer, no matter how desperate he is. I'm not sure if the way I envision it is really how Nine's new world works, but it seems there is too much harm attached to it for Silver to ever be alright with it.

[kuwdora]

chapter 3 of puppetskier is live! Jaskier had gotten pretty torn up in the last chapter so now he's getting sewn up by Shani and resumes an academic slapfight with his frenemy Mortimer. snippet:

Inside, the office gave Jaskier the impression he was walking into an auction house built inside a cave, but it was a cave with a decent view of the Pontar, with a set of narrow bay windows facing the river that let in the sunlight.

Shani hesitated in the doorway and shifted Jaskier to the crook of her arm. “I really hope he’s here after all that walking,” she said.

“Mortimer?” Jaskier called, trying to prepare himself for the conversation he was about to very calmly have.

The room was larger than Jaskier’s university office by a good margin, and he wasn’t pleased by that realization. Sure, the room was a little dreary the further away you got from the windows, but Mortimer had lanterns hanging from the ceiling that made up for it. There were also bookshelves that were mounted on wheels and could be pushed out of the way. Strange, rust-colored crystal plants appeared to be growing out of the bookshelves.

“Professor? Professor Meinbald?” Shani called. She almost dropped Jaskier when she turned a corner and almost walked into a large bird.

“The fuck!” she yelped. “What is that?”

Jaskier looked over the bird, wracking his brain. “An ostrich?” he mused. He’d seen one ages ago in Toussaint. It looked dead, but it was a rather impressive display of taxidermy, if not a little weird. The bird wore a heavy chain necklace and its eyes were a bright, unnatural azure.

“It’s an emu,” Mortimer said from behind them. Shani tightened her arm around Jaskier and turned to face Mortimer.

“If you’re lost, here’s a map to help you get back—and mind the instructions to stay away from the purple door. The university’s budget for compensating student injuries on campus has decreased year after year since Vizimir ascended the throne. If you’re here to fulfill the requirements of a prank or student hazing, I will endow you with a skin pigmentation curse that will break once you snap this,” Mortimer said, holding out an embossed coin made of–wait, was that a cracker? “If you need something of value to sell, there’s a shelf behind the front door full of items safe enough for you to take. Good on you for making it here in one piece, please leave.”

Mortimer sounded tired and annoyed, looking just like the last time Jaskier had faced off with him. Mortimer Meinbald was broad-shouldered and heavyset, his hair pulled back into a tight braid. His black and grey beard was as unkempt as ever, and probably hiding more turgid research that would annoy the fuck out of Jaskier.

“How pragmatic of you, Morty,” Jaskier said. Mortimer’s eyebrows arched slightly, refocusing on Jaskier now instead of Shani.

“We need your help,” Shani said and Jaskier waved a hand to shush her, drawing even more interest from Mortimer.

“It’s Julian Pankratz, and I know you’ve got two eyes that can see that I’ve been cursed. I’m on a bit of a deadline here and would appreciate your help in getting me back in tip-top shape,” Jaskier said.

“Are you a—” Mortimer began and Jaskier held up a small hand to stop him.

“Yes, I’m a fucking puppet. I need to break this curse and get back into my body right now,” he said, trying not to flail in desperation. He was desperate, but he had to convince Mortimer to help him first.

“I see,” Mortimer said, looking too fucking amused. “This is a rather lackluster practical joke, as far as those go.”

“Oh, I have far better jokes when it comes to you, Morty,” Jaskier said warningly.

“Always a class act, Julian,” Mortimer said dismissively and Jaskier seethed, like Mortimer wasn’t the one to–

“Be nice,” Shani said quietly, patting Jaskier encouragingly. She lifted Jaskier up a little, making sure Jaskier was level with Mortimer’s eyes. Shani was perceptive and thoughtful like that.

Jaskier tried to remind himself why he was really here. He’d been abducted, trampled, and attacked. There was no way he would go begging for Philippa’s help. He couldn’t face Dijkstra like this. Mortifying as it was asking Mortimer for help, this was what Jaskier needed to do.

“I wouldn’t have come to you if it wasn’t serious,” Jaskier said. “We go back a long time, you and I. I’ve helped you before.”

Mortimer snorted and returned a book to a shelf. “I see you’re still excellent at revising history.”

“Revising history? Revising? Ooh, that’s rich coming from you,” Jaskier said, his ire and frustration bubbling back to the surface. Maybe he should go to Philippa after all.

Mortimer chuckled and shook his head. “Despite whatever happened to you now,” he said, gesturing at Jaskier’s current puppet state, “you’ll never change.” read Coin Operated Boy on ao3

[sinterhinde]

Empiricism and the Philosophy of Mind, 1956

The most important work by one of America’s greatest twentieth-century philosophers, Empiricism and the Philosophy of Mind is both the epitome of Wilfrid Sellars’ entire philosophical system and a key document in the history of philosophy. First published in essay form in 1956, it helped bring about a sea change in analytic philosophy. It broke the link, which had bound Russell and Ayer to Locke and Hume—the doctrine of “knowledge by acquaintance.” Sellars’s attack on the Myth of the Given in Empiricism and the Philosophy of Mind was a decisive move in turning analytic philosophy away from the foundationalist motives of the logical empiricists and raised doubts about the very idea of “epistemology.”

With an introduction by Richard Rorty to situate the work within the history of recent philosophy, and with a study guide by Robert Brandom, this publication of Empiricism and the Philosophy of Mind makes a difficult but indisputably significant figure in the development of analytic philosophy clear and comprehensible to anyone who would understand that philosophy or its history. (Harvard University Press)

Wilfrid Sellars (1912–1989) graduated from the University of Michigan in 1933. He taught at Iowa, Minnesota, and Yale, and was University Professor of Philosophy at the University of Pittsburgh from 1963 until his death. His works include Science and Metaphysics (1968) and Science, Perception, and Reality (1963).

Richard Rorty (1931–2007) authored several landmark books and essay collections, including Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature; Consequences of Pragmatism; Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity; and Achieving Our Country: Leftist Thought in Twentieth-Century America. He taught at Wellesley College, Princeton University, the University of Virginia, and Stanford University.

Robert B. Brandom is Distinguished Professor of Philosophy at the University of Pittsburgh and a Fellow of both the American Academy of Arts and Sciences and the British Academy. He delivered the John Locke Lectures at the University of Oxford and the Woodbridge Lectures at Columbia University. Brandom is the author of many books, including Making It Explicit, Reason in Philosophy, and From Empiricism to Expressivism. (Harvard University Press)

I'm attaching a link to b u y the text. Note: attached text is not Rorty and Brandom's 1997 edition.

http://www.ditext.com/sellars/epm.html

[literaturereviewhelp]

The “Story Performance and Event” by Richard Bauman is relatively a short book, but very deceiving. The brevity conceals a hypothetical richness and depth that is hard to find in most works of literature which double its volume. In this book, Bauman illustrates the necessity of novel strategies in the conceptualization of oral narratives. In this book, he focuses on the performance of story-telling. The beauty of this book is that, the models used are not programmatic. This report will explore and summarize the second and third chapters. Chapter two The author begins this chapter by arguing that two forms of tales exist namely true and false. Scholars of folklore have been hugely dependent on the element of truth in the categorization of oral narratives. Some scholars argue that the categorical description of a narrative depends on the degree to which the narrative is founded on verifiable facts. However, other scholars hold that the description should be pragmatic and relativistic, based on local descriptions prescribed by the society. In such societies, the individual telling the story and the audience may perceive the tales to be fictitious or true. However, in the recent past there has been a lot of debate with regard to the empirical foundation and the dependability of this truth-value criterion. Bauman argues that various scholars and tutors have been engaged in endless debates with their students with regard to the use of the truth-fiction classification in the categorization of legends, tales, and narratives among others. Bauman holds that in reference to the truth and quality among others, the size of subjective belief does not matter because they remain constant. The significant thing is that the legend makes a stand and rallies for the articulation of ideas about truth and belief (Bauman 11). Bauman emphasizes that on particular occasions, belief might be relatively secondary to the actual performance. This means that the perception of truth and belief will differ, and hence necessitate a deliberation within the society and the narration situations. This implies that if an individual is interested about the context of narratives in society, then the complexities of variance and deliberation should be evaluated. The matter should be investigated from a comparative approach, and not from an ethnographic one. An abstract priori, as well as universal truth-value principle or categorical approach on oral narrative has proved to be more productive empirically compared to priori etic systems in various communities. A lot of evidence suggests that the truth and cheating can as well be of societal and cultural significance, especially in relation to narratives. Ethnographic investigations are required to describe how the truth and cheating are employed as narration principles within a particular community (Bauman 12). Bauman seems to use a lot of verbal techniques in his analysis and expression of various concepts, in relation to the story-telling of narratives within communities. He emphasizes on the dialogue which takes place in narrative telling and the subsequent debate whether the narrative is true or false. This argument is clearly illustrated by the description of the dog trading in Canton. In this chapter, the tales are organized around a common context in the form of a jockey ground. This is the yard in which the traders meet on the first Monday during the trade fair. Through this particular context, Bauman especially pays attention to story-telling as a method of creating trust in the current circumstance of dog trading. This method is usually comprised of an exciting meta-narrative mixture of truth and lying. For example, a trader may expose his colleagues lying, and then proceed to lie in an attempt to justify his own authenticity. In this particular chapter Bauman also pursues other types of narratives, genres, and outstanding formal features among others. He also critically evaluates the ethnographic setting of Canton’s trade fair. Chapter three The organization of this chapter is different from the previous chapter. In this chapter Bauman attempts to investigate the matter of fabrication via practical jokes. Some of the things deliberated and described in this chapter, comprise of the organization of ideology from a first-person perspective, how to equalize the timing to the tale, and quantity of chronology presented to the audience. This information creates and sustains a suspense-filled narrative. It also provides the description and framework of practical jokes, and the association between the debriefing tales and the occurrences they recollect. The tales in this chapter are specifically selected as they overwhelmingly illustrate what reality can be, and they are formulated through speech. This is in regard to the tales of events and the events told by the tales. Bauman further expands his form of construction to coming events. He argues that compound intelligence is obtained by doing and telling, which assists in the modeling of every new joke. This means that the stories on average contribute positively to the formulation of new practical jokes (Bauman 51-52). In the course of the book, Bauman prudently relates his evaluations to those given by other researchers. Most of these citations provide an energetic interactive debate between the various pieces of information presented by Bauman and the scholars cited, thereby elucidating both perspectives concurrently. Works Cited Bauman, Richard. Story, Performance, and Event: Contextual Studies of Oral Narrative. Cambridge [Cambridgeshire: Cambridge University Press, 1986. Print. Read the full article

[chirpchangeling]

Ask Game Time! your choice of any or all of the Cods - 2, 6, 12, 23

Oh i LOVE talking about these guys i'll gladly do all of them, although i may leave prism for another time or perhaps another ask. I'll be going in order of age

2. Favorite canon thing about this character?

Cobalt: why do you have custom t-shirts printed for when you need to shame somebody. Bro? Joke answer aside, Cobalt's Big Fuckup with mark's universe and his terrible date with HB and how he handles them adds so much to his character to me

Chartreuse: i love how kind she is and yet how pragmatically brutal she also is. These traits give eachother texture in a way that make her very entertaining. Chartreuse genuinely asking Dr. Order her motives for doing everything she did knowing full well that it would both reveal her identity and the day would end with Order exiled to her death in the distant past of another world is something that is so interesting to me

Crimson: ive gushed before about the arc of Crimson's character, the gradual metafictional evolution from 'flat contextless eldritch monster villain' to 'some miserable tragic disaster of a person with too much power and yet none at all reacting completely understandably badly (although not always justifiably) to genuinely horrifying circumstances' is so good, i love how the trickle of information grows heavier and heavier as the show goes on after two seperate seasons of wanting to shake him upside down by the ankles until an actual motive falls out of his pockets

6. What's something you have in common with this character?

.......i mean. the blunt answer is a very particular kind of primary parental figure for all three of them. but if i ever seem like i have a hard time having a balanced (hah) perspective on Cobalt its because he reminds me heavily of myself (or at least my perception of myself in retrospect) in middle school but hes a grown man and hes Still Like That. and it makes me see red and want to shake some goddamn sense into him and attack him with hammers maybe so as you can imagine my feelings about him are volatile and complicated and less impartial than id like them to be,

12. What's a headcanon you have for this character?

Cobalt: I think he's a heavy reader when he's not meditating or training-as-meditation. he strikes me as a 'nose-in-a-book and ignoring you' type as far as his media habits go.

Chartreuse: based partly on folk complimenting her mashed potatoes i think Chartreuse and Folk are a beautiful example of the cooking/baking dichotomy. Folk can barely grill a cheese and has been eating soup out of a can for years and chartreuse will turn up baking disasters that leave you confused as to how its even possible to fuck up that bad. but folk can turn out a catering quality souffle and chartreuse, despite never really Needing to eat before (and certain food crimes of the nutter butter variety) is picking up cooking for herself really quickly!

Crimson: i forget all the time all my opinions about funbox mandoor and who are headcanons. Funbox is a girl and she's plucky and spoiled and also the boss of the other two. Theyre, personality-wise, a goon squad to me. Funbox is the boss mook, mandoor and who are a big guy small guy duo. dbz noncanon movie disposable henchgang style its the pretty one the big idiot and the tiny weird one. In direct inverse to johannsen having rose-colored glasses on about dani and her strength, funbox and the boys know full-well crimson is a loser which is WHY they feel the need to protect him with their lives 👍

23. Favorite picture of this character?

If i remember i will answer this question later when i am not at work and have more time to rifle around for them !