#bar setup fails

[srjsteel]

Mistakes to Avoid When Installing Dowel Bars in Roads

Installing dowel bars in rigid pavement isn't only a technical necessity—it's an essential structural decision. When performed properly, it guarantees that load is transferred smoothly across slabs, stopping cracks, settlement, and long-term degradation. But too frequently, avoidable mistakes compromise the whole pavement. These errors aren’t just about bad work; they regularly stem from underestimating the function of alignment systems like construction rings and Super Rings, which might be essential for correct, long-lasting dowel placement.

1. Incorrect Alignment Compromises Structural Integrity

One of the first and most costly mistakes is incorrect alignment. Dowel bars must sit parallel to both the traffic flow and pavement surface. Any tilt, even slight, can lock the slab’s movement, causing cracking under stress. This issue is worsened when installers skip using construction rings or choose inferior alignment systems. Quality rings help keep dowel bars steady and aligned, especially under the vibration of concrete pouring.

2. Inconsistent Spacing Leads to Early Joint Failure

Closely related is the error of inconsistent spacing. Misplaced bars lead to uneven load distribution, which accelerates wear and tear at joints. This is where Super Rings prove vital. These specially designed holders ensure uniform spacing across the joint and maintain bar position even in high-speed construction settings. Without them, installers often rely on visual estimations, which almost always lead to performance failures.

3. Lack of Support During Concrete Pouring

Another frequent problem is insufficient support during concrete pouring. Dowel bars shift easily without firm anchoring, especially when heavy machinery moves across the pour zone. Without Super Rings, bars may sink or tilt, leading to long-term structural issues. Strong anchorage systems like construction rings provide the stability needed to prevent vertical movement and displacement.

4. Skipping Sleeves or Bond-Breakers Locks the Joints

Failing to use proper sleeves or bond-breakers on dowel bars is also a critical error. These allow the bar to move slightly within the concrete, accommodating natural slab expansion and contraction. Without this, joints lock, and cracks form rapidly. While dowel sleeves play their role, construction rings further ensure that bars don’t twist or bind within the joint, offering a secondary safeguard against restraint.

Using Super Rings with built-in protection features significantly reduces this risk. Combined with anti-corrosive construction rings, they extend the lifespan of both the dowel and the pavement structure itself.

5. Ignoring Cleanliness of the Joint Area

Debris and dust in the joint area are often overlooked but highly detrimental. A dirty joint prevents proper bonding and can cause the dowel bar to be misaligned or ineffective. Proper installation includes cleaning the joint and using Super Rings that resist moisture and prevent slippage. This attention to detail makes the difference between a five-year road and a twenty-year one.

6. Rushing the Curing Process Creates Irreversible Errors

Rushing the curing process is another common mistake. If concrete sets before final dowel bar checks, there’s no turning back. Using clearly marked construction rings allows for rapid visual confirmation of alignment and spacing before the pour hardens, preventing irreversible errors.

7. Compromising on Quality Costs More in the Long Run

Finally, cutting costs on materials leads to a chain reaction of problems. Choosing low-grade bars or cheap accessories might seem economical, but the long-term costs in maintenance and failures quickly add up. High-quality Super Rings and construction rings are not optional accessories—they are precision tools that ensure engineering integrity and project success.

Final Thoughts: Precision is Non-Negotiable in Rigid Pavement Installation

For engineers, contractors, and decision-makers, the takeaway is clear: installing dowel bars in rigid pavement requires more than bars and concrete. It demands precision, expertise, and the right supporting products. Every poorly aligned bar, every missing ring, adds risk. Investing in tested, durable solutions like construction rings and Super Rings doesn’t just prevent mistakes — it ensures a road performs the way it was designed to.

[cosmicaura7]

WHOLE PACKAGE BABE, I LIKE THE WAY YOU FIT

Pairings : pedro pascal (francisco morales) x reader

Genre : f/m, smut, size kink, size difference, unprotected sex, creampie

Synopsis : In where Francisco Morales is still a virgin because of his rather large size. That was until you came along.

Word Count : 2.7k (my first time writing smut! Hope you guys enjoy.)

Taglist : none yet

Francisco Morales had never thought of himself as unlucky when it came to women, but after years of failed attempts at getting laid, he was starting to think otherwise. It wasn’t for lack of trying. He had been with plenty of women, beautiful, smart, interested. They liked him, heck even wanted him. But the moment things got intimate, they took one look at what he was packing and suddenly had an excuse to leave. Some were polite about it, some not so much, but the end result was always the same.

It had gotten bad enough that his so-called brothers in arms had decided to intervene.

Which was how Frankie found himself sitting at a dive bar with Will, Benny, and Pope, all of them nursing beers and conspiring about how to finally get him laid.

“I’m just saying…” Benny started, leaning forward with his usual shit-eating grin. “...we need to find you a woman who can handle what you’re working with, man.”

“Jesus Christ, Benny.” Frankie groaned, rubbing his face in frustration as he’s not really in the mood to discuss it any further. 

“I’m serious!” Benny gestures wildly with his beer bottle. “We gotta think strategy here. We can’t just throw you at any random woman and hope for the best.” He then started strategizing like the topic of Frankie’s virginity was some sort of football game.

“Benny, we’re not hunting for a damn prize mare. Frankie’s not some freak, he just hasn’t found the right person yet.” Will, ever the rational one, sighed to himself. 

Frankie sighed, slumping in his chair. “Thank you, Will.” He then grabs a hold of his beer to take another big gulp.

Santiago, who had been quiet up until now, suddenly smirked. “You know… I might actually know someone.” He couldn’t help but laugh in amusement at the three pairs of eyes turning towards him in confusion and interest. 

“Who?” Benny asked, intrigued.

Pope took a slow sip of his beer, as if considering. Then he grinned widely at his brothers. “She’s a friend of mine. Someone I trust. And I think she might just be exactly what Frankie needs.” He couldn’t help but contain the excitement bubbling inside his chest at the thought of setting his best friend up with one of his best friends as well.

“I don’t need a damn setup!” Frankie frowned in annoyance, taking another sip of his beer.

“Yes you do.” Bennyl cuts in, slightly flinching at the sight of Frankie glaring at him as he decides to keep his mouth shut for now.

Pope ignored his protest and pulled out his phone. “I’ll call her.” He was already searching through his contacts to look for his best friend’s phone number to immediately dial her and see if she’s available.

Frankie groaned again, but deep down, curiosity stirred. Because if Pope was suggesting someone, it meant she wasn’t just a random woman. It meant she was different. And God help him, maybe different was exactly what he needed.

-----

You had no idea what to expect when Pope called you. You’d known him for years, had run in the same circles, and trusted him more than most people. So when he told you he had a friend who needed a woman’s… expertise, you were instantly intrigued. And when you met Francisco Morales for the first time, you were absolutely sold. The man was gorgeous. Tall, broad, rough around the edges but with soft brown eyes that made your stomach flip. He was shy, almost awkward, but there was something about him that pulled you in.

And when Pope, not so subtly, filled you in on why you were here, you nearly laughed. Because this poor man had been struggling all this time over something most women would kill for.

So, after a night of drinks and quiet conversation, you leaned in, tracing a finger over the rim of your glass, and said. “You wanna get out of here, Frankie?” And you couldn’t help but giggle at his reaction.

His eyes widened slightly. “You… you sure?” He couldn’t help but tighten his grip around his beer bottle to ground himself and make sure that he wasn’t dreaming. 

You smiled. “I think you’ll find I’m not so easily intimidated.” And when you finally got him alone, when you got your hands on him, got to see exactly what had scared off so many women before you, you grinned.

“Oh, sweetheart.” You murmured, looking up at him through your lashes. “Those poor girls had no idea what they were missing.” And as Francisco Morales let you pull him onto the bed, he had a feeling that, for the first time in his life, he had finally met his match.

-----

Francisco Morales had never felt like this before, like he was drowning, overwhelmed, consumed. You were everywhere, wrapped around him, pulling him in deeper, moaning his name like it was the only thing you could remember. And the way you looked at him, like you couldn’t get enough, like you were obsessed with how he felt inside you, it was almost too much to handle.

“Fuck…” You gasped, nails digging into his back as he thrust into you again, slow and deep, stretching you open in a way that had you shaking. “You’re so…fuck. Frankie. you’re so big.” Jesus, even the way you moan was like angels singing in his damn ears.

He groaned, burying his face against your neck, his breath hot and uneven. “Too much?” He rasped, already prepared to stop, to pull back, to give you time to adjust…

But you only clenched tighter around him, dragging him closer, your legs locking around his waist. “No…” You whimpered pathetically, rolling your hips up to meet his. Feeling absolutely desperate and needy for more. “Never too much.” You sigh out, feeling your brain soon turn into mush just like how Frankie was turning your insides into mush as well and making a complete mess out of you.

Frankie swore under his breath. He had never had this before, not just the pleasure, not just the sex, but this. The way you wanted him, all of him. His size had scared every other woman off. But not you.

You loved it.

You needed it.

“More.” You begged so prettily for him. “I want to feel all of you.” Your hands slid down his back, gripping his ass, urging him to move. 

Frankie groaned, lifting his head to look at you, and damn near lost it. You were completely wrecked, lips swollen, eyes glassy with pleasure and body shaking in ecstasy. Your nails dragged down his skin, leaving marks, as if you needed proof that he was real, that this was all real.

“You’re perfect. So fucking thick, made to ruin me.” You whispered, biting your lip as he pushed in deeper, the stretch almost too much but exactly what you wanted. 

Frankie cursed, his control slipping. He grabbed your hips, pinning you down as he thrust into you harder and deeper. You moaned, arching under him as your body shudders around him. “This what you want, hermosa?” He rasped, voice thick with arousal. “Want me to stretch you open? Fill you up?” His thrusts slowly increase its pace as his grip on the beautiful woman beneath him tightens. 

“Yes, yes! Fuck!” Your head fell back against the pillows with your body trembling beneath him. “Yes…” You whined. 

Frankie growled, his lips capturing yours in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss, swallowing your moans. He had never felt wanted like this before. And he was never letting you go.

Frankie was losing himself in you. He had never felt anything like this before, never felt anyone like this before. The way you took him, the way you needed him, the way you looked at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. And the way you clenched around him, so hot, so tight, so perfect, made it impossible to stop. He should stop. He should pull out. He knew he should. But he couldn’t.

Because you felt too good.

Because you wanted it.

Because he was obsessed with the way you swallowed him whole, with the way your body craved his, with the way you moaned when he filled you up. And right now, with you writhing beneath him, your fingers tangled in his hair, your breath hot against his ear as you whimpered. “Frankie, please…please don’t stop. Need you so bad…”

How the fuck was he supposed to stop?

Frankie groaned, pressing you deeper into the mattress as he thrust into you, slow and deep, burying himself to the hilt. He felt you tremble, felt your nails rake down his back, and fuck, it only made him want you more. “You feel so fucking good.” He rasped against your lips, his voice thick with need. “So tight, so perfect, taking me so well.”

“Don’t pull out.” You moaned, your back arching, your legs wrapping tighter around him, locking him inside you. “Wanna feel you. Wanna be full of you.” You breathed, your lips brushing against his. 

Frankie swore, something breaking inside him. His hips snapped against yours, his movements turning rougher, more desperate, more needy. “Fuck. You want it, hermosa? Want me to fill you up?” He gritted out. 

 “Yes! Please…” You nodded frantically, clinging to him, your walls fluttering around him.

That was all he needed.

Frankie buried himself as deep as he could, his body shaking as he spilled inside you, his release filling you up, making you gasp as you felt him flood you.

“So fucking good.” You whimpered, your legs tightening around him, holding him close, not letting him go. “So good…” You whispered to yourself, your lips brushing against his temple.

Frankie groaned, his body still trembling, his breath uneven as he pressed a lazy kiss to your collarbone. He knew he should move. He should pull out. He should clean you up. But instead, he stayed inside you, letting himself sink into your warmth, into the way you held him, into the way you fit around him.

Because fuck, he wasn’t ready to let you go.

And maybe… he never would.

-----

The room was still heavy with the scent of sex, the air thick with warmth as you and Frankie lay tangled together in the sheets. His broad chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, his heartbeat still erratic from the way he had just wrecked you. You traced lazy patterns over his skin, reveling in the way he still pulsed inside you, not yet willing to pull away. His arm was wrapped securely around you, holding you against him like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Frankie let out a long, satisfied sigh, his fingers dragging through your hair as he pressed a slow kiss to your forehead. “That was…” He trailed off, searching for words.

“Yeah?” You grinned, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. 

“Yeah…” He murmured. “Fucking perfect.” His brown eyes were soft, a little dazed, a little wrecked. 

You preened under his praise, nuzzling against his chest, feeling impossibly warm and full in every way.

And then…

Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

Frankie groaned as the sound of his phone vibrating on the nightstand shattered the peaceful silence. He ignored it at first, nuzzling deeper into your hair, but when it went off again, he let out a reluctant sigh.

“You should get that.” You couldn’t help but teased, lazily pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

“I really don’t want to.” He muttered, squeezing your hip.

Out of curiosity, you peeked over his shoulder and caught the name flashing on the screen. Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia. “Oh, this is gonna be good.” You smirked. 

Frankie shot you a suspicious look before finally grabbing his phone and answering. “What?” He grumbled, voice hoarse from exhaustion. There was a beat of silence before Pope’s voice rang through the speaker, way too fucking amused.

“So…” Pope drawled. “Did she finally pop your cherry, or what?”

Your eyes went wide, and then you lost it. A surprised snort escaped you, quickly turning into full-blown laughter as you buried your face in Frankie’s chest, your body shaking with amusement.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Pope.” Frankie groaned, dragging a hand down his face. 

“What?” Pope said innocently. “We had a bet going. Benny swore you’d chicken out last minute.”

“I fuckin’ knew he had it in him! Pay up, Garcia!” You could hear Benny’s distant voice in the background. 

 “I hate all of you.” Frankie clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Fish.” Pope teased. “We’re proud of you, man. You finally got your dick wet.”

You howled with laughter, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as Frankie groaned again, looking absolutely fucking done. “Okay bye.” Frankie gritted out before hanging up and tossing his phone onto the nightstand.

“That was the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.” Still laughing, you pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

“You’re enjoying this way too much.” Frankie grumbled something under his breath before finally sighing and shaking his head, his lips twitching. 

“Maybe a little.” You grinned. 

“Think it’s time I wipe that smug look off your face.” Frankie rolled onto his side, pinning you beneath him, his large hands sliding down your waist. 

“Yeah?” Your breath hitched, your body already responding to him again. 

“Yeah.” He smirked, pressing his hips against yours, already hard again. 

And as Frankie Morales sank back into you, filling you up all over again, you decided that his friends could wait. Because there was no fucking way you were done with him yet.

-----

Francisco Morales had it bad. It had only been a few days since that first night, but in that short time, you had completely taken over his life. Every thought, every free moment, his head is just filled with you. You were insatiable, always pulling him back into bed, always wrapping yourself around him like you couldn’t get enough. And Frankie? Frankie was just as bad. If you so much as looked at him a certain way, he was done for. If you so much as brushed your fingers over his thigh, whispered something soft against his ear, he was fucking gone.

And his friends noticed.

Which was why, four days later, when the team met up at their usual bar, Frankie found himself the target of relentless teasing.

Benny was the first to start. “So Fish…” He drawled, leaning back in his seat, a shit eating grin on his face. “Haven’t seen much of you these last few days. Wonder why that is.”

“I’ve been busy.” Frankie ignored his teasing, taking a slow sip of his beer. 

“Busy, huh?” Will smirked, exchanging a look with Pope.

“I think he means he’s been buried between…” Benny grinned, nudging Pope as well. 

“Don’t.” Frankie shot him a glare. 

But Pope was already laughing. “Oh, come on, hermano. We all see it. You look like a man who hasn’t left his girl’s bed since the second he got a taste.” Despite him and the others giggling like middle school boys and making fun of Frankie, there was no denying that they were happy for him for finally finding someone he wants to spend his life with. 

Frankie groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are the fucking worst.” He then takes a long sip of the beer in his hands in an attempt to hide the love sick grin on his face.

“You do know we’re happy for you, right?” Benny chuckled, leaning forward. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Frankie sighed, rolling his eyes. 

“But we’re still gonna give you shit.” Pope smirked, clapping his hand on his best friend’s shoulder. 

“Just don’t forget to hydrate, man.” Will chuckled, shaking his head. 

Frankie flipped them all off. That was when his phone buzzed. He glanced down at the screen, and his stomach did a little flip when he saw your name pop up.

[Hermosa]: Miss you. Come over?

Frankie couldn’t help the way his lips twitched.

Oh my God, you’re so smitten.” Benny caught the look immediately and groaned. “

“I gotta go.” Frankie ignored him, already standing and reaching for his keys to get ready to leave and return back home. 

“Yeah, we know.” Pope snorted at him.

“Give her our love!” Benny called after him.

“Give her some water after you’re done!” Will added, laughing.

Frankie just shook his head, but he didn’t stop walking. Because, fuck, they were right, he was smitten. And he had every intention of showing you exactly how much.

[tobiosbbyghorl]

moments with you

Glimpse of moments shared with you gymrat boyfriend

Spotter

You owere at Sunghoon’s home gym, casually sipping on your water bottle while he loaded up the bar for his bench press. His home setup was impressive—state-of-the-art equipment, sleek black and chrome accents, and a full-length mirror that reflected just how effortlessly cool he looked.

“You sure you don’t want to do a set?” he teased, flashing that boyish smirk as he settled onto the bench.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “I’m here to spot you, not embarrass myself.”

Sunghoon chuckled, gripping the bar. “Alright, then. Be a good spotter.”

That’s when an idea popped into your head. A slightly mischievous, slightly ridiculous idea.

As he lifted the bar, muscles flexing under his fitted tank top, you casually strolled behind him—then, without warning, you straddled his lap, your weight settling over his thighs.

His arms faltered mid-rep as he nearly choked on his own breath. “Wha—”

“Don’t worry, babe,” you said sweetly, resting your hands on his shoulders for “support.” “I got you.”

Sunghoon’s grip wavered before he quickly regained control, pressing the bar up with a mix of amusement and sheer willpower. “Oh, so this is how you spot now?” His voice was breathless but dripping with laughter.

You grinned. “Best method, trust me.”

He managed to rack the bar before letting out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back against the bench to look at you. “You almost made me drop that, you little menace.”

You shrugged, feigning innocence. “Maybe I just wanted to motivate you.”

Sunghoon’s hands suddenly found your waist, squeezing playfully. “Oh, you’re in trouble now.”

Before you could react, he stood up with ease, effortlessly lifting you with him. You shrieked, clinging to his shoulders as he smirked. “Since you wanna play games, how about I add you to my next set? Ever heard of weighted squats?”

You laughed, half-thrilled, half-terrified. “Sunghoon, put me down!”

He only grinned wider. “Nah, my spotter needs to be part of the workout now.”

And just like that, your gym session turned into another chaotic—and undeniably adorable—moment with Sunghoon.

Late-Night Gym Shenanigans

It was nearly midnight, and Sunghoon had somehow convinced you to join him for a “quick session” at his home gym. You were already in your oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, ready for bed, but he had other plans.

“Come on, just a couple of sets,” he said, eyes twinkling with amusement as he tugged on your sleeve. “You always say you wanna get stronger.”

You pouted, flopping dramatically onto the gym mat. “Yeah, but not at midnight, Hoon. Normal people sleep.”

Sunghoon chuckled, crouching down to your level. “Normal people also don’t giggle uncontrollably while filming gym vlogs.”

You gasped in mock offense. “How dare you. My subscribers love my gym fails.”

“That’s because they love you,” he murmured with a smirk, flicking your forehead gently before grabbing a pair of dumbbells. “Alright, at least try these. I promise, if you do a full set, I’ll carry you to bed after.”

Your ears perked up. “Princess carry?”

Sunghoon sighed, already knowing he had lost this battle. “Yes, princess carry.”

“Deal.”

You managed to get through a set, though your form was questionable at best, and Sunghoon made sure to tease you about it the entire time. But true to his word, the moment you finished, he swept you off your feet effortlessly, carrying you all the way to bed while you giggled into his shoulder.

“See? Told you I’d get you stronger,” he mused as he tucked you in.

You huffed, pulling the blanket up to your nose. “Mm-hmm. And now I’m going to sleep for a week.”

Sunghoon only grinned, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Good night, my sleepy baby”

Lifting You Up Just Because

It started off as a normal session—until Sunghoon decided he was done with actual weights and moved on to lifting you instead.

“Sunghoon, I am not a barbell—”

“Shh,” he said, effortlessly wrapping his arms around your waist before hoisting you up. “You’re the perfect weight for bicep curls.”

You squealed, grabbing onto his shoulders. “Put me down, you menace!”

“Not until I hit ten reps,” he teased, grinning as he curled you up and down.

You could hardly breathe from laughing. “Hoon, if you drop me, I swear—“

“I never drop my favorite weight,” he said smoothly.

Your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t even argue because, well… that was kinda cute.

And that was just another day with Sunghoon—your gym bro, your spotter, and the guy who made even workouts feel like the best kind of fun.”

"Sunghoon, Stop That!"

It was a lazy evening, and after a long gym session, you and Sunghoon were sprawled across his couch, exhausted but content. You had changed into comfy loungewear—one of his oversized hoodies that swallowed you whole—and were curled up against his side, half-watching a random fitness vlog playing on the TV.

Sunghoon, however, was completely distracted.

You felt it before you saw it—the gentle poke at your stomach. Then another. And another.

You turned your head, narrowing your eyes at him. “Hoon.”

“Hm?” He looked at you innocently, fingers still prodding at your soft belly. “What?”

You huffed. “Stop.”

“But why?” He grinned, now gently squishing one of your rolls between his fingers. “It’s so soft.”

Your face heated up. “Because it’s my stomach, and it’s ticklish!” You tried to swat his hands away, but he just laughed, catching both of your wrists in one of his hands.

“You know I love this, right?” he murmured, his teasing tone softening as his fingers traced small circles against your side. “Like, a lot.”

You pouted, still flustered. “You’re weird.”

Sunghoon smirked, resting his chin on your shoulder as his hand settled comfortably on your tummy, rubbing it affectionately. “Maybe. But you love me anyway.”

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

“Wow,” he gasped, feigning hurt. “That’s crazy.”

You giggled, turning to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Fine, fortunately.”

He smirked, squeezing you closer. “That’s what I thought.”

"Strong, Not Small"

Sunghoon had been bugging you for weeks to come to his gym, and today, you finally caved. You stood in the middle of the massive space, watching him adjust the weights on a barbell.

“I still don’t get why you wanted me to come,” you mused, crossing your arms. “You know I’m not trying to get shredded like you.”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes playfully and walked over, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Babe, I didn’t bring you here to make you lose weight,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “I just want you to be healthy and strong. That’s all.”

You blinked up at him. “So… you don’t want me to slim down?”

He sighed, turning to face you fully, his hands resting on your hips. “Listen, if you want to, I’ll support you a hundred percent. But if you’re asking me? No. I love you exactly how you are.”

You tilted your head. “Even my belly?”

“Especially your belly,” he said without hesitation, grinning as he reached down to gently squeeze your sides. “And these thighs, and these arms, and these cheeks—” He cupped your face dramatically, squishing it in his hands. “I’d miss all of this way too much.”

You giggled, swatting at his hands. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smirked. “Maybe. But I’m serious. I don’t want you changing for me.” He poked your stomach teasingly. “This is my personal stress ball. What would I do without it?”

You rolled your eyes, but warmth spread through your chest. “You’re just obsessed with my fluff.”

“Damn right, I am.” He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips before whispering, “Now, let’s go lift some weights. Not to be smaller, but to be stronger.”

You smiled, lacing your fingers with his. “Okay, coach. But I expect a post-workout snack after this.”

Sunghoon chuckled, pulling you toward the weights. “Babe, you already know we’re stopping for food after. That’s the best part.”

Boyfriend Rates My Outfits

"Hey guys! Today, I’ve roped Sunghoon into another fashion vlog, and this time, he’s going to rate my outfits! Let’s see if he actually knows fashion or if he’s just here to simp."

Sunghoon, lying comfortably on your bed in a hoodie and joggers, smirks at the camera. “First of all, I always simp. Second of all, I have great fashion sense. I am fully qualified for this.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You wear the same black hoodie every day.”

“And I look good doing it,” he shoots back.

You sigh dramatically. “Alright, let’s get started. Try not to be too biased.”

Outfit #1: Casual Day Out (Oversized sweater, leggings, and sneakers)

You step out in a cozy but stylish oversized cream sweater, paired with high-waisted black leggings and chunky sneakers.

Sunghoon tilts his head, taking in the look. “Okay, okay. This is very ‘I just woke up but I still look effortlessly cute.’”

You spin around. “It’s comfy, right? Good for running errands and getting coffee.”

He nods approvingly. “I like it. Bonus points because it means I get to steal your sweater later.”

You gasp. “Excuse me, you have your own hoodies!”

“Yes, but yours smell like you.” He grins shamelessly.

Rating: 9/10 (Comfy, cute, and stealable.)

Outfit #2: Date Night Chic (Fitted dress, heels, minimal jewelry)

The moment you step out in a sleek, form-fitting dress, Sunghoon’s entire demeanor changes. He sits up straight, running a hand through his hair as if preparing himself.

“Uh… wow.” His gaze slowly travels from your heels to your face. “Okay, hold on. I need a closer look.”

You smirk, giving a slow twirl. “So? Thoughts?”

He exhales dramatically. “First of all, who gave you permission to look this good? Second, I need to escort you everywhere when you wear this, because there is no way I’m letting other guys stare at you.”

You roll your eyes. “Relax, gym boy. It’s just a dress.”

“Just a dress?” He shakes his head. “No. This is a ‘Sunghoon-forgets-how-to-breathe’ dress.”

Rating: 11/10 (Too dangerous. Needs a security detail.)

Outfit #3: Cozy Lounge Fit (Matching pajama set, fluffy socks, messy bun)

You walk out in a matching pajama set—soft, pastel, and incredibly cozy. Sunghoon’s eyes immediately soften.

“Oh, this. This is my favorite.”

You giggle. “You haven’t even rated it yet.”

He shrugs, already reaching out. “I don’t need to. This means you’re comfy and I love you”

You laugh as he pulls you onto the bed beside him, arms snugly wrapping around your waist. “Sunghoon, I still have outfits left to show!”

He buries his face against your shoulder. “Don’t care. This one wins. You’re soft, warm, and huggable. End of vlog.”

You playfully nudge him away. “You are the worst fashion judge ever.”

He smirks, tilting his head. “Yet you keep asking for my opinion.”

Rating: 100/10 (The ultimate cuddle outfit.)

Outfit #4: Streetwear Cool (Oversized graphic tee, biker shorts, sneakers, bucket hat)

After prying yourself from Sunghoon’s grip, you emerge in a streetwear-inspired outfit, the oversized tee slightly tucked into your biker shorts.

Sunghoon leans back, nodding thoughtfully. “Alright, alright. This is giving ‘cool girlfriend who listens to R&B and steals my hoodies.’”

You adjust your bucket hat. “Would you say I look like the type to break hearts?”

He chuckles. “Nah. More like the type to break into a dance battle at any moment.”

You pretend to take offense. “Rude!”

Rating: 8.5/10 (Effortlessly cool but lacks ‘hug factor.’)

Outfit #5: Cottagecore Princess (Flowy floral dress, sandals, straw bag)

As soon as you step out in the light, dreamy dress, Sunghoon's jaw slightly drops.

“Okay. Wow.”

You twirl, letting the skirt flutter. “Too much?”

“Too much?” He shakes his head. “You look like you just walked out of a fairytale.”

You smile. “It’s giving ‘let’s go on a picnic and fall in love.’”

He grins. “Yeah, except I already fell for you. But I would take you on a picnic in this. We could have sandwiches, strawberries, and—” He pauses, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Would I have to wear a matching floral shirt?”

You gasp. “Obviously.”

He groans, but his smile betrays him. “Fine. Only because you look like an actual princess right now.”

Rating: 10/10 (Would take you on a picnic immediately.)

Final Thoughts

Sunghoon stretches as you sit beside him, reviewing the outfits. “Okay, conclusion: you’re cute in everything, but I’m biased toward anything comfy because that means I get to hug you.”

You roll your eyes. “So basically, if I dress like a marshmallow, I win?”

“Exactly.” He pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around your waist. “But the truth is, no matter what you wear, I’m always gonna be obsessed with you.”

Your cheeks heat up. “Sunghoon…”

He smirks. “What? Just stating facts.”

As you let out a shy giggle, he nudges your camera. “Alright, end the vlog so I can properly appreciate my cute girlfriend.”

Laughing, you wave at the camera. “Okay guys, that’s a wrap! Thanks for watching, and let me know which outfit was your favorite! Byeee!”

As soon as you hit stop, Sunghoon grins. “Now, about that pajama set…”

You squeal as he pulls you back into bed, the sound of his laughter filling the room.

©️tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

permanent taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv @rissierjrie

[clarkeysbedchem]

heyyyy!! idk if you’ve done this yet w another character, but i was thinking maybe some buck x reader where buck is sick and tries to put on a brave face but reader takes care of him and it’s fluffy and sweet. thank youuuu!! <3

take care of you

evan buckley x fem reader

summary: buck is sick and you take care of him

a/n: this is my first 911 fic, so i do hope i’ve done it justice and i hope you enjoy it

masterlist | main masterlist

Buck has never been great at admitting when he’s was less than okay.

He has always been the type to brush off injuries, ignore fevers, and claim that he was fine. You always knew better.

So, when he walked into the firehouse with his shoulders hunched over and movements sluggish, like every step was an effort. You knew instantly that something was wrong. He clung to his hoodie pulling tight around him like a shield hiding the shivers racking through his body.

He nodded faintly at you as he walked in, his eyes rimmed with red, and skin void of colour beneath an unnatural flush.

You stood by your locker eyeing him suspicious. His hair was tousled like he hadn’t attempted to do it for the day, and the sleeves of his hoodie were pulled low over his hands. There was no bounding entrance, no joke cracked, no clapping Chim on the back. Just a quiet nod as he beelined for his locker.

“Hey, Buck,” you greeted softly, eyes lingering on the slight wobble in his step.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice hoarse and strained.

You arched a brow, watching him a moment longer. You saw it. The slight sway as he tied his boots, the subtle wince as he straightens up. You decided it was your job to keep an eye on him from that moment.

The morning passed by in a blur of routine: gear checks, equipment cleaning, reports to file. Buck moved through it all like a shadow. He hadn’t made one snarky comment, there was no bite back at Chim’s heckling, and no laughter when Eddie made a horrific joke.

The only time you saw a shift in his frown was when he’d because he caught you watching him, but it never reached his eyes.

You had caught him leaning against the engine more than once, eyes fluttering shut for just a second too long. When Eddie asked him to help hoist a ladder, Buck grunted something and complied, but you noticed how he winced, how his legs shook when he thought no one was looking.

He was trying so hard to pretend he was fine.

And maybe no one else seemed to notice that he wasn’t except you.

Then a call came in just after noon.

A non-emergency call thank God. It was a sweet elderly woman down in the suburbs whose cat had climbed onto the roof and decided that is where it would remain. No danger. Just a chance to help, reassure, and get some fresh air.

You arrived on scene with Hen and Eddie, and while they dealt with the ladder setup and calming the frantic homeowner, you scanned the street for Buck.

You found him beside the truck, half hidden in its shade. He was gripping the side of the engine with whitening knuckles, and his other hand pressed flat against his lower back like he was steadying himself. Sweat beaded on his forehead, soaking into the neck of his turnout gear, and when his eyes closed, he swayed slightly.

“Buck,” you said hesitantly as you approached, rummaging in your pocket. He startled slightly, eyes glassy.

“I’m good,” he rasped, “I just need a sec.”

“Uh-huh.” You held out a bottle of water and a protein bar, “Drink. Eat. Then sit.”

He looked at you like you were offering him gold, not snacks, “You’re a lifesaver,” he mumbled, uncapping the bottle with trembling fingers.

“Just don’t make me carry you back to the truck,” you teased gently.

He laughed for the first time all day, “Could be fun.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hand lingered on his.

The rest of the day went pretty uneventful. The team had returned back to the station, and went into their post-call clean-up, before settling into the calm between calls.

You had spent most of your down time pretending not to look at Buck, and failing miserably. He tried to carry on like usual, but he was fading fast. After lunch, you noticed he hadn’t touched his food, which was very unlike him considering his love for Bobby’s cooking, and instead just pushed it around with a fork before disappearing onto the sofa.

You waited for the rest of the crew to disappear back downstairs before joining him.

Sure enough, you found him on the sofa curled tightly under one of the many blankets you had left in the firehouse. His hoodie had scrunched around his neck, his boots were still on, and one of his arms draped over his eyes. His breathing was slow, congested, and soft.

You smiled crouching beside him and gently shaking his arm, “Hey, Buck,” you said softly.

He groaned and blinked up at you, “What time is it?”

“Time for you to go home.”

“I’m fine,” he murmured, already trying to sit up.

You stood quickly, hands out ready to steady him. He got to his feet and immediately swayed, blinking rapidly like the room was spinning.

“Okay,” he mumbled, grabbing onto your out stretched hands, “Maybe not one hundred percent.”

“That’s what I thought.” You nodded, snaking an arm around his waist letting him lean against you as you guided him downstairs and to the lockers.

You flagged Bobby with a small smile, “I’m gonna take Buck home,” you informed simply, trying to ignore the knowing smirk that played on your Captains face.

“Good. And maybe knock some sense into him while you’re at it.”

“Try not to burn the place down while we’re gone.”

Eddie followed behind a sluggish Buck with a raised eyebrow, “Wait, you’re taking him home?”

Hen looked between the two of you, then back at Chimney, “They’re seriously still not together?”

“I’m starting to think they’re doing it just to mess with us,” Chimney muttered.

“Dumbasses,” Hen sighed fondly.

You pretend not to hear them as a soft smile played on your lips, and you guided Buck to your car.

The warmth of Buck’s apartment wrapped around you the moment you stepped through the door, the dim light a stark contrast from the station and the faint scent of cedar wood lingered through the air. You guided Buck up to his room pushing him to sit on the bed despite his half-hearted grumbles of protest.

You stood between his legs tapping his biceps gently, he lifted them with a wince letting you pull the sweat soaked hoodie off his warm body. The tips of your fingers skimming over his skin making his shiver instinctively.

“You do know I’m not dying, right?” He mumbled sleepily, rubbing his sore eyes before peering up at you.

“Didn’t say you were,” you said, turning away from him to toss the hoodie in the hamper, “But you’re definitely out of the count tomorrow.”

He collapsed back onto bed with a dramatic sigh, “You’re bossy when you’re concerned.”

You pulled the duvet over him, then leaned down, “You like it.”

His smile was small, sleepy, “A little.”

You kissed his temple, soft enough that it barely even registered in the moment, and padded downstairs to the kitchen.

When you were younger, your mother had always made the same soup when you were sick. Sometimes you wished you’d get sick just to have some, and you carried on that tradition when you got older. Garlic, ginger, rice, chicken and carrots. A dish that was comforting, nostalgic, and medicinal all in one.

The apartment filled with the gentle bubbling of the pot and the scent of broth and herbs. You hummed quietly as you worked, feeling oddly at home in the situation. When the soup was ready, you ladled a generous portion into a bowl, and you poured the rest into a container labelling it with the date and slid it into his fridge with a note stuck to the lid: reheat this. Or I will come do it for you.

You walked up the stairs carefully, the warmth of the bowl warming your hands and when you spotted Buck it warmed your heart all the same. You found him exactly where you left him, curled on his side, chest rising and falling steadily.

You placed the soup on the nightstand, cautious not to wake him, then leaned over, brushing a few curls back from his forehead.

His skin was still burning against your touch.

You bent down and pressed a soft kiss to his damp temple, “Goodnight, Buck.”

You turned to go but was stopped by the feeling of fingers wrapping weakly around your wrist.

“Can you stay?” he mumbled, barely audible, “Just for a little longer.”

You looked at him, at his flushed cheeks and pleading eyes, and your heart splintered a little.

“Yeah,” you whispered, “Of course.”

You toed off your shoes, and shimmied out of your jeans, before climbing into the bed beside him. He immediately shifted closer, curling into your side, his nose tucked against your shoulder, breath warm against your collarbone.

Your fingers found the curls at the crown of his head twirling them softly, feeling him relax further into you with every minute.

“Good night, Buck.” you whispered again, letting your own eyes drift shut.

taglist: @sdmnpact @triplefrontierbabe

[jakesaverse]

LOVE IN THE LITTLE THINGS | SUNGHOON

sunghoon x reader

synopsis: you and sunghoon agreed to skip Valentine’s Day this year, but neither could resist showing your love in small, meaningful ways.

word count: 831

author notes: I know Valentine’s Day isn’t here yet, but here’s a special treat for you all! Hope you enjoy it!

————————————————————————————-

The cold February air follows you as you make your way home, the weight of exhaustion settling deep in your bones. Work had been long, draining, and all you could think about was curling up in bed with Sunghoon, feeling the warmth of his embrace chase away the day’s stress.

But as tired as you are, you can’t help but smile down at the small paper bag in your hands. Inside sits a heart-shaped donut, freshly bought from the little bakery next to your job. It’s nothing extravagant, but it means something.

You and Sunghoon had agreed to skip Valentine’s this year. Money was tight, and neither of you could afford fancy gifts or elaborate plans. It made sense, and yet… you couldn’t resist. Sunghoon had been your rock for the past three years, the person who made every tough day a little easier, every small moment feel like something worth cherishing. Even if it was just a simple donut, you wanted to do something for him.

With that thought in mind, you finally reach your apartment, unlocking the door with a familiar click. But as you step inside, you freeze.

The usually dim space is glowing with soft, golden light. Fairy lights are draped across the walls, casting a warm hue over the small living room. Tiny candles flicker on the coffee table, their gentle flames illuminating an array of snacks—your favorite chips, a neatly arranged stack of chocolate bars, and even a steaming cup of instant ramen.

And in the middle of it all stands Sunghoon.

He looks almost shy, his hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants, lips curling into that familiar, boyish smile that never fails to make your heart stutter.

“I…” You struggle to find the words, your eyes flickering between him and the cozy setup he’s created. “Sunghoon, what is all this?”

He takes a step toward you, eyes filled with nothing but warmth. “I know we agreed not to do anything this year,” he says softly, “but how could I not?”

Your heart swells at his words. Sunghoon has never been the type for grand gestures or overly dramatic declarations of love, but he doesn’t need to be. His love is quiet, steady—woven into the little things, like making sure your favorite snacks are always stocked or holding you close when the world feels too heavy.

A small laugh escapes you, shaking your head as you step forward. “You’re unbelievable.”

He chuckles, tilting his head. “I get that a lot.”

Without another word, you reach into your bag and pull out the heart-shaped donut, holding it up between you. “Looks like I’m not the only one who doesn’t know how to listen.”

His eyes flicker to the donut, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Unbelievable,” he teases, mimicking your earlier tone. “We’re both terrible at following rules.”

You let out a soft laugh before he pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in the kind of hug that makes the rest of the world fade away. He smells like home—like fresh laundry and the faintest hint of the cologne you got him last year.

His arms tighten around you, like he never wants to let go. And for a while, neither of you do.

Then, he slowly pulls back, his hands cupping your face with gentle familiarity. His thumbs brush over your cheeks as he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It’s slow, unhurried—like he’s savoring the moment, like you’re the only thing that matters.

When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours and whispers, “Happy Valentine’s to my favorite girl.”

You raise an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Favorite girl?”

Sunghoon scoffs, shaking his head as he lets out a quiet laugh. “My only girl.”

“That’s more like it.”

He grins, stealing another quick kiss before tugging you toward the couch. “Come on, I got all your favorites. And yes, before you ask, I left the last chocolate bar for you because I’m obviously the best boyfriend ever.”

Your jaw drops in playful disbelief. “No way. The last chocolate bar? You must really love me.”

Sunghoon smirks, stretching his arms over the back of the couch. “Obviously.”

You roll your eyes but can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips as you settle in beside him. The two of you spend the night exactly like this—sharing snacks, making dumb jokes, and laughing so hard your stomach hurts.

Despite your tiny apartment, despite the lack of extravagant gifts, despite the promise to skip Valentine’s—this moment, with him, is perfect.

Because at the end of the day, love isn’t about expensive gifts or grand gestures. It’s about Sunghoon saving you the last chocolate bar. It’s about you surprising him with a simple heart-shaped donut.

It’s about the way he holds you close, whispering, “I love you,” like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

And as you rest your head against his shoulder, you realize—this is more than enough.

[hanasnx]

hi indy, ily 🖤

if it piques your interest, may i humbly request your thoughts on a jealous j'onn j'onzz? i was so excited to see him on your list. maybe oliver or barry got a little too close for comfort, did something thats innocent by human standards but maybe is considered intimate for martians, idk about the setup i just want that sexy green alien to ravish me and show his possessive side 😫

i've tried my hand at some martian manhunter smut if you want more inspo, but I think the world needs more of your version. no one does it like you. that one post you did of him forever ago still lives rent free in my head. i reread it more often than im comfortable admitting.

xoxo sid

ps: sorry if this shows up twice, the first time I submitted it it said it failed

MINORS DNI 18+

NOTES: DC is for December Event! — request DC characters.

You don’t know what you’re doing—honest. It just so happened that your lover J’ONN J’ONZZ was busy with his responsibilities, and they were taking a little longer than expected. So you hang around, make some small talk. Barry Allen had grown pretty fond of your face on the Watchtower, going as far as to keep you company next to the coffee machine while you wait. “Two sugars, right?” he asks, stirring the warm caffeine in the paper cup. You nod, and thank him when he hands it to you.

He was debriefing you on his latest successful mission when another friendly face shows up. “Here you go, champ.” Oliver Queen tosses up a breakfast bar, and out of muscle memory you reach to snatch it. “Can’t have coffee on an empty stomach.” he says, but you know he couldn’t care less, he was just trying to unload these nasty League brand protein bars on you.

“Thanks, Ollie, always lookin’ out for me.” you quip, and when you spot Barry eyeing up the bar, you offer it to him. His super-metabolism is no secret. While he tears into it, Oliver rests his tailbone against the table next to you, crossing his arms across his broad chest.

“You waitin’ up for the Jolly Green Giant again?” he inquires, glancing down and subtly scanning your figure. You notice how close he is to you.

“Yeah, J’onn just wanted to finish something up. Barry’s been taking good care of me though.” you explain, looking to Barry before you take a sip of the coffee he made for you.

Barry, with a cheek of granola, smacks it to the side and responds to the conversation, muffled by a full mouth, “I was just tellin’ her about that thing with Mirror Master, you were there for that, weren’t you?” There’s a discrete tone to his voice you can’t deduce, narrowing your eyes as you watch him enclose on your space. His gloved hand rests against the table next to your hip, and he inclines toward you and Oliver. Suddenly, things are a little hotter.

“Well, who do you think took him down? You were too busy looking at your reflection.” Oliver jokes, but there’s more of that underlying passive aggression, and your brows furrow as you switch your attention to him. You’re not really sure why your two friends are talking like this, as if they’re in a fight.

“Excuse me, guys—“ you begin, toeing out of their way while they speak over you. A voice alerts all three of you, snapping up to J’onn.

“My love.” he greets. “You waited on me.” The statement is tight-lipped—more so than usual for your J’onn. It piles on your confusion, and you step out from the two men.

“Of course I did.” you tell him, and muster a smile, approaching him. Only then do you notice how his hands hide behind the cascade of his cape, and how they’re clenched into fists.

It’s not until you’re able to retreat to privacy in his quarters do you understand what went on, and it takes the coaxing of intertwined bodies to get him to open up.

“I told you that I would only be a short while. Could you not entertain yourself with better things?” he asks, planting a heated kiss under your ear as he rocks into you. Your legs folded up on either side of him, clutching onto his neck, you can feel the reverb of his voice against your chest.

“What?” you gasp. Hands slide up your thighs to meet the crooks of your knees, hooking the webs of his thumbs to fold you over yourself as he raises himself. The new angle has your eyes fluttering and rolling into the back of your head, biting your lip to ground yourself. His ribbed cock strokes the roof of your insides, and they pulse around him in response.

“You are being coy. Is this one of your games I don’t understand?” he wonders aloud, husky and curious. “Two men duel for you, in front of you, and you don’t address it.”

“‘Duel?’” you parrot dumbly, breaking you out of your lust-driven trance for a second before you fall limp again as soon as his tip brushes that spongy spot inside you. “J’onn, what is this about? Is this really the… best time for it?” you whisper, your hands seeking out his to overlay them for some sense of closeness.

His grip on you tightens, and he alters his pace. It’s stronger, more purposeful, and you hiss. “They flaunt their achievements,” he speaks through gritted teeth, “they offer you acts of kindness, and when I enter, you act as though you’ve been caught. Well, I earned you, and I prove it now.”

The walls of his quarters in the Watchtower are not sound-proof, and it seems as though this is the first time this reserved Martian is grateful for that.

[emakataken]

Part 5

This is pre-canon, slow-burn AU, Buck arrives at Station 118, ruled by Captain Gerrard. Tommy/Buck/Sal.

Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4

The locker room smelled like deodorant and cologne. Buck moved slow, sore in places he hadn’t been the day before. A long shift and eight hours of overtime would do that to you. So would crawling through a collapsed stairwell on less than four hours of sleep.

He was dressed, dragging his duffel out of the locker, when Chim clapped him lightly on the back.

“Good work, Probie.”

Buck blinked, caught a little off guard. “Thanks.”

Chim nodded toward the hallway. “We’re hitting up Sonny’s. Lunch and a beer, maybe shoot the shit before crashing. You in?”

It took Buck half a second too long to answer. He hesitated, shifting his weight like he wasn’t used to being invited. “Nah, I got a VA thing. Rain check?”

Tommy looked over from the sinks, brow raised. "Everything good?"

Buck offered a crooked grin. “Yeah-yeah. You guys have fun. See you Friday.”

He was gone before anyone could push. The door swung shut behind him with a soft thunk.

Chim watched it for a second, brow furrowed. “He always dodge like that?”

Tommy didn’t look up. Just reached for a towel and muttered, “We ain’t really ever asked before.”

The bar was quiet, the kind of place that didn’t need to fake atmosphere. Dim lights cracked vinyl booths, and a jukebox that hadn’t been touched since 2009. The four of them, Tommy, Sal, Chim, and Cobb, sat hunched around a corner table, shoulders slumped, boots scuffed, and uniforms swapped for jeans and sweatshirts. A game played on mute above the bar.

Their beers sat sweating beside plates of half-eaten burgers and fries.

Tommy leaned back in his chair, one boot hooked around Sal’s under the table, eyes half-lidded. Sal perched beside him, his forearms resting on the edge of the table. Chim was halfway through a story when Eli cut in, voice still rough from the dust they hadn’t fully coughed out.

“I’m telling you, Gerrard’s got it out for the kid.”

No one disagreed.

Tommy took a long sip of his beer before speaking. “He yanked the training wheels three weeks early.”

Chim swirled the last bit of foam in his glass. “Technically he was cleared.”

“Technically,” Sal echoed, dry. “But let’s not pretend it isn’t a setup. He wants him to fail.”

Eli snorted, slumping deeper into his seat. “It’s not that Buck’s a threat,” he said. “It’s that in ten years, that kid’s gonna be a Captain. Sooner if someone doesn’t kill him first. He’s the cleanest, smoothest damn probie I’ve ever seen. No offense to you three.”

Chim raised his hands. “None taken. I was a disaster my first year.”

Tommy smirked. “Still are.”

“The kid’s sharp. Doesn’t play politics, doesn’t kiss ass. Just does the job. And that kind of competence? That’s a threat to a guy who’s been coasting on rank and ego for a decade.” Sal agreed with Eli.

Eli paused, took a slow breath. “Chimney, your probational year? That was rough, old-school prejudice. And yeah, we played into it.” His eyes flicked toward Chim. “Sorry, man. Friendships in the firehouse are earned, we all know why.”

He looked down at his beer bottle. “And Wilson? I’ll be the first to admit, I doubted her. Not because of her skills. But because she was a woman. That’s on me, because she’s a damn good firefighter.”

That earned a tired chuckle, but Eli wasn’t done. “Seriously. The way he reads a scene? The way he moves? That’s not first-year stuff. That’s field experience. And not the kind they teach in the academy.”

Sal took another bite of his burger. “Yeah, well. Gerrard doesn’t like polish unless it comes from his reflection.”

Chimney let out a bark of laughter but the table fell quiet. Then Eli leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You ever think about filing something?”

Tommy glanced at Sal, reading the set of his jaw, weighing whether he trusted the table enough to share.

Chim sat up a little. “About Gerrard?”

Eli nodded. “The way he treats Buck, it’s not just hazing anymore. It’s a pattern. And it’s getting worse.”

Tommy picked at his beer bottled. “Sal started filing again, after Buckley’s first shift.”

Sal glanced up, his knee brushing Tommy’s. “Cap was unnecessarily harsh, and the comments towards his service, I couldn’t let them go.”

Eli’s brow rose. “So what, you filed an official complaint?”

“I’ve submitted at least four since Buckley joined the house four months ago, one with Chimney, three with Hen.” Sal clarified.

“I filled mine last week,” Tommy said. “Attached recordings from the outlet mall debrief.”

Chim exhaled, running a hand over his mouth. “Okay… cards on the table, I’ve filed, twice. Once with Hen. The other when McDaniel and Gerrard double-teamed her and Buck after the drill set a few weeks ago. Still doesn’t feel like enough.”

Sal gave him a small nod acknowledgment.

“Hell,” Eli muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Maybe it’s time I added one. Just feels like the longer we wait, the more we’re letting it happen.”

Tommy’s gaze was steady now. “Then let’s not wait.”

Sal nodded, eyes darting around the room before he spoke low and firm, “It only takes one to land on the right desk. And if someone starts digging, there’s already a stack waiting.”

Eli hesitated, then asked what they were all thinking. “Are you doing it because you’re gunning for Captain?”

Sal didn’t flinch. He leaned forward, palms flat on the table. “When I filed my first few report about Hen eighteen months ago? Yeah. I won’t lie. The pay bump would’ve been nice.”

Tommy glanced over, but Sal’s eyes stayed locked on Eli. “But now?” His voice dropped, certain. “We just need Gerrard gone.”

Chim set his glass down with a quiet thunk.

They didn’t linger after the tab was paid. The parking lot was mostly empty, as one would expect for a Tuesday afternoon. Tommy unlocked the truck and slid into the passenger seat.

Sal was quiet for a few blocks, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping absently against his thigh. The hum of the radio filled the silence and occasionally the click of a turn signal.

Tommy leaned his head against the window, watching the houses past in a blur. “I never thought Cobb.”

Sal didn’t look over. “Yeah, but him and Howie, they’ve gotten close. Especially now that Chim’s a paramedic.”

Tommy nodded slowly. “Think he’ll really file?”

“If he’s talking about it, he’s already got it written out, just needed the encouragement hit send,” Sal said. “Cobb doesn’t bluff.”

Sal turned onto a quieter stretch of road, street lined with trees. Tommy didn’t press.

Sal sighed, eyes fixed ahead. “After the outlet mall fire Buckley asked me who he’s supposed to listen to.”

Tommy looked over. “What do you mean?”

Sal’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Waited in the locker room, until it was him and I. Kid looked like hell. Soot everywhere. And he said…” Sal’s voice dropped, rough, “‘Someone’s gonna get me killed.’”

Tommy stayed quiet.

“He told me he’s the probie. So he’s supposed to shut up and follow orders. But the orders contradict each other. Me, Cohen, Gerrard. And all he wants is to do the job, needs the job. It’s eating him alive.”

Sal glanced over. “I told him to listen to me. Then you. Then Chim. Then Hen. In that order.”

Tommy’s jaw ticked. “Gerrard’s not gonna like that when he finds out.”

“I don’t care, Tom.” Sal’s voice was steel. “I told him to follow the orders that keep people alive. If that gets him fired, fine. Better that than dead.” Sal parked in front of their duplex but didn’t move to get out. “He didn’t argue. Didn’t even flinch. Just… nodded.”

Tommy sat with that for a moment before reaching over and resting his hand over Sal’s on the gearshift. “C’mon, let’s go to bed.”

The front door shut with a soft click behind them. Their shoes came off. Keys in the bowl. The house was cool, Sal’s eyes swept over the house making sure everything was still in place.

He tugged off his hoodie over his head and tossed it across the back of a chair. Neither of them spoke as they moved through the motions of getting ready for bed after a long shift.

The blackout curtains in their bedroom were already drawn, leaving the room nice and dark. 

Tommy peeled off his jeans and t-shirt, tossing them into the hamper before pulling on a pair of sweats. Sal was slower, rubbing his shoulder and popping a couple of Advil, then unbuttoning his pants, letting them fall to the floor and collapsing backward onto the bed with a grunt. The mattress gave a low creak under his weight.

Tommy dropped beside him,the faint scent of vanilla cotton from their air freshener curling up around them. Their shoulders touched. Legs stretched out. Their breath synced without trying. The comfort of being home sinking as they laid against cool sheets, familiar quiet, the hum of the box fan near the window, the faint twinge of sweat neither bothered washing off.

Sal rolled slightly, one arm draping across Tommy’s stomach as he exhaled. Tommy’s hand found his hair and threaded through, fingertips gently massaging his scalp. Sal let out a low, contented sound that barely passed for a sigh.

“Gerrard’s not gonna go easy,” Tommy murmured, his voice as soft as the dark.

“I don’t expect him to,” Sal replied, already half-asleep. His words slurred with fatigue as Tommy kept scratching gently at his head.

Tommy turned his head, pressed a kiss to Sal’s temple. His lips brushed sweat-damp skin and stayed there a beat longer than necessary. “We’ve got him outnumbered. Any day now.”

Sal didn’t respond, just nudged himself closer, burrowing into the crook of Tommy’s neck with a breath that smelled faintly of mint and burger, and let the exhaustion pull him under.

Part 6.A

[resart]

The Inconspicuous Writing Gem: Daeran’s Look-alike Contest Breakdown

The Dance of Masks brought the long-anticipated last hurrah to the Knight Commander’s story. Although it was announced that the DLC would focus on the companions, I wasn’t holding my breath for substantial content that would actually enrich the characters’ plots. The game is already massive and has a ton of variables, so expecting the writers to continue storylines that can have multiple outcomes would be unreasonable. But one scene far exceeded my expectations and set the bar high for the rest of the expansion, rendering me more critical about some of its elements than I would normally be. The event in question may not appear as much, but the true artistry in writing stories driven by the player’s choice fully reveals itself in what we don’t see on the surface. Daeran’s look-alike contest varies greatly, depending on how his personal quest was resolved, and, therefore, serves as a semi-epilogue to his arc. I wanted to post an analysis of his character’s progression for quite some time, and this send-off is a fitting opportunity to delve into this matter. I’ll break down the differences in the new scene as well as in a few others and share my overall thoughts on what this addition brings to the table. Brace yourself because it’s going to be long.

I'll start with a quick reminder of what Daeran’s questline outcomes are, because I'm going to reference them a lot:

Good, in which he’s openly grateful to the Knight Commander despite having to face the tribunal, and Liotr, noticing their bond, intervenes so the Inquisition doesn't lock him up;

Lobotomy, in which Daeran reluctantly accepts his predicament of having to face the trial, Liotr doesn't support him and after the crusade, the Count is sent to the asylum and lobotomized;

HappyEvil, in which the Commander kills Liotr to secure Daeran’s freedom;

ArchEvil, in which Daeran doesn't have any trust in the Commander, feels deserted and murders Liotr to avoid the trial.

At first glance, there's nothing profound about Daeran’s festival quest — it fits his image to indulge in the vain act of self-celebration by choosing the most accurate imitation of himself. However, this simple setup proves itself clever when we realize that, by observing the contestants, he sees himself in a distorting mirror. Coincidentally, each participant appears to represent a different facet of the Count’s character. Therefore, his reactions to them speak volumes of the self-image and mindset he developed during the crusade in each scenario.

Among the doubles, we have an aasimar who mimics Daeran's arrogance and cruelty, and constantly interrupts other participants' speeches with mocking remarks.

A woman who recreates Daeran's sophisticated bon vivant persona.

A drunkard who paints Daeran as a worthless and utterly unapologetic rake.

And finally, an innocent boy who keeps staring at Daeran with admiration and portrays him as a virtuous hero of the crusade.

After the presentation of the contestants is over, Daeran asks the Commander’s opinion. Again, his responses to their verdict vary in each case (unless they choose the cat), but the difference in how he reacts to being compared to the little boy is the most telling.

No matter what the protagonist suggests, the winner of the contest is fixed for each of the outcomes. If the Commander failed to earn Daeran's trust and he murdered Liotr himself, the conceited aasimar is declared the winner.

If the Commander killed Liotr, the Count awards the lady.

If the quest was resolved peacefully (either Good or Lobotomy), Daeran chooses the boy and has a heartwarming exchange with him.

This variety of possible scenarios and the way they are handled encapsulate why I consider Daeran's story so intricately woven and enjoyable to analyze. He's an incredibly flexible and dynamic character whose potential endings range from becoming a saint to a homicidal maniac. But what makes this duality and everything that comes in between so engaging is that all these vastly contradictory conclusions are equally organic and convincing, given his rich characterization and the player’s choices. The subtle yet significant divergences in the narrative paths maintain the integrity of his personality and prevent his evolution from seeming far-fetched while efficiently showcasing his growth or regression.

Regretfully, this attention to detail is missing from the other new scenes, which don't convey a similar sense of progression and can come off as somewhat disconnected from the rest of the playthrough. The rendezvous, for example, avoids references to how the player concluded Daeran's romance and quest. Given these plotlines' non-linearity, it's an understandable approach, but it prevents the scene from exploring deeper themes and hitting more emotional notes. What's particularly detrimental to the its overall intensity is the absence of exclusive dialogue for the True Love outcome. Ironically, it's the two worst endings that get unique and surprisingly heartfelt lines.

The difference is insignificant, however, because the conversation always plays out the same. All in all, the segment is nice and leaves a lot to the imagination, but only partially exploits its potential. Meanwhile, the festival mini-quest embraces the aforementioned strengths of the storyline's writing, giving every iteration of Daeran distinct dialogues that clearly demonstrate the impact the crusade and acquaintance with the Commander had on him.

I won't examine every dialogue branch in detail but will mainly focus on the Good scenario. As someone who likes this ending the best and even advocates the controversial writing in the final confrontation with Liotr, I always thought the narrative failed to properly sell its implied benefits. Apart from the closing conversation in the quest itself, late-game provides little reactivity to differentiate the outcomes, making it hard for the players to fully grasp the internal shift that Daeran undergoes. Comparison of said dialogue in various scenarios reveals his perspective in Good route as the least egocentric and overall most mature. Unfortunately, in an individual playthrough, these qualities can get overshadowed by the Count's dissatisfaction with the inconveniences he will eventually have to endure.

Aside from that, the effects of each resolution manifest only in Daeran's responses to one question in the romantic route and how he expressed his feelings regarding Galfrey’s death.

Even though they show evident contrast and serve as a much-needed emotional pay-off for the moral dilemma the player faced in the storyline finale, both are relatively minor, with the Queen one completely missable in most playthroughs. When combined with the similar omission of negative repercussions for Daeran’s moral condition and emotional maturity in other outcomes, it's not surprising many players believe he doesn’t ever change or that becoming better fundamentally clashes with his nature.

The discussed competition scene remedies the narrative’s deficiencies, ultimately proving this statement untrue. In the Good outcome, Daeran presents a reasonable dose of self-distance. When confronted with the drunk’s insults, he replies with humor and courtesy, which is a stark contrast to his reactions in the Evil outcomes and his past responses to criticism. Despite being hurt by the harsh judgment, he understands such a low opinion of himself is somewhat justified. The Count's mild response and his sensitivity to the suggestion that he's nothing more than an unfeeling scoundrel may even indicate that he has developed some remorse for his past actions. He also dismisses unwarranted flattery and distances himself from the brash egotism. All without falling into a spiral of gloom and self-deprecation that occurs in the Lobotomy scenario. Introspectiveness and vulnerability showcased here are a seamless continuation of the self-evaluation Daeran does in the High Trust version of his quest upon being supposedly betrayed by the Commander.

It's all the more unfortunate that the other interactions in the DLC don’t acknowledge these differences and instead return to the common denominator of all endings. As a result, the player will go from Daeran, who self-reflects and claims the aasimar presents an unfunny caricature of him, to Daeran in the tavern, who puffs himself up exactly like the guy (using even the same words) and seeks more sycophantic praise. While it's expected for him to put on an airy act and tease others, the absolute lack of self-awareness he previously exhibits in the Good route is quite jarring. Considering the complexity of the storyline as well as all sorts of limitations, such inconsistencies are inevitable (the base game already has a fair share of them) and in the end, one can easily reconcile them through their own interpretations. However, after being spoiled by a reactivity treat like the festival mini-quest, it's disappointing that the remaining dialogues lack similar nuance.

In the Good scenario, Daeran's behavior reinforces what we learn in the epilogue — that in this version, he has the most difficulty navigating through his newfound freedom and redefining himself in it. Choosing the winner of a silly contest shouldn't be hard for him, and it isn't in the Evil outcomes. There, the self-satisfied Count (who in both cases already has the blood of at least one innocent man on his hands) picks what he perceives as an idealized version of himself — be it the aestheticized depiction of his self-centredness or the unbridled and unyielding haughtiness. Noteworthily, in the Happy variant, Daeran openly flirts with the lady and, in both Evil paths, if not romanced, attempts to seduce his favored contestant. It’s peak narcissism, given the implications of the scene. In the peaceful outcomes, especially the Good one, the ordeal is a series of unpleasant self-reflections that even causes him to become overwhelmed by sorrow at one point. In the end, Daeran’s choice stems not from an ulterior motive or a desire to boost his ego but from genuine fondness for the boy. The youngster's belief in the Count’s kindness and heroism reminds him of his own innocence that was prematurely and brutally snatched from him. At his core, Daeran is not a self-sufficient master of his own fate but a helpless child thrown by unfortunate circumstances into otherworldly oppression and a vicious cycle of selfishness. In the Evil routes, he successfully deludes himself into believing he’s the former, but here, he realizes he’s the latter.

We're used to seeing Daeran scoffing at saccharine narratives and lofty ideals, and in the Evil versions, he's indeed annoyed with the boy’s portrayal of him. In one of them, he even anticipates him to be disenchanted, finding the prospect amusing. In the campaign's early stages, the Count voices his dissatisfaction with being enrolled in the crusade and laments the tarnishing of his ill reputation. Any suggestions that he may be secretly vulnerable are met with biting retorts. But now, Daeran doesn't disabuse the child and isn’t even bothered by being seen as a heroic figure. There also isn’t any objection when the Commander points out the similarity between him and the boy. He’s shocked they can see through him but decides to be honest and agrees with their assessment. Daeran’s sensitivity and his tendency to be more emotionally transparent with the protagonist is, at this point, a recurring theme in the peaceful outcomes, so it’s a shame that when they later choose to compliment his vulnerable soul, he's always equally dismissive.

Daeran is perfectly aware of how damaging cruel disillusionment can be to one’s psyche. As a child, he witnessed firsthand the powerlessness of good in the face of evil, the suffering adhering to moral principles can bring, and how those who claim to be righteous can turn out to be as callous and uncaring as hardened villains. These experiences left the young Count with a pessimistic view of the world and human nature, making him adopt coping mechanisms that only deepened his melancholy and loneliness. Knowing this, he wishes to spare the boy a similar fate and plays along to preserve his innocence.

In the non-peaceful outcomes, Daeran gives the signet away as if it was an insignificant bauble. But even though we barely ever see this side of him, some dialogues indicate he’s proud of his heritage and his ancestors' role in Mendev’s history. They were valiant defenders of the kingdom, who, for generations, protected its borders from any threat. This is who the Count, as a scion of the Arendae house, was originally destined to be and who, it so happens, the boy sees in him. Perhaps his take on him makes Daeran reflect on how differently things could have turned out had it not been for his family's demise and the Other’s interference. It undoubtedly revokes memories of his roots and deceased kin, since he not only rewards the child with the ring but also educates him on its meaning and sentimental value, expressing unexpected sincerity and kindness. In the Lobotomy scenario, this gesture is particularly bittersweet — with his impeding childless death, Daeran’s lineage is going to expire, making the memento the only way to keep its memory alive.

Finally, the Good version of the scene carries a deep symbolic significance. Daeran rewards one person who doesn't focus on his superficial traits or recreates the mask he hides behind. The image the boy paints of him may not be accurate, but while the other portrayals embody what the Count turned into under the Other's influence, this one shows what he could have been if he hadn’t lost the childish naivety he now longs for. And who he, despite his own skepticism, still can or perhaps even already started to become, thanks to the good protagonist's compassion and support. Just like the Commander, the boy views him as someone better than what his predicament forced him to be. And Daeran, confronted with sincere faith in him, cannot help but answer the call.

[arenaconspiracy]

soon i am getting a new laptop that i will have to use in public, and i am thinking of doing the most arcane, malevolently set up, Doug Rattmann crazy levels, most incomprehensible Linux setup on it, so that nobody who isn't me, or atleast is not familiar enough with the specific linux utilities, can use it.

so that in the event i happen to leave the laptop unattended in public, (which i do not plan on doing, as i innately keep my backpack on me 100% of the time, so much so that multiple people have found it offputting, but in the event it do) nobody knows how to work it, or how it even works.

currently i've only a few ideas, such as - using i3wm with a fully rewritten key configuration, including having some common windows shortcuts such as alt + F4, ctrl + shift + esc, ctrl + alt + del, et cetera pull up premade messages heckling you for trying them - using only command line tools like feh, mpv, nmtui, & others for basic tasks - possibly automatically lock the session while the machine is in use if you fail to enter a password into a window, probably one it doesn't open automatically so you also need to know what fucking program to start from a terminal to enter a password you also need to know. (and possibly not have the program in the $PATH for extra evil)

LINUXPOSTERS OF TUMBLR - i call to you in a time of peril - heed my call, give me your most diabolical ideas on making an installation as hostile and arcane as you can. the machine doesn't even have to be 100% usable by myself, i'm fine with it being annoying as fuck to use if it means that it's bafflingly unusable to those around me.

no holds barred. if it's funny, or actively hostile to a user, or both, you may suggest it.

[connecting-the-stars]

But In the End, We Stay the Same

Matt, Fisk, and Frank:

Spoilers for DDBA ep 4

Matt walking through an entirely different apartment. Fisk refusing to dawn his white suit. And Frank? Frank is setup in a filthy, half-haphazardly thrown together base of operations that is a striking mirror to the first base we see him in from Netflix Daredevil season 2.

Character introductions really set the tone for where their arcs may take them. Very interesting how they have painted each of these characters this season.

Of course, I am not blind to the criticism and where the cracks show from the creative overhaul, but I already viewed the show coming in as… well different. A “new era” both due to the gap in time since we’ve seen these wonderful characters, in real life and in universe, and due to Disney’s influence. I’m not one to focus a lot on time/age but the era when DD season one premiered was a year after Captain America: Winter soldier. This was years before Endgame and the Global Pandemic, the impact of such events are felt in the fictional universe and real world. I am a true believer in rewatch value from my multiple rewatches of Netflix’s Daredevil, but I also acknowledge that there will be elements lost, left in that era of film making and studio management. The colors and the certain level of grim are noticeably absent, when you see characters fall through several floors and they cough up dust/debris. The certain spark found in much of the dialogue of season 1 really is incredibly difficult to replicate.

Despite the places where “season 4” falls short, I can absolutely appreciate the dedication of the actors and actresses, returning and new. While I am comforted and reassured by Karen’s confirmed involvement in season 2, I appreciate Kristin’s and Cherry’s performances as they bar Matt into this new… stage of his life. Of being a full time lawyer and keeping his fists mostly unstained. Fisk’s new environment is half hilarious and half ominous as ever. Watching him stumble through politics and its niceties, and his uneasy speeches are relatively unexplored in Netflix’s series, forced into throne he has to keep his best face on for, rather than crushing skulls. Compared to his handful of appearances in the public being executed in precise manner that always had an end goal, for example, provoking Matt after the murder of Ms. Cardenas. Furthermore, with Vanessa’s distance and unfamiliar distrust. I am eagerly looking forward to Fisk’s manipulation in his mayorship as well as Vanessa’s standing in her business with her ever loving husband. The side characters playing off Fisk, have been given parts that challenge Fisk into different ways, which is much appreciated as he navigates being a truly public political figure.

Matt standing dead eyed in front of his window, right after the reshoot with Foggy’s death. Man, knew something was different. Like are you not crashing out and living out of a basement rn because….? I know that he only received medical attention after the finale of Defenders because he was in a Coma, how is the King of Guilt, Self Destructive Murdock not crawling out of dumpsters again? (Crit: where is queen of sass Sister Maggie?)

But it is fascinating watching this Matt Murdock listen to a nice record player and cook his own meals and walk like he isn’t living in the Bad Ending timeline. The quiet despair washing over him every time he reaches for Foggy’s prayer card. My dread as I realize he takes a piece of Foggy with him everywhere. The idea that Matt has lost faith in Daredevil, this utter stab to the heart proof that he Failed as daredevil, that he was not enough to save his best friend. Every which way you look at Matt and Foggy’s relationship, they are each other’s person. College, first internship, first official business. Matt of course sees this as his fault, that guilt clinging to him like a bad cold. Eats him (in the words of Castle), tears him up to the point he refuses to allow himself to enter a church. The sermon mention a person’s worthiness. Point blank. The fact that he no longer lives in Hell’s Kitchen is major flag of Distress (avoiding Sister Maggie who could talk at least some sense, some kindness to him, the absence of the church he visited so often in the Netflix show). Thus, refusing consolation of faith, of worthiness to be daredevil, Matt clutches twice as hard as ever to the Judicial system. To the part of his life and faith he shared with Foggy, where they promised each other they would do good. The abrupt introduction of Cherry and Kristin apparently filling said places of Karen and Foggy by Matt’s side is jarring as much as it is telling. While Kristin is a comic book character brought into this series, the knowledge of her and connection built with her so far is minimal, when set besides how much of Karen’s development we saw in season 1 of Netflix series. Similar to Cherry’s role being a mix of Ben Uriah and “Foggy” in essence. (I say very lightly. No one will compare to our Foggy.) Cherry’s reminders to Matt of the reality of the system and praising his efforts of being a Good Lawyer, mirroring in a way to Foggy’s constant mission to ground Matt when his head is in his ass. Heather also being pulled from the comics is quite interesting as I had no thoughts of who would be Matt’s love interest, though her being wedged between Vanessa, Fisk, and possibly Muse is not a good sign for her. New apartment, new firm, new co-workers but he cannot outrun grief. It will catch him.

(I know the lack of Karen is mostly due to the overhaul, but the fact that he does not have her to rely on currently also pushes this unresolved/unaddressed grief. The one person who also endured losing Foggy)

The time-skip is certianly something I’m intrigued by. Where it plays in the current story, and the pieces of Matt and Karen’s grief that are unexplored. Wonder if it had been inserted due to the creative overhaul?

Fisk and Matt’s parallel stories this session have been done quite well. While there was a particular balance the Netflix series formed for telling both their stories, I find giving more time to Fisk’s arc strengthens how well these characters are as narrative foils of each other. Fisk arriving this season through a slow flip of the camera, setting the city on its head and picking through a meager breakfast and his tense reunion with Vanessa, while Matt ghosts around his apartment before reaching for Foggy’s prayer card to leave. Both characters are damaged, pieces of themselves lost. While I have not watched Echo, the psychological damage done to Fisk appears to have followed him into Born Again. His confidence seemed to be shaken and his lack of support from Vanessa further pushes him towards stress. Matt facing Bullseye without Karen beforehand, the brief strained conversation with Karen afterwards. While Kristin does tell the audience that Matt needs someone in his life, that he needs a win, it is clearly seen how destitute he is when Fisk announces his mayoral campaign and he sits idle as his food burns behind him. Both Fisk and Matt turning to different ways to get by, to proceed to their goals, by refusing their “darker halves.”

This refusal to indulge in a part of who they are will double the pressure, suffocating until they can no longer stand it. Matt faced with the consequences of revealing Hector’s vigilante identity and the injustice of his murder, of being forced to face the grief and righteous anger of his niece. “No one will do anything about it!” As well as his extremely emotionally intense encounter with Frank. Fisk squaring away first steps of many in political action and faced against the failure of Daniel, then pecking through yet another modest meal. That is until episode 4’s reveal. Indulging in that carb heavy and seasoning rich meal for a king, paired swimmingly with a tortured soul’s pleas. That power, that desire for absolute authority, never truly left Fisk. Most likely never will. Then Matt scaling the roof’s ladder to his pristine collection of cowls, hand already reaching for his billy club. Their darker halves never left them, refused and placated for a time, but never not in the corner waiting for them.

Frank. Haha. Frank is great, let him take a few verbal swings at the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen and he can work out more than his therapist girlfriend. Matt really is not coping, not processing. Cannot tell most people in his life everything, why he feels so responsible for the death of Foggy, for failing him. Best keep his name out of his mouth, because it’s not about him, right? Frank sitting in this grief of losing people who meant Everything to him, and recognizing that pain and stifled rage in Matt. When he retaliates, apologies and curses falling immediately afterwards, Frank does not accept it. Knows that his Darker Half is apart of him, is apart of his grief and pain. Being Daredevil, that righteousness and ruthlessness fueled him. Losing his dad to the criminal underground that got away unscathed, that injustice and lack of closure. Acting as that immovable object to villains unstoppable force. If it’s him or these innocent people behind him? Matt’s stepping to the plate everytime. Even when he attempted, he prioritized saving the victims. Frank is taking out people he deems worthy of the death penalty, Frank is “by any means necessary.” Frank’s grief, the Punisher is a part of him, of course he is going to see Matt’s grief as part of Daredevil. “You lose him. Didn’t you red? You hear him don’t you?”

Frank started out as a corpse on mission for vengeance. He got the people who took his family. He spends his efforts to end the threats permanently. Startling similar to how we first met him.

Matt and Fisk have denied themselves from fully indulging, allowing themselves to lean into their Darker Halves. However, after the events of episode 4, that is clearly going to change. I hope it does in the most explosive way possible.

All of this started from listening to Mother Mother’s - Try to Change

[eleventhhourfactor]

Heard a fellow writing homie needed help✨

Bowser- 💋

Peach- 😭

Mario- 🎧

Luigi- 👽

Yes, these are all Mario characters, but hey, I'm a sucker for that kind of angst!

The way I have three windows in a group open to do this shit…it looks ridiculous, but not the same level as Eric Barone's original desk setup.

Anyway, with this ask game in mind, let's get into these scenes! I'm gonna get a bit experimental with these, so bear with me. It'll be well worth the read.

Seriously, @creativesnek, this is the kind of start I've been waiting for. Thank you so so much for humoring me. Let's do this thing.

Bowser - Bloody Lip 💋

Things would be easier if his minions would leave him alone. It was bad enough that he'd had his ass handed to him by Red, who'd been especially fired up about the circumstances he'd walked into. It had gotten worse as they got into it, trading blow for blow across the cobblestone arena of his dungeon as Peaches, his prize, watched from above.

No. Plumber boy just had to sock him in the jaw, at just the right spot to nick himself with his own fangs. It was enough to make him seethe, and he'd already lost it at a handful of troops who'd come to check on him and discuss the casualties of his latest conquest.

"Figure it out yourselves!" he'd roared, turning them back out into the halls.

Imbeciles, all of them. It was like they wanted him to keep feeling the pain of wounds reopened. He wiped away the blood on his lower lip, wincing when the split-open scab peeled off into the smear on the back of his hand.

Someday, Mario would get what was coming to him. Bowser would make sure of it. Someday, he'd spill the so-called hero's blood for all the world to see.

Peach - Acid Tears 😭

She needed to stop crying. Whatever was afflicting her was burning itself into her cheekbones, no doubt etching permanent paths down her face where a river's worth had long since fallen. At the same time, she couldn't hold back from the corrosive spillover, which had eaten away at her silk gloves and the skin beneath as she tried (and failed) to keep her composure.

She wanted to call down to Mario, fighting ever so steadfastly, to tell him that there was more to this than they could've ever imagined. Bowser had been nothing more than a red herring in this whole ordeal; their efforts would be best conserved for later on. Her attempts to shout left her reeling in pain, stumbling back against the bars in utter frustration.

Down below, Mario and Bowser continued to fight. She knew fully well they wouldn't stop until somebody was knocked unconscious, and they were running out of time. She got to her knees and bowed low against the floor of her cage, trying not to wince as her burned skin brushed against the cool iron.

She took a breath, one that hitched in her throat, and called forth her tears one last time.

Mario - Burst Ear Drums 🎧

His ears had been ringing long before the fight. It made it hard to guess what was coming, but Mario could work with it—especially when it came to a square-off with Bowser, who was nothing if not somewhat predictable.

It all came down to timing—making his moves before the vertigo could take hold. He wasn't even looking down like when Luigi was struck with the spins; too many steps to the left would do it, so he ducked to the right whenever he had the chance. One chance would lead to another, eventually giving him an opening.

When the opportunity finally showed itself, he took it, socking Bowser right in the kisser. As the mighty dragon Koopa fell to his knees, Mario directed his momentum into one last jump, clambering up the bars for the mechanism on top. With a twist, the chain clinked around an unseen pulley, hurtling down before Mario pulled them all into a far slower descent. He climbed down when the cage settled against the cobblestone, prying open the latch as Peach rushed into his arms.

He sank to his knees, stroking her hair as she cried into his shoulder. Her tears ate through the cotton, but he paid them no mind. In his pockets lay the solution to all their problems—the first of which would be the neutralization of his Princess's acidic tears.

Once he got home, he'd sort out the rest.

Luigi - Alien Infection 👽

It hurt to be alone, but he knew it was for the best. Whatever was ailing him had forced him into bed long before Mario had set out, snaking its tendrils down the bedposts and up the walls once the door was locked.

It was getting harder to stay put, to keep himself away from others. The infection was crying out to the living things outside these walls, trying to ease Luigi's loneliness with the promise of togetherness.

Luigi was scared of what it promised, what that would entail for his friends and family. To share a mind, to be everywhere at once, even as his decaying body hung from the rafters, his growths emitting infectious spores?

No. He couldn't let this thing win. Never mind how alone he was, with no one to share the experience with. No one to sympathize with, to feel the life seeping out of him, feeding something greater than himself—

No!

So long as he could help it, he'd hold down the fort. Let the sickness ravage him, so long as he kept the kingdom safe.

One way or another, he'd be back together with everyone he knew and loved.

[elucubrare]

It’s been an absolute nightmare of a month (& it’s still not over) - we found out 4.29 that R got a new job & had to be in Virginia on 5.20, so we scrambled to a) find housing there & b) get out of our lease here (which we’d signed about a month ago), then hire movers & pack & figure out how both of us were going to get our cars there (he drove up a couple of weeks ago, I’m leaving Friday) & deal with the big stuff we couldn’t bring.

The movers came a few days ago so I’ve been essentially camping in the ruins of my living room (my current computer setup is a dining table chair at the built-in bar. It’s not good.) while trying to figure out how much of what I have left will fit in my car.

Then yesterday I hit a curb & popped a tire a few feet from the house. It’s all fine but it was vv stressful & also I found out that my brake fluid very much needed to be replaced (which I guess it’s good to do now rather than when they fail!).

But I figured out that I’m a 15-minute walk from the pool, & my socks are going well, & I’m pretty excited for my drive, & this is all a Great Adventure.

[danganronpasurvivoraskblog]

Dangancember 2024 - Danganronpa Top 24 Class Trials - Number 11: Danganronpa Another 2 Case 1 {BEST CASE FROM SDRA2}

//It's usually never a good sign for a mystery game when the best case in your entire game's run is the first one. It's truly a sign that the rest of what's to come really doesn't reach the bar that the initial case set.

//It's even more of a bad sign when on a ranking that takes into account every trial in the series...NONE of them from this particular game manage to breach the Top 10.

//Yeah, I didn't even keep this a secret, but SDRA2 hands down has the least interesting and least engaging trials and mysteries, and it's for a variety of reasons. But it's important to remember that the primary reason for why it doesn't isn't because the cases are bad.

//It's primarily because none of them succeed in reaching the heights of the original series, or the trials and themes of its prequel. Despite how much SDRA2 branches out, it's riddled with issues that really set it down.

//And unfortunately, even as the best case in the game, Case 1 still gets this high on the list not out of greatness or what it aspires to reach, but out of...decency...more than anything.

//As I said previously, despite the fact that SDRA2's final trial manages to avoid most of the issues that are common throughout the finale's of these games, it still unfortunately fell victim to them, which is what pushed it down from being the standout trial of SDRA2. And as it stands, the first trial on the twisted island still then turns out to be the overall achiever.

//The interesting thing is that the reason why A2-6 got as high as this is because of the way it handles and resolves all the stakes that the rest of SDRA2 spent a lot of time putting focus on and dwelling over. The reason why A2-1 on the other hand gets the highest is because of how well it SETS them.

//To be honest, without spoiling what Number 10 on this list is, it was quite difficult to decide which between it, and this trial would manage to breach the Top 10. It'll make more sense when we actually cover it tomorrow, but the main reason is because this trial and that one share quite a bit in common.

//When it comes to opening cases in a Danganronpa game, A2-1 manages to get this high, higher than any other trial in SDRA2, because it's the only one that successfully manages to hit all the important story beats and tones that the better opening trials of the games SHOULD have.

//And again, you will see when we get to tomorrow's analysis just how similar they are, but what clear points and aspects made it take the victory over this trial.

//Before I go into the actual case, trial, and mystery itself though, I want to talk about one major thing with this trial that raises its stakes incredibly high compared to every other opening trial in the series except maybe for V3's. We obviously all know it now, and it's a widely recognized twist.

//To this day, no other Fanganronpa has been able to top the first big plot twist of the game. I have seen some that have tried, but they ultimately have failed.

//Simply the fact that the MASTERMIND is KNOWN and is PART of the trial!

//Obviously, he's not the culprit, as easy as that might be, but the reason why this aspect of SDRA2 is so infamous is because...it deserves to be. It's an INSANE gambit, and...one that doesn't really pull off for the first few chapters, but one that MASSIVELY pays off later.

//And yes, I know that it technically happens in the prologue, but the weight of it is carried through all of the first chapter, and into the trial. What do you want me to say about Mikado's Mastermind reveal that hasn't been said already?

//Danganronpa has never been great when it comes to hinting at who could be the Mastermind behind everything. It's like the series thrives on blindsiding you but forgets that twists work best when there's some setup.

//Junko’s big gambit, where she swaps places with Mukuro and lets her sister take the fall, is honestly clever...on paper. But then she disappears from the narrative like your car keys when you're late for work. There’s nary a whisper about her until Chapter 5, and by then, it’s like the game is shouting, "Surprise!" without actually planting enough breadcrumbs.

//Imagine if there’d been subtle hints that Mukuro’s death wasn’t what it seemed, like a weird comment, a loose thread, or anything of that caliber. Then maybe, just maybe, the moment Junko reappears wouldn’t feel like a plot twist straight out of a soap opera.

//DR2’s Mastermind twist with AI Junko is a lot better executed, leveraging DR1’s already established factors and plot points, taking advantage of the virtual world setting, and cranking up the absurdity to eleven. But then Izuru pops up just completely out of nowhere for the first time in this chapter, like that one coworker who shows up only for cake on someone’s last day.

//This enigmatic Hope Cultivation Plan is suddenly crucial, and Izuru himself becomes a convoluted justification for Hajime’s Reserve Course connection to the killing game. Sure, it’s a twist, but it’s also like trying to do algebra with no setup. You can figure it out, but you’re left wondering why no one bothered to explain anything beforehand.

//I barely count Izuru as a Mastermind anyway, but I still have to acknowledge his role here. Then we get to Another 1’s Utsuro, who is…marginally better than Izuru in terms of buildup, but it still feels like someone tossed his name into the story five minutes before the reveal.

//"Oh, yeah, this guy? Totally important. He also has this busted power that we didn't bring up before. Didn’t you notice?" No, game. No, I did not.

//And then there’s Tsumugi. She’s physically present for the entire game, but emotionally? Spiritually? This girl is on vacation. The only breadcrumbs leading to her being the Mastermind are obscure references to past games that most players wouldn’t notice unless they were studying the lore like it’s for finals.

//When her true role is revealed, you don’t gasp. You laugh, because there’s no way this human equivalent of lukewarm oatmeal was orchestrating anything. Her reveal is so anticlimactic it’s like discovering the person behind the curtain is your introverted cousin who forgot to bring snacks to the family reunion.

//But do you want to know what really pisses me off about all these lackluster villain reveals?

//Hyper Danganronpa H2O exists and somehow does this better.

//HYPER! DANGANRONPA! H2O! Does this better!

//The fangan everyone loves to hate; he game universally dismissed as "meh," actually sets up its Mastermind better than the canon games.

//For some brief context, HDRH2O's mastermind is Oliver Feng, who in the end turns out to be more of a pawn for his mother and the leader of Fang, Emilia, but was an integral part to the Killing Game and keeping it running for the duration.

//If you bother to spend time with Oliver, pay attention to his dialogue, or notice his oddly specific backstory, you’ll find little nuggets that make the final reveal feel earned. Sure, it’s not Shakespeare, but compared to the canon games? It’s somehow way more impactful and emotional.

//Of course, the hands down best Mastermind reveal of the lot is Akane Taira, but we've already been over that and will go over it again when we get to the final trial of DRA. Let’s just spill the beans about Mikado for now, shall we?

//LINUJ throws tradition out the window and just reveals the Mastermind right at the beginning of the game. No buildup, no fake-outs, just outs him immediately. But he still manages to keep his game running because he displays his absolutely insane degree of power of everyone, and establishes himself as an unstoppable force, namely by killing one of the key cast members of the original game.

//Rei obviously turns out to be alive later, but it doesn't hurt the standing of the twist.

//Bold move, right? It’s like starting a murder mystery by telling everyone who the killer is, then daring them to still enjoy the ride.

//And honestly? It works. The reveal is so unexpected, it flips the entire formula on its head. Mikado’s conduct in the early chapters might not scream "evil genius", more like "eccentric nerd at a LARP convention," but the sheer audacity of the twist sets SDRA2 apart.

//Instead of waiting until Chapter 6 to reveal the mastermind and cramming all their screen time into an hour, Mikado gets to lurk around, causing drama and tension the entire game. It’s a gutsy choice, and while the rest of the game doesn’t always hit the same high notes, this opening move is one heck of a power play.

//The next point I want to make with this trial is the characters involved in it, to which the key thing first of all is the victim.

//Yuri Kagarin is one of my least favourite characters in the Another series, and...I feel like I shouldn't really need to explain what is wrong with this man. As a character, he's like an unholy amalgamation of some of Danganronpa's most controversial characters.

//He has the suaveness and degeneracy of Teruteru, the crazy psychology of Nagito, and the rampant unscrupulous misandry of Tenko, all squished together, and...let's just say that doesn't make a healthy person.

//Which...unfortunately made him quite possibly the most obvious first death in the entire series.

//Aside from the fact that the three characters I just listed die in very horrible ways, it's also because you know that he's not going to be the rival or antag character because you already have both Mikado and Syobai who had slotted into the role immediately, so the only way out for him for the foreseeable future is to be the blackened or the victim of the first chapter, of which, he turned out to be the former.

//However, I would argue that even Tenko is a much deeper character than Yuri, and that says all you need to know really. Tenko is so one-note compared to most mainline Danganronpa characters, and it's really hard to like her unless you actually look at her other traits BESIDES the rampant sexism.

//What makes Tenko so interesting is that despite her beliefs and view of the male/female dynamic, there are elements of logic to her, despite the fact that she falls more squarely on the "belief" side of V3's Logic Vs Belief dynamic. The fact that she tried to infiltrate the student council, as well as how she ultimately realized that trying to dispose of Angie wouldn't solve anything, and would just upset Himiko.

//Yuri on the other hand...is not nearly as logical, despite his very apparent intelligence. But he's still interesting, especially because his dedication to females can't necessarily be chalked up to "my mind says no, but my dick says yes."

//Yuri is not a pervert. He's just...delusional. While I don't like him, and he's probably my least favourite character in SDRA2 besides only Nikei, I still have to acknowledge that what LINUJ made him out to be was...a methodical madman of a character.

//Yuri does not simply "love women," he, and I quote, "dedicated his life to women." And even though he's around for only one chapter, he's still a character that's very important to pay attention to.

//Wow, I'm REALLY overanalysing fucking Yuri Kagarin, aren't I? I've become one of THOSE people, haven't I?

//Alright, well...fuck it, I guess...

//Yuri is the kind of character who wears his eccentricities on his sleeve, and perhaps also on a flashing neon sign above his head. From the moment he enters the scene, he makes no effort to hide his unabashed adoration for the "fairer sex," to the point where he refers to Sora, a virtual stranger, with pet names during their free time events.

//This is a man who flirts with the fervor of someone auditioning for The Bachelor, but with a peculiar chivalry that tempers his otherwise suggestive remarks. For instance, when Sora questions his motives after he invites her to his dorm, he reassures her that he would never touch a woman without her permission. It’s like he read "How to Be a Gentleman for Dummies" but skipped a few chapters.

//As for men, Yuri’s disdain for them borders on theatrical. He dismisses them as "scum," compares them to pebbles on the street, and claims their mere existence gives him headaches.

//Despite, you know, being a man himself, and not even ignoring that fact.

//You almost expect him to hiss and clutch his pearls whenever a male character enters the room. His double standard is on full display when he refuses to share information with Nikei but spills the beans to Emma without hesitation. It’s no wonder the female cast quickly grows tired of him, with Setsuka, who is typically friendly to everyone, being no exception.

//Despite his aversion to men and his questionable social skills, Yuri isn’t entirely devoid of redeeming qualities. For one, he’s surprisingly pragmatic about being kidnapped, describing himself as a "veteran" of such situations (which begs more questions than it answers). Instead of panicking, he adopts a "make the best of it" attitude, which is almost admirable.

//His long-standing dream of being remembered as a savior by a woman, revealed to be genuine thanks to Kokoro’s emotional detection, adds an oddly tragic layer to his character. He seems prepared to sacrifice himself to achieve this dream, suggesting a deep-seated willingness to place others’ well-being above his own, even if it’s rooted in a peculiar and arguably unhealthy worldview.

//And I wish that some kind of Omake could delve deeper into what made him this way. Although overall, I am glad that Yuri did die here and now so we didn't have to put up with his bullshit through the rest of the game.

//One thing that LINUJ does do that I appreciate a lot is that even when he makes some of the most dogshit or nasty human beings ever, he doesn't keep them around for more than a little while. Even Nikei, who I've said in the past I despise, is tolerable for most of the game before he goes all egomaniacal after his VOID reveal in Chapter 4.

//Speaking of VOID reveals, we will get to that in just a moment, but first, I want to quickly jump in and say that WOW this investigation and trial is GOOD!

//This is by far the most complex opening case of all the one's featured on this list, but it commits to it spectacularly.

//Let's talk about a few points that stood out for me. There are quite a few cool things about this case, but these are the notable ones that kind of make and break this trial for me.

//Starting with one that I kind of already went over, but I'll go into more detail in how it affects the trial is the fact that Mikado is actively PART of what's going on, even though we know he's the one behind the Killing Game itself.

//Which makes this like inviting the wolf to dinner and having him politely help with the dishes.

//Ah cool, I even have a CG for it...

//Despite everyone treating him like public enemy number one, Mikado pulls his weight in the discussion, offering genuine insights and guidance. For me, this creates a fascinating tension, and makes the twist itself pay off in this trial. While his help is invaluable, his status as the mastermind makes everyone, including you, question his motives. There's no guarantee that he's being sincere, or if is this all part of a larger manipulation.

//Mikado’s cooperation not only sets a unique tone for the trial but also makes it clear that in this game, nothing will be as simple as it seems.

//And this is reinforced with who the killer ACTUALLY turns out to be, but...again...that's probably the best part of the trial, so I'll save that for last.

//The second point is how Kokoro Mitsume’s Ultimate Psychologist abilities add an entirely new dynamic to the trial, because she enters the courtroom already knowing the killer’s identity, thanks to her borderline mind-reading skills.

//In short, she reveals that she knows who the killer is based on their facial expressions after she asked them all the same question at the beginning of the trial, which is something that hasn't ever happened before to my knowledge. The only time a non-blackened went into a trial knowing who the killer was immediately was Fuyuhiko, because he was there when it all happened, and technically Tsumugi because of her cheap shot.

//Despite Kokoro being subtle enough throughout this trial, this flips the typical formula on its head. Usually, everyone is equally in the dark, fumbling their way toward the truth, but Kokoro’s quiet confidence and refusal to immediately reveal the killer add suspense, making you wonder when and how she’ll drop the bombshell. It’s like having Sherlock Holmes in the room but with a maddening poker face.

//Which is another reason why I'm so disappointed with her as a character, because I do get that this ability is overpowered, but I WISH that Kokoro had stayed around for more of the game. It might have given me more of a reason to care about her true villainous side that's revealed later.

//This is also the first chance we get to see how Syobai, as our clearly established rival character, acts in the trials and...well...it's certainly DIFFERENT.

//While most rival characters in the series seize control of trials with the swagger of a peacock, i.e. Byakuya’s arrogance, Nagito’s chaos, Kokichi’s antics, and Tsurugi's...Tsurugi-ing...Syobai is the polar opposite.

//He barely participates, and when he does, it’s to sow even more confusion by handing Sora FALSE EVIDENCE.

//Introducing a fake Truth Bullet is a wild departure from the series norm and completely throws off the usual rhythm of deductive gameplay.

//Syobai also chastises others for not taking the trial seriously, all while refusing to lift a finger himself. He’s like the world’s laziest coach yelling from the sidelines. Frustrating, hypocritical, but undeniably entertaining.

//Also, I don't know if I really said this before, but this is by far one of the most entertaining murder traps in the series; at least among the first cases. It's like murder via Rube Goldberg machine.

//The creativity behind Yuri’s murder is equal parts horrifying and ingenious. The killer hoists him to the top of a bell tower using hooks in his ankles and then drops him to his death. A gruesome spectacle in its own right. But it gets even better. The setup doubles as a makeshift zipline for the killer to escape unnoticed, using Yuri’s body as a counterweight.

//It’s a grimly efficient plan that leaves players marveling at the killer’s resourcefulness while trying not to wince at the vivid imagery.

//However...this is also where I kind of want to start talking about what my key problem is with this case...

//To prevent myself from talking in circles, its the fact that this crime was a lot more complicated than it probably NEEDED to be. And quite a lot of it is waffling and ending up at an incorrect conclusion before the killer is ultimately outed.

//Now, it's important to remember that ALL of the first trials in the series DO this. However, all of them do so for a very clear reason:

DR1's first trial had everyone immediately suspect Makoto before the truth around Sayaka's trap, and the fact that Leon didn't understand the subtle problems with Makoto's room, began to come to light. But for most of it, he and Toko corner and berate Makoto to no end, not giving him a chance to speak up for himself before Kyoko ultimately helps him.

The entire first half of DR2's trial is exploring evidence, then pinpointing Nagito as the killer, which turns out to be wrong, and he intentionally leads everyone on. As Hiyoko even points out, by the time the trial phase ends, they aren't any closer to figuring out that Teruteru is the murderer.

V3's trial is dragged out as much as it is because that was Kaede's whole plan. She explores every out to try and find the Mastermind, and only reverts back to standard form and lets herself be outed for her crimes when blame starts to be pinned on Shuichi.

A lot of DRA's trial is trying to find a way to prove the girls are innocent, even though the body is in an area that only they can get to, and drags on for so long because Mitch is a Bitch, and this comes back to bite him massively in the end.

//In the case of this trial, the way it's dragged out is the killer attempts to frame Yoruko by knocking her out and planting her at the crime scene is a clever misdirection...

//...Until you remember Yuri’s obsessive devotion to women.

//As a man who would literally let a woman kill him without resistance, which by the way, he said so himself, framing Yoruko backfires hilariously. Instead of incriminating her, it makes the whole scenario feel absurdly implausible.

//On the one hand, this adds a layer of humor to the trial while also giving Yoruko a chance to prove her subtle importance to the narrative as a character, but on the other...it doesn't feel like the most well-thought out red herring.

//Especially since the killer literally LEAVES ANAESTHETIC at the crime scene, proving that he must have used it SOMEHOW! Yeah, they used it on Yuri first and foremost, but they could've also used it on Yoruko.

//In-universe, maybe its more complex than it appears, but at the same time, if you've played literally any of these games, you already know that there's some bull-fuckery going on.

//As one last little note about this trial, Kanade Otonokoji plays a surprisingly understated role in this trial, which in hindsight is a good move.

//She doesn’t dominate the discussion or reveal her manipulative tendencies outright, but there are subtle hints of her intelligence and sadistic nature lurking beneath her innocent façade.

//This restrained performance makes her eventual unraveling in later cases all the more shocking. For now, she’s content to play the helpful team member, but the cracks in her mask are there for those paying close attention.

//I mean, none of us can argue that her not leading the discussion the whole way through is a plus, because that is what severely brings down A2-2 and A2-3.

//With that being said though, it doesn't really destroy my opinion of the trial, or of the murder method. This is still one of my favourite murder schemes in the series because of the harmony of complexity on paper, simplicity in practice.

//The first trial of SDRA2 is a chaotic cocktail of subversions, creative murder mechanics, and character-driven intrigue. Each element feels fresh, unpredictable, and undeniably engaging, making this opening case a standout moment in the franchise.

//But of course, one thing you might have noticed is that I have forgone mentioning one very critical detail throughout this analysis that is sort of kind of important, and it's mainly because I wanted to save this point as the last thing I covered, because it's one of my favourite parts of the trial:

//The Culprit.

//I don't think I talk about this character enough, but not only is he one of my favourite characters in SDRA2, he's easily my favourite killer, AND my favourite member of VOID for a variety of reasons.

//Hajime Makunouchi is an INSANELY compelling character, and by far one of the most underrated characters in this game.

//At first glance, Makunouchi seems like your friendly neighborhood gym coach. Laidback, health-conscious, and always ready for a chat about wellness. His budding bromance with Shinji, complete with morning exercises, is the kind of wholesome interaction that feels out of place in a killing game, and initially, I really thought that he might be the Chapter 2 killer because of how similar his connection with Shinji was to Taka's connection with Mondo.

//But Hajime isn’t just your average health guru. He has a passive-aggressive edge, quietly resenting those who neglect their well-being.

//It’s almost ironic, then, that the man advocating for self-improvement becomes the first killer, using his physical prowess to orchestrate Yuri’s elaborate demise. And I want to talk about his reasons for doing it a little bit, even though we're all familiar with it.

//If there's one point of commonality between the first-case killers of the DR series, it's that even if there is a sense of nobility in their actions (Teruteru and Kaede being the key examples) their motivations ultimately all boil down to them acting in their own best interests.

//For Mitch in the previous game, it was pure selfishness with a distinct lack of layers to it. But for Makunouchi, there are some very interesting layers to it.

//Hajime's motivation to murder Yuri was not just for HIS benefit, and it wasn't done out of spite, or any particular distaste towards Yuri. He was just an easy target...and Makunouchi is a member of VOID.

//For context, VOID is first brought up by Mikado in the prologue just before his reveal as the Mastermind. He claims its an organization that he runs, but it only props up in one easily-missed line of dialogue.

//It all comes crashing back here when Makunouchi reveals that he is a MEMBER of this organization, and that the OTHER members are also hiding among the main cast of the game.

//As you know, VOID turned out to be one of the most disappointing group of villains I've ever had the displeasure of dealing with.

//HOOOWEEEVERR. As a design, a function, and a concept in a Danganronpa game, they are SO FUCKING COOL!

//And Makunouchi alone sells them as a group. Not only is he the best member OF them, but his reveal of his true identity and motive is AMAZING! It somehow raises the stakes EVEN HIGHER than Mikado's reveal of the Mastermind did!

//And with a few minor exceptions, it's actually a fairly original concept as far as Dangans n' Fangans go.

//In the classic Danganronpa formula, the mastermind usually operates solo or with a few cronies in the background, namely Junko and the Ultimate Despair, but for the most part, Junko's a lone wolf when it comes to the killing games. She even kills off her OWN support (Mukuro) immediately, and outs her backup support (Sakura) personally later down the line.

//Mikado and VOID’s setup flips this on its head. By revealing there are four additional traitors working among the participants, SDRA2 transforms from a whodunit murder mystery into a high-stakes game of Mafia/Werewolf.

//Now, every player isn’t just looking over their shoulder for potential killers; they’re wondering who’s secretly pulling strings for Mikado.

//Hajime’s confession didn’t just expose him. It broke the trust between everyone else. In the original Danganronpa games, trust is always a fragile thing, but here, it’s obliterated.

//With the knowledge that nearly 20% of the cast is actively working against them, every smile becomes suspect, every friendly interaction a potential ploy. The game went from a deathmatch to a psychological warfare simulator, and watching the characters struggle to maintain alliances or even basic conversations while knowing they might be talking to a VOID operative added a level of tension that few fan games, or even official titles, have managed to replicate.

//When SDRA2 was releasing chapter by chapter, the VOID twist ignited a storm of fan theories that rivaled Game of Thrones Reddit discussions. People debated endlessly about who could be VOID and why they would join Mikado, and theories ranged from the plausible to the downright absurd, because of course, everything’s canon until it’s not.

//The uncertainty surrounding VOID was a masterstroke because it didn’t just engage the characters. It turned the audience into detectives. Every piece of dialogue, every facial expression, every random aside was scrutinized for potential VOID subtext.

//For a game that was being released chapter by chapter instead of all at once, this was an INGENIOUS move on LINUJ's part.

//Makunouchi’s revelation also underscored just how bleak the situation was. In the original series, you at least had the comfort of knowing most of the cast were victims of circumstance. Here, SDRA2 threw that out the window.

//The idea that four other participants chose to align themselves with Mikado added a layer of existential dread. It’s one thing to fight against a singular antagonist, but knowing your friends might willingly be helping them? That’s enough to make even the strongest bonds crumble. Mikado’s genius wasn’t just in the killing game itself; it was in weaponizing human relationships and trust.

//The VOID twist elevated SDRA2 by introducing a more complex narrative structure and forcing characters and players alike to grapple with themes of loyalty, deception, and moral ambiguity.

//It's not just about solving murders anymore. It's about unraveling a web of conspiracies while trying not to get caught in it yourself. And let’s be honest: the twist gave the fandom so much to talk about.

//But putting that aside, it's not just the moment itself that makes Makunouchi my favourite villain in this game.

//Once Makunouchi is exposed as Yuri’s killer, his personality does a complete 180, flipping faster than a pancake on a hot griddle, as most twist villains in this series tend to do.

//At first, he’s shockingly chill about the whole murder thing, and justifies his actions as being part of a grander conspiracy for a good cause, and...there's some truth to this. But when his execution is brought up, the chill evaporates. He flies into a rage, threatening to expose Void’s secrets if Mikado doesn’t let him go, as though threatening the mastermind would somehow work.

//Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

//But what really sold me on him is what we find out about him AFTER the fact.

//Via Void Theater of all things.

//Not only does Makunouchi have an incredibly engaging backstory and life prior to this game that really define what sort of person he presents himself as in SDRA2's Killing Game, but his time in the Void Theatre is where the layers of his character start to peel back.

//His cocky, self-assured exterior crumbles, revealing a man somewhat haunted by his actions. He begins to show genuine remorse for killing Yuri, realizing how far he and the rest of Void have strayed from their humanity in search of their ultimate goal.

//His claims about genuinely enjoying the time spent with his fellow participants feel surprisingly earnest in hindsight, adding a tragic edge to his story. Hajime wanted to be better, but his role in Void and the circumstances of the game made that impossible. In a way, he’s a victim of his own aspirations. A man who sought improvement but ended up losing himself along the way.

//By the end, he’s made peace with his fate, even finding the strength to reconcile with Nikei and Emma. He even makes one last request to hear one of Emma's god-awful puns. It’s a bittersweet moment that shows how far he's come, from health nut to killer to a man seeking redemption that he may never really get.

//He's just...such a good and underappreciated character in this game, and besides...a certain someone...who one could argue barely even counts, he is EASILY the best first-killer in the series. Especially in the way he defies the preconcieved ideas that LINUJ advocates through his work.

//Hajime Makunouchi is proof that people, by nature, are multi-faceted, capable of both terrible deeds and sincere growth. And hey, if nothing else, his arc proves one thing: just because someone’s good at cardio doesn’t mean they’re not running from their problems.

//But yeah, that's really it. The only reason why SDRA2 Case 1 fails to make the top 10 is that it's just not as good a mystery as the trials that come after it, but what it DOES do right, it knocks out of the park. 10/10 no notes.

//This trial is one of the best fan-made cases ever, simply because it perfectly encapsulates what Danganronpa is all about.

[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 23 - Evading Sunrise.

Summary: Who better to know what a human needs than one who used to be human themselves?

[I'm still alive! Woo! Just overwrought! I'm playing in a sold-out show from Jan 16th and rehearsals have been 1900 to 2300 every night, bar the weekend, so my writing time is greatly diminished. I've also recently come into the family business, which isn't what I thought I'd be doing with my life, but hey-ho, I haven't got any other option, so I'm also bogged down with learning that whole setup. These little moments where I can write and read all your kind, encouraging comments are becoming more and more precious to me. xxx]

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There is a kindness that the Universe could easily grant you, were it so inclined. Just a small thing, effortless even, hardly a difficult feat for the Powers that be, if They had so much as a shred of empathy.

The Universe has taken much from you, and were it a little kinder, it would take one last thing.

… It would take your ability to dream.

Death knows all too well that for as long as humans have been unwitting players on the cosmic chess board, they’ve been left to stand utterly alone, un-helped and unacknowledged by an indifferent Creator.

Why should you be the exception?

Why should you be granted a tiny mercy by the very Being who gave you a mind to dream with in the first place?

It just seems an unnecessary cruelty, the Horseman supposes, that your own biology should stand in the way of your respite.

It’s been several, long hours since you rolled over and eloped into the un-waking world, and Death has only moved as far as the door, leaning his weight back against the bone-dry wood with an air of resignation that his journey is to be paused until sunrise, at the very earliest. No matter… There’s little sense facing the Chancellor’s dreaded ‘Champion’ in the dark, after all.

You might have smirked and called him paranoid about the rigid stance he’s taken in front of the room’s only entrance, but the soft yet not-so-silent footfalls that keep approaching the door reaffirm his decision.

He doesn’t know if it’s the Blademaster sniffing about or some other undead who has come to gawk at the living, breathing human in their midst, but there’s something undoubtedly amusing about feeling wood push against his spine for a few seconds before the presence on the other side meets the resistance of a Horseman’s immoveable body weight.

What follows is the distinct sound of those same footsteps hurrying off down the corridor, making every attempt to be stealthy, but failing miserably.

It would be less amusing if any of their attempts were to wake you up. In fact, the only reason Death hasn’t ripped the door open and threatened to skewer the nosy stranger is currently sound asleep just a few feet away from whatever ruckus that would cause.

Or you were sound asleep. At least until a few minutes ago.

Death’s forefingers tap aimlessly against his bicep as he frowns down at your face. You’ve scrunched your features up into a tight grimace, nose wrinkling and the corners of your mouth twisted south towards your chin.

You’re still asleep. Just not soundly.

The pitiable whimpers you’ve been uttering for a while now indicate a troubled mind, though the Horseman can’t say he’s surprised. It’s disappointing, to be sure. He’d have thought you’d be far too exhausted to be plagued by dreams tonight, yet evidently, you’re not that fortunate. Which is a crying shame, because while Death doesn’t believe in luck per-se, he thinks that if such a thing were to exist, you’re more than overdue.

“Hmm, mnn,” you murmur through closed lips, tossing your head to the right.

Above you on the headboard, Dust retrieves his beak from under an ebony wing and cocks a gaze at you, crooning out a soft, inquiring noise from his throat.

“Shhh,” Death breathes, earning a sleepy glare from the crow, though he does at least fall silent, contenting himself to simply watch as you throw a hand out to one side and clench your fist around an invisible force.

“….Mmn, eye…,” you mutter through slightly parted lips.

‘Eye?’ Death’s brow knots under his mask, yet he isn’t left wondering for long.

“… Eideard?” you suddenly croak, “… C’m’back!”

Ah… So that’s where your head is at.

Lowering his eyes to the ratty blanket, Death releases a sigh that’s been building in his chest for a few minutes now.

Your legs have been steadily working to kick the covers off the bed, never settling, as if you’re trying to run from something.

The clack of a beak draws the Horseman’s gaze once again to Dust, who now has a rather expectant look aimed his way.

Death can’t help but be reminded of that night in Tri Stone, when he’d remained stolidly outside on the bench whilst you stifled your sobs in the Makers’ Forge.

He recalls that Dust had been rather scathing about his inaction. The Horseman hadn’t cared for the bird’s judgement then, and he’s even less appreciative now.

What is he supposed to do? Wake you? At least if you’re dreaming, you’re getting some rest.

Sleep, he’s learned, is something that’s essential to a human’s sustained survival.

Not for the first time, he considers the benefits of having an empty chest, hardened and calcified through centuries of existing in an indifferent universe.

It means he has nothing to steel when you suddenly fling yourself over onto your side with your mouth hanging open, releasing a short, hitching sob that catches in your throat, and an arm that stretches out towards something unseen by the Horseman, your fingers spreading rigidly until they quake with the strain.

… The gentling of Death’s expression goes unnoticed, even by him.

He’s nearly shocked when his boot slides forwards ever so slightly, scraping across the floorboards as if to carry him away from the door and towards you.

Pausing, he cocks a brow down at his own leg, half expecting it to explain itself.

What he doesn’t expect – but perhaps should have – is the loud and jarring gasp that suddenly floods into the little human on the bed with the frantic desperation of one who’s been underwater for far too long, and you’ve only just managed to reach the surface to take a breath before your lungs collapse.

Death’s eyes flick towards you just in time to witness your silhouette lurching up off the mattress, a garbled shout tumbling from your lips as you clutch feverishly at your chest.

“Karn!?” you blurt out, whipping your head back and forth to search through the darkness of Draven’s quarters for a maker who isn’t there.

It would be easy for Death to remain still and silent, to wait until whatever grasp your nightmare still has on you to finally slip loose on its own… He needn’t step in.

It would be easy…

“…Hhh…” Grousing silently to himself, the Horseman pushes away from the door and takes a decisive step towards you before he can begin to overthink his actions.

“Y/n,” he mutters, not loud enough to be startling, but just loud enough to catch your attention.

Even still, you flinch, whirling your torso in his direction and letting your hazy eyes land on the pale, ghostly mask looming above you in the dark.

For several seconds, you merely stare up at Death, the hand on your chest crumpling your shirt as you gather the flimsy fabric into a tight fist.

Death doesn’t elect to break the silence again. After another moment or two of watching you gulp down another lungful of stale air, his patience pays off, and you swallow thickly, croaking, “Death?”

The Horseman’s chin dips down. “Yes.”

“Is… Karn here?” Your voice sounds so fragile, poisoned by a grain of hope.

Going very still, Death allows a beat to pass, giving himself time to think of an answer.

Perhaps… you think you’re still in a dream.

Quietly, he offers a concise response, one that hopefully doesn’t cause you any more distress whilst bringing you further out of the idea that this isn’t real. “Karn…” he begins, “…remained in the Forge Lands.”

He watches you physically deflate. Not from relief though. Relief doesn’t douse the sleepy kindling of hope that had momentarily lit the contours of your face.

Solemn, a little more awake, you slowly ask, “Is… Eideard…. Is he…?”

“… Gone,” is Death’s only reply.

A breath shudders out of you as you let your gaze drift down to your fingers, twining over themselves in twists and knots. “Oh…” you breathe, “I… thought I…” But your sentence trails off before you can finish it.

So, Death says it for you. “You thought you saw him,” he ventures, “In a dream.”

And with that, whatever strings have been holding you taut are promptly cut, sending you flopping back onto Draven’s mattress with a sorrowful ‘whump,’ still very much awake and positively quaking hard enough to cause the wooden bed frame to shudder in tandem.

That’s the thing about dreams, Death supposes, after a point, they’re the perfect nesting ground for ghosts.

His brother, Strife, would confide in him, many eons ago, that he could still see the faces of their fallen brethren behind his eyelids whenever he tried to rest. Death had only told him that it would pass, if given the time to. He hadn’t the gall to tell Strife that he too could see those same, hateful eyes and blood-filled mouths just as clearly.  

Eideard isn’t the only person you’ve lost. He’s said it before, but it bears repeating; you’ve also lost your family, your friends and every other human on Earth.

Your dreams, much like Death’s, are full of ghosts.

Drawing your hands up towards your face, you press the heel of each palm to your eyelids and grind down hard until a kaleidoscope of colour sparks to life across your vision, not unlike fireworks blooming across a cold, November sky.

Shakily, you blow out a dry, unsteady whoosh of air and groan, “Fuck…”

Death purses his lips, privately concurring with your brief assessment of the situation.

Then, in a motion that’s steeped in tiredness, you drag your focus back over to the Horseman, rolling your head to the side and adding, “You’re still here…”

“Yes, I’m still here,” he utters, quiet as a breath, only to balk at the dulcet quality in his tone. Clearing his throat to rid it of the uninvited tenderness, he promptly tacks on, “I told you; someone has to keep an eye on Dust.”

Damp-cheeked, you crane your neck back to send an upside-down glance at the crow roosting on the headboard above you.

A single, glossy eyeball stares back.

You’re fairly confident that Dust hasn’t done a damn thing to warrant any of Death’s baseless assumptions.

With your gaze still locked on the bird, you sigh, “You two can go, if you want to…”

At that, the Horseman knows he’s going to refuse before he even gives you a verbal response.

This isn’t the first time you’ve offered him an ‘out,’ a convenient excuse for him to duck from the room and escape the burden of bearing witness to your downward spiral.

You’re asking, in as quiet a hint as you can manage, for the privacy to cry without an audience.

… If it weren’t for the mysterious footsteps padding about outside…

“It would be in your best interest for me to stay,” he offers, earning a weary sigh from your side of the room, as if you’ve by now figured it would never be that easy to get rid of him.

Already, his keen eyes have picked out the slightest gleam of tears gathering behind your lashes. The next breath you try to draw in sticks to the back of your throat, yet before your face can crumple completely, you roll yourself over onto your opposite side, facing the wall – deliberately angling your body away from the Horseman, who watches on in silence as you hike your shoulders up towards your ears.

Drawing his brows together underneath the mask, Death glides silently closer to your bed and peers down at the human-shaped lump quivering under the covers.

 All is quiet for a time, until at last…

“… I’m sorry.” Your words seep out of you in a thick, watery whisper. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

‘You didn’t sign up for me,’ goes unspoken, but somehow the idea still hangs between you both like cold, falling snow.

It seems an odd thing to say, Death muses, considering that in a sense, he did sign up for this. Hell, he all but stamped his signature on that contract when he carried you through the portal to the Crowfather’s realm.

“Well… Neither did you…” he returns truthfully as he turns around and sinks onto the mattress at the foot of the bed, draping each forearm over a knee. The old wood doesn’t even creak as he settles down, nor does the straw bend beneath his illogical weight, much like the desert sand hadn’t swallowed him up to his calves as it had yours.

He hears the blanket rustle behind him as you twist your neck around to spare him a glance over your shoulder. If you’re at all shocked to find him suddenly sitting so close to you, you’re either too tired or too polite to say a word about it.

So, you turn back to the wall without comment, and although you attempt to bring a hand up to press a sweat-slicked palm across your mouth, such a meagre covering of skin isn’t enough to contain the grief that starts to pour out of you.

But just as you’d offered Death the unquestioned freedom to seek vicinity to you, the Horseman doesn’t try to interrupt or diminish this sombre moment with talk or awkward attempts at comfort.

It stirs a memory in him, of a much younger Nephilim, trudging through a silent, windswept battlefield alongside the only other three who had escaped the Battle for Eden. Not a word was said between them as they left the dead behind, but Death had offered them proximity as well. They said nothing of it, they hadn’t even accused him of hovering. There was an unspoken understanding, in that instant, one that passed silently between all four of them; Death would be there if they needed him.

With a slow blink, the memory fades, and he’s left frowning gently at the dull, rotten wood of the wall adjacent to your bed.

You’re an intelligent human… He wonders if you’ll be able to infer what he’s doing by sitting at the edge of your bed. Death may be many things, but he is not cheerful by nature, and cannot thusly cause cheer in others. He can only sit. And wait. Listening, watching, offering freedom from interference, both from himself and others who would seek to disturb you now when you need to grieve.

Dust, predictably, affords your need for privacy about as much consideration as could be expected from a bird. That is, none whatsoever.

A sleepy caw is all the warning both you and Death receive before the crow hops down off the headboard and lands on your pillow with a soft rustle of feathers.

Of course, you flinch, but Dust – undeterred – simply invites himself into the space between you and the wall, strutting surefootedly over the rumpled blankets until he reaches your chest.

Exasperated, Death opens his mouth and is about to openly scold the crow when Dust turns himself about until the tip of his sharp, grey beak is pointed down at your sombre face.

If you’re at all worried about having it so close to your eyeballs, you don’t show it, though Death knows the corvid well enough to recognise that Dust would never hurt his new human friend who coddles and praises him like it’s going out of fashion.

Birds…

“H-hey,” you warble miserably, swiping at your eyes with the back of a wrist and trying to pluck up the willpower to give a tear-blurred Dust your most convincing smile, “Hey, boy. Sorry, did I wake you up?”

In response, the crow cocks his head at you, and follows up with a gentle croon that raises the small, downy feathers on his throat. Then, without bothering to give any sort of warning as to his intentions, Dust gives his beak a single clack and stretches out his neck, gathering up a few strands of hair around your forehead and dragging them through his beak as if to smooth them into place.

Death almost slaps a palm to his mask.

You can’t help yourself. A wet giggle blurts out of you, momentarily disrupting Dust’s ministrations. He croaks down at you flatly before returning to his task of taking your hair and grooming it with a gentle beak.

“Dust!” you blubber out another laugh, reaching up to try and dissuade the crow by pushing your hand into his feathered breast. For your trouble, he pulls away and administers a soft nip to your knuckle, barely strong enough for you to feel it.

Offering him a watery smile, you prop yourself up onto an elbow, and in one, smooth motion, you raise your free arm and scoop the bird against your chest, burying your nose into the ebony plumage right between his wings. He’s large, far larger than any crow you’ve ever seen on Earth, so it’s more akin to hugging a small dog than any kind of corvid….

Wow… You miss dogs…

As if he can sense your sudden spike of anguish for a species who was likely wiped out alongside your own, the crow nuzzles his head under your chin, tailfeathers flicking back and forth several times as he contents himself with his new position.

Death’s brows shoot up his forehead at the display, wondering how he could have missed the moment you and his crow forged this bond without him even noticing. Was it during the brief few hours when Absalom pulled him into the Tree of Life?

Or perhaps it was always there, and he just hasn’t been paying attention.

“Of all the crows I could have been saddled with,” he gripes under his breath, aiming a half-hearted scowl at the little he can see of Dust’s beak poking out over your shoulder, “It would be the one without a single ounce of pride.”

“Oh, leave him alone,” you sniff, your voice muffled by sleek, black feathers, “He’s trying to cheer me up.”

The Horseman grumbles something to himself, then raises his voice to huff, “He has to be good for something, I suppose.”

When you don’t reply beyond giving a click of your tongue, Death hesitates, his eyes roaming in every direction except for your face as he clears his throat and asks, “Is it… ah, working?”

There’s a speculative pause, interspersed with the odd sniffle as you take a moment to calm yourself down and recover from the embarrassment of once again crying in front of the sepulchral Death.

At last, you take in a deep, weary breath and pull your nose from Dust’s back, gazing warmly down at the crow. “Yeah,” you decide with a small nod as he pulls his beak from under your chin and peers back at you, “Yeah, it’s working.”

If only a little, but sometimes a little is just enough.

Dust’s head swings around to peer at Death over your shoulder, smugger than a bird has any business being.

The heartache of waking up to a world without Eideard in it is just as fresh as the heartache you feel when you open your eyes and remember your world is gone. That sort of grief, unquantifiable, is hard to shift by the efforts of one, friendly crow, no matter how noble his intentions.

But for Dust’s sake, you try to shoulder the sorrow a touch more easily, even going so far as to sit up properly, still holding the bird to your chest and giving him a gentle squeeze. It’s a word of thanks, silent but poignant. Slowly, you place the crow down on the mattress beside you.

This time it’s your turn to clear your throat. Scrubbing tiredly at your eyes, you untuck your legs from the scratchy blanket and roll them over the side of the bed, pulling yourself forwards until you’re sitting beside Death, hands clasped daintily in your lap.

Amber eyes flick sideways and find in the gloom that your cheeks are still damp and blotchy from shedding so many tears.

Behind you, Dust flutters back up onto the headboard, head held high and proud, pleased with himself for a job well-done, and feeling he’s absolutely deserved another nap.

You breathe a sigh, holding it in your lungs and then blowing it all out again, glad to hear that it’s devoid of further tremors. “So… I don’t suppose we can pretend you didn’t hear any of that?”

Death half turns his torso towards you and replies, “Any of what?”

Without thought, you smile appreciatively and lean across the bed, giving the Horseman’s thigh a companionable pat. “Good man.”

It seems as soon as you touch him, you’re pulling away again, the moment passing too quickly for you to feel the way his leg jumps underneath your palm.

Death’s eyes are wide beneath his mask and affixed to the spot on his thigh you’d just touched without ceremony, without a single remark, like it was an entirely normal thing to do.

Certainly, you’ve touched Death before, and he’s touched you out of necessity, mostly. But here, in this dingy room belonging to an undead, the Nephilim takes particular note of the casual gesture, and he’s once again reminded of who and what he is, and what an outlier you are to touch the Reaper without fear.

Is that all it takes? Pretending he hadn’t heard you pour your grief out onto a stranger’s pillow makes him a good man?

Is that… how you see him…?

No. It was just another throwaway comment, meant to lighten the solemn mood that had taken hold of the room.

For a distracted moment, Death wonders if he can really feel the warmth of your skin through the leather of his trousers, or if it’s just a figment of his imagination. Whatever it is, it robs him of any witty remarks that might slip out to disrupt this tender moment.

A good man…

“You should try going back to sleep,” he offers absently, tearing his eyes off his leg to look down at you. The imagined warmth in his thigh has travelled to his chest, which is odd, given that you didn’t lay your hand anywhere near it.

Heaving a sigh, you ask, “How long do you think until sunrise?”

“Mm, at least another several Earth hours,” he says, “Plenty of time still to rest.”

Your fingers clench into fists around the blanket beneath you. “Plenty of time to dream…”

The old Nephilim’s mask turns to face you properly, eyes of liquid gold and sunset orange illuminating the darkness of his sockets. “Dreams cannot hurt you,” he says with conviction, partly because he knows they can’t, and partly because nothing, not even a nightmare could hurt you with a Horseman keeping watch.

“But they can make you sad…” you point out.

Hesitating, he has to take a second to remember that sadness can be potent enough to hurt a human. “I suppose they can,” he concedes reluctantly.

“That hurts, sometimes,” you whisper, drawing your knees up onto the bed and folding your arms around them, clinging tightly, eyes downcast to the floor, “Waking up and realising the people in them aren’t here anymore.”

Shifting his weight to prop a hand on one knee, he leans forwards so that he can meet your faraway gaze. “That pain will fade, given time,” he offers, echoing a conversation eons past.

After a second, your eyes slide sideways and align with his, and he can’t deny the glimmer of triumph that raises his chin at the sight of your gentle smile.

“I hope you’re right, Death,” you reply, “I really do.”

“You’ll find I’m not often wrong twice in as many days.” He’s referring to his… miscalculation with the heart stones and the Guardian, of course.

Did that really only happen yesterday?

“Cocky,” you snort, swiping a finger under the still damp corner of your eye, “Nice to know great, big Horsemen can make mistakes too though.”

“Is it?” he scoffs. He’d have thought it’d be daunting that the Nephilim whose charge you find yourself under isn’t actually as infallible as he’d like to claim.

“Yeah,” you hum, giving him a thoughtful look, “I guess to err isn’t just human, after all.”

Death waits, bracing himself to balk, to feel a spike of offence run through his veins at being told he shares a – rather undesirable – quality with humans. He waits, and feels-

… Nothing. No contempt. No disdain or disappointment. Maybe just a touch of surprise.

“I’m gonna miss them,” you murmur, derailing the Horseman’s train of thought.

“The makers?”

“Everyone,” you stress, “The makers, Blackroot, Warden…”

Coughing lightly into a fist, Death has to peel his eyes away to avoid looking at you when he says, “I’m sure they’ll be…. of a similar mindset.” Honesty, vulnerability, words that have real significance don’t come so easily to the Horseman. If they did, he’d tell you that those makers are going to miss you more than you could possibly know.

Chewing on your lip, you idly kick an ankle against the side of the bed and ask, “Do you think I’ll ever see them again?”

In response, Death huffs out a short, soft laugh, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. “Do I think you’ll see them again?” he echoes, “Y/n, I’m almost certain of it.”

“… Wait. Seriously?”

“Don’t I seem serious?” he blinks languidly.

“Yeah, it’s just… that sounded like optimism. And coming from you, that’s… I mean…” Squinting through the dark at him, you fold your hands in your lap and ask, “Are you feeling all right?”

The Horseman’s lips quirk up, though his voice retains a gruff and unimpressed melody as his shoulders jump with a brusque harrumph. “You must be feeling better if you’re already poking fun,” he grouses, assessing the miniscule glow of humour tucked around the corners of your mouth.

“I am, actually,” you shrug, flicking a glance over his mask and tipping your head with a knowing smile, “Maybe Dust isn’t the only one who’s good at cheering me-“

Three, gentle knocks on a nearby surface of wood break through your sentence like hammer blows ringing off an anvil.

From one blink to the next, the Horseman is inexplicably on his feet, flinging a strong, sinewy arm out in front of you, all at once alert and suspicious, whilst behind him, you scramble off the bed with far less grace, fighting to find stability for a moment before you square your feet and send a wary glance over his appendage at the room’s entrance.

“Hello?” you call, swiping furiously at your cheeks to rid them of what little trace of tears might still cling to your skin.

Death doesn’t turn to face you, but you’d be hard-pressed to miss the disgruntled sigh that slips out from under his mask at your tactical blunder.

You’ve all but announced that you – a human, need you be reminded – are in here.

A voice from outside calls out, muffled behind the thick layer of wood. “… Lady - Ah, I mean, Y/n?”

The tension doesn’t seem to drain out of Death nearly as fast as it drains out of you.

Draven.

Before the Horseman can stop you, you’ve already ducked underneath his arm, reaching up to distractedly smooth down your bedhead as you call out, “Oh, Draven, uh, coming!”

You hear your name uttered in a growl behind you, but you wave off the ornery Nephilim with a flap of your hand, twisting about to face him as you make for the door, hissing, “It’s his room, Death. If he wants to come in here, he has every right to.”

Realising your hand is reaching to pull the door open, Death surges forward, intent on getting to it before you – ‘just in case,’ a voice at the back of his head whispers – but he doesn’t make it halfway to you when you grab the brass handle and tug the rotting wood towards you, letting dull, green light spill into the quarters and creep up the opposite wall.

A familiar silhouette looms in the doorway, framing the space with broad shoulders and a tattered shroud that’s been pulled low to half cover a skeletal, ghoulish face. From your angle, standing at least a foot and a half shorter than the figure, you can see up underneath his hood.

You regret your haste to open the door, simply because you aren’t at all ready to witness the grim and ghastly visage of the Blademaster this early in the morning, but you stamp down on the temptation to reel back, and instead school your expression into a friendly smile. “Hi, uh, again.”

Draven’s luminous, blue eyes flare brightly as soon as they land on your face. There’s something held between each of his hands, though you hardly spare them a glance because, ever the gentleman, he’s already halfway into a low, sweeping bow when he suddenly stops short, bent so that he’s staring you directly in the eye.

It’s decidedly unnerving to have so much scrutiny on you, especially when the undead’s jaw suddenly locks up tight and his browbone snaps together as if you’ve offended him somehow without even saying a word.

“Uh-“ you start to say, only to find yourself interrupted when Draven rises to his full height again, unfolding at the waist and aiming a frigid glare over the top of your head. Coincidentally, an icy presence appears at your spine, pressing in close enough that you notice the hairs on the back of your neck start to prickle.

 A growl rolls out through the gaps in the undead’s hollow cheeks. “Y/n,” he addresses you, his voice hard as stone, “Has this devil done you a discourtesy?”

“W…What?” you blurt.

Ferocity bleeds from his lipless mouth as he glares at the Horseman who drapes you in shadow, pale blue eyes aiming to douse the liquid fire hanging ominously in the darkness behind you.

“Her eyes are scarlet with salt,” he accuses.

Raising a hand to your face, you prod tenderly at the raw skin beneath your eyes and realise with a sinking sense of shame that you must still look like even more of a mess than you did when the Blademaster first saw you. “Oh, no. No, Draven, it’s fine,” you sigh, dragging a hand down your face, “Just… Look, it’s just been a rough night.”

The undead’s glower lifts the moment he rips his eyes off Death and returns it to you, his forehead puckering with concern. “But, you’re-“

“- I’m all right,” you reiterate, crooking one corner of your lips into a tight smile that all but pleads for him to drop the matter. You’re mortified enough.

The look on your face must be adequately pitiable, for Draven’s stance relaxes by a fraction, and as his arms slump from their guarded poise, you hear something clunk woodenly by his waist, rousing your curiosity and tempting you to lower your gaze to his hands.

If you thought you weren’t ready to see the Blademaster at your door, you’re doubly unprepared to see what he’s carrying.

Clearing your throat, you bob your chin at his hands and ask, “What’ve you got there?”

“Hmm?” Begrudgingly peeling away from the Horseman, Draven follows your line of sight, blinking down at a little wooden bowl and cup he’s clutching in each hand. Suddenly very sheepish, the undead ducks further into his green hood, “Forgive me, I was going to leave these by the door, but… then I heard voices.”

“And what were you doing skulking about so close to the door that you could hear us talk?” Death asks, hardly bothering to hide his accusatory tone.

You turn to give him a quick, pointed glare over your shoulder, one that he ignores.

“Just as I said, Horseman,” Draven retorts, “I thought the lady might be hungry, so…” He offers out the cup and bowl for you to see, giving you an apologetic look. “I’d have left it outside for you to find when you emerged, I… didn’t want to disturb you while you slept.”

Before you can reply, a voice at your back pipes up.

“You were going to leave it outside?” Death scoffs, “Where anyone could have tampered with it?”

Ignoring the Horseman, you peer down into the proffered crockery, your stomach gurgling eagerly as a waft of steam drifts from the bowl and rises into your nostrils. Never before would you have thought you’d be so excited about something so beige.

A simple, brown stew is balanced on one of Draven’s large palms, lumps of what you presume is meat bob about near the surface, and a single slice of fluffy, white bread floats at the centre, drawing a rather embarrassing flood of saliva to the front of your mouth. In his other hand, the small wooden cup is clasped like a chalice of ambrosia, though the only thing that wets its interior is crisp, clear water.

In your eyes, he may as well be holding out a gourmet dish that only the wealthiest of men would deign to touch.

“Draven,” you breathe in awe, reluctantly dragging your gaze off the food and peering up into the undead’s hollow face, “What’s all this for?”

Puzzled, he tilts his head at you, as thought the answer should be entirely obvious.

“It’s… for you,” he says, pressing the bowl and cup closer to your wringing hands, “I assumed you’d want to eat when you awoke. It’s not much, just some pottage I scrounged up.”

You begin to reach out, unfurling your fingers to take the unexpected gift when all of a sudden, chilly fingers wrap around your wrist, and before you can utter a sound, Death tugs you tidily back into the room, taking your place in the doorway, and peering down at the undead. “Where did you get it?” he asks, ignoring the disgruntled huff you aim at the back of his head, “Is this safe for human consumption?”

Draven’s lipless mouth pulls into a sneer. “Do you think me a fool?” he accuses.

“I think you an undead who we’ve only just met,” the Horseman replies coolly.

The Blademaster leans back on a heel, appraising Death with an expression that borders on impressed. “A fair point,” he concedes. Seconds later, Draven yields a nod. “It’s safe, Death. Believe it or not, the King entertains more than just the dead in his court, some of whom still rely on sustenance to get them through the day. Supplies are not as scarce as they would seem at first glance, and I may be far-removed from humanity, but I still remember my way around a cooking pot.”

Then, wordlessly, he holds the bowl and cup out towards the Horseman, tipping his head to one side with an expectant gleam in his fearsome, blue eyes.

Death’s attention flits between Draven and his handful several times, squinting dubiously at the dull, brown slop. For a few uncomfortable seconds, the Horseman subjects your potential meal to a good, long glare, and then at last, to your relief, you watch him raise his hands and grasp the edge of the bowl between his thumb and forefinger, doing the same with the cup.

He doesn’t take them immediately, too busy giving the undead a threatening growl. “If she eats this and something happens-“

“-I’ll be meeting the business end of your scythe?” Draven guesses, quirking a brow bone as he relinquishes the crockery and drops his arms to his sides again.

Death’s eyes narrow to thin lines of fire, prompting the undead to let out a chuckle and raise his hands up in mock defeat. “I understand, Horseman, I understand. I’d be overprotective as well if I had a lady like her under my care.”

Half hidden behind the Nephilim, you suck a breath in through your teeth as your grim companion bristles like a cornered cat, almost doubling in size with the amount of indignation that swells his shoulders. You’ve only known him a week or so, but in that time, you’ve already learned that being accused of caring is pretty low on the list of Things Death likes to Hear.

And sure enough…

“I am not overprotective,” the Horseman seethes, but with such an air of petulance that whatever threat his tone might have been trying to imply is completely undermined. Not to mention there’s something curiously un-threatening about the sight of him clutching a bowl of stew that - not thirty seconds ago - he was giving the stink-eye.

Even Draven doesn’t seem all that worried as he casts a knowing look at you around Death’s shoulder, his ghoulish features scrunching into a wink.

“No?” he asks, cocking his head to one side and sliding his gaze back to the wall of Nephilim standing before him, “Well, in that case, when the sun rises, I’m sure you won’t mind if I treat the lady to that tour I offered her.”

He’s chancing his arm, and he damn well knows it. And because he knows it, he’s already watching for the precise moment when Death recognises that he’s just stepped right into a verbal trap.

Unseen by the human in their midst, Death’s narrow eyes are now almost indiscernible within the congealing darkness of his sockets, and it’s only thanks to their preternatural, fiery glow that Draven can tell they’re open at all. They float inside the pitch-black pits that have been carved out of an ivory mask, unnatural and eerie, like two strips of flame streaking through the night sky.

If someone were to strike a match in the air between he and Death, Draven is almost certain the spark would set off an explosion that could blow the Eternal Throne clear through the stratosphere.

Two options lay out before the ancient Nephilim: Allow yo u to go with Draven in the morning, proving the smug undead wrong in his judgement of Death’s character. Or refuse the offer on your behalf and prove him right.

Begrudgingly, Death concedes that the undead’s tactics have successfully tripped him up. Rare as it is, it’s somewhat refreshing to be kept on his toes. Not that he’s in any way pleased to be cornered like this… Not least because he has a reputation he’d like to keep intact.

“She’ll consider it,” he says shortly.

There. It’s neither a yes or a no, and vague enough that Draven’s expectant gaze darkens with disappointment. Death is tempted to smirk triumphantly. Just because he stepped into the trap doesn’t mean he won’t know how to get out of it. He’s almost offended that the undead thought it would be so easy.

But the acquiescing look on Draven’s face doesn’t linger for more than a blink before it’s gone.

“I hope she does,” he hums, leaning sideways once more so that he can send you another secretive smile around the Horseman’s bulk, a smile that you find yourself readily reflecting. It feels like there’s a connection there somehow, between you and Draven. Human and ex-human. It’s something that Death isn’t privy to because he isn’t and never was human.

You wonder… Hell, you dare to hope that Draven might just… get you. There’s common ground in your humanity. The soul that sits lonely in your heart reaches out for the tiniest promise of companionship, softening you to the undead in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Right now, as you share amusement at the Grim Reaper’s expense, you find Draven just that bit more bearable to look at. Even the swords and broken blades that jut from his person like morbid adornments don’t seem so gruesome.

“I will consider it,” you promise, prompting Death to heave a disgruntled sigh whilst you breeze over his complaint, “Thank you, Draven. Really. This…” This act of immense kindness, though it might have seemed so mundane if it happened on Earth, has done wonders to warm your heart after feeling your very soul freeze over after your nightmare. But how could you possibly put into words the comfort he’s brought you? Rather than overthink it, you merely give your head a tiny shake of disbelief and let out a soft laugh, “This means… so much to me.”

Laying a hand across his concave chest, the undead dips his torso into a shallow bow and replies, “For you, it was no trouble at all.”

To your own surprise, the chivalrous little display turns you shy, and you start to fiddle with the hem of your shirt absentmindedly, avoiding his searching eyes as you smile down at the floor near Death’s boots.

Clicking his tongue, the Horseman shifts to stand sideways in the entrance, sweeping an unimpressed glance between you and Draven.

You may have averted your gaze, but the undead certainly hasn’t.

From head to toe, you’re all but poured over like a scroll of parchment in an angel’s library. Shameless in his observation, Draven’s cadaverous eyes carve tracks across your face and roam down the length of your body, whilst Death goes mostly ignored.

The Horseman is no fool. Though the very notions of romance and attraction have forever eluded him, he’s old and worldly enough to have at least encountered both in some way, shape or form. Besides, even a dunce would have to be trying exceptionally hard to miss what’s right in front of his nose.

You’ve caught the Blademaster’s eye.

And there’s the rub. Demons, he can put his scythe to, corrupted constructs and bloodthirsty bugs can be slain to keep you out of their gullets. Even Karn and his, at times, glaring attachment to you were innocent enough, as if the youngling was more starved for meaningful friendship than companionship. But an amorous undead? Death doesn’t have any protocol for manoeuvring around that particular minefield.

Once again, if there is such a thing as luck, the Horseman would be cursing his own. Isn’t it just typical that in such a vast and limitless Universe, his path would somehow carry you right to the Blademaster – the only other sod in Creation who shares your origins? Musing on that, Death can’t help but wonder if there truly is some unseen, omniscient hand guiding you along your journey.

Whoever the puppet master is, they’ve got a sick sense of humour.

Draven was Human – famously unpredictable species, a stereotype you continue to substantiate – but more to the point, he’s an unknown, and Death doesn’t especially like dealing with unknowns.

“Well then,” he announces abruptly, causing you to jump and reminding him that he’s allowed the undead to linger for a few moments too long, “If there’s nothing else…”

The skin around Draven’s jaw stretches as he opens it until the holes in his cheeks are thin and long, but before he can utter a word, Death says, “Wonderful,” and with a deft swing of his elbow, he bumps the door closed, giving the bottom of the wood a kick on its way to make sure it slams firmly shut. The room is once more plunged into that grimy, too-green gloom.

“Oh, that’s real nice, Death,” you snap, “The poor guy gives me a meal and lets me sleep in his bed, and you slam his own door shut in his face.”

“… That’s it,” he grumbles, turning to face you and pressing the bowl and cup into your hands, careful not to spill its contents as you splutter out a weak protest and fumble awkwardly with the woodware, “Tomorrow, you’re coming with me to the Champion’s arena. Not-!” he quickly snaps when you open your mouth to speak, “- to fight. You’re to watch from the sidelines.”

Looking down at you through the dark, he can tell you’re torn between continuing to berate him and diving into your newly acquired meal. Your eyes flit back and forth between him, the bowl, and the door, through which you can already hear the fading footfalls of your gracious host.

You’ve bulled yourself up at Draven’s expense, lips twisting into an unhappy frown, but it isn’t to last. Not with how desperate you are to fill your belly with something warm and cooked. Venting out a huff, you begrudgingly expel all the hot air from your lungs and lower yourself down onto the edge of the bed, lifting the stew to your lips to blow at the steam that drifts from it. “How do you know I’m not considering Draven’s tour?” you challenge.

It’s a good thing you’re pointedly ignoring the Horseman in favour of tipping back the bowl, because the look he shoots you is venomous enough that it would have stung had you caught it head-on.

“Just... Just eat the damn stew,” is all he bites out.

Well… You’re only too happy to oblige to that request.

You try not to wolf down the whole thing in one go, but as soon as the thin, watery gravy touches your lips and washes onto your tongue, you’re almost bowled over by the sheer influx of taste. At this point, after surviving on little else but water and the strange jerky Thane gave you, you could have eaten a rice cracker and called it filet mignon. Several bursts of flavour warm the inside of your cheeks and seep over and under your tongue. A piece of meat slides between your teeth as you slurp it up and you bite down on it hard, finding the strip tough and chewy, but oh so mouth-watering.

You spare the briefest of thoughts to its creature of origin, though the moment soon passes when you swallow, letting out a groan that might have been embarrassing if you weren’t so sure you’re justified in making such a sound. Privately, you make a mental note to thank Draven profusely in the morning, though whether that’s before or after you apologise to him for Death’s behaviour, you haven’t yet decided.

“Holy-“ Pausing, you lower the bowl and sweep a finger over the corners of your mouth, delicately removing the gravy gathered there, “-Shit, this is good.”

He almost asks if it tastes strange or off in any way, but with the Blademaster's words still ringing in his ears, Death stuffs them down with the rest of his wounded ego and begins to grumble nonsensically to himself. In fact, he's so busy muttering under his breath and glowering at the door that he doesn’t even pause to throw a withering glare at Dust when the crow hops onto the bed again and struts up to you with the confidence of a bird who knows you’re a pushover.

Only too happy to reinforce that confidence, you deftly scoop a chunk of meat into your palm and offer it out for the bird to peck at.

“Overprotective…” Death scoffs heatedly, “The nerve of that…” His mask abruptly whips around towards you, giving you pause with your cheeks full of stew. “Do you feel I’ve been overprotective?”

Putting aside the fact that you’ve never seen Death get this riled about a jibe before…

Swallowing thickly, you draw out an unconvincing, “No?”

The strange glow of his irises flicker for a second – a twitch of an eyelid? “Well, if I seem that way, it’s only because you’re so damnably adept at getting yourself into trouble,” he complains, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall with a decisive thump, “And frankly, I’d rather avoid having an angry group of makers hunt me to the ends of the Universe if something were to happen to you under my watch.”

It’s not just a lie meant to preserve his pride. Not entirely…

“They wouldn’t do that,” you tut, bemused, tilting the bowl and taking another, long slurp of the stew, manners be damned. You never thought you’d eat a cooked meal again.

His chest rumbles moodily. “They would.”

A wordless peace lingers in the air between you then, disturbed only by the sound of you chewing through toughened meat and the gentle sloshing of stew as your fingers chase the pieces around their bowl. You pretend not to notice the quick, attentive glances being sent your way.

Dust throws his feathered head up towards the ceiling, his beak wide open around the hunk of meat you offered him. In a rather unappetising display, the crow gulps it down with a few bobs of his neck.

“Nice,” you grunt, pulling a face.

You don’t put your bowl down until every last piece of the stew is gone, and even then you have to fight back an urge to lick the interior clean, mindful that present company might find that habit a bit too uncivilised not to comment on. Even with the Earth and its civilisation far behind you, you can’t let go of table-manners. It would be laughable if the reminder of your lonely humanness didn’t carry so many undertones of despair.

Breathing a soft, satisfied sigh, you bend down and drop the bowl on the floor with a clunk, instantly exchanging it for the cup of water before you sit up again to watch Death glower at the doorway as though he hopes it’ll burst into flames.

There’s a rigidity to him that doesn’t suit the late hour and the warmth in your belly.

Casting your mind about for a way to free him from whatever monologue he must have rattling away in that enigmatic head of his, you take a swig of the water, regarding the Horseman ponderously over the rim of the cup.

“So,” you say, smacking your lips as the lukewarm liquid slides down your throat, “What do you think the chances are that Vulgrim’s delivered my message?”

Luminous eyes blink slowly, roving from the door to land on your face.

He visibly hesitates, then asks, “What would help you go back to sleep faster?”

Your deadpan stare is ruined by an unseemly snort and flutter of your lips. “Just humour me, wise guy.”

“Very well…” Death grunts, “Chances are slim.”

“… Don’t know why I bother.”

Despite your tone, you’re secretly pleased when his broad shoulders slacken as he chuckles, unfolding his arms and resting each hand casually on his hips instead. “Given how often you’ve surprised me so far,” he sighs with an air of begrudging acceptance, “I suppose it wouldn’t be so shocking to learn you’ve actually convinced the demon to go through with your favour.”

“I surprise you?” you smile.

 “At every turn.”

“Aw~”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“Oh.”

It is. It absolutely is. But he’ll be damned if he lets you know what a luxury surprises are for a being who was confident the Universe had nothing new to throw at him. He’s already far too soft on you as it is. Paying you compliments paves a slippery slope towards irrefutable fondness.

Dust would be insufferable.

“Now then,” he coughs gruffly, more to disrupt his own thoughts than to get your attention, “You should… try and get some more rest. I’ll wake you at sunrise.”

All at once, what little levity had been draped around your shoulders sloughs away. He’s right. You should try and sleep a little longer. Moments like these, moments where you can stop to catch your breath, could well be few and far between in the coming days.

“Death? Will you…?” Your voice catches and you don’t finish your sentence aloud, working your jaw up and down wordlessly as a sudden but subtle wave of shame washes over you like an ebbing tide. ‘Stay’ is on the tip of your tongue. But you realise it’s a silly question to ask, even if a very small, very vulnerable part of you desperately wants to seek reassurance from the dour Horseman sharing this space with you. Death has given no indication that he plans to stray far from your side.

Bottom line? You’re afraid to fall asleep again, much as your overwrought mind craves a few more hours of unconscious bliss, and your arms feel heavy as lead when you lower the cup to the floor, setting it down beside the bowl.

If you sleep, you might dream, after all.

And your dreams are full of ghosts.

Fingers twist searchingly into the blanket you’re sitting on, squeezing and clenching until they ache. It grounds you, at least a bit.

You don’t really notice that Death’s mask is tilted to one side, watching your hands closely until he shifts, easing himself through the gloom until he’s only a step away from the bed. It’s sometimes convenient to forget what he is, when your heart misses home so badly that it wants to find humanity in everything around you, including Death. It’s easy to forget that he’s older than you could probably comprehend, that he’s wise enough to hear a human’s unfinished plea and be able to predict how it ends.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he assures you.

Relief unwinds your hands from the fists you’ve curled them into, like roses blooming from the bud.

Soon, you’ll be awake, and the tragedies of yesterday will be saddled to your back alongside all the rest, but you’ll carry them with you as best you can. You don’t have a choice, after all. You followed Death to the Land of the Dead.

When the sun rises, you’ll rise with it and face the consequences of your choice.

[yaknowlikenyah]

My 3 days of Linux adventures

I figured out how to copy an iso onto a flashdrive to install linux and after realizing I was hitting the wrong BIOS menu button after a few hours of trial and error and a call to my more tech savvy sister

Started linux setup, got steam on there, realized how many of my games were windows only downloads, and proceeded to research for another couple hours how to get wine running and what front end to use because my computer has 3 gb of ram and I didn't trust that it could handle duel running OSs

Figure out there's literally a button for it in steam download options after which I say fuck it pass out and just reinstall linux the next morning hours faster than the first time I did.

Yay! Games installed!!

Download discord. Discord calls sound like I'm talking through a tin can on a landing strip no matter what settings I mess with. Assume it's something to do with the wifi cutting out. Investigate for hours to experiment with wifi power saving and settings and finally throw in the towel to talk to my sister again

My wifi despite showing two bars is actually faster than it's ever been and is downloading at ~100mbs. Give up for the night

Wake up the next morning to figure out what was fucking up, play around with mic settings and levels before finally reading a forum post from two years ago talking about window's auto installed noise cancellation drivers.

Resign myself to either needing to buy an external mic that's not right next to my computer's half broken fan, or needing to download specific noise canceling drives from github

Struggle with figuring out how to run shit from github for an hour

Resign myself to the external mic pt 2, try to boot up my favorite little rpgmaker puzzle game and it runs like a slideshow. This is my limit. I need my little mimic chest puzzle.

Begin researching again. Learn about more drivers I could potentially try installing or the much simpler method of just dual booting (computer has no ram. She's so old you guys)

Finally throw in the towel completely and decide to unfortunately switch back to Windows10. Download the iso accidentally and struggle around with getting it on the usb before getting the rar I need and the program to reformat the usb to take it (thank you ventoy) and struggle to download it while making sense of tutorials

Try to boot it. Fail.

What the fuck is a partition

Finally realized at this point that the prefix 'Sudo' in ubuntu is the command to run from root. That wouldve been nice to know

Finally delete partitions, run windows and get it reinstalled.

Honestly a 10/10 experience had a blast would do again

[number1villainstan]

okay so in this post I talked about the dichotomies of good/evil and male/female and how they're at work in ohtori (and specifically wrt to saionji), and i sorted it into like a four-chambered table with Good Masculinity (prince), Good Femininity (princess), Bad Masculinity (unnamed in the show), Bad Femininity (witch), and while i think that sort of thing can still be useful in looking at how characters are treated both by other characters and by the narrative i don't think that's how the show approaches it anymore. like--witch doesn't just mean 'Bad Femininity', and there's a reason why Bad Masculinity isn't named. lemme try to explain

in the kashira players' tale of the rose, it's stated outright that a 'witch' is what happens when a princess isn't saved--when there's no prince around to save her, or when that prince isn't one that can try to save her for whatever reason, or when the prince fails to save her. like--what's termed as "good" in ohtori is a) the separation of 'man' and 'woman' into two separate, mutually-exclusive, and all-encompassing categories and b) a specific set of relations between these two categories, at least outside the context of the family: boys are 'princes', the active role, and girls are 'princesses', the passive role--'princesses' are beset by some terrible-but-temporary circumstance, doesn't really matter what, and 'princes' come in and solve their problems (and presumably get 'romance' as a reward). the 'witch' is also a role defined in relation to this setup--it's what happens when the prince fails to save the princess, or more accurately when the princess fails to be saved; it's the evil result of a failure of this system of "good". in other words, although one could argue the fault lies with the prince (the man), the punishment falls almost entirely onto the woman.

but if the 'witch' is a failed princess, then what is a failed prince? does such a thing exist under this system, or is the prince forever doomed to princehood? the most prominent example of what could be considered a 'failed prince' is akio*, who's currently in charge of running ohtori as Acting Chairman; looking at it through the lens of character motivation, it's obvious why the question of 'failed prince' is shoved to the wayside for so much of the narrative, while the concept of 'witch' is spotlighted and the girl(s) who take on this role are scapegoated so hard. but looking at it through only the lens of character motivation would ignore the thematic aspect of rgu, and this is a post about a thematic aspect of rgu. this 'failed prince' we see is...still a prince, actually, at least in some sense--akio puts on a show of attempting to reclaim the power of dios, even if he doesn't seem to actually want it. the scene of anthy and dios as children in the barn seems to suggest that what makes dios a 'failed prince' is that he was "bested by a witch", or rather that the 'witch' figure (Anthy) was seen preventing him from going out to save princesses and fulfill his purpose as a prince. but the prince is still considered a prince.

the second example we see is utena in the finale, stabbed through by anthy, lying helpless on the floor, her sword in the hands of akio (the OG failed prince). yet again, we see a prince being "bested by a witch", although in this case the witch is also the princess--utena is there, after all, to save anthy, and yet anthy is still the one to stab her in the back. in a sense, anthy is re-affirming her own witch-hood in this scene; in the very moment that she bars utena from saving her (as a princess) she becomes the witch yet again**. it is, ironically, a replication of this very same setup within a fight against the systems that maintain that setup. but utena stays a prince after she's "bested by a witch", even if she is a failed prince. she only becomes not a prince once she hauls herself up again without her sword to free anthy--she only becomes not a prince once she abandons the fight and turns her attention from fighting the system to helping its foremost victim, because in this act she stops engaging with the prince/princess setup and the related systems as a whole, and thus cannot be classified under those systems anymore.

and then we arrive at the rest of the student council. is miki a failed prince? he doesn't give up at being a prince. is juri a failed prince? she's the most distant from the dueling games, and yet she still participates. is touga a failed prince? he tried to make utena his princess, but failed in the end to defeat her in a ploy to keep her from the duel called revolution. is nanami a failed prince? she doesn't try to save anyone, not really--in fact, she's the one most ready to break rules and question things. and yet none of them really strike me as 'failed princes' in the way i'm thinking of it--miki still plays the role of prince like he's supposed to, as does touga, and juri and nanami operate outside of this framework even if they're held to it.

but finally: is saionji a failed prince? this one is more complicated. i still think of saionji's position within the narrative and social structure of Ohtori as the answer to "what's the male version of a witch?" he has several moments of seeing past the illusions of Ohtori (e.g. calling the castle a mirage in episode 1), but he still operates inside this framework of 'princes save princesses'...except. he's not cast as the prince. instead, he's cast (when we first see him) as the monster, as the thing the prince is saving the princess from. if witches attack princes, what's attacking princesses? is this our answer to 'what is the failed prince'? and yet he is also not just the monster--once he is defeated, he instead becomes the clown. he still poses a threat, and yet whenever he doesn't he's a laughingstock. this is the last evolution of the 'failed prince', the fate for any man who cannot at least appear to be doing the required things to be a prince, or who fails in an unacceptable way. a prince being "bested by a witch" garners sympathy--the witch is there to draw the ire and derision of the spectators. a prince being bested by another prince, on the other hand, becomes a laughingstock--the ire and derision of the spectators, forced to choose between two princes, focus on the 'lesser' prince. the 'failed' prince.

so: a failed princess is doomed to be a witch; a failed prince is doomed to be a clown.

*there's certainly something to be said, although i'm not sure what (or if I'm the one to say it), about how the most prominent figures of 'failed princess' and 'failed prince' in the entire show are the only two darker-skinned characters in the entire show.

**not because, necessarily, anthy likes being a witch--it's much more plausible that she did what she did because these systems of prince, princess and witch were all she knew, and that she was scared of stepping into the unknown, until utena reached out to her and gave her enough faith in other people and in herself to overcome her fear.