Einshi - * 𝙢𝙞𝙙𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩

@chipen

( sms ) : i'm in. whatever it is you're planning, i'm in

for lx !!

[sms] 23;45: it's good to know but it's not something we should discuss over the phone. i'll come to see you tonight. [sms] 23;46: dispose of your phone once you read this.

@burntpa1acel // texting prompts.

sorry I beat the shit out of you I have a really big crush on you and I got nervous

‘ dodge me then. ’ he stands in position, legs flexed and all spidery and the next thing nagumo knows is that he's under attack.

boop boop boop boop boop

Cue an exaggerated, immature dry heave as he's booped by @einshi . " Stop! I don't want to catch whatever is wrong with you. "

once again on semi-hiatus 🫠 work is hell

i don't write with you because if i do i'll get so hard that i'll break my computer desk and i can't afford another one (all my figures are on there)

so we keep the milf locked until further notice got it (puts geto back in the basement)

Based off my blog, what other characters could you see me Roleplay as?

@lustraveil cont. // kogami shinya

mourning over casualties that have not come breeds bad habits. 

the thing is a vice: a man’s mind wanders, wonders; it’s precisely men like gino who are susceptible to the mercies of a general force that is brutal and unkind. some called it regret. kogami associated it more with the gut feeling of impending confrontation, the thrill of a foxhunt. maybe he’s not wrong, maybe he’s doing all of this for himself, but it’s not a lie that every time he rolls that name on his tongue, sasayama’s face comes to view. the taste is dark and sour, like vinegar and unlike the pale hues that mirror the devil’s own appearance. makishima. makishima. makishima shogo.

kogami feels his own hand tighten around the handrail, eyes coming shut on their own accord as if to keep him isolated in the eternity of these impulses, itching to take control. but not here.

a sharp tug at his thoughts and he’s back in the moment, cold breeze signaling the end of autumnal skies, reminding him where he stood, where he is at present. reality shatters whatever spell he was under, and, vaguely dizzy, kogami rips his gaze away from the darkness. another drag from his cigarette, smoke filling his throat, his lungs, any part of him with the capacity to harbor it and toss it back into the night like a ghostly whisper. he desperately wished he was better at hiding his true thoughts - make it less evident to the prying eyes of the people he knew and knew him in return. it was a weakness. his greatest.

‘ you’re not entirely wrong. i might be doing this for myself. some nights i lay awake, thinking about what the last thing sasayama saw could be. was it the knife used to rip at his flesh? or was it the chemicals used to preserve all his components like the poor attempt of a puppeteer? no matter what, the images come one after another like an old movie. i can see it and i can hear it. it’s not something pleasant by any means. it’s not something any human being ought to live with. ’ 

what could he possibly say to excuse himself after this? 

that he arrived late, back then, because that is how fate had it prepared for them? 

that he took that turn on the street because a larger force willed it? 

it’s not so poignant a narrative, this is merely the byproduct of someone else’s cruelty, the loss of morality when morality is defined by a bunch of binary numbers and rainbow scales. and in a world such as that, where punishment befalls those who are left to the whims of a machine, he ought to learn to produce his own knives. perhaps the city of the future will fall back on reservists, the dregs of society who daydreamed of living by the blade, by their raw desires, a world where they can see the whites of their enemies eyes before they bury the sharp edge on their throats should they wish to. a second lie, then, it would be to say that he didn’t hope for a violent end like this. 

perhaps apologies would come later. perhaps he wouldn’t need them.

the fragility of impermanence. there’s barely anything left of his old life that he could call his, excluding gino and the rest. he’s sinking in quicksand, knows that better than anyone else. he releases the cigarette from the entanglement of his fingers, crushes it under the sole of his soe. he should walk away now — not from here, the physical, but from the path to execution that he’s been making for himself, instead of clinging to the shallow strands of hope that makishima might be closer to his grip than he’s ever been before, that he could’ve reached this point before had he done anything differently.

resentment isn’t something that he can easily escape. he could run all he wanted, but sasayama’s presence would always be there, haunting and everlasting, boring into the back of his skull in silent judgement.

he turns around, elbows on the rail, head tossed back to once again drink in the fresh air, ‘ i’ve spent one too many nights agonizing over what to do and this is the conclusion i’ve reached. you want me to promise you something but i can’t give it. i’m sorry, gino. ’

think of a young boy disconnected from the spiritual world as sorcerers know it, an ordinary human who upon gaining consciousness he realized that he's able to see what others can't and not only are his eyes unveiled to the creatures roaming in the shadows, he's also able to consume them, to dominate them, to make them hurt when he wants to wound others, what exactly does it take for him to realize it and when does he do it? Who was the first person that he hurt, what did the first ingestion taste like : vomit, garbage, a wet rag? we really know very little about geto and yet he's still a constant presence in the narrative, the ghost that's constantly at the corner of your eye or clinging to your back. thinking hard about this tbh