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felix-lupin · 11 months

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In Coraline, there’s a recurring theme with names and identity, and I personally don't think it's talked about enough.

(As a note, this is dealing largely with the book, not the movie, although there are some hints of this theme in the movie as well)

Coraline’s neighbors constantly get her name wrong, calling her “Caroline” and not “Coraline”, to which she persistently corrects them. Despite her attempts, they never get it right, until chapter 10, in which Mr Bobo (Mr Bobinsky) finally gets it right.

"It's Coraline, Mister Bobo," said Coraline. "Not Caroline. Coraline." "Coraline," said Mr Bobo, repeating her name to himself with wonderment and respect. "Very good, Coraline."

It should be noted that, until this chapter, Coraline did not know Mr Bobo’s name either. In fact, it had never even occurred to her that he had a name. Up until then, she had just been thinking of him as “the crazy old man upstairs”, not as a person with a name. This moment, with her learning his name and him getting her name right, is a moment of genuine understanding and connection between the two, humanizing them both to each other.

Coraline’s other neighbors get her name wrong, which is representative of them not listening when she says anything, really, such as her telling Miss Spink and Forcible that her parents are missing and them literally not even acknowledging it at all??

"How are your dear mother and father?" asked Miss Spink. "Missing," said Coraline. "I haven't seen either of them since yesterday. I'm on my own. I think I've probably become a single child family." "Tell your mother that we found the Glasgow Empire press clippings we were telling her about. She seemed very interested when Miriam mentioned them to her." "She's vanished under mysterious circumstances," said Coraline, "and I believe my father has as well." "I'm afraid we'll be out all day tomorrow, Caroline lovely," said Miss Forcible. "We'll be staying with April's niece in Royal Tunbridge Wells."

Mr Bobo gets her name right after being corrected (only after being corrected alongside her using his name, mind you, showcasing her making an effort to listen to and understand him as well), which is representative of him actually making an attempt to listen and understand her. This point is further illustrated by a conversation Coraline had with the Other Mr Bobo in chapter 10.

As Coraline entered he began to talk. "Nothing's changed, little girl," he said, his voice sounding like the noise dry leaves make as they rustle across a pavement. "And what if you do everything you swore you would? What then? Nothing's changed. You'll go home. You'll be bored. You'll be ignored. No one will listen to you, not really listen to you. You're too clever and too quiet for them to understand. They don't even get your name right."

He equates those in the real world not getting Coraline’s name right with them not listening to her, and fundamentally not understanding who she is. So, somebody getting her name right, then, shows them actually listening to her, and being willing to understand who she is.

The mice in the real world know more than they should be able to know, and they also get Coraline’s name right.

"The message is this. Don't go through the door." He paused. "Does that mean anything to you?" "No," said Coraline. The old man shrugged. "They are funny, the mice. They get things wrong. They got your name wrong, you know. They kept saying Coraline. Not Caroline. Not Caroline at all."

They seem to know about the other world, somehow, on some level, and the dangers it presents. Them getting her name right represents them knowing more than they should know, more than they are told. Animals in general seem to have this type of quality in Coraline, actually.

The cat does not have a name. It says so in chapter 4, that cats do not need names. It says that this is because cats know who they are. But humans need names, because they do not.

"Please. What's your name?" Coraline asked the cat. "Look, I'm Coraline. OK?" The cat yawned softly, carefully, revealing a mouth and tongue of astounding pinkness. "Cats don't have names," it said. "No?" said Coraline. "No," said the cat. "Now, you people have names. That's because you don't know who you are. We know who we are, so we don't need names."

The cat shook its head. "No," it said. "I'm not the other anything. I'm me." It tipped its head on one side; green eyes glinted. "You people are spread all over the place. Cats, on the other hand, keep ourselves together. If you see what I mean."

This shows that, in humans, names are connected to our identities and who we are. Names are used to individualize and distinguish ourselves from each other. But cats do not need names to recognize each other, or be recognized.

"Oh. It's you," she said to the black cat. "See?" said the cat. "It wasn't so hard recognising me, was it? Even without names."

With or without names, it is still the same cat.

During the Other Miss Spink and Forcible’s performance, in chapter 4, they begin quoting Shakespeare. The specific quotes that they use are interesting to me when looked at under this lens of the importance of names, especially Miss Forcible’s.

"What's in a name?" asked Miss Forcible. "That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

"I know not how to tell thee who I am," said Miss Spink to Miss Forcible.

Now, of course, this is just them quoting Shakespeare. But. Why these quotes specifically? They’re at the very least notable when discussing Coraline’s recurring theme of names. Especially the quote about the rose. It makes me think of what the cat said earlier, about how cats are sure of who they are so they don’t need names, about how Coraline didn’t need the cat’s name to be able to recognize it for who/what it was.

But, of course, this does not apply for humans. We need our names to be able to know ourselves, to be able to tell others who they are.

In chapter 6, Coraline wakes up and is disoriented. This disorientation is compared to the feeling one might experience upon being suddenly pulled out of a daydream. In this comparison, forgetting one’s name is equated with forgetting who one is and where one is.

Sometimes Coraline would forget who she was while she was daydreaming that she was exploring the Arctic, or the Amazon rainforest, or darkest Africa, and it was not until someone tapped her on the shoulder or said her name that Coraline would come back from a million miles away with a start, and all in the fraction of a second have to remember who she was, and what her name was, and that she was even there at all. Now there was the sun on her face, and she was Coraline Jones. Yes.

The ghost children have also forgotten their names, and with it most of who they were. In chapter 7, when Coraline is locked behind the mirror in the Other World, one of the ghost children says that names are the first things that one forgets after death.

"Who are you?" whispered Coraline. "Names, names, names," said another voice, all faraway and lost. "The names are the first thing to go, after the breath has gone, and the beating of the heart. We keep our memories longer than our names. I still keep pictures in my mind of my governess on some May morning, carrying my hoop and stick, and the morning sun behind her, and all the tulips bobbing in the breeze. But I have forgotten the name of my governess, and of the tulips too." "I don't think tulips have names," said Coraline. "They're just tulips." "Perhaps," said the voice sadly. "But I have always thought that these tulips must have had names. They were red, and orange-and-red, and red-and-orange-and-yellow, like the embers in the nursery fire of a winter's evening. I remember them."

The ghost children may have their memories, but they have largely forgotten who they were. They may remember their tulips, and certain strong memories, but there is very, very little left of them, and they have forgotten who they once were, they have forgotten their names.

"That is why we could not leave here, when we died. She kept us, and she fed on us, until now we're nothing left of ourselves, only snakeskins and spider-husks. Find our secret hearts, young mistress."

"She will take your life and all you are and all you care'st for, and she will leave you with nothing but mist and fog. She'll take your joy. And one day you'll awake and your heart and soul will have gone. A husk you'll be, a wisp you'll be, and a thing no more than a dream on waking, or a memory of something forgotten."

The Other Mother stole their hearts and their souls and their selves. She stole who they were away from them, their identities and names and the names of those they loved, leaving nothing in her wake.

The same ghost that talked about the tulips and the names of the tulips struggles to answer when Coraline asks their gender, as well, and when they do eventually give an answer they seem somewhat unsure of it, as shown by the word choice of “perhaps” and “I believe”

"A boy, perhaps, then," continued the one whose hand she was holding. "I believe I was once a boy." And it glowed a little more brightly in the darkness of the room behind the mirror.

(I personally take this quote, specifically it "glow[ing] a little more brightly" after coming to this conclusion, to mean either that the ghost is happy at realizing that he was once a boy, or even to mean that he has become somewhat more tangible upon this realization; upon remembering something about his self, and his identity.)

As an aside, it's noteworthy to me that we never learn the Other Mother’s true name. She is simply “The Other Mother” and “The Beldam.” Never is an actual name applied to her, only titles. We do not truly know who, or what, she is. Beings without names are shrouded in mystery (or should i say mist-ery). The ghost children are benevolent mysterious beings, the cat is an ambivalent-leaning-helpful mysterious being, and the other mother is a distinctly malevolent mysterious being.

"Who are you?" asked Coraline. "I'm your other mother," said the woman.

"She?" "The one who says she's your other mother," said the cat. "What is she?" asked Coraline. The cat did not answer, just padded through the pale mist beside Coraline.

But in conclusion, names in Coraline are extremely important. I’m sure there’s probably more that I'm missing, and feel free to add onto this, but basically—

People need names to know and remember who they are, and forgetting one’s name is the first step to losing the rest of who one is. Names humanize a person; with a name, they are less shrouded in mystery, more clear.

Knowing somebody's name helps one connect to and better understand that person; it is the first step in getting to know them and see them as a full person, the transition from “the crazy man upstairs” to “Mr Bobo”. Names, to people at least, are one of the fundamental building blocks of who we are.

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flowercrowngods · 1 year

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*checks time* a prompt for you. eddie's insomnia versus steve the human weighted blanket. 🥺

in which Eddie hasn’t slept in days and feels like he’s losing his mind. fairy lights, music, and Steve lying down on top of him with promises whispered into his skin are what saves him | cw: gets pretty heavy on the insomnia | 2.8k

Eddie doesn’t sleep. Hasn’t slept in a while. He knows it must have been two days. Maybe three. And before that it’s always just been one lucky hour, maybe two, his body collapsing into blissful darkness before black turns red and he’s back in the Upside down, before silence turns into Chrissy screaming at him, for him, because of him.

Eddie doesn’t sleep. And it’s starting to show. His movements are slow, thinking and speaking takes way longer than it used to, than it should, and everything is dulled. Sometimes he hears voices where there are none, sometimes he misses words directed at him before one of the shrimps call for his attention again, annoyed and only a little worried. Only a little, because Eddie is quirky, Eddie is dramatic, Eddie is like that, right? Right?

Wrong. Eddie is just tired. His hands won’t stop shaking, his mouth won’t stop talking, his thoughts won’t stop running. It doesn’t even feel like he’s in control of himself anymore, and it’s beginning to be real scary.

But even when he thinks, screw the nightmares, I just want some sleep, rest won’t find him. The constant thrum of anxiety keeps it all away and he’s starting to get frustrated, angry, desperate.

He just wants to sleep. Please. The laundry already starts talking to him, and he doesn’t remember hanging it up, and almost panics when it’s gone.

This is fine. It’s all fine. His joints ache, his scars itch, sometimes smiling hurts, but it’s all fine. He just needs sleep.

It all comes to a head when he’s hosting Hellfire for the kids two weeks since his last full night of sleep — and a full night is being generous, because his standards have gone so low as to that meaning he got five hours of almost uninterrupted sleep. Magically, the kids don’t really suspect anything, don’t even notice the bags under Eddie’s eyes or find their own completely misguided whiz kid explanations for it without so much as asking how he’s been doing. Part of him is glad, because they shouldn’t know, shouldn’t worry, shouldn’t see.

It also helps that even complete and utter sleep deprivation can’t ruin Eddie’s Dungeon Master headspace — and so what if the traitorous elf that asked the kids for help sounds a bit like the angry cabinet door he left open all day yesterday because he always forgot to close it? That’s between Eddie and his mind that he’s absolutely been losing.

Everything goes by without a hitch, the kids busy discussing each other’s moves and yelling and hollering, than watching Eddie massage his temples one, two, three times.

It’s fine. Everything is fine. Except his skin has started tingling three hours ago and he knows he shouldn’t drive the kids home, knows he shouldn’t even be hosting them in this state, but he can’t… He can’t let the Upside Down win.

They didn’t get him with red lightning and murderous bats, and now they won’t get him with nightmares or the lack of sleep.

Maybe he’s been cursed. What if he’s cursed? Fuck, what if he’s actually been cursed to die the slow, agonising death that Dustin gave Mike’s character in the one shot he hosted last week, his brain rotting inside his skull and the cure just out of reach, so close but so far? Is that possible? Is that a thing? It sure feels like it, and—

“Eddie?”

Wait.

Steve? Why’s Steve asking for him, calling his name, where is he?

Eddie blinks. And blinks again. Only to find himself in the living room, a shaking hand pressing the telephone to his ear.

He’s been calling Steve. He does not remember. Panic is building inside him and he swallows it down.

I’m not going crazy. I’m not going crazy. I just need to sleep.

“Eds? You there?”

“Yeah, man,” he says, his voice too shaky, not at all sounding like him, and he wonders if someone’s taking over his body. If Vecna is back. If he’s been possessed. Fuck, he might really he possessed, and he shouldn’t be calling Steve, he should keep them all safe, he should—

“What’s up?” Steve asks then, and Eddie sort of never wants him to stop talking, because his head is quiet when he does. Keep talking, Stevie. Please tell me I’m not going crazy. Tell me I’m not cursed. “You okay? Are the kids still there?”

After a moment Eddie finds his breath and his voice, hoping it sounds more like him now. “Yeah, actually, I was wondering if you could come pick them up around nine-ish? I’m not…” okay, he wants to say, but doesn’t. “I can’t really drive. Today.”

There’s a bit of rustling on the other end of the line and Eddie listens, because listening to Steve, to his voice and his movements, is easier than listening to all the things inside his house that suddenly have a voice now.

“Sure,” Steve says. “Yeah, I can come pick them up, no problem. You okay, though? Do you need anything? I can come over sooner if you want, grab them and end Hellfire early. Just say the word, okay?”

Despite himself, Eddie scoffs. “End Hellfire early? Peasant. Heathen! Heretic!”

And Steve just laughs that soft little laugh of his and Eddie listens like his life depends on it.

“Alright, Munson, you little shit, I’ll be there at nine. I’ll just do two rounds, grab you, Dustin and Will on the second one, yeah?”

“Sure, whatever,” Eddie says. Then Steve’s words process and he asks, “Wait, me?”

“Yes, you. I’m not leaving you alone when you sound like… Like you could really use a hug but don’t wanna ask for it, alright? Trust me, I know all about how that sounds. And you don’t gotta be alone, okay? We can just hang out here, don’t even have to talk, just listen to some music or whatever.”

And Eddie doesn’t know what to say. It’s not the sleep deprivation this time, though, it’s Steve Harrington and the way he always seems to know when something’s up. Maybe Eddie’s voice really didn’t sound like him just now, or maybe Steve is just really fucking perceptive and sweet like that.

“The things you listen to are hardly music, Stevie.” That’s all he says. All he can say without breaking into tears, because hanging out with Steve outside of these walls that mock him, laugh at him, talk with him, sounds exactly like what he needs right now.

Well, what he needs is sleep, but Steve feels like second best. And isn’t that something he never expected to feel.

“Shut up, Munson,” Steve laughs, and it’s soft, soft, soft. “But that’s not a no. So I guess I’ll see you then.”

Just as promised, Steve is there at exactly 9:00pm. Not one minute early, not one second late. Eddie scoffs and shakes his head as he jogs to the front door.

And maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, but Steve looks really fucking pretty with that smug half smile and another stupid polo shirt under his grey jacket. Eddie swallows. It’s probably the sleep deprivation. It definitely is. Because suddenly he wants nothing more than for Steve to come and hug him.

Sleep, hug, hang out. That’s his list now. It’s growing.

He obsesses over that while Steve brings Lucas, Erica and Mike home. Dustin and Will are talking strategies and Eddie busies himself cleaning up, sorting his notes and carefully storing his Hellfire stuff in the little cabinet unter his desk.

When he’s done, because maybe this took longer than it should have after he forgot what he was about to do a grand total of three times, Steve’s just pulling up to come get them for the second round.

Eddie grabs a bag with a change of clothes, a notebook because he doesn’t expect to find any sleep anyway and he wants to keep himself busy with something, even though writing takes precious brain power he’s going to be lacking for basic things such as making himself breakfast or remembering to get into the house when he’s standing by the front door.

Not like that has happened before. More than once, that is.

With his bag packed, he goes to grab Will and Dustin and together they head out to where Steve’s waiting outside his car, just leaning against it like he’s the goddamn protagonist of some shitty movie. Maybe he’s seen too many of those. Maybe Steve should stop working at Family Video, the movies are a bad influence apparently.

The car ride is blessedly silent, the only noise being the quiet music coming from the radio, and Eddie closes his eyes as he lets street lights wash over him. In the back, Will and Dustin do the same. Everyone’s tired after Hellfire, Eddie knows. Sometimes he catches Steve smiling when he comments on how he hates driving the kids home after their sessions because they always manage to fall asleep on the short ride home and he gets to be the asshole that wakes them up.

Eyes closed, the vision of Steve’s fond smile and faux exasperation in his mind’s eye, Eddie smiles. It’s only when the constant, pleasant rumble of the engine stops and the world is cast in absolute silence, that he opens his eyes. Steve’s watching him, but instead of that smile Eddie’s been dreaming of, there’s a worried expression waiting for him.

“You look like shit,” Steve says so, so quietly, and Eddie sags into the seat, twisting around to face Steve completely as he loses every ounce of fight left in him.

“Can’t sleep,” he says, rasps, whispers.

Steve just looks at him. He’s always looking, always seeing. “Nightmares?”

Eddie shakes his head, plays with one of the loose threads where his jeans are ripped at the knees. “Not even nightmares, just… Insomnia, Nancy called it. I love how she has a fancy word for everything.”

“Shit, man. I’m sorry.” Steve sounds like he means it, and Eddie wants to wrap himself up in that. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Tell me I’m not going crazy?” The words leave his mouth before he can hold them back and Eddie hates how small he sounds, how scared, how tired.

But Steve, oh, Steve, he’s not small or scared or tired. He’s none of that. He’s not weak like Eddie, because after looking for five, six, seven seconds, Steve turns to open his door and gets out of the car. Eddie’s heart sinks and he rubs at his eyes — his dry, aching, burning eyes, protesting at never getting to close anymore.

Then the front passenger door opens and Steve is there, kneeling beside him, taking Eddie’s hands from his eyes and holding them in his own.

“You’re not going crazy, Eddie. I promise you, you’re not going crazy.”

Eddie doesn’t look at Steve, can’t possibly meet the eyes that belong to this incredibly sincere and kind voice. He keeps his eyes on the dashboard instead, watching as the unmoving shadow of a tree morphs into different shapes right before his eyes, his mind playing tricks on him without hiding it anymore.

“Sure feels like it, though,” he whispers. Or he thinks he does. He’s not so sure anymore, watching the one shadow become two, then three. He closes his eyes, clenches them shut like it would make all his problems disappear.

Maybe it does, because like this, there’s only Steve’s voice as he’s talking so gently, so quietly, so unlike anything and everything Eddie has ever known.

The words don’t really register, but one moment Eddie is sitting in the car, the next he’s standing, and it’s warm and it smells like Steve and— oh. They’re hugging. Steve is hugging him. Holding him. Talking still like he knows Eddie needs it, like he knows the world will fade and shift and morph if he doesn’t, like he wants nothing more than to talk Eddie down from this brink of madness.

Then there’s a hand in his and the air is cold again, but it’s fine because there’s a hand and its guiding, holding, soothing.

A door falls closed, a lock clicks, and the hand is still there.

They’re in Steve’s house. Then in Steve’s room. And then there’s music. The hand is gone, and Eddie blinks, his eyes aching, so dry and tired and angry him.

Steve gently, so very gently pushes him to sit down on his bed, but Eddie doesn’t have the strength to sit, so he falls backward until he’s lying on Steve’s bed. It’s soft, comfortable. There’s a string of lights on the wall behind his headboard casting the room in warm light, and Eddie wonders if it’s Christmas soon.

It’s not. It’s August.

It doesn’t make sense.

But they’re pretty.

Eddie is only staring for a while while Steve is off doing something or other, and then he’s back in Eddie’s line of sight.

“Can I try something?”

Eddie just stares.

“It’s absolutely cool if you don’t want to, man, but I do this with Robbie sometimes when she can’t sleep. It doesnt work on me this way around, I always have to be on top, I hate having something on my chest, but—“

“Stevie, I have very limited brain capacity right now.”

“Right, sorry,” he laughs sheepishly and then rests one knee on the mattress. That’s when it hits Eddie that he’s lying in Steve Haddington’s bed, and that aforementioned Steve Harrington has nothing better to do about it than to fucking smile at him.

“Tell me if it’s bad. Seriously, tell me. Uncomfortable, bad, panic-inducing or just plain wrong, yeah? Tell me.”

And Eddie doesn’t understand what on Earth he’s supposed to tell Steve, when…

Steve’s lying down on top of him. They’re touching from knee to shoulder, Steve’s head landing on his collarbone. He’s warm. He’s heavy, and for a second Eddie can’t breathe and it’s too much, his lungs can’t fill, he can’t—

“Breathe, Eddie.”

And he does. And it’s the easiest breath he took all day. He takes another. And another. And all of them smell of Steve, all of them are warm, all of them a promise that he’s not losing his mind or his sanity. His heart, possibly, but that’s a problem for a different day.

“Better?” Steve asks, his breath leaving goosebumps on Eddie’s skin.

He nods. His hands coming up to wrap around Steve because part of him is still scared that this is a dream, a hallucination, or that Steve will decide it’s enough, he can leave Eddie to his business of losing his mind again.

But Steve’s not going anywhere. He shifts, getting comfortable on top of Eddie and promises into the skin of his throat, “I’m not going anywhere, Eddie. I’ve got you and you’re safe. Close your eyes for me, I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

And, miraculously, Eddie believes him. The weight of Steve on top of him, his promise now eternalised in Eddie’s skin, and the quiet tunes coming from the record player take him where he hasn’t been in far too long.

He doesn’t even have the time to think about the way his past self would scoff at him for letting Steve Harrington lie down on him like this. For holding him close.

There’s only Steve who keeps him safe from the brink of insanity and guides him to a much gentler, warmer, kinder place. It’s a bit like insanity, actually, but at least here there’s someone to take his hand and hold it.

The last thought that crosses his mind is the list he made earlier. Sleep, hug, hang out.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

This quickly turns into the only way Eddie can fall asleep, and he’s embarrassed about it at first. Feels like a burden and doesn’t ask for it, spends most nights alone and with the resolution that he just won’t sleep. But Steve finds out and makes him come over again or just kidnaps him in broad daylight.

Every night they spend like this, Steve promises the same thing. “I’m not going anywhere, Eddie. I’ve got you and you’re safe. Close your eyes for me, I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Every night they spend like this, Eddie believes him as he winds his arms around Steve in turn and holds him.

And then, over time, words whispered into skin turn into the tentative press of lips there. They turn into kisses, into more promises, declarations, pleas.

Some nights turn into most nights, into every night, and Eddie doesn’t lose his sleep again, not like that. Sometimes it’s Steve who wakes up from a nightmare but Eddie is there to soothe him, to make promises of his own and to hold him until he’s asleep again.

They make it work. And somewhere along the way, somewhere between sleep and promises, underneath the fairy lights Steve never takes down, they fall in love.

It’s a different kind of insanity, and one that Eddie never wants to run from.

#steddie fic #steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #the irony of me writing this because i can’t sleep and posting this at 3am is not lost to me #okay actually im posting this way past 3am because sleep deprived ol me forgot what he was doing lmao #THE IRONY #dio words #sorry for taking this wonderful opportunity for mild hurt and big comfort and just. writing insomniac eddie whump #i am a whumper at heart what’s a dio supposed to do #eddie munson whump #steddie hurt/comfort

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crescentfool · 2 years

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recently, i’ve been thinking about what a 100% social link/confidant run is like from the perspective of the persona protagonists, rather than the player. i’ve always been a sucker for thinking about the type of narrative created by a person’s gameplay choices (it can be so fun and deep) so!! i wrote this analysis / musing.

some notes before we start: this was written with the lens of persona 3 being the most recent game i played- but the concepts are applicable to the p4/p5 protagonists as well! no spoilers for any of the games are mentioned; this is moreso a general discussion of ludonarrative dissonance with the game mechanics and narrative and how it makes for fun angst (ft. personal interpretation).

(more under the cut!)

the framework: game mechanics

in all of the games, the social link system’s existence coincides with the social stats mechanic. certain social links require a specific set of stats in order to initiate it, or surpass a certain rank. each game has around 20 of these- each of which represent the major arcana (+ some bonuses, e.g. aeon / jester / faith / councilor).

for any players going for a 100% social link run, this basically requires each social stat to be maxed out. anyone who’s followed a guide for a 100% run would know that the beginning of the game tends to be very “strict” with how time can be used, most of which involves getting the stats raised as soon as possible.

outside of characterization and worldbuilding, completing social links are incentivized for a variety of gameplay reasons. so how could this completionist play style affect the protagonists?

prioritizing social stats over everything else: a general view

regardless of which protagonist you want to put under a petri dish, with a 100% run, you’re essentially asking the protagonist to form amicable bonds with 20 or so people, give or take. granted, not everyone becomes adjoined to the hip to the protagonist.

personally, i feel that forming 20 different bonds over the course of a year would be rather strenuous. during these 100% runs, the protagonists may feel that they’re spreading themselves thin trying to dedicate their resources to multiple different people as well as raising their “social stats.” i find the implications that this has on said bonds is so, utterly fascinating.

while this isn’t reflected in the game and would be better represented within a fic, i find it difficult to believe that this type of behavior doesn’t have any ramifications on the quality of the protagonist’s closer relationships (or their self-image, for that matter).

just… imagine calling one of your close friends but then they consistently give responses along the lines of “lmao sorry i’m busy doing other things,” and they rarely make the time of day for you. how would you feel? gameplay-wise, this deterioration of the relationship is best represented in persona 3 with social links reversing if you haven’t spent time with them in awhile.

part of my fascination with this concept is influenced by my own experiences. trying to maintain so many relationships can be difficult to keep up with and it quickly gets overwhelming (see dunbar’s number for more information). jumping between so many people also makes it difficult to focus on a few relationships meaningfully- meaning that relationships may be limited to being simple pleasantries. even then, ‘successfully’ keeping every relationship satisfying comes at the cost of being unable to pursue your own development and interests.

overall, i think that trying to do so many things ends up lowering the quality of the relationship(s) involved, especially when you also consider the fatigue from going to school as well as fighting shadows.

playing the therapist friend / listening role: a general view

another aspect of the 100% run that i think about is how the protagonists rarely open up to other people. a good chunk of SLs follow a storyline of the protagonist acting as a therapist friend/helping the other person through one central issue. some SLs are an exception to this and have a more casual “we’re just hanging out vibe.”

basically, SLs tend to be weighted toward the other character’s growth, moreso than the protagonist’s (which is handled by the main story). that said, the idea of mostly playing a listening role across most of your relationships and not having many that you feel comfortable to speak freely about your own stuff… feels really unbalanced and unhealthy?

i do think that part of the lack of “input” can be attributed to the silent-protagonist approach taken in the games (which is a whole ‘nother topic). but!! i find that each protagonist’s options, while limited, are fun to think about! some of the traits and interpretations i’ve seen for the differing protags, to name a few, include:

being afraid to open up / get attached and keeping people at arm’s distance as a result

needing to be around other people, even if it’s just listening them, to distract from their own struggles / pretend nothing’s wrong with them

enjoying helping others, being a good and careful listener who can provide an appropriate and helpful response

the willingness to prioritize others over themselves; a lack of self-preservation

compulsive people pleasing

at its worst, the lack of “protagonist talking” or equal reciprocation in response could be misinterpreted by the other person as disinterest (like they’re talking to a wall). alternatively- the lack of “personal tidbits” could be taken as, “you don’t trust me enough to be able to open up, huh.” and i just think that seeing this in a fic would be the biggest shitshow ever (and i would read that).

concluding thoughts:

overall, i feel that the protagonists taking a predominantly listening approach to several relationships at once can lead to compassion fatigue and general burnout. the protagonists are rarely at the receiving end of being listened to and/or having their issues worked through… and that’s kind of sad?

while the 100% social link run can provide great power to any persona fusions (and other cool battle abilities + hijinks)... i ultimately think that there’d be a lot of mental strain that would make achieving this much more difficult when you take a narrative-emphasized approach.

i do realize that it is possible to see the general vibe of this post as “100% social link is bad,” but like… there’s something i find really appealing about the messiness of attempting to manage so many relations at once- only to fall short in several of them and attempting to salvage the last bits of their sanity. when you think about the complications of the 100% SL run from the shoes of the protagonist… yeah!! that’s the good shit!

anyways! if anyone knows of any fics with this kinda vibe for the p3/4/5 protags… feel free to drop it in my askbox… i like them all VERY much :3c… and if this raised any food for thought- i’d be equally honored! let the protags go through shit i wanna see their emotions and coping mechanisms damn it! 👏

#persona 3 #persona 4 #persona 5 #yes it is 3am and im posting this. i couldn't sleep so i wanted to write something that i've been thinking abt as of late :x #highly recommend looking up ludonarrative dissonance btw! if ur interested in game storywriting its SOO interesting bc its definitely-#an occurence that happens every now and then in a video game. persona included. like.. when game mechanics tell one story but the narrative #-ends up contradicting that (or some other thing in reality ends up doing that...). does that even make sense??#i tried to keep this post general to p3/4/5 but if you know me well enough you'll see how my p3 bias has shaped this post. lmao #i also could go on a tangent about how i feel about orpheus telos as a thing w/rt p3 social links BUT I WONT. unless...?#i have more i want to say on the topic (maybe will do so at a later time) but feel free to ask for more specific hcs with the protags?#maybe not p4kun though just bc ive only watched p4 so i havent had the time to let it sit btwn play sessions #anyway bye im just going to let this float in the void while i sleep. have a good day #meta #hc and au nonsense #lizzy speaks

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kyouka-supremacy · 4 months

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so, kyotag, your super honest opinion about bsd characters please (aka, who is your fave and who is your least fave. i promise, i am not trying to get you 'cancelled', i am just curious!) 🎤

Ever since I've gotten this ask I've been trembling, I don't think I can ever give bsd honest opinions for the sake of my own future mental sanity LMAO. The upside is, I can talk plenty of the characters I like!!

My favourite character is Kenji! For real, ahah. I'm just always drawn to characters that are just... Good. little guys only trying to do their best and be kind. I suppose there's also a factor of “that's who I want to be” that makes me like them in particular. I don't like the direction they went for Kenji's character in chapter 100.5, but really? I wasn't particularly let down by it either, like it's so fundamentally coherent with the worldview bsd expresses, if anything it was chapter 13 that was out of the scheme. I'm a professional canon ignorer at this point and I'll keep doing just that ahah.

↑ Saw this scene for the first time in the anime, went “Slay! Communist king!”, and he's been my favourite ever since lol.

Although, if we count in Beast, then my favourite character overall must be Beast Atsushi. I mean, have you seen him... Most fucked up guy ever. He went through unimaginable trauma and he still kept being so soft at his core. He just wants to live but everyone is making it so hard for him. He cares for Kyouka so much and he cares for Dazai so much and (to me) he cares for Akutagawa so much like little traumatized boy how did you manage to save all that love in you despite the Horrors. I can't put in words how much I love him but really he's the only character I can say I really sympathize with, like, I want good things to happen to him. I want him to spend the rest of his life coddled and adored.

I love all the female characters <3 I ADORE Kyouka, I think among the other female characters she's the most multilayered and complex character with a structured and compelling story arc. I think she's seriously nice, I really love this stark contrast between her sharp, cynical side and her side that is so sweet and kind and so utterly 14 y/o, and I love how these two sides aren't really in conflict but just come to be together and make her so authentically Kyouka. She's so dear to me. Also, she's the only female character who can compete with the s.kk / ss.kk four for the role of main character, so like, I'm rooting for her ahah.

I adore Yosano for self-explanatory reasons lmao. The chapters of her backstory may not be my absolute favourites for a mere matter of personal taste but I definitely think they make for the best written chapters in the whole manga. I really like how sensitive she is of others' suffering, I think she's amazing– I think her compassion is truly amazing. I want to read more stories of unapologetically compassionate characters. I also generally really really love “older sister” kind of characters!!

I love Kouyou with all I've got. I'm sorry, I genuinely think her story was this good on mistake, but still. I think her backstory makes her genuinely intriguing, I think she's extremely cool and powerful and a joy to see in action, I think toxic mother / daughter relationships are super fun to explore, I think she deserves so much more spotlight and should be back as soon as possible.

I love Mitchell lmao. Like I know it may not look like it but I truly think about her 24/7. I just love women that are kinda silly and over the top. She's got like four lines and every single one is a gem and I adore all of them. She's got those big evident flaws and they make her so human and likeable!!! She's my best friend. Not to mention how loyal she is and how much she cares about her family, I really like those traits of her. Oh, and gowns! I love love love gowns.

Okay but seriously I love all female characters. I didn't like Lucy in particular at the start but she's really grown on me and now I adore her with everything. Wells is spectacular and I need her back as soon as possible. Every woman I didn't mention, from Higuchi to Egawa, believe me I love with all my heart.

I went off a tangent I'm so sorry </3 I know you asked for one character, but how can I not mention the others??? It's just been so long for me in the fandom now and I just can't but grow attached. And I've got so much untapped love for women I never get to talk about on my silly blog that focuses on two men. Following up the list, would be Akutagawa. And I don't want to talk about him because I suppose there's no need to after having made one trillion posts about him but also can I just say? I like him for the same exact reasons I like Kenji. She's just a guy trying to be good. The difference is that he sucks so bad at it, and it makes him SO fun to explore as a character. I really have so much fun playing with him. Then would be Tachihara, Jouno...

... ........................ For the characters I like least, I suppose, R/anpo. I'm so sorry peoples. In R/anpo's case, it's just... Why do you have to be so mean and disrespectful all the time. Seriously, dude. Why is he always treating others as less than he is. I'm sorry, I really am, but I just can't help but find it displeasant? Like it takes zero energy to treat other people with common human decency, c'mon dude. At least Akutagawa is trying to do better, but everyone treats R/anpo like he's entitled to be a jerk? Idk man.

K/unikida. In his case, I Do Get why he's the way that he is (and genuinely can relate to him to an extent), it's just... For the way I am, I consider to try and forcibly impose your own ideals on other people to be about the most insulting thing you can do. And he does that a lot, with Atsushi and Dazai and everyone else. He also has this whole forced lack of empathy thing going on like... I get why he does that, and I get what he went through that made him like he is, but that doesn't change the fact you're kinda being a dick to everyone all the time dude. Please get some therapy.

That doesn't mean there aren't moments when I've genuinely liked them both and found them seriously cool!!!! I still think K/unikida is an interesting character and I genuinely get why people like him. I love the helicopter scene, I remember when I was reading the manga for the first time, when he said “no one ruins my schedule”, I was like, whaa, I was completely in awe. For R/anpo too, the Untold Origins arc from what I could see from the anime was really nice, and I also highly enjoy that one scene of his in chapter 81, the “To tell the truth, I had absolutely no assurance they'd believe me”.

Thank you for the ask Nyusa!! I hope you could find this at least a little bit interesting (?). If anything, now you know a little more about me, ahah. Also not talking about Dazai this time because really I can't be here the whole day.

#*deletes paragraph* *rewrites paragraph* *deletes paragraph* *rewrites paragraph*#I have Strong Opinions but also I just don't want to upset anyone ahcjahjvcahk #people asks me stuff #It's just hard to delve into because the reasons I don't like a character are elaborate and complex–#and not something I can explain in a short paragraph. At the same time I don't feel like starting writing an essay–#on why I hate someone you know? That's just not me ahah #Like for R/anpo there's a whole deal on how considering him autistic–#as an autistic person myself it's a kind of representation that personally disturbs me. But we're not getting into that #And POST please this is making me so nervous #Posting this at 3am so that no one sees it lmao

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upsidedowngrass · 6 months

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hi. heres chapter 1 of a fic where owen goes on an online forum to ask for help finding out what happened to liam :)

#hfjone #my writing #have i made that a tag yet? i have no clue #anyway i had fun w this :) this also shouldnt be the ending either. i have ideas #also if your curious two of the forum members here have designs! they were the two charas i mentioned in the post earlier :)#which members and which designs they are tho i wont disclose #(no reason i just think being vague is fun LMAO)#also i posted this last night but im scheduling this post cus its 3am for me

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edotfightme · 3 months

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Do Sinners Belong In Heaven?

In which Alastor makes different choices and faces new consequences, ones he never really faced before.

This little thing is something I came up with during the Hazbin Hotel season 1 finale. Idk why I came up with it but I did. As usual I’ll be noting down the warnings.

Major Character Death

Blood and Gore

Introspection

War

Self sacrifice

Idk how y’all will like the ending

Featuring my bible headcannons that will probably get their own fic soon lmao.

Btw I am willing to bet that everyone has written this before lmao let’s go!

——<>——

Hell was quiet for a change. Millions of sinners and demons holding their breath for the fight of the… there would be no good term to describe what was taking place on those forsaken grounds. Angels and demons conflicting in a way that was never seen before. Hell would not be entertainment tonight, angelic blood would be shed and the sinners would take their pound of flesh.

That was the thought that comforted him the most as he prepared for the fight of his life.

Crimson eyes were locked on his opponent, that annoyingly arrogant angel. The first man, the second to doom humanity to a life outside of Eden.

Adam.

In all honesty, watching said angel destroy his force field with a single punch was daunting. He was not a fool, he knew just how strong a being like him would be. Facing him would be like facing Lucifer in combat.

Alastor’s smile turned into more of a grimace as he glared at his new opponent. If he could, he’d snarl, but that would be weak. He was not a weak man in life, nor was he a weak demon in the afterlife.

The angel alighted on the hotel’s signature sign, crouched and just as ready for combat as the radio demon felt. As a leader in hell’s entertainment, Alastor felt like he simply had to get out a few witty one liners.

“Adam!” He greeted, eyes locked on the angel and noticing every little detail. As he called his name, he saw his wings flex and his head raise in a form of confusion. “First man, next to die!”

Alastor could’ve laughed at his own joke, would’ve if this conflict hadn’t been so serious. A lot was at stake here.

“Who the fuck are you?” It continued to surprise the demon that angels could get away with being so crass. Was it just because Adam was god’s favourite?

Well, no need to keep his unwelcome guest waiting. “Alastor!” He lowered himself into a bow, “pleasure to be meeting you, quite a pleasure.” And with a flourish, he slammed his cane into the ground. Alastor relished in the feeling of magic curling at his beck and call. Lightning crackled and sparked, lancing around like green bolts of death as tentacles rose up to answer his demands. If there was one thing he loved most about hell, it was the power it granted him.

“Nice voice, don’t you know jazz is for pussies!” Adam’s weapon was drawn and the fight began.

Shamefully enough, the fight was a blur. The focus he had to hold over his creations was nothing to scoff at, no matter how easy he made it look. His mouth moved in reaction to the angel’s quips as his mind was far away. Shards of his mind in each attack as he flung everything in his arsenal at the angel. His body was on autopilot, only coming back to himself to dodge and duck under stray swipes. The constant shattering and mending of his mind had been a labor of love, driving most who tried it insane, but that dedication only served to make him more deadly. And if a few screws had to stay loose to make things easier, that was for him to know.

“You should know better than anyone what a soul can accomplish when they take charge of their own fate.”

He heard that statement of his clearly, his own focus and thoughts in his shadow as he struck the first man in the chin. The fight was going well, so maybe he could have a bit of fun with it.

He pulled himself in, gently stitching his mind together as he leapt forward and taunted Adam. Alastor enjoyed himself as he ducked and dodged under the angel’s axe. He had him desperate.

“And worst-“ he unraveled again, slicing his mind apart with careful precision as he summoned multitudes of minions to rain hell on Adam “- you’re sloppy.”

It was difficult to manage so much at once, as well as keeping tabs on Adam’s movements in relation to his body. He had so many perspectives of the battlefield, and only one of them really mattered. He held himself up- he ran forward- he lashed- an axe cleaved through him- he jumped- he- who- too much!

He pulled himself in again. Not as much as before, but enough that he wasn’t so scattered. Alastor wrapped a tentacle around Adam, grateful that the conflict of his own thoughts never managed to interrupt the battle against the angel. His strength was too great for that.

He threw Adam into the sign, keeping careful focus on being able to move his true body if he needed to. The exorcist reared up for a strike, his words lost to Alastor. Alastor brought spare limbs up to block, confident that he-

His mind screeched as he slammed into himself, only years of practice allowing himself to slot everything in place correctly without destroying his entire identity. He glanced around himself, staring at the roof of the hotel that was a lot closer to him than it should’ve been.

“What just happened?” Alastor asked himself with thinly veiled alarm. His alarm increased tenfold as he spoke.

What happened to his voice? Where was the crackle of the radio? What happened? He blocked the strike so why did things go wrong-

Alastor’s gaze dropped to the broken staff in his hands. “Fuck.” He’d used the wrong limbs. Scattering his mind so much never went well, and he’d gotten careless. His strength was in his staff and without it he was-

Light flashed across his chest, making the radio demon cry out in pain. He felt his flesh sizzle under the holy power, the force of the attack sending him into the wall. Alastor groaned, blindly reaching for his staff as he pulled himself together. He was fortunate enough that he still had one trick up his sleeve. The first thing he had by his side upon landing in hell, before even his staff.

His body responded as his mind searched for a safe spot to retreat. He narrowed his focus on one of the many empty rooms of the hotel. By a window so he could make a second emergency escape, while also keeping his eye on the battle. Perfect.

“- but it is ending this broadcast…”

He pulled himself through, finally stitching his mind together once and for all. Immediately, pain crashed into his senses. He keened, low and horrifically animalistic as he hunched over himself.

“Fffffuuuuuck.” He whined, reaching for something that could possibly help. He’d never been struck with a holy weapon before, and he never wanted to be hit again. This was worse than torture.

At least he’d managed to land hits on that demented exterminator. He could at least trust that the people of hell would defeat that insufferable angel.

He gave another ungodly screech as the pain flared again. His hand landed on something soft and he got to work securing whatever it was around his wound. The jagged cut turned his suit crimson, and he winced at the knowledge that it would stain. What a hassle.

Battle raged on outside as he tended to his injury. As the pain finally began to ebb he blinked in mild surprise. Somehow, he had ended up in a bathroom. The object he had just bandaged around him was a black towel.

“Well that was a rather fortunate coincidence,” He muttered to himself. He coughed a few times, unsuccessful in bringing his voice back to normal.

He couldn’t go out there without it. Without his signature cane and his voice he was-

A crash sounded outside, making Alastor jump. He hastily scrambled to his feet, running into the main hotel room in time to watch an angel fly past. The angel was grinning.

Not very many people had the discipline he did. If the angels were loosing then they would frown.

The radio host slid towards the window, peering down at the battlefield below. Even from what he guessed was 12 stories up, things weren’t looking good. Charlie and Vaggie were occupied. The cannibals and the other hotel staff were being slowly overrun. Adam was still holding his own.

He twitched.

There was an angel aiming at Charlie Morningstar.

His claws scrapped against the glass as he watched the little brat level their spear at the princess of hell. The holy weapon was positioned well, and by how the battle was flowing.

Little Miss Morningstar was going to find a hole in her chest in just a few moments.

The deal burned in his very soul, marking his charge with a knowledge he both coveted and cursed. He knew exactly where she was at any given moment, and how much danger she was in. It was this unfortunate knowledge that told him he needed to act.

It was something else that made him want to act.

White hot rage coursed through him as he focused his mind. It took less effort than usual to split himself into his shadow and drag himself to face the wretched exorcist.

He drew his secret weapon from his coat, launching himself forward to strike his opponent. The angel was caught off guard, hastily readjusting to meet him. His holy dagger found his target first, sinking deep into the exterminator’s chest. That dagger had seen the flesh of overlords in the past, it was fitting enough that it should find angelic blood as well.

Gold leaked down his hands, no doubt staining his gloves. Alastor stepped back, prepared to vanish once again to the safety of the hotel room-

He was stuck.

Peculiarly, he was stuck.

The injury he sustained from Adam seemed to be getting worse as well, so he chanced a quick glance at his predicament.

“… Oh…” his voice still sounded off, though that in part may be due to the spear sticking out of his gut.

The odd calm that had briefly overcame him vanished, replaced with an emotion that was nearly crippling. He screeched as pain filled him, worse than before. He barely managed to pull himself to a more secluded spot of the battlefield. Snapping a piece of his mind free from the pain did nothing to alleviate it. His strength fled abruptly, his body collapsing beneath him as he crumbled to the ground.

Alastor gasped, hands shaking as he touched the weapon still protruding from his stomach. Someone was laughing in the distance, their haunting cackle somehow tuning out the sound of the battle. His eyes flicked to every little thing he could see. His crimson blood hitting the ground where he knelt, the soft glow of both the spear and his own knife, the scorched battlefield around him. All of it painted the image of the last things he would ever see.

The laughter stopped, the world was silent. Was he the one laughing? Did it matter?

He was dying.

Death was a strange concept for Alastor to grasp. Before, death looked like his mother. Old and gray, lying on her deathbed with his hand in hers. She had smiled at him, with tears in her eyes, and made him promise something that stuck to his very soul.

“Please, Alastor, my baby boy. Please, never stop smiling”

Then, death looked like countless victims. People who didn’t deserve their lives. Screams and pleas filled the air as he raised his knife with the accuracy of a man making it his profession.

“PLEASE, SIR! PLEASE HAVE MERCY!”

Strangely enough, Death’s next face was invisible to him. Humming in the woods as he dug a grave for his latest victim. The snap of a twig reaching his ears, causing him to stand up straight and alert. A loud noise, and the world changed around him.

“What just happened?”

Death’s new face bore down on him. The first man, Adam, and his axe. He’d died once before, he’d seen many people die. This time seemed different though. His heart was racing, making more blood leak out of him. His eyes kept darting around and his mind just wanted an out. It felt as though his life was flashing before his eyes. It felt like-

His gaze cause a piece of glass, clear enough that he could see his reflection. Clear enough that he could see the fear in his eyes.

Fear. Dying felt like fear.

His smile remained, but everything inside went still. For the first time in either life, he was being faced with his mortality.

Raged filled him once more. He would not fall like this, not as some self-sacrificing idiot too weak to live. That was not who he built himself to be. He was Alastor, the Radio Demon. Renowned for broadcasting the screams of his victims across hell. Sinners feared him!

If he died like this, he was just Alastor. He was just some weak sinner who failed to do his job. His reputation would be in the toilet!

Alastor dragged himself to his feet, hissing in pain. It took everything in him not to drop his smile could he drop his smile. He started shambling forward, frantic eyes searching for an out. Medical supplies, some sort of mythical healer maybe? Demons and magic existed, so it stands to reason that healers did too. The battle behind him was ignored as he tried to put one foot in front of the other.

He had to make it out alive. He had things to do. He had lives to ruin! He had to- he had to…

The fight left as quickly as it came, the pain quickly becoming to much. He landed on his side with a grunt, the spear shifting in his chest. He stared at it, thinking.

He was dying. The great Alastor was dying, for his friends. What would they call him once they found out? Heroic? A martyr? Altruistic?

His laugh was subdued this time, the mania from earlier bled away with most of his lifeforce. All that was left was a wet chuckle. Altruistic Alastor, died for his friends.

Somehow he felt a little less resentment at that.

He sat up once again, filled with something else now. Acceptance? He placed a hand on the protruding weapon, finally tuning back into the sounds of war. He figured they’d do just fine without him.

For once, he probably overstayed his welcome.

“You’re never fully dressed without a smile…”

Later on, someone would find him with a spear and a broken staff clutched in his hands. His smile was softer in death, strangely kinder with his eyes closed. There were three lives lost in the Hazbin Hotel.

——<>——

Most people don’t wake up after dying twice. Most people aren’t Alastor.

When he pulled himself to his feet, he felt off. The first thing he did was check his wounds. Miraculously, they had vanished. He felt like the fresh sinners he watched on occasion, checking themselves over a panicking.

Alastor refused to panic. He’d done enough of that for a lifetime.

The second thing he did was check his surroundings. The world was shrouded in a dense fog, strangely bright and dark at once. Chills ran down his spine as he spun around. He felt a million eyes on him at once.

“Hmm? A visitor?”

Alastor hadn’t lived nearly a century in hell for his reflexes to be slow. He turned on a dime, reaching for his holy dagger so he could face his new opponent. His death was still fresh in his mind.

Instead he was faced with a man. A seemingly regular human man, maybe Jewish in decent. He wasn’t anything special. His skin had a desert tan while his brown eyes twinkled on his wrinkled face, full of smile lines. A full brown beard, partnered with brown hair, completed the look. He only looked like he was in his late fourties, early fifties.

Something deep inside the demon, something ancient and feral, warned him that whatever the man was, it was old.

Alastor found himself pausing, having to take a second to remember his manners. “Ah, pardon me. My name is Alastor. And who might you be?”

“I am Joseph, I have been watching this place for a very long time. Not many come here, you are one of the first in a while now.” Now that he was listening properly, Joseph’s voice was as kind as his eyes. Forgiving, in a way.

“What is this place exactly?” Alastor inquired, “to me it just seems like a place of nothing.”

Joseph laughed, and even then he sounded kind. “I suppose you could call it that. I would prefer to say this place is a crossroads of sorts. Somewhere where even nothing could be something, given that nothing wants to be something.”

And despite that description, it only left Alastor confused. Where exactly were they?

“You’re getting confused,” Joseph pointed out out keenly, “Why don’t you walk with me? I’ll explain everything on the way.”

Alastor fell into step beside the strange man, still running through the answer in his head. A crossroads where nothing could be something, what a strange answer for strange man.

“I suppose I’ll start with how you are here,” Joseph began, “simply put, you died.”

“I gathered that,” Alastor grumbled dryly.

“While you died quite selflessly, protecting your friends and charge from certain death, there are complications. On one hand, if you had let them die then you would have been freed from your debts. You didn’t have to save Charlie Morningstar, but in doing so you died a hero’s death. Well done.” Joseph talked about his death so candidly, as though he were talking about the weather. It felt like Alastor should be offended, but his voice was too calming for that.

“On the other hand, your repertoire of crimes proceeds you. Hundreds of murders can be attributed to you directly, and that isn’t taking into account the souls you enslaved. One good deed doesn’t erase the suffering of many, you know?” Their surroundings changed. Now they were standing in a room, pure white other than two doors.

One door was blue, golden lettering sketching out the destination. The other was black, red details describing the fate of those who entered in one word.

“And so, I stand before you to offer you the choice,” Joseph continued talking, possibly ignoring Alastor’s whirling mind, “which afterlife do you believe suits you now? Heaven, or Hell?”

Heaven or Hell.

It’s a question people ask themselves when they are alive. They tell themselves their answer and move on. When you’re dead, you don’t get to choose.

“You want me to choose where I belong?” Alastor asked, looking at the man incredulously. What on earth was his goal?

“Yes. I only want you to pick a door and walk through it. It shouldn’t be hard.” Joseph’s patient smile was getting to the point of unnerving.

Alastor stepped back, “This is ridiculous. Only an utter buffoon would choose to go to hell.”

“Then have you made your choice?”

Alastor sent a withering glare at the man. When he looked thoroughly chastised, the demon began to pace.

Heaven or Hell.

A simple question. Heaven is the best answer. Everyone wants to go to heaven. The kindest, greatest people end up in heaven. It is a luxury that is unmatched by anything on earth or below it.

Hell is the worst answer. Hell is a fight for survival. It is drugs and depravity and demons clashing for power. Hell is the place he was trapped in for almost a century.

Hell was a hotel where a little maid cleaned. Hell was a place where a cat tended a bar, chatting away to a spider with a smile on their lips. Hell was a place where a snake spoke to a girl with a nervous smile. Hell was a place where a disgraced angel and a demon found love. Hell was a place where a radio host would tease his rival without a care in the world.

Hell was a hotel, and hell was a little less hellish than the world made it out to be.

“I would like to say that certain doors come with certain constraints. If we let you back to hell with everything intact, things could go bad fast. To make things easier you wouldn’t remember this, nor would you remember your previous life in hell. Everything would be reset to zero. No souls to own, no deals to uphold, and no power to your name. You would just be Alastor, practically a new sinner,” Joseph’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Just Alastor. Would anyone have “just Alastor”?

Charlie would. She’d probably pluck him right off the street. She’d take him to the hotel and reintroduce him to everyone. She’d get Rosie and he’d end up befriending her again. Husk would hate him at first but eventually he’d probably worm his way into people’s hearts. His early days self was charismatic without the reputation.

He stepped towards the door, the decision clear. However, just before he stepped through he paused.

“You aren’t just Joseph, are you?”

The man laughed, “I suppose you’re correct. The stories didn’t to me much justice when I was mortal. Though that was on purpose.”

“Hmm. Well your ‘first man’ was a bit of a dick.”

That earned him a chuckle, and he took it. He pushed the door open, prepared for the memoryless future waiting for him.

——<>——

The door clicked, finally startling the inhabitants of the room into action. The eldest grabbed her younger by the arm, tugging her towards herself. The redeemed sinner turned around, frill flying upwards into a threat display, his mind still spinning from the events of earlier.

An angel stepped into the office.

His coat was a brilliant pure white, complementing his mostly monochrome colour scheme. Light gray skin worked well with darker gray pants, bow tie making a nice touch. A blue vest slightly peaked from beneath the coat, decorating the whole outfit with golden clasps, buttons, and glasses. Silver hair was adorned with a crown of ebony antlers, perfectly framing pale blue eyes that scanned the room.

As the angel left the safety of the doorway, Sir Pentious couldn’t help but look at the splendor that was this angel’s wings. Large and white, they were something to behold.

That and the cane the mystery angel held in a death grip. He’d see a cane too similar to it in hell for it to be some strange coincidence.

“Alastor?” He hissed, catching the angel’s attention.

Sir Pentious heard one of the Seraphim behind him squeal, the other one muttering a prayer under her breath. He ignored them in favor of the seemingly redeemed radio demon in front of him.

“… I am not supposed to be here.”

——<>——

If you made it to the end, well done! I used the redeemed Alastor found on @hazbinmo-tel ‘s blog.

Check it out there tbh, I didn’t draw it. Don’t like me for the artwork, like me for the writing. I did that. Anyways the Bible headcannons are me. I will definitely do a sequel! I mean, someone like Alastor can’t have just gotten into heaven without strings attached right?

… Right?

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asummersday · 8 months

Text

sigh

#this chapter is ALMOST as long as chapter 1 lmao #ah i still remember when i said i didnt think it would get past 6k #good times #though on the bright side!!! apart from a few transitions from one scene to another + fixing some dialogue im done!!#i just have to edit and then ill post!!! :D #im aiming for sept. 5 knock on wood #anyway its also like 3am and i should ~probably sleep #summer post #my writing #ataimw

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nanatsuyu · 3 months

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this is a complete no pressure ask BUT. i need you to know i think of this snippet you posted on Twitter ages ago all the time. (https://x.com/nanatsuyu/status/1689395509264351232?s=46&t=RrUocKZoiPz3_Gj72p4WXg) and im just double checking it’s not something you posted and i missed? i don’t think so but i thought u would like to be know someone’s thinking of it…… if it ever gets posted i will be on cloud nine but AGAIN no pressure it’s just sooooo lovely

oh my goD i completely forgot about this fic?? it's from an au i have where they live together and kevin goes out on dating app dates a lot and usually comes home in a bad mood after bad head and andrew fixes that for him because how could he not <3 lmao

thank you for telling me ;; it is nice to know someone's thinking of it ;; <3 considering i've been writing A Lot of kandrew lately, i might ride the high and polish this off soon,,

(for those that may want to peek at it but dont wanna copy paste links, wip under the cut)

#i make the joke a lot that i forget fics as soon as i post them #but normally i at least see them in my notes when writing other things in obsidian #okay literally just checked and its because its in a document combined with the kandrew piercing au sequel i was messing with #i love writing smut at 3am in a fever dream cus theres like 2k of genuine filth after this lmao welp #and mentions of kevins matching flannel pjs and andrew definitely not waiting up for when kevin inevitably needs someone to cheer him up #aftg fic #my writing #kandrew #otp: did you have fun #nana asks #my depression did a number on my self confidence the past 6 months so i dont post a lot of wips anymore but perhaps i should #this was really nice to hear ;;

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the-rogue-mockingjay · 9 months

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💗 slow kiss / gentle kiss / inevitable / soft

Hiya Middy! Long time no see!! I hope life has been kind to you 💜💜💜

lol we're thinking on the same wavelength today @coldshrugs 😂 :>

anyway. This was supposed to be a snippet. It...did not end up being a snippet omg, it really got away from me kdlfhgjkfdhgk. It's 3:40 in the morning and this is the first piece I've (more or less) finished in like 3 or 4 months. It's just under 1,300 words. Set a few weeks after the big Endwalker finale, so vague mentions of what happened there.

[prompt meme]

nascent hope & new beginnings

The uneven rhythm of O’ravi’s cane tapping on the cobblestone announces her presence before she emerges from the early morning fog that blankets Sharlayan, and Aymeric sets aside the report he was reading, its contents immediately forgotten.

She’s starting to look like herself again, a clarity in her eyes now that’s been absent since her return from Ultima Thule. The silver and teal shawl she’s wrapped around her shoulders clashes somewhat oddly with the dark red tunic dress she wears, which in turn contrasts with the royal blue ribbon that holds her hair in a loose ponytail. It’s a far cry from the well-coordinated outfits she wears for business and battle, but it suits her.

O’ravi smiles, a little lopsidedly, a little shyly, and waves. “Hey.”

“Good morning, Ravi.” He can’t help it—he runs to meet her, and offers his arm. “You’re up early.”

“The pain was too great to stay in bed. So I thought I might as well seek you out, enjoy the fresh air.” She moves to link her arm through his but pauses, a strange look on her face. Instead, she reaches up to grasp his collar and tugs.

Wordlessly, and with no small amount of confusion, he acquiesces to her wish and leans down.

And softly, sweetly, feather-lightly, she presses a kiss to his lips.

She withdraws before he realizes what happened, content. His heart lurches like a wounded animal within his chest, his breath suddenly shaky, and she winds her arm through his as if she didn’t just send him reeling.

He can’t bear to look at her, he can’t bear to look away. The kiss in Ala Mhigo, before she set out for Garlemald—when she’d kissed him like her survival depended on it only to flee for the airship. That was moons ago, and they’d not spoken of it yet. It was never the right time.

Now, this. Against all the odds she defeated Meteion and Zenos and made it home alive, and she could’ve gone to anyone—could’ve sought out anyone she wished—but she chose to be here. With him.

Halone have mercy.

They walk together down the garden path back to the pavilion. Her gait is unsteady and torpid, but between him and the cane she’s at no risk of falling. It frustrates and distresses her to be so robbed of strength, but he’s just glad to see her up and about and alive. Safe, and free.

There’s a chill on the breeze, carrying the promise of snow and the memory of home. The long walks they took through the Pillars on the eve of battles she didn’t believe she’d return from. He lays a hand over hers, letting her clammy hands soak up his warmth. Soon, they’d go home together, and never again would she need to leave fearing what fate awaited her in far-off lands. Not if he had anything to say about it.

They make their way to the bench where Aymeric left the report, and O’ravi attempts to fold her legs beneath her only to cringe and hiss when the motion aggravates some half-dozen different wounds.

“Careful,” Aymeric says, settling down beside her.

“It never gets easier.” She leans the handle of her cane into the corner of the pavilion wall, careful not to knock it over lest its clattering disrupt the morning quiet. Her tail swishes placidly as she shifts to close the distance between them, ensuring that her arm rests against his and her leg likewise touches his.

He raises his hand slightly in silent offering; without hesitation, she twines her fingers through his.

“Aymeric,” she says, so softly it’s almost a whisper, “what do you think happens now that the Final Days are over? No more Ascians, no more Garlean expansionism, no more Hydaelyn and Zodiark…”

“Years of rebuilding, to start with. No nation was spared the destruction the blasphemies and towers wrought—in every corner of the world, entire communities were wiped out, the population slaughtered or turned, to say nothing of the state of Garlemald. We must needs—”

O’ravi laughs. “No, no, no, I meant: duty and the wider world be damned, what do you want for your future?”

Ah.

He blinks stupidly, trying to cobble together an answer. “I’ve not put much thought into it, to tell you the truth.”

In truth, that is a flat-out lie. Of course he’s thought about it. But what he wants, what he longs for above all else—he cannot ask that of her. What if the request hurts her? And, perhaps it’s selfish, but what if her answer hurts him? Their friendship is too important to take the risk. No, he will hold his tongue.

“You don’t have to have it all figured out right now,” she says, and while her smile is tender there’s a knowing look in her eye that he can’t withstand. “Just think about it for a while.”

He never has been good at lying to her. His one consolation is that she’s just as bad at lying to him.

“What of you? The world is yours now, your life is your own again. What will you do with it?”

“Well.” She straightens her spine, ears twitching excitedly, and her smile takes on a mischievous edge. “After all I’ve done, I have more than earned the right to live as I see fit. I’ve earned the right to put duty and responsibility and reputation aside—and I know someone else who has earned the same.”

“We do owe much to your fellow Scions and Warriors of Light.”

“No, Aymeric, I mean you.” She takes his other hand in her own and squeezes. “The future is ours now. Ours to shape, ours to live. After all we’ve bled and suffered and sacrificed, we need to do something for ourselves. Just this much at least.” She leans towards him, and he has no choice but to meet her gaze. “You give and you give and you give of yourself until you have nothing left. The world takes and it never gives back, and before you know it you’ve lost yourself. I know this is happening to you because it happened to me, too. You have to draw a line in the sand somewhere and say, this is mine, this belongs to me, and the world can’t touch it. Aymeric, may I tell you what I want for the future?”

The light is glinting off the gold veins that mar her eyes. Her sincerity is painful to behold.

“Of course.”

“I want you to find yourself again. I want to find me again…and I want us to do it together. I want us to walk into the future together, hand in hand, side by side. Whatever paths we walk going forward, I want us to walk them together until the end of our days.”

“I…”

By the Fury, how is he supposed to answer that? How is he meant to—?

His heart is racing, and she’s watching him with such an innocence, a kindness that’s driving him mad.

Her wish answers the question he couldn’t voice. Yet it still leaves some things up in the air, namely: will they continue to keep a distance between them? Pretend Ala Mhigo never happened and remain friends and naught more?

A deeply foolish thought—he knows what the answer to that is, even if he won’t admit it—but nonetheless…

O’ravi raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “What say you, my brilliant blue knight?” His thoughts are spinning too rapidly to be trusted now, so despite the fact he’ll likely regret it later, he follows the impulse of his heart and kisses the scar that cuts across the bridge of her nose. Let that be answer enough.

#i slammed this out in one night so it is nowhere near as polished as what i usually post #if i allowed myself to edit it it would never get posted SO #no editing we die like dragoons using elusive jump during the titan boss fight #well i mean. i'll probably edit it tomorrow afternoon but. for now we're not playing that game GKJHDFLGKJ #don't judge me don't look at me it's 3am and this held me hostage even as my brain's ability to words sputtered out T^T #we are NOT main tagging this it is TOO SILLY #i might be cringe but i am freeeeeee baybee #i will probably rewrite the end later but for now it is good enough #i decided not to let the perfectionism win and prevent me from writing + posting this so if it's messy that would be why lmao #i will fix it later for now we are floating in the goofy pool and crying into our hands !!!#o'ravi soltholia #rogue writes #o'ravmeric #OKAY BYE IM GONNA SLEEP NOW BEFORE THE ANXIETY CAN CATCH ME 🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️#endwalker spoilers #really really vaguely??? idk but just to be safe #HELPPPPP #is this even coherent? idk but i had fun writing it. that's the important part #and considering the migraines and pain and brain fog I've been in lately im amazed i was able to write at all #so. even if this sucks i created something so MISSION ACCOMPLISHED #thank u for the asks besties 💕 it really did help clear the brain fog a lil #also for the record this is my first time writing shippy stuff that isn't pre relationship or It's Complicated so. yay!!!!!#the only other shippy stuff ive written was shepard and kaidan angsting about shepard's death so this is new territory for me 😂

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