#but that revulsion is just inescapable

[catholickedd]

bleh i wish i could look up online resources for trypophobia without being immediately shown 1000000 triggering images

#like. come ON #trypophobia #y’all don’t even understand trypophobia isn’t like ‘oh no im so scared of the holes’ #it’s an intense and inescapable feeling of total revulsion #and your mind FIXATES on it #you fear holes opening up on your skin to the point where you almost feel it #you know it’s not real that it’s not there that it’s impossible #but that revulsion is just inescapable #trypo cw in tags

[wizardlyghost]

of all the reasons i hate retail one of the most dire is that listening to that FUCKING loudspeaker all day actively robs me of my ability to enjoy music

#any song i have to hear inescapably becomes an object of revulsion through sheer association with being at work #i get home and want to listen to music sometimes but actually listening to it just puts me back into work brain :(

[fangswbenefits]

The Arrangement (12) - In the Beginning

Chapter summary: Astarion meets up with Ava and it triggers something deep within him.

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. Astarion's POV. Mention of masturbation. Dissociative episode. Bloodlust.

Word count: 4.8k

Series Masterlist . Ao3

He should have known this would happen eventually. 

His love affair with the sun had reached an unavoidable end. Yet again. Luck had seldom ever been on his side, so this shouldn’t sting this much.

But it did.

His eyes darted to the half-moon window high up above through which scorching shafts of sunlight tore and lit up the dingy cellar.

Revulsion stirred within him and the flares of anger threatened to consume him whole.

The very same sun rays in which he had bathed for weeks were now a sore reminder of his true and inescapable nature.

He titled his head back against the wooden crate, his eyes fluttering shut in defeat as he sat on the cold floor.

Astarion had served his purpose and was now cast to live in the shadows once more, bound to his hunger and to all the inconveniences of being a vampire spawn.

The pain of being scorched by the sunlight had been revived in his mind after weeks of freely strolling around the Sword Coast in some impromptu quest to save Baldur’s Gate whilst having to deal with an inconvenient wriggling dweller inside his head.

But all the physical pain of being burnt mercilessly paled in comparison when his ears picked up approaching footsteps.

He knew who they belonged to.

The sound was carved into his mind like a dagger that wouldn’t budge.

You.

He winced as the squeaky door was pushed open. 

“Astarion?”

He gritted his teeth, silently praying you’d simply walk away and leave him to his misery. 

But his prayers had never been answered before, and that wasn’t about to change now, least of all when it concerned you.

In truth, he doubted any God above would be able to keep you from plaguing his thoughts.

“Astarion, I know you’re in here.”

Then leave.

He remained silent, eyes fluttered shut and an urge to be swallowed whole by the ground below.

Light and careful footsteps drew near and only came to a halt as a swift rush of air indicated to him that you were crouched in front of him.

Shit.

“Hello,” you said and he could hear the warm smile in your voice.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and he was sure that if he had a beating heart, it would most likely skip a few beats. Instead, he felt his stomach lurch as hunger simmered dangerously.

Your kind eyes met his and he craved nothing more than to have you be gone. 

From all the afflictions he was yet again a slave to, you were by far the most painful one.

“Did you come here to mock me?” he spat, the poisonous words leaving his mouth before he could hold back.

Your eyes widened slightly. “Mock you? Astarion–”

But he cut you off like a knife through flesh. “Spare me – I saw the way they laughed as my skin crumbled to ashes. So if you’ve come here to have your share, you can just leave.”

He was being unfair and he didn’t need your wavering smile as proof.

After all your travels together and his unrequited feelings towards you, he couldn’t fight his arrogance from surfacing.

But you never gave up on him – through deceit and manipulation, you were unmoving and relentless in your loyalty to him.

“I’ll have you know that I scolded all of them for doing so,” you said firmly. “It was uncalled for, especially after everything we’ve been through together.”

His jaw clenched harder and his eyes narrowed. 

Oh, he couldn’t stand it. That look on your face – pity. It immediately triggered a visceral reaction deep within him, and when he saw you reach out to him with your hand, he flinched away and recoiled against the crate behind him. 

“Don’t touch me.”

Your hand immediately stilled before dropping to your knee, and he saw a glint of sadness cross your eyes.

It wasn’t disgust or anger that caused him to utter such words.

He just knew your touch would ruin him and that he’d allow it.

“We can find a way to solve this,” you tried again with newfound determination. “We will find a way.”

He scoffed, averting his gaze.

Unfortunately, the laws of the worlds didn’t bend to the whims of lesser beings without compromise. 

And he soon realised what really bothered him was how vulnerable he felt – how exposed and weak he surely looked in your eyes.

Pathetic.

Useless.

Tainted.

Broken.

“Do you trust me?” 

He remained silent.

“Do you?”

Your insistence gnawed at his nerves, causing him to lock eyes with you again. 

“It goes beyond trust, darling. If walking in the sun again – or curing vampirism altogether – were that easy, I would not be here in the first place.”

Even through his snarky remark, you found a way to hold a smile and it immediately disarmed him. “Astarion, if there is anything our travels together have taught me is that we're quite good at turning the impossible into possible,” you said with conviction. “If there is a way to help you, we will find it.”

In another lifetime, he would have called you a foolish human who uttered big words without knowing their meaning.

But in this one, he did know you didn't extend promises lightly.

And if there was a sliver of hope he could cling to, he'd take it, especially now that Cazador was no longer around to compel him otherwise.

“Well, who's ‘we’, exactly?” he asked, easing himself against the crate.

Your face lightened up. “You and me, of course.”

The two of you. Just the two of you?

Oh, he liked the sound of that. Very, very much. 

His jaw slacked as hope kindled inside him, soaring dangerously high.

“Well, and Wyll – he's offered to help.”

Said hope plummeted back to the ground, shattering.

He scowled with a click of his tongue. “Did he, now? How chivalrous of him.”

You nodded. “I'm sure the others will come around, too.”

Astarion supposed this was a decent prospect, but almost grimaced when you extended your hand to him.

“Deal?”

He wanted to believe your relationship with him surpassed a mere friendship value, but he had grown tired of hoping for more.

Still, he would greedily take anything you would offer him.

Whether it was an indication that you craved more than friendship, or a simple handshake.

As such, he took your hand in his, revelling in the familiar warmth. “We have a deal, darling.”

Once he entered The Blushing Mermaid, it was evident that the presence of six Flaming Fists was not welcome at all.

Bork immediately asked for only two to stay inside as they were beginning to frighten the clientele.

But, much to his convenience, he immediately found who he was looking for, sitting in the furthermost corner of the lounge area.

Ava.

The plan was simple: try to get a confession from her – if applicable – but they would still be bringing her in for questioning as Rob Sorel, her lover, awaited her with Wyll.

A measured smile spread across her face as she noticed the fists behind him.

He slithered to her table with determined steps, aware that there was a possibility that this conversation would lead nowhere.

He slowly took the seat across from her, casually placing his twin daggers on the chipped table.

Ava's eyes dropped momentarily before meeting his again. “Oh, Astarion. Offering a silent warning with poison-coated blades? You needn't do that with me.”

Astarion's lips twitched upwards in silence.

He knew this dance better than most. He could read others quite efficiently when it came to sudden shifts in body language, and he had noticed Ava sitting straighter and her saccharine smile wavering all of a sudden.

And he had her right where he wanted her.

“You can't be too careful. Isn't that what some say?” he said, absentmindedly drumming his fingers along the handle of one dagger.

She took a sip from her cup before tilting it. “I'd order one for you, but I know this isn't your drink of choice – unless you brought her along for a sip, that is.”

Her taunt was enough to set him ablaze and the tip of his blade was immediately carved into the wooden table, earning a jolt from her.

“You do not get to goad me with her,” he snarled, gripping the handle so fiercely he might snap it in half. “She is off limits and you were delusional to even think you could bring her into this without consequences.”

Suddenly, her face twisted into a hard scowl and whatever traces of sweetness vanished. “I would not do anything with her without talking to you first.”

“You still offered her a deal, thereby roping her into something she is not to be a part of,” he retorted. “Her blood is off limits. She is off limits.”

Ava leaned back with a roll of her eyes. “Is this a case of you not wanting to share? Not even if that could be beneficial to you?”

His grip loosened slightly as his brows furrowed. “What is your point?”

She took another sip. “Her blood mixed with yours could be beneficial to my experiment and, thus, to you and even that massive horde of spawn in the Underdark.”

Of course Ava would want to play her cards right to keep him around.

It was a temptimg prospect, and he would never consider it at your expense.

He was no fool and you were no bargaining chip.

“I could never ask that of her. She stays out of this.”

She forced a yawn. “Have you forgotten your arrangement with her? Her blood for your good behaviour? Or does all sense of reason rush to your cock when you feed on her?”

Ava's words slashed through the air and he was momentarily taken aback.

The nature of your arrangement with him was vastly different. It wasn’t as simple as him being kept in line like some obedient pup. He could have turned the offer away and live exclusively off boars and deers – much to his horror.

The difference was… well, you.

Your unwillingness to let him go.

Your blood.

Your insistence on helping him keep his mind clear by allowing him to freely feed on the blood of a thinking creature.

And not just any thinking creature.

You.

His first.

The only blood he craved to the point of madness.

“Though, I can tell you haven't fed in a couple of days,” she went on with a dramatic pout. “A lover's quarrel, hmm?”

Oh, she was vicious.

This was the same woman who had shared a bed with him to ease him coming to terms with intimacy. For the most part, her simply being naked by his side hadn't helped much, but it seemed enough, and he was desperate to overcome the prison that his mind had become.

However, this was also the same woman who slayed her kin without hesitation.

She could go from being as kind and sweet to holding a stake to his chest.

Astarion felt a sense of dread wash over him as he realised he had greatly underestimated her.

Now, he needed to tread lightly.

The blade sunk deeper into the table as he leaned closer. “You wanted her blood in exchange for information.”

“Yet it is a far less selfish bargain than your arrangement with her, is it not?”

He ignored tar taunt. “Who is after me?”

“I do not know yet.”

He gritted his teeth. “Lies.”

Ava's face softened and he watched her slip into her usual overly sweet demeanour. “Astarion, we can be here all night hurling accusations and witty remarks at each other,” she said with a sigh. “Or we can approach this in a more sensitive manner.”

He didn't budge. “Who is after me?”

“I do not know who is after you,” she said. “Someone is, but I have yet to find out who.”

There was something in her tone that felt disingenuous. Almost as if she hadn't expected him to press her on this.

“Or there is no one at all besides you,” he said casually.

Her eyes widened slightly. “Me? And what would I gain from doing such a thing? Your blood is an integral part of this experiment. Locking you up in a prison cell would prove to be a nuisance.”

His patience was wearing thin.

“Darling, I've been around long enough to know people lie – you are a pristine liar, but a liar nonetheless.

In truth, he was merely bluffing in an attempt to spot any cracks in her story. He needed anything he could get from her.

And a part of him still hoped this was all a misunderstanding.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I can see what you are trying to do and it won't work.”

He thought as much. Still, he had to give it a try.

“What about Waterdeep?”

For the first time that night, Ava looked genuinely dumbfounded. “What about it?”

“No casual killings over there, hmm? In the past hours – accidental ones, perhaps?” he pressed.

She frowned deeply in response. “What are you accusing me of, exactly?”

“Someone was murdered and I am simply trying to rule you out as a suspect,” he said, feigning concern. 

“You overestimate my reach outside Baldur's Gate.”

He scoffed. “But not the reach of a certain patriar who so happens to be your lover.”

Ava's lips parted but she didn't utter a word.

“Rob Sorel has dealings in Waterdeep and knows which strings to pull to order a murder.”

She was visibly agitated, but he couldn't tell the cause. Was it the mention of a patriar? Or was he simply nearing the truth?

“Who was killed?”

It was all pointless.

A shame.

He merely turned in his seat and motioned for the two Fists at the door. Both immediately approached with the Mage Slayer right behind.

By this point, Astarion wasn't sure if Ava was even involved in this at all, but he couldn't take any risks. She would be taken in for questioning regardless of his judgement.

“Astarion?”

The room was immediately plunged into silence as multiple heads turned to watch the scene. From behind the counter he spotted Bork shaking his head in clear disapproval, visibly displeased with the ordeal.

“Astarion? What are you doing?”

His eyes met hers as he sheathed his daggers. “The right thing.”

He was known to do that from time to time, even against his better judgement.

She rushed to her feet, clawing at her dress in search of her own dagger. “Astarion!”

He could hear the rising panic in her voice, and he silently watched as the mage cast Hold Person on her before she could so much as blink.

She was instantly left petrified in place as the violet sign on the floor caged her in.

Gasps echoed around him and the two Fists promptly rushed to her side.

“We'll handle it from here,” one of them told him.

There was a part of him that vaguely wondered if this was the correct approach. 

A part of him that hoped for Ava not to be involved in any of it.

And then, from across the room, he saw you.

He blinked twice, thinking his eyes betrayed him, but there you were, standing by the door with a Fist at your side, staring back into his crimson eyes.

And it was as if he had been mentally slapped.

Ava had dared to involve you.

You.

And it had been his fault.

The unruly and dense crowd in the room wasn't enough to contain him from darting hurriedly to meet you.

Annoyance hit him first and it was woven into his words once he was in front of you, gripping your forearm. “Why are you here? I told you to let me handle this.”

You immediately yanked free with narrowed eyes. “I wasn't trying to interfere. But this idiot,” you said, pointing to the Fist who merely shrugged, “pushed me inside and – wait! How did it go with her?”

Astarion caught hold of your shoulders, pulling you to the side as Ava was carried away through the door.

As soon as it closed behind them, the fanfare commenced once more in between heated whispers and glares from those around the two of you.

“Marvellous as you can see,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “She didn't confess to anything, and I had limited time.”

You pushed the door open once again and he promptly followed you outside, until he felt a hard shove from someone's hand.

“Move, spawn.”

He glanced over his shoulder only to see a frowning Fist right behind.

“We are not cattle to be ordered around,” he spat, adjusting his vest. “Honestly, Wyll ought to have you all stand trial for severe lack of manners.”

“It's Duke Ravengard to you,” the Fist growled, hand on the hilt of his sword.

Astarion clicked his tongue humorously. “It's Wyll to me and Duke Ravengard to you, Fist.”

Before tensions could escalate any further, you were already tugging at his sleeve, and dragging him across the wooden pier.

Just as the Fist opened his mouth, a myriad of clashing and banging sounds were heard from inside and he turned to open the door.

Probably a tavern brawl.

What fun!

Seconds later, the armoured man was toppled to the ground as the door burst open with people yelling profanities and slinging fists at each other.

“I'll kill ya! WHERE IS MY CHICKEN, YOU OAF?” a drunkard missing most of his teeth yelled, holding a frying pan in his hand.

“YOU ATE IT, YOU IMBECILE!” said another, stepping on the fallen Fist and nearly losing his balance.

Behind them, Astarion spotted several items being tossed whilst Bork's voice begged for order.

He almost clicked his tongue.

Tavern brawls were too much fun and he always adored adding fuel to the fire by standing on the side and instigating these drunkard fools.

But a quick glance at you and he could tell you wouldn't approve of such activity, so he remained at your side.

The other two Fists that were standing guard nearby, clumsily rushed to the entrance.

“Go call for backup!”

The youngest nodded and nearly bumped into Astarion as he tried to keep his helmet steady.

“Oh! Do not leave! Do not move!”

Astarion immediately raised both hands innocently. “Wouldn't dream of it.”

“Right. Thank you!”

Idiot.

Surprisingly, you hadn't let go of his sleeve and your hand moved to his wrist, pulling him to cross the road until you reached the metal balustrade that allowed a privileged view over the Grey Harbour Docks.

It was far away from the chaos that had erupted, but not quite far that would potentially get you into trouble.

Although… “Maybe we should leave.”

Astarion arched an eyebrow at you. “And going against the voice of authority?”

Your face dropped and he fought the urge to pinch your cheek teasingly.

You were so easy to rile up.

“You scheming little delinquent, you,” he said with a devious smile and a chuckle. “I'm all for acts of rebellion, but we ought to stay nearby this time.”

“Do you think we should go help them out?” you asked, glancing over at the rising commotion nearby.

The two of you exchanged looks before shrugging.

“No. They can fend for themselves,” you said, leaning over the fence, eyes set on the lulling sea that spread vastly into the distance.

“Actually, they're quite incompetent, but I don't feel like creasing my shirt,” he said with an annoyed click of his tongue, inspecting his sleeves as he joined you. “Let them fight off the drunkards. We get to collect the scattered coins on the floor afterwards.”

You shot him a curious look. “You do that?”

“Well, obviously? I put the gold to good use, at least.”

“Embroidery?”

That tugged a genuine smile from him and he caught himself staring at you under the moonlight.

Gods.

He would never tire of admiring your beauty and how it was almost embarrassingly too easy for him to get lost in your eyes.

It also didn't help that he hadn't fed in a few days.

Bloodlust clouded his mind and made his insides turn.

It was the soft sound of your voice that snapped him from his thoughts. “What now? I mean… Ava.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, they are to interrogate Rob Sorel and see how both their stories hold up.”

You heaved a deep sigh. “So we wait.”

“We wait.”

Astarion had grown used to the silence that would often settle around the two of you. It wasn’t an uncomfortable one. It was the kind that he had never experienced before.

He wasn't sure there was a name for it, but he knew the feeling attached to it all too well.

The silhouette of passing ships on the horizon, dancing along the calm waters added to the overall soothing atmosphere.

He could stay a while longer like this.

With you.

His eyes eventually darted to the side and he nearly jolted when your head turned to him, as if you had felt his burning gaze.

“You can feed on me once we get home.”

He wanted that.

He needed it.

He craved it.

But… “I can do without your blood for a while longer, darling.”

A white lie.

He could feel his mind spotting and blanking at times already, especially when near you. Maybe he had gotten too addicted to feeding on you to the point his body could no longer go extended periods of time without blood.

Your blood.

And as much as he appreciated your offer, he needed to withstand his hunger.

Ava's words echoed in his mind and he almost felt repulsed from having allowed himself to be so dependent on you and putting you through it in the first place.

“Are you alright?” you asked, visibly worried.

“Yes – of course, darling,” he forced a smile to curl his lips.

Your hand came to rest on his forearm. “Astarion, you can feed on me. I mean it.”

His eyes dropped to your neck, the symmetrical puncture wounds still visible from when he had last bitten you.

Hunger swelled to the point of agony and he could almost smell your blood and feel it coursing through your hand.

You gave him a reassuring nod, which only made it harder for him to resist the urge to give in.

“I should go hunt, actually,” he eventually managed to say and his words felt like ash in his mouth.

You chuckled slightly, squeezing his arm. “You'd probably have to bring a Fist with you.”

He grimaced, but appreciated your attempt at diffusing the tension. “They would end up being the ones hunted by some beast in the woods, and I would have to step in and save the godsdamned idiot.”

Your eyes widened and then you laughed.

Hard.

And it was the most comforting sound he had ever heard in a long while.

It was enough to steer the bloodlust away and he laughed with you.

“It reminds me of the first time you fed on me,” you said, wiping off the teardrops that had formed in the corners of your eyes from laughing. “Remember? When you drifted off into the woods to hunt for something more ‘filing’?”

Oh.

Shit.

His smile wavered and you immediately caught on to the sudden shift.

“What?”

He thought he had told you what truly happened that night….

…. he hadn't?

“Well… I…” his words failed him and as he pondered how he should approach the topic.

Concern suddenly splattered across your face. “What is it? 

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“I didn't exactly go hunting,” he said with a tense chuckle.

You remained silent, waiting for him to go on.

“I just had to get away from you… to… uhm, well – take care of a little problem that stirred whilst I fed on you, if you catch my meaning.”

He allowed the implication to dangle from his words, and it wasn't a particularly subtle one.

And then your eyes widened once more in sudden realisation.

“Oh… it makes sense,” you said all flustered, withdrawing your hand from his arm. “You did say my blood feels really good.”

‘Good’ was an unfair understatement.

It always felt divine.

“Don't misunderstand,” he quickly added. “It was totally out of my control. I was quite surprised when I realised just how…” hard he had gotten.

“Just how…?”

“Just how much your blood affected me.”

He could remember it clearly in his head.

How desperate he was to slip into the woods and find a secluded place so he could see just how much of a mess his trousers were.

He could feel it, obviously, but he wouldn't know the extent of the ‘'damage’ until he undid his trousers.

“Did you… get…. really hard?” you drawled out in a hushed tone as if scared someone other than him might overhear you.

Astarion figured this was the last topic he expected to be addressing given that the background noise consisted of screams and threats and loud noises and glass smashing.

Hardly the right ambience.

“Yes.”

He could almost remember the feel of the bark of the tree digging into his back as he hurriedly undid the lacing at the front until he was able to free his cock.

“And what did you do?”

Were these merely questions that stemmed from curiosity or were you trying to stir something else…?

“Well…” he started, “you can't expect me to reveal such things aloud.”

He watched you swallow hard as you nodded. “You can say in my ear, then? If you want to, of course,” you quickly added.

You were too adorable and he was in dire need of a distraction from his bloodlust.

This would suffice.

He leaned closer, and pressed a kiss to your heated cheek before his lips grazed the shell of your ear.

“I had to take care of it.”

You shuddered.

His cock had never been as hard and as thick before he had fed on you. It had made him utterly speechless to see all the precum dripping from the tip.

He had been almost too scared to even touch it.

But when he did….

The groan that had erupted from his throat had been too difficult to rein in. His cock had felt warm and it had throbbed from your blood coursing through it, giving it a faint pink tint to it.

“In the woods?” you asked, gripping the railing with both hands.

“Yes.”

He could hear the faint beating of your heart increasing. “What if someone had run into you?”

His cock twitched.

Innocent, little pup…

“Why, darling… did you want to run into me,” he lowered his voice as his lips brushed against your ear, "and witness my despair as I touched myself?”

You gasped.

Despair didn't quite cover it. 

He couldn’t remember a time when he had ever felt like he'd implode lest he reached climax.

It was a novelty and he had felt… alive. 

He had heard of how delectable the blood of thinking creatures could be, but he had never anticipated this feeling of fullness and how addictive it could be.

“It was so warm… from your blood, sweetheart,” he purred, feeling himself getting carried away.

You bit your quivering lip before replying, “Did it feel good?”

Maybe too carried away.

And when you shuddered again under his faint touch, it was as if he had been slapped back into another plane of existence.

He suddenly straightened himself and blinked.

What was he doing?

His abrupt change in demeanour was enough to earn a reaction from you, and he could see lust in your half-hooded eyes as you stared at him in confusion.

And just like a tidal wave that one couldn't hold back, he felt disgust and revulsion lacing themselves into a powerful mixture that caused him to take a step back.

His mind was flooded with Ava's accusatory words and the memories of him seducing you for his own benefit.

“Astarion?”

Your voice was miles away and he couldn't even bring himself to blink anymore.

The nauseating feeling was heightened by the fact that he had a very inconvenient erection strained against his trousers, begging for attention.

“Astarion… what is it?” 

Your voice seemed even more distant than before, as if he had been plunged into a well and couldn't get out.

Why couldn't he get out?

Why was his cock so hard, but his mind so repulsed by it?

And the impending feeling of dread began to slowly overtake him like storm clouds rolling over the mountains, bent on flooding the land below.

And when it began to rain in his mind, it poured.

He needed to get away.

He needed to get away from you.

You tried reaching out to him with your hand, but he flinched away. “Don't touch me!”

And he could see it in your eyes.

Pity.

Again.

“I – I must go.”

And he didn't look back.

TBC

#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x oc #astarion x female tav #astarion smut #astarion x female reader #astarion x f!tav

[heroes-among-us-all]

INFATUATION - Yandere!Chisaki Kai x Quirkless!Reader 

Sickness was inescapable. No matter where Chisaki looked, it was there. Thanks to the disgusting malady known as Quirks, the whole world was practically teeming with it. 

I shouldn’t be here. 

Chisaki scrunched up his nose as he waited in line, putting as much distance possible between himself and the other customers. He had a splitting headache and was in desperate need of coffee, but it was starting to feel like it wasn’t worth it. If only he’d been closer to home, then he wouldn’t have even thought to expose himself to all this chatter and filth. 

Thankfully, the mask he wore was enough to intimidate most of the other customers, and they were wary of giving him his space. He’d also been glaring at them with visible murderous intent, which probably helped. 

He eventually made it to the front counter, where a young woman with a pretty smile greeted him. 

“Hello,” you beamed. “What can I get for you today?” 

You were beautiful, no question about it, but that alone wasn’t enough to break through Chisaki’s mysophobia. The thought of being touched by anyone other than Pops made him shudder in revulsion. Every person he met was sick. Just because you were rather easy on the eyes didn’t make that any less true. 

“A small coffee,” Chisaki muttered. “Make it black. I don’t care for sugary things.” 

You nodded happily. “Sure thing. And what name can I put down for your order?” 

For a moment, he considered giving you the alias he’d taken on since becoming the leader of the Shie Hassaikai —Overhaul—but he supposed using his villain name so carelessly might arouse some suspicion.

“Just Chisaki is fine.” 

It was a name he’d discarded of for the most part, and when he uttered the syllables, he couldn’t help but feel they sounded a bit foreign. 

Perhaps he had made the right choice though, because your pleasant smile grew even wider after the fact. 

“That’s a lovely name,” you complimented, then rung the order in and accepted his payment. “It’ll be ready soon. Thank you!” 

Chisaki couldn’t deny that he was attracted to you, which is why is was such a shame. A shame that you were just as diseased as everyone else. 

Or so he’d thought. 

“Damn, [Name], you’re still working here?” an arrogant voice chuckled cruelly. “I thought they would’ve fired your Quirkless ass by now.” 

Quirkless...? 

Chisaki felt his brows lift. Instinctively, he turned back towards the counter and found that a group of people appeared to be heckling you—if your bitter expression was any indication. 

Your beautiful smile was nowhere to be found. “Can I please take your order?” you frowned. “There are other customers still waiting.” 

Needless to say, the people bullying you didn’t relent, not for a single moment. They made a big show of uttering all sorts of vile insults, and Chisaki could see the way your shoulders were trembling as you desperately tried to retain your composure. 

They’re a bunch of idiots. She’s the normal one, not them. I can’t believe they would take pride in being diseased. 

Chisaki felt as if he’d just found a goldmine. He’d finally met someone who struck his fancy, and not only that, but you were Quirkless. You were free of the malady that plagued the vast majority of the population. 

He would be an idiot not to act.

“You’re making a fool of yourselves,” he sneered, stepping closer to them. He normally hated to get near anyone, but in the interest of intimidating these assholes, he supposed he had no choice. “I suggest you walk away before you embarrass yourselves any further. You’re holding up the line and getting on everyone’s nerves. Disease-ridden scum.” 

“Huh?” the ringleader of the crew scoffed. “What’s your deal, douchebag? We can say whatever the hell we want. It’s a free country.” 

As much as Chisaki hated Quirks, his Quirk was entirely necessary if he wanted to purge this world and rid it of its filth. If he so desired, he could kill these morons on the spot, but that would hardly be a smart move. Besides, he didn’t want to risk scaring you off. 

He was still going to kill them, though. Just not right now. 

As it turned out, they were the type to talk a big game, but didn’t have the guts to follow through with their words. All it took was one violent glare from Chisaki’s golden eyes, and they seemed to buckle under the pressure. 

“Leave,” he demanded. “Get the hell out of here before I make you regret it.” 

They exchanged nervous glances before letting out a series of huffs and storming out of the store. What a bunch of cowards. He could have killed them all with his eyes closed. 

Once they were gone, he turned back towards you. 

“Are you alright?” he asked. “It sounded like they knew you. Does this sort of thing happen regularly?” 

You strained a smile. “Just some people I used to go to school with. It’s okay. I know they’re just trying to get a rise out of me. But thank you for speaking up. That was really nice of you. Oh, and... your order’s ready, by the way.” 

You slid the coffee over to him, and Chisaki wasn’t exactly sure what possessed him, but he went out of his way to ensure that his gloved fingers brushed against yours as he grabbed the cup. You didn’t have a Quirk, after all, which meant that you weren’t sick like the others. 

Even though I touched her, I don’t have any hives. 

You couldn’t see it because of his mask, but Chisaki was smiling. His spur-of-the-moment decision to come here had really paid off. 

“I realize you’re working right now, but would you be willing to give me your number?” he asked. “I find you to be incredibly beautiful, and the fact that you’re Quirkless doesn’t bother me. In fact, I prefer it that way.” 

Red hues burst across your cheeks, and you timidly bowed your head. “Oh, um... thank you,” you said with a shy smile. “I’m very flattered that you think so. I’m pretty sure I’m not really supposed to give out my number while I’m at work, but my shift is close to being over. If you’d like, maybe we could talk for a little while once I’m done?” 

Chisaki nodded, feeling his chest swell with excitement. “Yes, that would be perfect, thank you. I’m more than happy to wait.” 

True to your word, it didn’t take much longer for your shift to finish. You ended up taking a walk together outside, and Chisaki was so fixated on you that he hardly took any sips of his coffee, which was surely getting cold. He could tell that you were very friendly and open-minded, considering the fact that you’d so readily given him a chance. Perhaps you appreciated that he’d stood up for you. The thought of you being grateful and indebted to him thrilled Chisaki more than he could even put into words. 

“This was really nice, but I should probably head home soon,” you admitted. “I need to get some studying done. I have exams coming up soon. But I had a lot of fun! You’re such a nice person, Chisaki. I’m a bit curious, though. Why do you say you’d prefer for someone to be Quirkless?” 

“Quirks are a disease,” Chisaki immediately replied. “They are a mutation. Humans didn’t used to possess such powers in the past. What happened to the human species was a massive and detrimental genetic shift. Our bodies are no longer the way they once used to be, natural and unblemished. Quirks are a plague upon humanity.”

“I suppose they are a mutation, but...” You paused, then gave him a puzzled look. “It’s strange. Most people go crazy over Quirks, especially since it’s allowed for so many heroes to surface. To be honest, I’m used to being harassed over the fact that I don’t have a Quirk. It’s my first time meeting someone with a mindset like yours, and I have to admit, it’s really refreshing. You don’t look down on me, and... it means more than I can express.” 

She already considers me to be special.

The way you gazed at him with pure adoration in your eyes... Chisaki decided right then and there that he had to make you his. 

The first thing he did after you gave him your contact information was to look up anything and everything he could possibly find out about you. He had some of his underlings do some digging on their own end. You let a few details slip while you texted back and forth with him—the name of the university you attended, for instance—and slowly but surely, he was able to piece together the various aspects of your life. 

Even though you’d only just met, Chisaki was already infatuated with you. He had never had a such a strong desire to claim someone. He’d never yearned to be touched before, but ever since he’d met you, all he could think of was roaming his hands over every inch of your body, and letting you do the very same to him. 

His morality had long since gone out the window ever since he began experimenting on Eri to develop the anti-Quirk bullets, so he didn’t even bat an eye when he started stalking you all the way back to your apartment. 

The more you talked, and the more research he did on his own time, the more he learned about you—and good lord, every part of you really was perfect. He could hardly stand this anymore. You’d only just recently become acquaintances, and your relationship surely wasn’t developed enough for you to see him in a romantic light, but Chisaki was tired of waiting. He’d already waited his entire adult life to find someone he was interested in. Enough was enough. 

That evening, he broke into your apartment, and you found yourself pinned to the floor by him. 

“C-Chisaki?” you stammered nervously. Your eyes were wide and trembling as you gazed up at him. “What’s happening? How... how did you get in? I don’t even think I told you where I lived...”  

Instead of gracing you with a response, Chisaki did the thing he’d been yearning to do ever since you’d first met.

He removed his gloves and allowed his bare fingers to sink into your soft flesh.

“You’re so beautiful,” he groaned. His lower half was throbbing with arousal; it already felt like he was about to burst. “You’re perfect, [Name]. Just perfect. All for me.” 

He ran his fingers across every curve of your body, and by now you were already kicking and screaming, begging for him to release you. Tears blurred your vision. You couldn’t seem to understand why he was acting so differently all of a sudden, but you didn’t realize that this was nothing out of the ordinary. These were his true feelings for you, and he was a far more deranged man than you could have possibly known.

Chisaki gripped your wrists with one hand to hold you in place, then used his other hand to remove his mask. You were finally able to see his face in full for the first time. He’d always known he was objectively handsome, so he supposed you must have been quite thrilled with this turn-out. 

But you only cried harder. 

“Chisaki, please,” you sobbed. “I-I’m really scared. I don’t understand why you’re doing this. I liked you. We were getting to know each other... weren’t we? I promise I won’t cut you out of my life as long as you stop this right now.” 

She’s so adorable.

Chisaki couldn’t help but crack a little grin. You were gorgeous when you smiled, but the sight of your pretty face drenched in tears wasn’t half-bad either. He understood why you were a bit surprised, but you would come to terms with things quickly enough. You were interested in him too. That much was obvious. All he was doing was accelerating the process a bit, that’s all. 

“You’re exactly the kind of person I’ve been waiting for,” he breathed, cradling your cheek with one hand. He let the weight of his body keep you pressed to the ground, and you squeezed your eyes shut when his face drew closer to yours. “We’re going to be very happy together,” he insisted. “Now that I have you, everything is falling into place. The Shie Hassaikai will rise to its former glory again, and I’ll have the perfect bride through it all.” 

Chisaki paused for just a moment, reveling in how utterly helpless you were, then smashed his lips against yours. It was his first kiss, and he was sharing it with the most perfect person. Your lips were so soft and inviting. The way they trembled furiously as your tears fell just turned him on even more. 

He groaned into your mouth, plunging his tongue down your throat and forcing you to accept his twisted love. You choked from how forceful he was being. In between your whimpers and uncontrollable shaking, you didn’t have the strength or lucidity to put up a proper fight. 

Chisaki eventually broke away from the sloppy kiss, strings of saliva rolling down his chin as he gasped for breath. For a man deprived of touch for so long, it was almost too much stimulation for him to bear. 

“Perfect,” he mumbled again. “You’re so perfect, [Name]. I won’t let you get away. You’ll see that we’re meant to be together.” 

He grabbed your hand, which was limp and barely able to hold itself up, then pressed your palm down against his boner.

“Now, then,” he said, licking his lips. “How about we make each other feel really good?”

#bnha #yandere overhaul #my hero academia #bnha imagines #mha imagines #chisaki kai #overhaul #bnha overhaul #chisaki x reader #bnha chisaki #yandere #yandere chisaki #bnha x reader #mha x reader #boku no hero academia #overhaul x reader #boku no hero imagines #bnha headcanons #bnha scenarios

[artbyblastweave]

Worm milks an enormous amount of emotional and thematic mileage out of not being remotely parodic.

Here’s an example of what I’m talking about; I recently started watching The Venture Brothers, and in the fourth episode there’s that sequence where The Monarchs henchmen and Baron Underbeit’s henchmen are shooting the shit over beers while trying to breach the Venture compound, talking about their various traumatic backstories and the roads they walked to become henchmen. The scene is extremely funny, because it’s a bunch of guys in ridiculous costumes killing time while trying to organize an assassination, but it’s also kidding-on-the-square; once it milks some black humor out of the mere idea of expendable minions having rich inner lives and incentives driving their behavior, the show actually does evolve into more nuanced examination of the expendable henchman dynamic.

Worm, though, does something different. The book takes the idea of “henchmen” extremely seriously from the start, subtly treating it as foundational to the game from day one and inescapably tying it into the books themes of selfishness, desperation and coordination problems. As early as the second or third chapter, Taylor is casually identifying the collapse of Brockton Bay’s blue collar sector as the reason the city is so attractive to supervillains; because they know the city is full of disenfranchised workers who are desperate enough to take jobs as goons. Her father, a Union Man to his core, brings up the idea of his dockworkers defecting to hench for Uber and Leet as something laughable- but there’s a very real desperation underpinning that framing. He’s desperate to find something to talk to her about, desperate enough that he’s willing to try and laugh off a real societal problem that he feels like he’s personally failing to address, so the beat isn’t really comedic.

In fact, there are almost no comedic beats about where Henchmen come from; the question of where villains find goons is spun around from a hundred different angles; it’s always some combination of desperation, coercion, career militarism (from coils people) or, in Skitters case, forged-in-fire loyalty used as a characterization tool for the protagonist. There are a few characters who behave as though henchmen exist solely to enable their superhuman setpiece violence, and every time the narrative treats that attitude with disdain and revulsion. Worm doesn’t go out of its way to emphasize the absurdity of henchmen; instead, it views them through the lens of community organization, organizational cohesion and movement building. In arc 11, Lisa puts serious thought into the ideal squad dynamics for the minion-backed sortie to merchant territory, and that’s just business. In a show like The Venture Brothers, these same ideas would be expressed through a gag where a mastermind gripes about the surprising difficulty of managing the petty office politics of the death squads.

#wildbow #parahumans #worm #thoughts #meta #the venture bros #worm thoughts #worm meta

[obeetlebeetle]

Slime theory????

hi now you've asked a great question. slime theory is my vague reference to Simon Estok's work on slime and ecophobia, who argues that our understanding of slime is necessary to our understanding corporeal reality -- it being agentive in a way that agency is often attributed to (but not earned by) natural actors. he is largely discussing the way we naturally respond to slime with a mixture of fear/revulsion/disgust/interest/arousal, and how that response demonstrates our desire to be above or separate from the (gendered and ambiguous) dimensions of slime as well as the inescapable reality of the slime we continuously excrete.

I could say more but i feel like this is the gist & I may post more abt slime soon since I will be reading new slime theory from a DIFFERENT writer . which is shocking bc I thought it was just me and Estok in here

[hearsayhorizons]

Thinktober 6: Golden

The heat of the sands, the massive bulk of the mother dragon nearby, the crowds of people there to see and be seen, the little dots of Rekke’s parents in the distance.

Of the seven or so girls and women here to try their luck, only perhaps three are any sort of real possibility: the headstrong Kimara whose self-confidence will get her where kindness won't, the timid Berne whose ability to hear all dragons will probably overcome that limitation in time (not that anyone’s said anything, but Rekke sees the way dragons react to her, and her to them)... and Rekke herself.

Always dependable, always practical, keeps her head in a crisis, already has a lifetime of sacrificing the songs and freedom she wants for the greater good of her family and farmhold.

Which wouldn't be a problem, because the other two are happy to be here. But there are three golden eggs; all of them are shaking.

Across the cavern, a clumsy bronze claws its newfound partner as it tries to embrace him. People are shouting, but not at the violence as a blue tosses one boy aside to get to another behind it--no, the noise is Kimara's people, because she has Impressed the first queen hatchling. She's trying to stand tall and smug while it mews at her feet, but even from here Rekke can see her expression.

Berne becomes a sobbing mess as she embraces her new partner; the thing snuffles over her shoulder for food while she hugs it.

The last gold flexes free of its shell. Rekke tries to ignore the stab in her heart at the sight of that damp-dark hide and those whirring rainbow eyes. She plans to remain indistinguishable amongst the other white-robed candidates. Some of the girls strain toward the thing; a few others look forlornly at the greens Impressing in the distance. Others are more sensibly shrieking and backing away from its ungainly movements as it begins to approach.

It’s too late. It made eye contact, and has invaded the quiet of her mind with forlorn words: my name is Marath and I love you. And Rekke—inescapably, irrevocably, claustrophobically, loves Marath. She sinks to her knees as the other girls scatter or break into sobs or look to each other for comfort. Marath sticks her face into Rekke’s—none of the short briefings mentioned the stink—but just like everything else, just like the few girls Marath walked over and probably maimed forever in her rush to reach Rekke—it all matters so much and not at all.

She helps Marath extend her baby wings with fingers that tremble. Somewhere, far, far away, she can hear her family screaming for her. She is screaming inside, too. Her family has been talking for weeks about the prestige, the connections, maybe recruiting some lesser riders for help in getting their goods to market faster. She has been thinking since selection about... her heart outside her body. Feeling the dragon’s—Marath’s—hunger as though it is her own. Never again being alone inside her head, just like she’s never been alone in the fields or in the bedroom she shared with four siblings.

Rekke couldn’t help dwelling on the stories the weyrfolk whispered like bait or whips to the candidates during their briefings: of Ramoth’s first flight and the state her rider was in afterward, how F’lar showed her... they said it was a good time, but they talked about her injuries. How the dragons’ emotions make things different. Acceptable.

The weyrmen looked at all the girls during those talks, and the boys. Rekke wonders how many will get home. How many will want to.

Marath licks away Rekke's tears of love and revulsion.

#thinktober 2023 #fanfiction #dragonriders of pern #it is a problematic series with a lot of punch and good ideas #yes I stole the name of my favorite mtg commander but it fit the naming scheme

[illusoryfem]

But of course something other than an objection to being “discriminated against” was at work here, something other than an aversion to being “stereotyped” in one’s sex role. Increasingly it seemed that the aversion was to adult sexual life itself: how much cleaner to stay forever children.

[...]

Just as one had gotten the unintended but inescapable suggestion, when told about the “terror and revulsion” experienced by women in the vicinity of construction sites, of creatures too “tender” for the abrasiveness of daily life, too fragile for the streets, so now one was getting, in the later literature of the movement, the impression of women too “sensitive” for the difficulties of adult life, women unequipped for reality and grasping at the movement as a rationale for denying that reality.

[...]

The transient stab of dread and loss which accompanies menstruation simply never happens: we only thought it happened, because a male-chauvinist psychiatrist told us so. No woman need have bad dreams after an abortion: she has only been told she should. The power of sex is just an oppressive myth, no longer to be feared, because what the sexual connection really amounts to, we learn in one woman’s account of a postmarital affair presented as liberated and liberating, is “wisecracking and laughing” and “lying together and then leaping up to play and sing the entire Sesame Street Songbook.” All one’s actual apprehension of what it is like to be a woman, the irreconcilable difference of it—that sense of living one’s deepest life underwater, that dark involvement with blood and birth and death—could now be declared invalid, unnecessary, one never felt it at all. One was only told it, and now one is to be reprogrammed, fixed up, rendered again as inviolate and unstained as the “modern” little girls in the Tampax advertisements. More and more we have been hearing the wishful voices of just such perpetual adolescents, the voices of women scarred not by their class position as women but by the failure of their childhood expectations and misapprehensions.

The Woman's Movement, Joan Didion

#quote #joan didion #the white album #feminism #this essay is such a brutal critique of self-infantilization it shook me a little bit. decided to reread it now #shame she's not alive anymore. would love her take on the present zeitgeist

[monk-of-mystery]

I've realized why I've never had any friends. It's not because I don't know how to make them, though that might be true too. But it's not really that I don't have the opportunity.

It's that I'm never a friend back. I don't try to engage.

Why? Is it because I am afraid of being rejected, like I've always believed?

Is it because I think myself a monster that no one would care for, if only they knew the truth?

Is it that it takes gobs more energy than most, just to be around people; is my self loathing so strong to disable me so?

Maybe it's because I was rebuked for trying to support friends in my formative years.

Or is it simply that I don't care about the people that would be my friends?

I'm afraid of that last one. And the more that time goes on, the more I fear it true.

I don't try to support, for all the empathy and sympathy I claim to be capable of. A large part of me is fine going on in life alone. Is that my natural state?

I used to believe so wholeheartedly but over the years I've tried to challenge that, at the behest of my therapists. That I'm not some hermit, but merely a damaged, normal individual.

Even with that effort, I've felt I've been of the two natures: one that yearns to be left alone and the other terrified of being invisible. Like the parable of the wolves, I've done my best to feed the one that believes I am capable and worthy of love.

An I labouring in vain? Am I acting against my very nature?

No, it must not have been, not always, with how much I yearned to help my friends in my youth, when I had them. But was it perhaps eroded beyond repair? Was the tissue to damaged by the fires to ever move the way it once did?

What I can say is that I don't know how to face the revulsion at the thought of opening up. And of being opened up.

I don't know how that links to not reciprocating care. I feel childish making the claim that I've not been adequately cared for, so I do not return the gesture. I don't think that to be true. I've pushed so many away, how can I know that all of their care was not genuine?

One thing that's become more and more clear to me is that it's both an attraction to solitude and aversion to others.

One should feel safe with their friends. That seems implicit. So why has there not been a soul in life I feel truly safe around? Is that not the definition of a monster, that they will never feel accepted enough to bare their whole self? Or is this a curse of all of my fellow humans as well? Are we all secretly monsters?

It makes me feel alone in this existence, not merely as an emotion but a state of being. So much of life is gated off by this solitude. So much of who I could be can never be realized. And in the end, the most difficult thing to live with is that it's nothing but myself standing in the way of depleting it.

Perhaps there are inner workings beyond my conscious control that hinder me, but ah, those are just as much a part of me as the ego writing these words, are they not? I am not distinct from my body, it is every bit a part of me. This, indeed, the largest thing stopping me from resolving that which feels like inescapable torment is simply myself.

And I have to live with that. It burns every day. Because it also implies, rightly, that the only one who can truly free me is myself. I can, and must, fine the correct tools that will enable me to do so but ultimately, if it is actions that must be taken with those tools to enact change, –while I still possess bodily autonomy– no one else can force me to take those actions. I alone am accountable.

I alone am accountable for my loneliness.

Can I force myself to care more? To reach out, to be vulnerable?

Maybe. Maybe it is a reflex that feeds back into itself, that the more I am around people, the more I will care for them. That does not feel to be the truth from my experiences thus far.

Maybe it is a muscle that must be strengthened, like mindfulness or like the dance of social interaction.

Those are the kindnesses my mind is trying to put forth, to write stories other than those of hopeless despair. But the one that it is all fruitless, that I am a nocturnal being trying to live amongst the diurnal, it is still present, and it is still strong.

I feel trapped. Trapped because I need to not be alone to get better. That feels an undeniable truth, and one with reasonable backing. But I cannot engage. It feels as though I don't know how, that I've forgotten. Maybe I can remember, or maybe I can teach myself, like I had to do with the simple act of being around people.

But life feels pointless alone. It's hard to describe in a way that rings true, nearly ineffable. What I can say is that if there is no one to witness your deeds, your actions, your life events– with no one to care as to the outcomes, to your thoughts, your feelings, your dreams, it feels as though they don't even exist.

#inside my mind #loneliness #friends #hopelessness #emptiness #my diary

[pridepages]

Borrowed Time: Even Though I Knew the End

I just finished Even Though I Knew the End by CL Polk. I have thoughts...

Here there be spoilers!

CL Polk’s magi-noir novel Even Though I Knew the End is a tribute to both 1940s gumshoe detective stories and to religiously-coded fantasies a la Supernatural. But at its heart is a single, painfully real question: how much would we be willing to risk for a little more time with the ones we love?

The novel is narrated by a spell-casting private eye named Helen Brandt. Helen lives her life on the margins as a lesbian in 1940s Chicago, facing all the risks that out-but-not-proud queer people of the era did as she tries to make a life with her beloved partner, Edith. But even in her secret life as an auspex, Helen is an outcast because she committed an unspeakable crime: after tragedy claimed the lives of her whole family, Helen traded her soul to Hell to raise her little brother back from the dead. Being damned, Helen was cast out of her magical fraternity and isolated from her brother, Ted, who stayed on the straight and narrow. Worse yet, there was a time limit on Helen’s deal: in 10 years she would have to surrender her soul and go to Hell. But with the clock almost up, a demon holding the rights to Helen’s soul comes to her with a deal: identify a murderous being who is stealing souls in Chicago, and Helen will have the chance to win back her own soul and her future with Edith.

World-building mythology here is particularly potent, considering the status of queer people as outcasts both in the earthly realm and, by some orthodoxies, the heavenly one. Helen observes her city, musing that “Chicago had loved us once, and the straights had packed into the De Luxe Cafe and the old Twelve-Thirty Club to come scandalously close to the queer. But the cops cracked down on the pansy clubs in 1935, and these days, Chicago didn't love our kind at all.” Far from contenting itself with silencing queer people, society found ways to literally put them away. Homosexuality was at the time considered a reason to lock people in an asylum because society “called it a sickness, but nobody who had vanished…had ever come back to say they were cured. Funny how nobody they decide is crazy ever seems to get better.” Seeing one of her old friends has now become one of the inmates, Helen desperately wonders “Who put her here, claiming to love her? Who had committed her to this place, where they would strap her into a device that would deliver electric shocks when she looked too long at a picture of a woman? They call it aversion therapy. Therapy. I never met anyone who said they were cured.”

In Helen’s world, you never knew when you could be caught and forced to pay the ultimate price for who you were. In that sense, every moment in love and free was stolen, hidden out of sight and clutched close with greedy hands and desperate hearts. 

Today, some things have changed. Homosexuality is no longer classified as a mental illness, but it persists in being treated as a sin. It makes Helen’s conversation with an angel as relevant today as to the 1940s:

The angel calls Edith “a very godly woman,” to which Helen rejoins “If you forgive the perversion.” The angel replies: “The revulsion for homosexual love is a human prejudice.”

Who is it that has cast the queers from the divine light: God or human beings? How do we cope with living surrounded by voices that have us anathematized for loving? And what is the significance of God anyway?

The crux, whether you believe in God or not, is an inescapable truth: we are all living on borrowed time. And someday, that time is going to run out. When that day comes, it won’t matter whether the years that passed were long and golden as summer afternoons or harsh and short as Chicago’s winter days. In the end, we’ll all end up feeling something like Helen as she reflects on the time she shared with Edith: “Once upon a time, I had walked into a secret queer bar, and the woman who would be the love of my life asked me to dance...I never told her how she had saved me. I never told her how she became the dearest friend I’d ever had. I told her I loved her, but never enough.”

There is never, ever enough time. It’s so easy to understand why Helen trades her soul for more time with her brother, why she fights so hard to regain it in order to have more years with Edith: “Ten years with you? You bet I want it. Every second.” I’ve often wondered how differently I would live my life if I knew exactly when my time would run out. Is it better to live like Helen, knowing to the minute when the clock stops? Or is it easier to bear with some ambiguity?

Either way, I will do my best to live this moment, this life, with as much fullness and gratitude as I can muster, with every second of borrowed time. Even though I know the end.

#even though i knew the end #cl polk #lesbian #wlw #sapphic #lgbt reads #queer lit

[dropsofjupitcr]

The Shattered Legacy.

Another night, another bottle rapidly drained in a futile attempt to extinguish the eternal bonfire of shame and regret searing through Hunter's soul. If he squeezed his eyes shut tightly enough, the room would spin and blur around him, transporting him back to happier times.

He could practically hear the phantom roars of adoring crowds cheering their names, feel the electrifying rush of nailing their signature throw triple axel on hallowed ice. The high of pushing their bodies to the extremes and being universally revered as one of the greatest pairs teams of all time used to be Hunter's unquenchable drug.

Until that fateful night when Ophelia's entire world shattered like the fragile ice beneath her blades.

The sickening snap of her leg fracturing replayed on a searing loop in Hunter's memory, no amount of whiskey potent enough to blot it out completely. All those years of tireless training and sacrifice, building an unbreakable bond and transcendent partnership - crushed in a single obliterating moment. The unrelenting guilt of being physically unscathed while his other half's dreams imploded around them consumed Hunter.

A mirthless, guttural chuckle emerged from the deepest recesses of his whiskey-ravaged throat as Hunter's bloodshot eyes bored into his own disheveled, haunted reflection. Who was this pathetic, self-destructive shell of a man mocking him from the cracked mirror? Definitely not the fearless, unstoppable athlete who once owned the world alongside his vital other half.

Down another burning gulp to blot out the memory...only for it to be immediately replaced by the cataclysmic sense of abject failure encircling him like a viscous, inescapable tar pit. All those years of sacrifice, of forsaking a normal childhood and teenage experiences, of pouring his entire existence into a craft - all obliterated in a single catastrophic moment.

Staring down at the almost-empty bottle cradled in his trembling hands, Hunter felt a wave of revulsion roil through him. The proud, confident young dynamo who used to own the world from center ice was now just a hollow shadow mainlining misery and self-pity through the bottom of a glass.

How had he plunged from the dizzying heights of being the best in the world at his art to this pathetic, unrecognizable nadir? The self-loathing chewed away at Hunter's insides with increasing fervor until it felt like he might actually crack apart at the seams.

The thought of his former skating partner's name twisted the serrated dagger of shame and regret deeper into Hunter's guts. Sweet, nurturing Ophelia had been the driving force keeping him upright after her career-ending accident. Her resilience and refusal to let the tragedy utterly derail them both was breathtaking. Hunter had been in hopeless awe of her strength even as he crumbled under the weight of crippling survivors' guilt.

But he'd predictably driven Ophelia away with his perpetual spiral of self-destruction and weakness, letting her down like he disappointed everyone who ever believed in their meteoric talents. Hunter could still see the crushed look in her warm, caring eyes the night she finally realized he couldn't be the supportive partner she needed in return. She deserved so much better than his pitiful shell.

The waves of self-loathing left Hunter desperately gasping for air, as if the weight of his cowardice and failures were physically suffocating him. So he raised the bottle to his lips and kept drinking - the bitter balm his only fleeting refuge from the oppressive crush of having to face the consequences of abandoning the light of his life in her darkest hours.

If only he could go numb enough to block out the crushing magnification of how far he'd plummeted from the exalted throne of his former greatness. Then maybe Hunter could simply cease to exist altogether - the fate he'd convinced himself he deserved after disgracing his sport and surrendering to the demons slowly devouring him from the inside out.

#◟ ⋆ you can like this but not reblog › hunter west ! #One of these days I'll let you be happy #But it's not this month #Maybe not this year #I still love you though

[sonoftatooine]

Pleaseeeee do a sequel to Day 14 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

Hi, thanks for the ask, anon! I'm actually writing a sequel for Day 14 (my AU where Padmé gets on Palpatine's trail and he retaliates by framing her for being in league with the Sith) which was meant to be posted for Febuwhump but I didn't quite finish it in time, so I'm probably going to carry it over to Angstpril instead since it's suitable for one of this year's prompts. After that, I don't really know what will happen with this AU since I don't actually have an idea of where it's going right now other than very badly for everyone except Palpatine, but that might change in future idk.

Anyway, in the meantime, have a little extract from the upcoming fic. This one's from Padmé's POV rather than Anakin's this time:

"Senator Amidala" the figure croaked, and the voice was like the holotransmission as well, harsh and rough, as if he were speaking through jagged shards of transparisteel. It was nothing like the soft, calm tones that had become so familiar to her over the course of her career, and the sharp, cruel edge to it sent a violent shiver down her spine.

"How did you get in here?" she gasped.

It felt as if all the air had been stolen from her lungs, she could barely breathe. She searched wildly around her, desperate to find something—anything—that she might use to defend herself, but the Jedi had been too meticulous in making sure to deprive her of any potential weapons, and she did bit dare risk taking her eyes off the dangerous presence in front of her for more than a second. Her gaze was drawn inexorably back to him, and all of a sudden, she was seized with with an inescapable horror that chilled her right down to the marrow of her bones. A wrinkled, pale hand slipped from the confines of the voluminous robes the figure wore and reached up to the hem of the hood. The fabric was pulled slowly back, and Padmé could only stare, appalled, at the sight it revealed.

"You don't look well, my dear." She didn't quite know what she has expected—that the face of Darth Sidious would somehow be different from that of the kindly old mentor she had known for half her life?—but it was a surprisingly devastating blow to see the features of Sheev Palpatine entirely unchanged by her knowledge of his true nature, save for the wicked, twisted expression on his usually gentle face, and the sulfuric yellow of his eyes. His words, which in the time before would have seemed full of sympathy and concern, sounded cold and mocking when spoken by that croaking, grating voice that filled her with such revulsion that she couldn't help but shudder every time she heard it. "Have the Jedi not been treating you—?"

"Howdid you get in here?!" Padmé repeated, louder and sharper this time. She tried to draw in all her training, all the authority that she had learnt to project even when she was afraid and full of doubt during her time as Queen. But all she could think of was that it was this man, this man before her who had taught her those techniques, this man whom she has trusted, had put into power, and now he was here to—

Oh Force, what if he was here to kill her?

"You should know well enough from your...investigations," Palpatine—no, Sidious, he was Sidious, Palpatine was just a ruse—scoffed at her, thin lips curling into something halfway between a sneer and a wicked smirk, "just how far my reach extends. The Jedi may be under the mistaken impression that their numbers remain unsullied by my influence, but everywhere in this Republic, there are people who know loyalty only to me."

His awful yellow eyes gleamed with something horribly like triumph, and Padmé felt her throat tighten as dread threatened to overcome her. Were there traitors in the Order? Knights—or maybe even Masters—who answered to Sidious rather than their Council? Or perhaps among the Temple guards? The fact that he had shown his face to her suggested that he had no fear of any recordings of this secret visit reaching the eyes of the Jedi. Were the people guarding her in truth loyal to the Sith without anyone at the Temple being any the wiser? Were—?

"Besides," Sidious hissed, features twisting into a wide grin full of malicious glee, "it was not even strictly necessary to infiltrate their ranks when they have already accepted the instrument of their own demise with open arms. Though my allies here certainly have had their uses."

#star wars #star wars fic #star wars au #star wars prequels #padme amidala #sheev palpatine #mine #fic #my fic #my wips #wip #asks #anonymous #sfw

[notbecauseofvictories]

Care to articulate what you think makes a horror story effective?

I’ve been thinking about this ask a lot over the last few days---partly because I just finished Kingfisher’s The Twisted Ones, and partly because every Bly Manor take about how this or that character “deserved better” takes years off my life. 

(And partly...well, because it’s that time of year, and too often I find myself thinking about that night my brother and I defied our grandmother and stayed up until dawn watching a Children of the Corn marathon. My first-ever brush with horror.)

Nevertheless, I’m not sure I have an answer for you. I don’t think there’s just one thing that makes a horror story effective---or even a handful, a discrete list. “Horror” encompasses too much for there to be a single set of rules. Ghost stories have their own logic, distinct from the monster’s or the serial killer’s or the witch’s or the devil’s. Even narrowing it down to the thematic level doesn’t necessarily work, not when El Orfanato, Babadook, Rosemary’s Baby, Carrie and Hereditary all deal with mother-as-horror, in such different ways.

When I try to analyze horror that’s worked for me, I keep coming back to how I found it, rather than what it was. The movies I caught on late-night television, shivering on a secondhand couch in my parents’ basement; the podcast I listened to in the dark of my bedroom, staring at the door as though daring it to swing open; the Sunday I read badly-translated Junji Ito comics until my eyes hurt, staggering to my feet feeling as though every bone in my body had been quietly replaced with someone else’s. (That Children of the Corn marathon we were too young for, and the dual terror of being discovered by my grandmother and He Who Walks Behind the Rows.)

But if I had to pick one thing that makes horror horror (distinct from fantasy, gothic, magical realism, or whichever genre might make use of the same super/preternatural tools) it’s that horror is about suffering. 

Horror is about the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, confronting that which you don’t understand, and death. It’s hard to look at! It’s hard to enjoy, even as someone who loves horror and seeks it out. But more than any other genre, horror is about horror---it is about living in a world where fear and revulsion and pain are undeniable. It is about how inescapable they are, how they wend through us and our lives. Whatever form that takes is less important than the fact it exists, and there are stories which take that seriously. 

It’s why I rankle a the “Haunting of...” productions, which insist that actually, suffering isn’t suffering and all ghost stories are love stories. It’s not that I don’t love a love story! They’re just...distinct. Because if romance is about hope for the future, then horror---effective horror---is about living with the knowledge that sometimes, things are and will be terrible regardless. Not all sins wash off or can be washed away. The world is not always good or fine or well, the world is sometimes...fucked. Horror is a genre that recognizes fucked, like an AA sponsor clocking a new attendee. 

So when I think about effective horror, I think of that---I think of stories that understand suffering as a deadly serious thing. human and vital as the rest. Really really real, even if it takes vampires or zombies or what have you to communicate it.

#Anonymous #long post for ts #the oldest and strongest emotion of mankind

[grandhotelabyss]

Another giant gone. Weren’t we just talking about the importance of authorial image? Who had a better image than she did? I can’t imagine looking at those pictures from the late ‘60s and having any other reaction than either wanting to be her or wanting to marry her. I came to her work late after a false start, as I write in my double essay on Slouching Towards Bethlehem and The Year of Magical Thinking:

I also barely knew who Joan Didion was. I’d been an English major, but not one much interested in postwar American letters. It’s possible, then, that the NYRB piece on Schiavo was my introduction to Didion, and I was too self-righteous at the time to allow it to make any good impression. Who was this awful woman? She seemed to side with the conservatives!

I was about 23 or 24 then. I didn’t rediscover her till I read the novel Play It as It Lays a few years ago. In that book, she doesn’t just seem to side with the conservatives; rather, she compares abortion to the Holocaust! I’m not 23 anymore, though, so, if you’ll forgive me, I can see how she got there. 

Wesley Yang Tweeted that she “skeptically interrogated” the “righteous politics” of her time, likely in a way impossible now for the mainstream writer, a statement proved by her scorching, infamous 1972 essay “The Women’s Movement” if nothing else:

Just as one had gotten the unintended but inescapable suggestion, when told about the “terror and revulsion” experienced by women in the vicinity of construction sites, of creatures too “tender” for the abrasiveness of daily life, too fragile for the streets, so now one was getting, in the later literature of the movement, the impression of women too “sensitive” for the difficulties and ambiguities of adult life, women unequipped for reality and grasping at the movement as a rationale for denying that reality.

The Times obit names Hemingway and Conrad as her influences. Her ethic was Hemingway’s grace under pressure, Conrad’s facing it. I would add Orwell’s effort to see what’s under one’s nose. Her work, like Dostoevsky’s in the century before the American one, suggests that if you knock down every pillar of tradition you might find yourself crushed to death under the roof rather than in utopia free and clear. Sometimes the thesis could be too sour, too simple. This “cool customer” was not a woman who’d have wanted only praise in her eulogies, so I’ll say I thought A Book of Common Prayer was too flat, a caricature of the radical left rather than a critique. Her supposed left turn in her later work, which I’m admittedly less familiar with, seems to me less of a real political shift and more a critique of utopianism in its evangelical Christian and neoconservative guises that dominated the Republican Party in the Reagan and Bush era. 

I love that she didn’t pretend to be a better person than she was or to make grandiloquent claims for our strange vocation:

In many ways writing is the act of saying I, of imposing oneself upon other people, of saying listen to me, see it my way, change your mind. It’s an aggressive, even a hostile act.

She’s said, I think, to be one of those writers with whom the essays are better than the novels, like Orwell or Baldwin or Sontag or Vidal. But I think Play It as It Lays is an absolute American masterpiece, a short novel of alienation and independence, a little apocalypse, up there with Bartleby and Gatsby and Miss Lonelyhearts and Lot 49 and Sula. I’d recommend it to anyone; you can read my piece on it here, but really, just read the book. Such is the miracle of literature, the way you can die but still be alive. 

#joan didion #american literature

[brazenautomaton]

Fixing Afterlives: the Shadowlands

This is my “fixing stories” for WoW’s latest expansion, Shadowlands. Due to overwhelming popular demand, by which I mean @shieldfoss and @bhikshu I’ll go into why this is dumb and how they could have done something instead of choosing to do nothing.

I will work under similar constraints to my Heart of the Swarm rework. I magically became Creative Director of WoW just for Shadowlands, so I cannot alter any of the plot of BFA or Legion or anything that came before. The concept art is done and asset creation is proceeding and I can’t change the overall structure or aesthetics of anything, just how the story is implemented. 

Minute one, what you need to do to make this expansion work is sit down and figure out what it’s About. Now, a MMO expansion doesn’t really need a driving central theme, though it can help, and it’s allowed to be “a bunch of stuff that happened” because it needs random-ass side plot bullshit going on. But the tagline is “Brave the Beyond”, this is the AFTERLIFE, this is where we go when we die and the world of the soul -- we need to be dealing with things bigger than us, bigger than the concept of us. Fundamental and About something because they are mythic incarnations of what kind of life you can live and what kind of world exists. 

We’ll still have an About in the traditional sense though. It doesn’t have to unify everything, but it’s good to have a bit of a through-line to define the main conflict. And also, there’s a certain point where characters need to stop saying “The Jailer… speaks true…” and fucking tell us what he says and WoW passed it long ago. Our About is a central question about the Jailer, and the broader notion of Hell represented by the Maw: “Is it possible for someone to do something so horrific that they deserve infinite punishment?”

And it’s funny, you know, you see JJ Abrams talk about the “mystery box”, and when he explains it, it makes perfect sense: a mystery that is central to the story but is never answered because it represents infinite possibility until it is revealed. And told in that way, that makes sense, that can be very good! Except Abrams never does that, he always ends up having to reveal the contents of the mystery box which by his own logic can never end in anything but disappointment. So I can’t say we will have a mystery box, but we will have a central mystery that we know will never be answered: what did the Jailer do to deserve the Maw? All we know is it is incomprehensibly horrible. Like our mortal minds would literally be unable to process it, even trying to understand it would harm us. So this isn’t “nah he’s bad trust us” we need characters who DO know to really, really sell it. Emotional reactions of anger and revulsion and helplessness, and absolutely nobody whether opposed or allied with the Jailer can deny his evil or say it wasn’t that bad. When you ask Devos about it, Devos shudders in fear and disgust, but says it doesn’t matter. If the question was “how bad was the Jailer’s crime” then we’d need to know what it is; if the question is “is it possible to have ANY crime bad enough to warrant his punishment” then we don’t.

Minute two, you need to know how the Shadowlands works. Because they made it just another continent and that doesn’t make any sense at all. What kind of candy-ass warrior afterlife gives you one life and then your soul is destroyed? How does it make sense for characters to call you “mortal” when they die just as hard and in fact you are superior because you haven’t used your extra life yet? Fuck how are necromancers a thing in Maldraxxus, if your soul is obliterated when you die in the Shadowlands WHAT ARE THEY CALLING BACK?

So none of that bullshit. You don’t die in the Shadowlands, at least not without a lot of work. Souls are anima, and the tide of dead souls flowing into the realms of the Shadowlands is a flow of anima, because everything is anima. Anima is the force of significance and permanence.  Anima is what makes up shadow and substance, things and ideas. Anima is the weight of being About something, anything. You don’t die in the Shadowlands by having your body stabbed to death. You will continue to exist, slightly weaker. You die in the Shadowlands when there is nothing left to the concept of “you”. When you are utterly forgotten and what you are is “nothing”. This is how we get those Unraveling Soul Fragments in Torghast: they are souls tortured so much there is no longer a self there, just a concept of misery. That’s extremely, extremely evil. Is it possible to commit a crime so heinous it deserves infinite punishment? If not, is there a crime so awful that it would be unimaginable to inflict it even on its perpetrator?

We also have three major antagonists we need to know.

One of them is Sire Denathrius, who is just fucking perfect the way he is, we love you Denny.

One of them is Sylvanas Windrunner. Sylvanas needs to stay in character: an absolutely remorseless piece of shit with no sense of right and wrong but who does productive things because they benefit her and who is extremely cunning to know how to work an angle to her ends. She’s too smart to get lied to by the Jailer and she’s too smart to go Full Evil but not only is anything less than that completely fair game, she doesn’t get why you have a problem with it. She has allied with the Jailer because there is one thing she absolutely wants to do and only she can do and she can only do with the Jailer: she wants to break him out because in doing so the hold of the Maw is shattered and now anyone can escape. The Maw stops being a prison once the Jailer escapes. And she wants that because she knows she’s got a one-way express ticket to the Maw when she finally runs out of extra lives. She knows she is a selfish, terrible, murderous, monstrous person. Does that warrant infinite punishment? In her heart she is convinced it does, so she’d prefer to make the question irrelevant before she has to find out. She is sympathetic to the pain she is inflicting on others, because it is like the pain she has felt. But she won’t stop. She knew she endured it, so you can take one for the team.

The Jailer is super super super super evil. If we remake him to be obviously in pain and lashing out in fear, he won’t WORK. He needs to be ominous and menacing and say “your soul is mine” and that kind of shit. We will be able to generate sympathy for Sylvanas, we shouldn’t try to do it to the Jailer. He is the victim of the ultimate injustice, but also perpetrator of the ultimate atrocity. He’s not sorry at all. The fact that he has raised a philosophical question about the nature of punishment is just a nice side effect of him saying things to people to get what he wants, which is to break out and inflict tyranny and suffering. Sylvanas is not tricked by him into thinking he only wants freedom, she has a plan that has his true motives in mind. What dimension do we give him so he won’t be flat while still being completely one-dimensionally evil? He resents you. He doesn’t lash out and scream his emotions and say it’s not fair that you have what he was denied freedom. But he resents you. A little ribbon of resentment threaded through his speech to you. He’s subtly insulted by the fact you exist. He doesn’t merely relish your suffering, he relishes your failure, your realization of weakness. He doesn’t pull an Azmodan and say “okay well NOW this trap is inescapable despite you escaping the last twenty!”, he knows you’re probably going to break free of things and escape. But he doesn’t care that this trap didn’t catch you, catching you would just be a bonus. He cares that he hurt you and made you feel inferior and the inevitable doom encroaches just a bit more on you. That is the source of his sinister satisfaction and confidence. He doesn’t announce an ambush and say “now you will never escape and your soul is mine,” he announces it by saying how weak and stupid you are to fall for it.

His victory is inevitable because Death is inevitable. He doesn’t care what temporary victories you earn; he doesn’t bother trying to convince you they are only a setback. He’s going to have you eventually and you’re going to suffer on the way. What a fucking dick.

#fixing stories #my fiction #World of Warcraft #wow

[appleinducedsleep]

Never Let Me Go discussion @readerbookclub​

Never Let Me Go is a 2005 dystopian science fiction novel written by Kazuo Ishiguro. The story is narrated by Kathy H., who describes herself as a carer (and has been for twelve years), talking about looking after organ donors. Her story often returns to Hailsham, a boarding school in England, where she grew up with her friends and where the teachers are known as guardians.

Review: 🌟🌟🌟 I liked the writing style, the first person narrative really worked in this story. It might not be everyone's cup of tea though. The theme is interesting enough, but the universe itself is underdeveloped and you finish this book with more questions than answers.

Next up *spoilers* :

For our March book club book, a new set of questions was provided by @readerbookclub (thank you!)

Is this a book you would have otherwise read? If not, are you more open to similar books in the future?  Are dystopian novels something you typically enjoy? How would you say this book compares to other dystopian literature?

I do like dystopian stories, though I don’t read them regularly and it’s pretty much all YA or George Orwell books. Maybe that’s why the stories I read were more about changing the established order. This story was not about changing anything, it was bleak and passive and nostalgic about it. 

Other people already pointed out how frustrating this mind-set is, and I absolutely agree. Perhaps because the big scandal that rocked the country wasn’t even about clones rebelling, but about genetics being used to make super-humans. The clones themselves were an after-thought, not even considered human anyway.

If you had to describe this book in three words, what would they be?

Passive, tragic, trapped.

Do you think the donors are a metaphor for something in the real world?

According to the interview, they aren’t. It’s about love, friendship and mortality. It’s easy to put some sort of meaning into it though. Whether it be organ donations or a religious theme. But it’s not. More the pity. Yet it was obvious that the universe wasn’t really thought out. It didn’t seem to extend beyond Hailsham and England, and even the way the donations worked was kept vague but inescapable.

Did the story play out in the way you expected, or did it surprise you? Which scene stood out most to you? Why?

So I actually had read this book before, but didn’t remember it. The first chapter already was familiar enough though. The more I read, the more I already knew how all the big plot points would play out. Still I wanted that referral to work out... and even that dream, the referral itself, would have bought Kathy and Tommy only three or four years. That’s how little they allowed themselves to hope.

That said, several scenes were pretty heart-wrenching and memorable, I’m picking three:

1) Ruth not knowing how to play chess, pretending she did, and then freezing Kathy out when Kathy asked her to teach her (p.53), was not even the first red flag, but it was significant. How different would Kathy’s life at Hailsham been had she struck up a friendship with Moira right there and then, instead of living for Ruth’s approval. I thought that really reflected childhood friendship though.

2) Tommy catching Kathy looking at porn mags (p.134), and realizing it went much, much deeper, though the truth wouldn’t come out until the Norfolk trip, where they would find the lost cassette (which was also memorable). Tommy was so underappreciated in this book.

3) But the moment on page 264, just suckerpunched me; Miss Emily, this fighter in the trenches, said:

“Make no mistake about it, my child, Marie-Claude is on your side and will always be on your side. Is she afraid of you? We’re all afraid of you. I myself had to fight back my dread of you all almost everyday I was at Hailsham. There were times I’d look down at you all from my study window and I’d feel such revulsion...” She stopped, then something in her eyes flashed again. “But I was determined not to let such feelings stop me doing what was right. I fought those feelings and I won. Now, if you’d be so good as to help me out of here, George should be waiting with my crutches.”

What a hero, indeed. Where do you go from there? Even your fiercest supporter flinches back from your existence.

And how does that make sense in the narrative... why prove these children have a soul at all, if you think them so unnatural? How can you say this to your two former charges, who you watched grow up, whose art you took, and comforted when they couldn’t produce any? Who exactly is the real monster here?

What did you think of the authors style? Have you read any of their books before? Would you read their work in the future?  How did you feel about Kathy as a narrator? Do you think first person narration suited this story?

The author had a way of making the horrible absolutely mundane. There was almost more emphasis on the teenage squabbles than on the organ donation. It makes sense, the writer said this story was supposed to be about love, friendship and mortality, and there was something unsettling about this creeping horror in the background.

While I mostly enjoyed Kathy’s way of narrating, sometimes it jumped around a lot. Like ‘to understand [this moment], we have to go back to [some other moment]’. Sometimes  I just wanted to understand the story about the vegetable patch without jumping through three memory hoops.

@elfspectations​ also talked about how Tommy would be an interesting narrator, and while I don’t think this story would have lend itself to multiple narrators (I’m so glad there was just the one!), it’s an interesting thought.

Would you say the characters’ personalities changed throughout the story? If so, how did you feel about these changes?  The characters were often unnecessarily mean in the way they talked to one another. Why do you think that is? Did this affect your sympathy for them?

Not until the actual donations, except for Tommy. Like Ruth suddenly became weak as a kitten, and Kathy felt bad for kicking her when she was down, but still ganged up on her with Tommy. Ruth was always the one that needed attention, the one who would lie and manipulate and wanted to be special. I can’t blame her exactly. Growing up with the knowledge that you’re just on earth to give away your organs... like I can’t blame Ruth for wanting some control in her life, for wanting to be special, to be singled out by a guardian. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but Tommy had his meltdowns (he developed as a character though, because he mostly grew out of this), while Ruth fiercely tried to cling to control, and Kathy found safety in being the objective observer. Still, Ruth is just unredeemable after she admitted to just wanting to keep Kathy and Tommy apart, cheating on Tommy and pretend Kathy was a freak for her sexual urges. She gave them Madam’s address, but too little, too late.

So for a book supposedly about friendship, I felt the friendships were actually pretty terrible. Tommy was often the butt of the joke, even by Kathy. Something that should have been innocent teasing, often didn’t feel that way. Still, Kathy and Tommy’s friendship was the one positive note in this whole book.

If you could ask the writer a question, what would it be?

However did Ruth and Tommy end up together? I want that scene, because their relationship didn’t make any sense to me. Ruth was, of course, a terrible, terrible friend, and wanted to keep Tommy away from Kathy, but this whole thing just baffled me anyway. Everyone deserved better (and with everyone I only mean the clones).

#readerbookclub #books #booklr #never let me go #kazuo ishiguro #miss emily can go to hell #book photography #quotes #my books #never let me go discussion #book discussion