silph_co | if we can call them friends then we can call them on their telephones

"Fuck no. The point of a smuppet is the plush. That soft, alluring felt outside imprisons a dense, yielding mass of felt and foam. You stuff that ass so tight it feels like it's gonna burst right up until that last stitch.... but once you tie it off, you can bounce a coin off it and that red cent ain't going nowhere. Shit, it might just settle in for a nice nap."

The very idea of a smuppet that is anything but 100% pornographically provocative plush pal--all perky posterior and friendly facial phallus--is offensive, that's what it is. It's offensive.

He does, however, swipe the plate and actually take a moment to just savour the smell. Which might or might not be a moment to recompose himself after that mental digression. Which was itself only a distraction while he worked around the the other thing.

Before he puts the first bite in his mouth, he has to issue a correction.

"The body is one of many vessels. The flesh is a material limitation." He raises the spoon.

"Not all of those are physical."

Now he eats.

But while he chews, his mental gears are still turning, still thinking about flesh and plush and vessels and puppets. It's less stringent when he speaks again. Clarifying.

But the expression around his shades remains harsh.

"Consciousness is also a vessel. Perception is a limitation on consciousness. There are others."

"I mean, it's not my personal fetish," Steven says, finally. "But since it's yours, I'll believe you. As for the rest of it... what are the others?"

Is he... is he indulging you in your bullshit, Dirk, and actually listening to you expound about this shit?

He is. Will you look at that.

"Other limitations, or other vessels? It's not a definitive list. There could be one, maybe. I could make one. But it wouldn't--"

He's thinking out loud. He can hear it, and he stops abruptly and returns to inhaling the food with a renewed intensity. He doesn't actually finish the thought until he's thoroughly tracked down every last scrap of egg, sopped it up with rice, and eaten it.

"Me saying it won't hold water--not unless something changes in a big way," he concludes at long last. It comes out grim, and there's a truth to that, one that leaves a sour taste in his throat.

"I'm... cut off." He hates the way it sounds coming out of his mouth, hates the way it feels to say it, hates the dull feeling of his thoughts as they run up against an invisible wall, the emptiness of where more should be. The other emptiness, vast and silent, where the words should have been. And his words, and so his Word.

This is why any list he made off the cuff would be incomplete. Missing that essential element of canonocity. He cannot know, or say, and so his heap of ideas, however finely assembled, would only ever be just that. And so too would it be ever haunted by the ghost of more.

Steven nods. He... can get how it is, that feeling of being cut off. How long has it been since he last dreamwalked? Far too long.

"What are you cut off from?" he asks quietly.

"In one word: Canon. And don't look at me like that, you think I'm not sick and fucking tired of how much work it takes to invent the universe every time I have to answer a question?"

That question was rhetorical.

"I already knew saying it directly like that wouldn't help you understand. I'm getting there." He takes a sip off the top of his strictly lukewarm orange soda in a way that's generally a bit pensive but looks, sincerely, like he's having a sulk.

"Or what's there to get, anyway." He chews on the scar issue on his upper lip a moment.

"What that means is... I'm not all here. Emphasis on 'here.' And I don't think I ever was."

The way he says it is perceived, internally, as grave, if not outright ominous. And that's what his tone attempts to deliver.

It's an excruciating revelation, felt so deeply and on so many more levels than he can comfortably cover in one go, or even uncomfortably cover, period, that it's all he's been thinking about for days.

Which has a lot to do with the mood he's been in since before Steven arrived.

"So when I tell you that me saying something doesn't hold water, that goes both ways. I can't make it so, and I can't fucking know it either. Not canonically."

Not in any way that matters.

"I'm making mistakes. Getting mixed up with myself."

He regards Steven for a moment, with stunning ambivalence.

"Don't take my word for anything."

"I don't always," Steven says. "You have been, on occasion, wrong about things--and that's the problem for you, isn't it? You're not used to being wrong about things, for whatever reason." He drums his fingers on his knees, thinking. He knows about Tale Crafting, even though he's never been able to do it himself. It doesn't see strange that someone with Sburb-granted powers might be able to do something similiar.

"Dirk?" he asks, frowning slightly. "How much of the story of your world are you used to affecting?"

"Oh. That."

He takes a breath, like a reverse sigh--and with the sentiment behind it equally opposed.

"Hussie ended the story when the game did. But canon demands more than truth. It demands relevance and essentiality. Without me, we'd have been the collective victims of entropy, decaying from relevance into inanity."

Dirk studies the contents of his plate. If he's trying to divine an answer out of the remaining clusters of rice, now pushed into messy little piles, it's not going very well.

"Affecting. Huh. Real flaccid word there. Could I tell you that every page is soaked in me, every repetitive little minor detail saturated with the taint of my germinescent goo, my narrative omnipresence? Could I say I'm the gestalt force by which the story exists at all? Yeah. I could say all of that. So taking full authorial control? That's every bit as inevitable as anything else that ever happened, or ever will."

........

"Canonically speaking."

"You took control of the narrative," Steven guesses. "From my world's perspective, it was probably some kind of... neat conceit for an epilogue or sequel work or whatever. But in yours... you really did that shit, huh? Somehow or another."

"I'd already finished the Epilogues. Was working on the followup."

The real body of his work.... the real purpose behind every plan he had set in motion, every piece he had played, every role he'd scripted, all of it. He hadn't even started.

And--

"I don't really want to talk about it. Not that it isn't fascinating stuff. Storycraft. The rehabilitation of canon. One man's struggle between the power of choice and the inevitability of the ultimate self. Just a bit hard to get into the telling of a story I can't fucking tell."

Edited 2020-04-10 05:19 (UTC)

"Right," Steven says. "And-- yeah, okay, no, I get it. I get it. For all intents and purposes, you're basically being narratively blue-balled, right?"

He frowns a little, before adding, "You and Tyler ought to talk. I think he's shaped the narrative too, albeit on a smaller scale." It's what Tyler's kith did, after all. Steve knew that much.

"More like I've been narratively cucked." Dirk doesn't quite spit the last word, but only just--this is not an impersonal matter for him. Quite the opposite: the narrative game of chess was fun* but his exile-slash-quarantine stopped being a legal move months ago, and until he finally gets the (occasionally literal) authorial pen back in hand, he regards his confinement as very, very personal.

*It was not fun. It was fucking stupid. Sure, he knew he was engineering his own downfall in the long term, and his victory was pretty satisfying, but she also made herself a real fucking nuisance along the way.

He scraps that train of thought and refocuses.

"Tyler? What does Tyler know?"

"He's done Talecrafting," Steven says. "It's something we can do... well, I've never been able to, but it's something that technically any Changeling could theoretically try. It's, uh, recognizing the narrative patterns going on around you and reaching out to tweak them. Usually with some consequence to yourself later, but I think Tyler's kind doesn't get that part."

Dirk absorbs that, which he does easily. What he absorbs along with it are a number of possibilities, paired with questions about the motives behind Steven's suggestion.

But no one knows that hope is a four letter word better than Dirk Strider. It's a falsehood, and one he ~~was~~ deserted by years ago--so it's with more scepticism than anything that he asks:

"Can he do that here?"

Edited 2020-04-11 03:39 (UTC)

"Probably only on one of those weird weekends," Steven says. "We're pretty nerfed on a normal day, same as anyone else. Honestly, even if my memo was jumping the gun on a whole fucking lot, we really should compile what everyone can do on those weekends, so that we can pull of something spectacular when we're all powered up."

"Fuck," Dirk breathes, with something close to real physical pain. He closes his eyes. The subject of narrative, of storytelling and the weekend comes as a hard punch to the gut--not because of the powers themselves, but what comes attendant to them.

"I should have known--I should have put it together after that weekend."

He hates how obvious it is. How clear it would have been if he'd been paying attention. He's a pathetic, deplorable idiot not to have seen it. Abject piece of shit.

"It was right there--right in fucking front of me. No. Not even that. I chalked it up to narrative high and the void it left, but that wasn't it. Did I change after? Was I--nevermind. You wouldn't know. It doesn't matter, anyway." A pause.

"I know I said don't fucking trust me, and I mean it. I'm not all here."

Dirk's expression doesn't change, even as he swerves hard back to Steven's intended point, like what he was just saying didn't happen.

"But on that weekend? There's basically nothing I can't do, or know, except how to fucking leave. John still owes me a favour, but we tested him out and he can't leave either--that doesn't mean anything to you, but trust me when I say there's some real hinky shit going on."

"Right," Steven says quietly. "The whole being a god thing. I figure whatever the space llama god is doing to us to render us human just-- stops for whatever reason then. Maybe it needs to take a three-day nap? Whatever it is..." He shakes his head. "Well. Anyway. I'll be able to do some stealth things and a lot of dreamwalking. I think Tyler should be able to do his tale crafting shit then. And Lydia... well, she's a goddamn lich. She can do a lot. Combine that with your god shit..." He shrugs. "That's why I wanted us to have a contingency plan for whenever it happens."

"About that." Dirk feels--physically, mentally, metaphysically, narratively, more tired, more weighted down than he has in... a long, long time.

"I should probably warn him, and you, that the 'story' is part of the problem. I've been reliably informed I sound 'four or five magnitudes more insane than I usually do' if I explain in any detail how I know. It's there, I've got as much control over it as I ever do, but it's not connected to anything. The whole story just isn't fucking there. It's a hundred disconnected stories that merge when they interact and then divide again. And I don't know if it's just that weekend, but I don't think it is."

"No, no, that makes perfect sense," Steven says. "I mean, we're all from different stories. We might not know what those stories are, like you do, but that doesn't mean we're not. God, I just realized I told Armin about this and not you, because I was too busy being pissy at your for your dumbass opinions about sex and it took me a couple days to dredge to concept up from the depths of my memory, but you've never heard of World As Myth, have you?

"It's, shit, a Heinlein thing. Basically the idea is that the act of creating a story creates a world as well--that that's how worlds are created. Which implies that every world is just a story in someone else's world. We just might not be the main characters. And, you know, I think this place pretty well serves as evidence in favor of World as Myth."

"Whether or not that's how worlds are created is an open debate, and one I'd be very interested in having, but one we'll table for later. Along with your intense and inexplicable vendetta against where I'm putting my dick and how, apparently?"

He can't wait to hear the 'logic' behind that one.

"There's obviously some correlation between narrative existence and worlds, just on a bare-minimum level. Story → world. I'm spitballing a hypothesis here, the testing of which will have to wait until I'm back in control... but my best guess is that each character is carrying a bit of their world through their narrative presence, the relevance of which lingers around them like a rank fart, mingling with the others' in a concentrated miasma of gaseous anal emissions, orchestrated by a deeply disturbed fetishist, possibly some kind of genuine sadist. Under this hypothesis, the interactions between individual relevant characters, introduced from outside for this explicit purpose, make up and sustain this world's 'story.' Thus making us, collectively, a kind of Frankenstein's monster--while the mind or minds behind the monstrous creation we convey with our existence is both unknown and at large."

Edited 2020-04-14 02:47 (UTC)

"Not where you're putting your dick," Steven clarifies. "I don't actually care how many plush rumps you've soiled. Remember how you insulted my boyfriend's sexual tastes?"

Steven remembers.

He shakes his head and goes on. "But yeah, no, that does seem reasonable. Altogether reasonable. I wonder... do you think this is some sort of MUD or MUSH? I know there's some of them that let you play other people's characters."

Dirk does not remember that, no. He remembers having the impromptu conversation about Steven and Jack's sex life--and he remembers Steven's flagrant enjoyment of the subject, which was noted at the time and has since been filed away mentally as another specific item on his short but growing inventory of Steven's specific paraphilias. But he has zero recollection of ever being stupid enough to insult Jack in the man's own mansion.

But between Dirk's current frame of mind and his own (no doubt well-intended) suggestion, Steven inadvertently spares himself a swerve into a topic much more salacious but somewhat less immediately salient.

"You're suggesting that anyone else but me is pulling my strings."

There's anger and then there's loathing--and then there's the tone of his voice, sharper than even the blades of certain well-known swords whose names could be listed here.

Steven winces. That tone of voice is... not good. Not at all. "I mean... didn't Andrew Hussie at some point? Even if you took control of the narrative?"

"You ever hear of death of the author?"

Steven frowns. "As a metaphor, sure. I'm guessing you mean something more than that."

Steven has him temporarily distracted, but that sudden, intense reactionary anger is neither averted nor abated.

"Not even close. First of all--no, what? How did you even get that? You can use both to interpret a work, I guess? No, death of the author isn't a fucking metaphor. It's a form of literary criticism. In this case, it's also literal. That's point two. Hussie dies within the body of his own work after an extended sequence involving the precise limits and scope of his interference in the story. I won't pretend I was uninvolved, but not--"

He doesn't quite pause, making a split second decision about his choice of words--

"--singularly. Point three, we bring back point one--the intent of the author? Meaningless. Done. Abandoned. The canon is dead. Long live the canon."

if we can call them friends then we can call them on their telephones

Cuts out like 1/3 of this tag to let poor Steven speak

thank dirk. thirk.

This tag is purposefully confusing sorry Steven

IT'S FINE

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I have an icon wip that would be perfect for this tag but the commission isn't done

WHOOPS

Also I missed a strikethrough last tag!! I'm really batting 100 over here

I MEAN I TYPED ' PULL OF' INSTEAD OF 'PULL OFF'

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steven never did ljrp or dwrp so at least he can't suggest those... MUDs/MUCKs/MUSHes however...

[Dirk Hated That]

Re: [Dirk Hated That]

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cw speaking of smuppets I GUESS

THERE'S ONLY A ONE LETTER DIFFERENCE

GOD IT'S TRUE

SMUPPET THE SHUPPET?