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@st4rwitness
mostly animanga centric multimuse ft. nina fortner, written by meira (21+, they/them). private & selective. minors and non-rp blogs please dni. on permanent semi-hiatus. blogroll under the cut.
rules ... muses ... inbox ... memes ... art credit.
so. a bit of an activity notice: brand new semester on the horizon and i doubt i'll have much time to be here in the coming months. just a note that i will be absent / not replying to DMs or threads as often-- at least not until the next long weekend or break. for the time being, i'm much more active on @h1nadori, and probably will be for a while yet. take care, and watch out for when i do occasionally pester you in your inboxes >:]
so. a bit of an activity notice: brand new semester on the horizon and i doubt i'll have much time to be here in the coming months. just a note that i will be absent / not replying to DMs or threads as often-- at least not until the next long weekend or break. for the time being, i'm much more active on @h1nadori, and probably will be for a while yet. take care, and watch out for when i do occasionally pester you in your inboxes >:]
starter call! please specify muses- on both sides if you are a multi. variable length. you are more than welcome to request multiple muses if you'd like.
starter call! please specify muses- on both sides if you are a multi. variable length. you are more than welcome to request multiple muses if you'd like.
i believe i'm sensing a theme here...
if i were to inevitably hypothetically pick up a psypass character, who do you see me writing,
he left his wife and child a legacy of tears that never quite dried. - MISATO
@primordyalsoul, the bloody chamber.
she is ten and feverish and her mother is a nervous mess. her father is nowhere in sight, still in his sad apartment in some corner of the city, a light left to burn all night, the blazing window floating well above a nameless, hot street. when her mother takes her to a hospital herself, the car only barely over the speed limit, the streetlights blur like long fingers streaking the windows, and she thinks of the countless ways she could make her father beg for her forgiveness. she thinks of ripping the unidentifiable file he seems forever occupied by out of his stiff fingers and burning it before his eyes, or screaming and jumping over the table and pulling his thinning hair out in bunches. or she could replicate her mother’s mocking: the upturn of her lips that could have passed for a smile, but misato has been on its receiving end and knows the helpless infuriation it inspires in her.
but when she turns up at his apartment as she rarely did, her rage has reached negatives and is instead sharp with hunger. he smells of sardine oil and salt and she thinks this is how the sea smells. how could she tell? her mother had never liked the sea and her father barely had the time to take her to a beach, though he would promise and promise and would leave her with replica shells and fossils a colleague gave him.
here was a promise he did keep, however, though he never made it: she had mentioned no interest in antarctica, but he took her with him anyway. she remembers failing to repress her excitement, regardless of how much anger she could muster. she remembers when the continent emerged on the horizon, a glittering expanse of white vertebrae and old and new. the smell of ice was ancient, ancient, but what had left her breathless had been the unblinking sea, expansive and lonely and a blue so dark it looked like tar. ( and she never did like the sea after– her father like a ghost of her guilt and her anger and her ribs torn open and blood and blood and fire. )
she does not recall her mother crying. she remembers the redness, the weariness, the thank-god-he’s-not-here-ness and the drive home. his clothes would have been too large for him, but there was hardly much of him left, and misato was the only proof of his death. she recalls not crying— it hurt too much, too much, the strongest painkillers her body could handle did little to dilute it. his legacy is his name and his cross (now hers to bear— she laughs at that thought; too on the nose). his legacy is his continued absence that she could not will into any presence if she tried.
rei is close to the commander, though she would never describe whatever regard he has for her as warmth. she is quiet, distant at first glance, and astute, but she places her words with care when she breaks the silence. misato thinks of shinji, thinks of asuka, and cannot place rei close enough, save for a vague wonder at ritsuko. she knows shyness would be a flimsy excuse; there aren’t many who interact with rei, many who keep away or are kept away. only the children persisted.
“you wouldn’t mind tears, so much,” she glances at rei. it’s easy to lie to children, easy to lie to anyone, if you could lie to yourself. if. “it’s harder when you realize you’ve become familiar with the lack of someone.”
i need the silence,
i need the empty streets,
just as bad as they don't need me. (C.)
' there’s always something to worry about, but i’m safe. i promise. ' // am i too late. am i too late for yq n nina-
@tenkoseiensei, family meal.
somehow, the tea had turned more bitter than she had intended. her fingers trace the chip on the ear of her mug, imagines it like the scarred ear of some monument, and lets the image dissolve. his is a sleek, tall one glazed in yellow with a peculiar undercurrent of blue-black. it’s pretty, and swears she can see flecks of amber catch fire in the half-light. nina barely remembers where she’d bought it from, or for how long she had kept it, but it had found some use now.
she places far less stock in rituals than she might have once. for all her tug and pull for something new, she had left little room for ambiguity then. uncertainty prevailed at night, crept in when she slept, and would hover at the foot of the bed like something or someone she should have known enough to name. ( now she dreams, dreams, dreams and scarcely recalls any of it in the morning. ) this is a habit she likes and hopes it suits him well enough— her home falls too quiet in the late afternoon and she likes the stillness and the tornado of gold dust well enough. but she likes company, and she’s well past needing any pretense to offer a snack or two.
and he never invites her to his home and she has not missed the furtive glances she garners when she lingers at the gates; it is an elegant sight and her residence must seem shoddy or ordinary in comparison. she doesn’t push on the matter, isn’t insensitive enough to force his hand and give her enough leave to enter. he seems content enough to be here, and she supposes she wouldn’t mind telling him he could let himself in, in the future. but if that were the only issue, she wouldn’t think twice of his too-long sleeves and the hoarseness that wrapped around his voice and the blazing sun and his continued evasion.
her fingers tighten around her mug. push too hard, and he would leave. there is little he would disclose, and he would be back at his house again, as though he were duty-bound. was it selfish then, that keeping him in her sights when she could was some small comfort? likely that it was. it sounded in no way fair.
“you would tell me if you were in trouble, wouldn’t you?” she presses the rim of the mug to her lips and meets his gaze directly. he’s a perpetual smile-r, procuring it with the ease of a forced cough. he’s safe, he says, and she tries hard to take his word for it. “you know i won’t think twice of it, i–” what did she know about him? enough to let him utilize her kitchen, her supplies, her time. it couldn’t matter where or how, but for now…
“i trust you.” she is steady when she speaks. “and if you ever want to– if you ever just want a break, you don’t have to ask me. just come in.”
❝ let me finish writing this first. ❞ (spike for misato as promised)
@heartinhands, in the mood for love.
even tokyo-3 ended somewhere: she knows, by exact measure, where the highway leads you nowhere and how it might be better to take the only train that reaches the very last station of the current cradle of civilization. she was told it stood on the grave of hakone, but she makes no claims of visiting or remembering it beyond her grandfather’s far-off recollection of when the earth split open and the sea swept in. (but then the second part had seemed impossible to believe. salt water is a known relief for the sick, he said.) even tokyo-3 ended and misato takes little surprise at the possibility. (if she stood and thought for a moment, they would be nowhere. people would be dead, and they wouldn’t be.) her means of preparation included a sense of anticipation stronger than the initial buzz of alcohol and an urgent certainty— she rotated roles with the accuracy of a distracted juggler, but this is one she is most comfortable with; her recent promotion had meant nothing different.
major katsuragi only ever had a nice ring to it.
imminent threat, she recalls a man addressing a university seminar saying, has a tendency to draw out who you are. centripetal force— crisis is what keeps you moving in a straight line. how jaded. how uncomfortable. how true. she sees herself moving, a constant endless rhythm that keeps you alive enough and that is enough to mean something, but she can’t see where to. still, best to push on. is it any wonder why her superiors thought it would be an easy enough task to feed her only what she ought to know? (the same as anyone else.)
“now?” she crosses her arms, the red of her jacket drawing in by bunches around her elbows before she relents. he is at work, she can see as much— the monitor bleeds a ghostly green and the space behind him like everything else, seemingly cramped and not much of note present. “you’re gonna miss out, you know.” she does smile. more apology than cheer, however. she bites back a sigh. “i just need your opinion. it won’t take much of your time.”
she could lie, lie, lie: it had been her open-faced admiration and ritsuko’s tolerance that had held misato’s attention first. practical, reserved, but when she spoke the look on her face eluded her. look too close and the shadows dissemble themselves into moving pieces of wood behind a screen, but misato was and is content with looking at her from afar. ( never mind the twinge of envy, the fever of suspicion. ) she thinks, she reminds her of her mother– a table always set for two and not three and thorns and blistered fingers. she looks at ritsuko and thinks of an angel. there is no feeling that follows, save for measured caution. “hey. lunch?” / @4everfour
it's more of a reflex that her mouth opens to protest, but rei turns up empty on words all the same. she'd rather keep at it, she thinks, though there isn't a bone in her body willful enough to argue further. turning to the chair that misato is helpfully pointing towards, she silently sits. placid and obedient.
gaze pointed nowhere in particular, she asks, “ what should i do now ? ”
—but ayanami rei is an odd one, isn’t she? there aren’t many revelations to dwell on here, but she is aware of the following: odd is diminishing and not close, that it is tempting to think of rei as resilient and favored and part of something other, that a collapse at this point could not be afforded. there is one out of these that misato omits as falsehood in her assessment of rei, though it lingers close enough. “rest.” there isn’t much room for surprise here; she is given nothing, has come to expect this on some conscious level. “there’s still some time before we need you, though i expect we’ll be done for a while yet.” rei has never indicated any need for reassurance. so she supposes it’s for herself. care could only run so deep and she wonders if hitting rock bottom would rupture the continent of herself. best not to find out. (fear and anger were adjacent countries.) “you don’t want to?”
" i have decided to play dungeons and dragons. i am recruiting you. " / kurapika to juuri
@knight1ies
“dungeons and…” of all things she may have yet expected, this is not one. her face is blown-wide with a perplexed expression. rearranging her features into an approximation of measured curiosity, she eyes kurapika. part of a club of some kind, then. “a board game, is it?”
" do you think that we should get some cake and play magic the gathering? " / from tomoyo to lain
@knight1ies
i have a better idea. but they never quite say it, instead setting down a too lemon-y glass of lemonade on the floor. the newer NAVI was a shock to the ecosystem of their room, headed by a parliament of dusty cloth owls and plastic faces. tomoyo propels that shift, but they think vaguely of their mother and quiet dinners and lonely shopping. change is good. it’s meant to be. do they always mean this kind of change? “okay,” is what they settle for. “umm– if you want to go out for some, there’s a place that sells strawberry shortcakes. it was nice, the last time.”
" if you had to choose your last meal. what would it be? " from homura to juri
@knight1ies
quite the question. she runs her life with regimented meals and a schedule firm enough to rule out desire. but hunger is hunger and it occupies spaces she couldn’t hope to reach with maddening ease. it scratches the inside of her skull and leaks through her ribs like something rotten. and instead, she does her best to not think of it: she passes by cafes and indulges occasionally, but she knows they are no full substitute, nor does it satiate. (how is this anyone else’s concern?) she wipes her foil down with care, and runs her fingers along the very tip of it. “ my mother’s porridge, i imagine. but there is hardly any point in wanting that. ”
"and then what happened after the minute?" wasn't his story about ALMOST winning pretty exciting? "were you even listening after the minute passed--?"
“no,” simply. there’s a twinge of something apologetic in her features. it’s not like she is particularly occupied. “sorry, i think i’ve been in my head a little too much lately. you said something about a saving throw–?”
