Note that I've only obtained one of the endings (and I mean proper credit roll endings) and according to the achievement I got it was not the good ending, as good as it felt.
In any case, major spoilers ahead.
Through all of the choices you are given in the game there is one important one that you aren't, one that ties you inextricably to the princess. The princess never for a moment gets to choose who she is - you're told that she'll destroy the world, and thus she is moulded into that. Everything about her from the moment you lay eyes on her is decided by *you*. Demon, goddess, damsel - she never chooses for herself.
And you are a hero. This is a label you cannot reject for a moment. And more come along - depending on the actions you take you're given the voice of a contrarian, a skeptic, a stubborn bastard - but these are voices you can't reject. Not until this cycle ends. Your slate is only wiped clean when hers is.
The end of the game has another label forced on you both - god. Another reality handed to you that you have no say in.
My ending had me sitting with the princess as I took her hand and led her away from godhood, as it was something neither of us wanted.
The voice of the hero said goodbye and let us go, an identity I didn't share shed from my back
And I took her hand and we left to be ourselves on our own terms.
That's one of the major themes I picked up from the game, we're moulded by the labels that are forced onto us, as with every iteration of the princess - but these can be rejected. The kindest reality is one where you decide who you are.
kinktober day 8 (better late than never): temperature play
pair: enver gortash x tav
rating: explicit
words: 2.9k
“Ready for the next one?” Violante’s fingers barely ghosted over his shoulder, brushing air rather than skin like she was caressing the keys of a piano.
The click of the boots paused behind his back and the silence that followed made his body tense up – the instinct of a prey cornered by the hunter. Gortash could not escape nor attack, he could only wait for the strike of the arrow that would declare the conclusion of the hunt. Such suspense made him restless, terribly aware of his surroundings, of the towering presence he could not turn to look at and the hard stone under his knees. Even his own breathing became unbearable, pointing with precision every second going by.
The hunter was pleased instead, to drink from the cup of the prey’s misery. Violante watched how the muscles contracted at the mere idea that something, anything could happen at any given moment. Out of control or prediction, Gortash was prisoner to the anticipation of the unknown. Even the minor shift, be it a sigh or the rustling of fabric, made his senses fire to attention.
She took one step closer to his kneeled form and his spine went straighter like under a spell, bracing itself for what would surely come. It was a simple matter of when. Gortash expected sparks to prick his flesh again, like needles and pins nipping on his body–a sensation that sat on the tipping edge between pleasure and pain–so Violante, fiendish as a devil, chose to play a different game.
When the fingertips stroked the back of his neck, Gortash waited for the electrifying touch to set his nerves aflame again, instead it was cold that reached him. Freezing cold, frigid and crisp, worse than ice or snow on feverish skin, icy as death and then some. It was unnatural, mystic, and it sprung free from her hand and spread through his body like a disease. A surprised whimper escaped his lips, one that he immediately regretted. Violante drew a path that glided down and stopped right in the middle of his shoulder blades. His back arched in an instinctive attempt to escape her touch but in vain, and then he shivered.
“You’re pathetic.” She taunted with a devious sneer, reveling in the spectacle granted by her sly work.
Gortash hesitated, biting his tongue and allowing just a scowl to speak for him. He struggled against the ropes forcing his arms to his back, tying them till the forearms, and kept grimly quiet.
The sound of steps echoed on the stone again, slow and calculated, and finally the half-elf reappeared in front of him, imposingly tall and dangerously close. He kept his head straight, denying her favorite poison: attention.
His scalp felt warm as Violante raked her fingers through his locks. The bite of ice was still sinking its fangs in his back, so he leaned into the only source of relief almost too eagerly. His eyelids fluttered as the fingernails caressed his skull, a delightful tingly sensation soothing his senses.
Then, the yank. A rough, cruel pull forced Gortash to look up and meet that gaze he was avoiding out of spite. A golden ocean, he’d call it. Strong gilded waves that crushed relentlessly against the shoreline, intense and unstoppable, set on making even the most expert sailor drown for the violence it could unleash. And behind that strength hid melancholy. Barely visible to the uncaring eye, ever so mysterious, never explained. An enigma he never quite resolved in years of tries.
“Do you wish to say something?” Violante quipped “Use your words instead of squirming like a worm against a few ropes.”
The corner of his lips rose to a smug smirk and he pushed his chin higher than what was forced on him. “Peculiar use of the gifts an eldritch entity granted you. Pitiful, to waste power on such trivialities.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And I wonder what your lord Bane would think of his chosen bent down to his knees.”
“Power plays among soon-to-be rulers?” Gortash chuckled confidently, a sound that carved holes into Violante’s pride “I’m certain it is quite the entertaining sight.”
Irritating, to say the least, like only Gortash could be at times. Violante swallowed down her irritation like a wine that turned to vinegar, she should know better than pay any mind to the Lord’s affronts. A hard twist on his locks and his mouth fell agape with a huff. That was the most reprisal she could allow to not appear bothered, she had no intention of crowning him victorious at the game of pissing her off.
“All bark and no bite, aren’t you?” She said, her jaw clenched.
The cold made its return, like winter after a long summer, this time it prickled his lips as Violante’s thumb ran across the supple bottom and then followed the stretched cupid’s bow. Gortash indulged, teasing her finger with the tip of his tongue and the scratch of teeth, a silent invite in. Warmth spread to his nape like a caress while his lips trembled under the brisk brush–it could be a beautiful spring, he thought.
Violante didn’t turn down the solicitation and slipped her thumb in his mouth, pressing on his tongue and letting it coat with saliva. In return, Gortash wrapped his lips around it. An exhale, held back to let it go unnoticed; the blaze in her eyes and the gentle stroke to his hairline spoke loud enough. There was nothing Violante could love more than obedience.
If only it could last.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, when teeth sunk so deep into the flesh she swore they were gripping the bone. A pained hiss, thus came anger–not red and hot but shocking and punitive. Her fingernails dug deep into his jaw, a few sparks flashed in the air like bright stars; Gortash’s body reacted to its own accord, springing upright on the knees, twisting the ropes as he searched for any kind of outlet to unwind the electric buzz that flowed through his muscles. The pulsating wave faded to a tingle and left only a quiver to his spine as he sat back on his heels.
“You never learn.” Violante shook her head, she was surprisingly calm as she inspected the teeth marks on her thumb. Anger appeared to dissipate from her features, as if it was nothing more than a passing black cloud. When her gaze found her little traitor, as she’d call him, he pressed his lips into a thin line. Unpredictable as ever, that was her worst trait–Gortash detested it.
She used her boots to tap the inner sides of his knees, right then left, and gave nothing more than a command: “Spread them, Gortash.”
Gortash she said, never his first name, never Enver. Lord Gortash at times, when she needed to make it clear that a space divided them, an incurable separation. Or to taunt him, of course. Since their ‘reunion’ she did not dare to give him the honor of such intimacy so he tried his best to reciprocate the distance, and perhaps that was for the better. Names such as theirs left a certain weight of the past on the tongue.
He followed the order, unquestionably. Violante joined him on the floor, knees brushing his own, stooping down at his sorry level, showing mercy if he had any luck.
A striking presence she was, taller than Gortash even in such a position. His black eyes rose up to meet hers: Gortash could almost taste her scent–iris, heliotrope, juniper berry and the most exciting of them all, the belladonna. He wondered if that one habit of hers was still an occurrence, the poisoning. He searched for her lips and, instinctively, wet his own. A kiss deadly as the perfume she ingested, one kiss away from dangling by the thin thread between life and death. He couldn’t help but fantasize.
Gortash was pulled away from his thoughts when Violante ventured forth: she went for his neck now, fingers gliding and melting like ice against the warm skin. A feather-like caress, almost too good to believe. It made Gortash sigh, his shoulders slacking and head faintly falling to the side awaiting for more. The tip of her nose followed the traced path down to his collarbones, earning the delicious sound of a hum rising from his throat.
Violante went lower with tortuous slowness. The cold blazed into warmth again as she placed her palm in the middle of his chest, fingers dancing and knuckles brushing across the wide expanse. The sensation was akin to the soothing heat of a crackling fire in the hearth and it engulfed Gortash’s senses. It was rewarding, which meant suspicious.
He used his teeth again, this time to nibble at the sensitive pointy end of her ear. Violante gave a low chuckle as she squirmed away. A beautiful sound, a song he sadly forgot the notes of.
Delight doesn’t last long, he should know. The gentle heat became an abnormal fever, her index and middle finger delved in the flesh harder like they were trying to reach for his rib cage. The pain reached, screamed at Gortash before his wit told him what she was doing.
When the distressed groan reached her ears, Violante stopped to admire the rapid rising and falling of his chest, the gritted teeth, and the surprised indignation pooling in his gaze. A swollen red patch of dry skin was now adorning Gortash’s body.
“Oh don’t get all angry at me now,” she mocked as a beautiful, charming smile curled her lips but failed to reach her eyes “I’m certain the Archduke is not short on healers.”
“You–” The words turned into ash in his mouth, burning under the hot fires of his resentment before they could even take shape in his thoughts–a fair reaction, so why was his body shaking with excitement? “You should learn reverence by the snap of a whip.” He growled, hurt, humiliated, with his tired knees, the bared teeth and the torpor of his arms. She laughed, made fun of him.
Violante placed a finger to her lips and made a show of an admonishing shh!. “Be good now, I’ll reward you for your patience.” She cooed, placing both her hands on his chest.
It licks at her ego, the way he caves in. Open, hurt, like a bleeding wound exposed to the air. He knows all she can offer is cauterizing salt and he does not falter. If only they had found any other means for coexistence, they would’ve used it. Something simpler than Violante’s maddening devotion that ravaged both the devotee and the deity, than Gortash’s need for something that goes over, ahead of a limit they teached–forced–him to not cross, that lust for more. It wasn’t perfect, but it was indeed coexistence. Tearing each other apart was preferable to distance, absence.
Pleasure followed to pain without fail, Gortash knew, so all he offered her was a cautious look–don’t do that again. A tacit agreement between the two: I’ll indulge less.
The small burn was tedious but her cool digits offered a little respite, sadly not for the itchiness. All Violante could yet give was a way to take his mind off her cruel mark. She moved her attention to his breasts, circling with large strokes the darker areola, slowly and intentionally avoiding any direct contact with the hardening nipples. She carried on, skimming her icy fingers down to his lower stomach, tracing bumps and marks in the descent.
Stopping just above the line of his breeches, she could feel the tensing up in his abdomen. Their eyes locked and a silent warning flashed in Gortash’s black ones. He was stern and assertive, yet he made no attempt to hide the way his adam’s apple bobbed up and back down as she pulled on the fastenings.
This time Violante had no intention to play. She loved to see him bleed, that was certain, but she loved it more when he needed her. The answer to his caution laid in the dreamy fluttering of her lashes: I’ll be fair, I’ll be kind.
Her hand dipped down, touching the coarse hair there. “Is it lower?” She brazenly whispered in a breath.
“If it’s begging you wish to hear, let’s cut to the chase.” He replied, a thin note of annoyance in his voice.
“It is not.” Violante moved to straddle his thigh between her own and let her other hand roam into his hair once more “Tell me I want you and I’ll do it.”
Ah! Want, of all things.
Something deep inside him turned from hunger to starvation, far worse than any want, any need. “I do. I want you.” He murmured almost to himself.
A certain sorrow, or misery even, took over her gaze for the briefest of the moments and disappeared as quickly as it came. He took notice, but did not speak of it.
She pulled his cock out of his clothes, a constraintment that felt like an endless torture by now. Gortash groaned at the contact, his eyes drifting down between their bodies. Violante followed suit. Her fingers ran teasingly along the skin with a faint lukewarm heat, her thumb sliding over the slit, gathering the precum there and wiping it on the underside.
Gortash shuddered, arching into the touch, muscles flexing in protest against the ropes. Oh, how she loved to see him struggle. She began pumping him, wickedly slow as to hear more of those pants and the groans that made his chest rumble. Most of all, Violante wished to see those dark eyes of his dip into an impossible night, watch as every light would leave them, take note of how languidly they would gaze back at hers.
A faint tug on his hair and immediately his chin rose up. His lips parted and a gasp left his throat as Violante teased the head of his cock with her palm. The warmth of his breath on her skin made her heart beat a little faster, and the husky sounds filling her ears enchanted her like the songs of a siren. Before she knew her hips ground down on his thigh as if they had a mind of their own. Breath caught in her throat and a faint bliss made Gortash grin.
Suddenly Violante was made aware of how badly her arousal had mounted, impetuous for the neglect and avid for any kind of stimulation. No matter how badly she ached to dive, drown even, into the needs her body was loudly asking for, she had to endure. Such a prize would be sweeter in the face of all that struggle.
She withdrew her hand briefly, earning a grunt from the man beneath her. She coated her fingers with her own spit, making a show of giving them special attention with her tongue before sliding them on his length again. Gortash chuckled darkly, a word or two hanging on his lips, threatening to spill and tease, but he kept them safely locked away, simply tormenting his thoughts.
The room was filled with the slick sound of skin and panting, then a series of breathy pleas rushing out with the fury of a waterfall. Neither registered any of the invocations, a messy mingling of yes, faster and curses all wrapped in a headily mix as their lips barely brushed and never met. It was intoxicating, breathing in each other’s air, and dizzying. Fading into the little moans and gasps and yet never sharing more of that intimacy.
She would never kiss him, no matter how the occasional thrust of her hips asked her to succumb to her desires, and he’d never kiss her, no matter how badly he craved it, how easy it could be. In the attempt to avoid giving it any meaning, the resistance was creating far worse implications. But it did not matter, neither would ever admit defeat.
Violante lazily rested her forehead against his, admiring how the pair of eyes in front of her struggled to stay open, threatening to roll back, moans echoing in the room with unashamed generosity. He was close, it was undoubtedly clear.
“I…” he began, swallowing a lump in his throat “I’m almost–”
Her lips pressed together. “I know.” She confidently agreed.
Then came the twitching, the need to dig his knees deeper into the stone, his orgasm creeped on him until it didn’t. Violante tightened her grip around the base of his cock, squeezing him so that the taste of his climax could stay just as that. A mere aroma lingering on his tongue, coating his lips with sweet nectar but never falling down his throat, never reaching his end.
Gortash cursed, loud and unbecoming for a Lord – she noted with amusement. He writhed and squirmed, his hips thrusting forward desperate to find something, that last one push he needed to reach bliss. Twice foolish he was, for falling in the ploy of Violante’s mercy.
“That was it, right?” She boasted, just a few inches away from him and yet so unreachable “Of course it was, you were so preciously loud just now.” She pressed her palm on his thigh and wiped clean her palm on the expensive fabric. Then she stood up swiftly, abandoning Gortash to his solitary, powerless frustration, to the bitter aftertaste in his mouth.“It’s never that easy, you should know.” Violante tilted her head, hands resting on her hips in an excessive show of superiority “Now, should I take you flat on your back or you would prefer to be cheeks flush against the floor?”
i know i've been very inactive with everything lately, but unfortunately it's going to be a while yet before i can go back to doing any sort of writing. my health has taken a turn for the worse thanks to my Crohns, and because of that, i'm set to go in for surgery on jun 15th. it's nothing huge, just an intestinal resection, but recovery will take some time. and sadly, the things i was hoping i would get to do will have to be on the backburner while i recover from this. my mental state is already going down the proverbial toilet because of this and i'd rather not throw something out there that was written when my depression and anxiety are at an all time high.
i hope my followers understand and respect this decision.
this isn't an i'm done forever...merely a pause while i get my really, REALLY, crappy health back on track (if that's even possible at this point.)
Since I have tons of platonic Verena (my Candy) and Armin feels, I wanted to write something with them. Post Episode 33, Armin gets a strange text late at night from his best friend.
VER(Y)A-wesome: Can I ask you something?
It was her luck that Armin was a night owl, he would later say. Most guys were probably asleep at three a.m. in the morning, especially on a school night but Armin preferred to take his naps in P.E. class like any other reasonable person.
Plus, playing Pokémon Moon meant to stay up late so he could catch the daytime Pokémon as well. And he needed that female Eevee as much as air to breathe.
VER(Y)A-wesome: It’s kind of important.
Vera was nice. That kind of person with whom you could sit in silence without it being awkward. Maybe that was why they had connected so well. They both just wanted to have good time – in their own way, regardless of what others thought.
Armindblowing: You are lucky I’m not in a raid right now.
VER(Y)A-wesome: It’s about guys.
Alright, maybe Vera wasn’t as cool as he had thought. He didn’t really want to go into guy talk with her, just as he always stopped himself from asking her girl advice. That was not how they worked, how they clicked. They were people first. Boy and girl second.
Armindblowing: Want me to wake up Alexy?
He didn’t care much about her gender. It was just that the whole rest of the world seemed to care. Stupid, now that he thought about it.
VER(Y)A-wesome: No, I want your advice. I love Alexy but I need an opinion that’s not him or Rosalya. And I don’t really want them to worry.
Hesitantly, Armin put his Nintendo DS down and sat up. This did not sound like his best friend at all.
Armindblowing: Shoot.
It took her a moment to answer. Sometimes, he saw the dots that indicated she was writing, only to see them vanish as well. She deleted, rewrote, tried to keep up with her thoughts. That was Vera’s flaw, after all. She thought way too much.
Armindblowing: I could also call you?
Five minutes of silence.
VER(Y)A-wesome: No.
His stomach twisted, just a little. Not the way it twisted when he saw his crush walking down the school hallway. Not the way it twisted when he was waiting for Principal Shermansky to be done with her phone call so the two of them could have another of those…’talks’.
It twisted the way it only did when you knew something had went seriously wrong.
VER(Y)A-wesome: There’s this guy I met last summer vacation at the beach. He did not really leave me alone and since then he’s visiting again and again and again. He came to our school play, to our art projects…Lysander told him to back off but I’m not sure.
VER(Y)A-wesome: What if it’s happening again?
Armin pressed his lips together. After she had made him wait for ten minutes her texts were coming faster and faster, the way only night texts could be sent. Full of honesty with no restraint.
VER(Y)A-wesome: What if he won’t back off this time? I don’t want to worry Lysander even more, I already am a terrible girlfriend to begin with.
He pulled his blanket closer and closed the app, opening the number pad and started to dial her number. At the top of his phone, he could still see the starts of her messages, minimized sentences of maximized fear.
VER(Y)A-wesome: What can I do to just keep him away from me? You know Alexy, he would probably want to talk it out, but I don’t want to talk to him. Rosa would want to fight, but I don’t want to fight him.
She had seen him at the theatre play? That had been months ago. And he kept appearing and she just swallowed it all down? All of her panic? Armin did not want to hear more of it.
VER(Y)A-wesome: I just want him to never bother me again.
All he needed to hear was her voice. Armin pressed the ‘dial’ button and waited. Verena picked up only a second after.
She was sobbing quietly, muffled. Probably pressing something against her mouth to dampen the noise. This wasn’t how he knew her. She was less tough, less strong. How could one guy make her feel so afraid?
“Did he do something to you?”, Armin asked, surprised how dark his voice sounded. A simple question with too many implications, “Did he hurt you, Verena?”
“No. No, he just creeps me out but… you know…the usual..”
“I don’t know the usual”, he continued, glancing at the window. Maybe he should climb out. She did not live that far away from him and she did sound like she would need some company. Then again, what was it that he had to offer? He wasn’t as great at hugging as Alexy, not as fierce as Rosa. He was just himself. Armin, the gamer guy. Armin, the one with the great jokes.
Sometimes even just the other twin, a thought he did not wish to have right now. After all, he finally decided to pick his own clothes just a week ago,
“Come on. I’m your best friend. I’ve even seen your inferior underwear.”
Finally a laugh. Verena chuckled only weakly, a gurgling sound at the back of her throat, but it was a start.
“You’re a pervert.”
“Is that why you are asking me for advice? Because you are still asking ,aren’t you?”
She paused. In- and exhaled loud enough for him to hear,
“Yes.”
“Then how about you ask me now?”
“You know, when you’re a girl you know you have to be careful. You know that one day you might be alone somewhere and some dude will walk up to you because you are a woman and not leave you alone if you act the wrong way”, she whispered, her voice just a little hoarse, “I feel like no matter what I am doing, it’s wrong.”
“Why are you asking me? We both know I am not the best when it comes to saying the right thing”, he mumbled, only then noticing that he was caressing his phone case. That was ridiculous, even for his own standards.
“You just do it. You never really hesitate. And you’re my best friend, Armin”, she started sobbing again, her voice breaking mid-sentence. It broke his heart the way it had not been broken before. He felt just as helpless as she was, “You suck but you still are.”
“I don’t know what you could say. If it were me, I’d just straight up burry his body somewhere.”
She laughed at that. Laughing was good, better than crying. He lost himself just a little when she was crying.
“Since you do not condone murder, Vera, I think you should just call me or Lysander or anyone when he is approaching. Make sure you are never alone with him. And if anything goes wrong just go straight for the target between his legs.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
Absentmindly, he ran a hand through his hair,
“I know it is not”, he admitted, “I know it is hard, harder for you than me because I have never been in this situation. However, I think you did just the right thing just now.”
“And that is?”
“You called me. You can always do that. You know me, I’ll never go out if I don’t have to. I’ll be here and I’ll pick up if you need me.
I promise.”
She cleared her throat, brushed away the tears and finally, finally sounded like his friend again. Cold, a little bit sarcastic. A voice of reason,
“You know I do not condone murder but that does not mean I couldn’t close my eyes if you were to do it.”
“I’ll make it as spectacular as possible, Vera. Just watch me.”
Bocchi is a slice of life seinen anime about a high-school girl with severe social anxiety joining a rock band, it’s a simple enough premise but it executes on it *insanely* well. I haven’t read the manga, but the anime uses frequent changes in art style in impressive and creative ways to illustrate Bocchi’s anxiety.
You might have seen this gif going around of her Glitching The Fuck Out, it does stuff like this all the time, it’s incredibly endearing and its fuckin hilarious
But like. Where Bocchi stands out to me is how... *kind* it is around her anxiety. I was talking about this recently with my friend Rose who got me into the show, but there’s some other anime about a similarly anxious girl that I forget the name of and every time I’ve seen even Anime Bros™ talk about it they’ve referred to it always using the word “cruel”. The protagonist’s anxiety was the joke, she was the joke. You were watching this girl suffer and you were meant to laugh.
Bocchi isn’t like this at all. It does have jokes about anxiety, it jokes about how silly it can be sometimes, the catastrophising, the shit like “what if i walk into this building incorrectly”, all of that - but it’s always clear that the mangaka and the people working on the anime know how it feels. But where it really stands out is simply that it allows her to grow. Plenty other manga and anime about anxiety don’t do this, they feel that if the protagonist grows then that defeats the premise, if they’re no longer debilitated by anxiety then they’re without a draw. Bocchi the Rock rejects this. The character Bocchi is always striving to improve her anxiety, and it’s difficult for her - like. REALLY difficult - but she’s still trying and letting others help her. For every time you giggle at her weird worries (that I have almost always shared) she takes a step towards no longer being ruled by her anxiety. Her journey really reminds me of my own.
Bocchi the Rock knows how it feels to have anxiety, and it seeks to remind you that it can be overcome - all the while being endearing and silly and acknowledging that it *is* hard - and I think that’s really special.
The imagery in the Goodbye Blue Sky segment of The Wall oozes like honey and is just as rich.
A harrowing depiction of the second world war using personification in ways that feels so natural. Even if Waters wasn't old enough to remember the years of the second world war that he was alive for there's very genuine pain and trauma there. If he doesn't remember it he'd still feel it, both just by virtue of being there as a child and by witnessing everything after.
There's trauma in the after too. Even if one doesn't analyse the individual aspects of the imagery you can feel what they represent.
The only way one wouldn't feel it is if they view the second world war as some abstract thing that people reference sometimes rather than something that was experienced by real people who live and breathe and hurt.
But who'd possibly treat the work like that, right?
