#the things i learn first hand after becoming a ‘content creator’

[kurishiri]

Your translation posts have over 97-100 interactions???

hii anon! ya some of em do get a lotta notes fs - i appreciate any sort of interaction, i really do. by no means am i trying to undermine ppl who lurk. and ik im a smaller translator compared to others out there too. but, perhaps bc i may have phrased it strangely (was in a car when i wrote it), i think you missed the point i was trying to make /nm

longish explanation post under cut ↓

but it’s just i sometimes cant help but think… sometimes i dont feel as motivated to tl stories that should, in all technicality, be “easier” to tl. but i was able to tl a lot of elbies main story, for example even without garnering a lotta notes. i thought abt it a lil (in fact i thought abt it quite a bit, especially after getting involved in bustin out content), and i feel part of it comes down to how interactions should be more of a two-way street than one for it to hold any sort of substantial meaning.

and ive overall come to the conclusion that its not the number that really matters; its the meaning behind each interaction.

yes, some tl posts i do may get 97, 100+ notes at times, but most of them are likes or reblogs without anything written in the post or tags. if you look at any of my tl posts, you’ll find im lucky if i even get 2, 3 comments on a tl post with 90+ notes. hell, i’ll count all my blessings if i even get a “ty for the translation” or smth similar. but comments abt the content i tl is like sure proof that someone has really read and enjoyed the story, and furthermore its smth i can interact with too. on the other hand, liking and reblogging without saying anything is still appreciated, dont get me wrong, but in the end of the day it feels really one-way.

me translating as much of elbies main story as i did (20 chptrs!) was largely in part thanks to a person who had left a comment when i posted with their thoughts on the chptr. they werent long comments, per se, but jus the fact they left a comment on chptrs with their thoughts on the events and scenes meant so much to me, it would be no exaggeration to say i probably would have dropped my rendition elbies main story tl before i hit chptr 10 if not for them. and for al’s main story tl i did, if you ask my moots in a disc server im in, they could probably tell you aaall abt how i spammed the alfons channel with tl snippets while i was still working on the project bc i loved hearing others comments abt it (arguably, i may have been fishing for them, and sure, i may have been desperate — hell, color me surprised they weren’t fed up with me haha — but without them i dont think i would have finished my rendition of al’s main story tl). but when i posted them on tmblr, most of them probably didnt exceed 40 notes. i’d be lucky if i reached 30 /lh waayy less than 90.

you’ll be surprised how much a single comment (or ask!) or whatnot can impact me… there’s probably no amount of likes that could ever outweigh the positive impact a single comment could have on me.

now of course, (1) i’m not saying i inherently expect ppl to comment on my stuff; in the end, commenting is and should really be done on one’s sole discretion. but, it seems to be a known fact among ppl especially who write fics or translate that comments r scarce, few and far in between. (2) i also tl bc i like to. i myself like to bring characters to life through translation. like, yes, it is fun in a very genuine sense. and that also plays into my motivation, but its smth i like to share with others too. multiple things do motivate me - and i think all of it needs to sort of work together for it to really work to its fullest.

[therealcocoshady]

Request please🤗: Marshall x Reader, he's extra protective of her while she's pregnant

A/N : Hey ! I know you posted that Ask a while ago but I recently found it while sorting through them, and I wrote a little blurb. I hope you like it 💕.

Shields Up

CW : Pregnancy - Mention of past miscarriage - Marshall Mathers being protective

As a public figure, you were used to rumors. You had chosen this life and you were fully aware that it came with the territory. As a content creator, your job was literally based on your ability to get people’s attention, after all. After years of hard work, you had gathered a pretty huge following and you had quickly learned that the bigger you were, the more rumors would emerge. Collaborations, alleged feuds, made-up drama and, of course, dating rumors. Nothing seemed to be off the table for the media outlets and, even though it hadn’t been easy to navigate at first, you had grown accustomed to it. In fact, most of the time, you didn’t go out of your way to confirm nor deny anything. You just focused on doing what you loved, making good content and your fans were used to you being private on some parts of your life and you were often praised for your ability to be honest, sometimes vulnerable, without giving too much away. People seemed to like the fact that you weren’t ready to commodify your privacy and your relationships for engagement and clickbait.

So, when rumors started to emerge about you dating Eminem, no one was exactly surprised that both of you stayed silent. After all, you were both known to be notoriously private, focusing on your careers and preferring that the attention remained on your work you put out. That being said, none of you got out of your way to hide the relationship either, so anyone who was looking out for subtle clues could probably find them. You followed some of his friends and family members on Instagram, were sometimes spotted to events he would perform at… It was that kind of situation of something basically being public knowledge without ever being broadcasted.

After years spend together, you were in agreement that it was better that your relationship was kept separate from your professional, public personas. Both of you were known to have a strong work ethic and, though you didn’t have any expertise in music and he didn’t understand much about content creation, you respected each other’s career too much to let your relationship overshadow anything. You knew full-well that, no matter how good you were at your jobs, some of the attention would inevitably be focused on your personal lives. Detroit being a fairly small city, it wasn’t rare for you to attend the same events as him, but you always made sure to arrive separately and not engage in PDA. At most, you’d been spotted chatting on a couple of occasions over the years, but nothing in your demeanors indicated that there was any intimacy between the two of you. Until you got pregnant, at least.

As soon as you handed him the positive pregnancy test, Marshall instantly became more protective of you. You were both overjoyed by the news. Emotional, too. Almost a year prior, you had accidentally gotten pregnant. It wasn’t planned by any means, but you both agreed to keep the baby. Sadly, you ended up miscarrying a few weeks later, still in the early first trimester. Before then, you had always said you didn’t need to raise kids to feel fulfilled, and Marshall had been pretty adamant about not wanting more kids. But the event changed everything, stirring something deep within you, and it didn’t take long before you started actively trying. The miscarriage had been a tough pill to swallow, at first, but none of you really addressed it. After all, you knew it wasn’t a rare occurence, and that these things happened. But you didn’t realized how badly it had left its marks on Marshall until you got pregnant again.

He did not become overbearing of controlling - it just wasn’t him - but there was a new, unmistakable layer of attentiveness and protectiveness. It started with him making sure you were alright throughout the day, reminding you to eat, hydrate and rest, often checking in on how you were feeling. The second you expressed any discomfort, such as fatigue or nausea, he would step in, ready to do anything to make it easier for you. The thermostat would be perfectly adjusted, the fridge always stocked with your favorite snacks and he even got some of the specific teas the doctor had recommended. Of course, he absolutely refused to have you carry anything remotely heavy - not even your oversized tote - and whenever you started talking about deadlines for your projects, he reminded you that the last thing you needed was stress.

You thought he’d keep on maintaining his distance at public events - at least as long as you kept the pregnancy hidden. However, you were proven wrong when you both attended a fundraiser for some Detroit charity. As usual, he skipped the red carpet while you did the photo call but, as soon as you were done, you spotted him, waiting for you. Usually, he’d be in some corner of the room, talking to Paul or some acquaintances, but his attention was unmistakably on you. Throughout the night, he didn’t hover or smother you, but he kept closer than usual, and when you walked through the crowded room, he guided you with a hand placed on the small of your back, shielding you from jostling bodies.

« Are you alright? » you asked quietly, to which he hummed and nodded. « You don’t have to stay so close, you know, » you gently reminded him, your tone teasing and affectionate, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. « Just looking out for you both » he murmured with a faint grin. Your heart swelled and you couldn’t help but find him adorable, so much so that it took a lot of self-control on your part not to kiss him right then and there. Instead, you simply stood there, smiling at each other. As the night event on, you were both solicited by friends and acquaintances, but you could still feel Marshall’s sharp gaze on you, scanning each and every individual that engaged with you, as if to make sure they weren’t a threat. As the night wore on, Marshall’s vigilance didn’t waver. He made sure you always had a glass of water nearby and checked in with you subtly, asking if she needed to sit or if you were getting too warm under the venue’s lights. At one point, when he noticed the press swarmed near the entrance, he positioned himself slightly in front of you, a silent barrier that made it clear you weren’t to be overwhelmed or bothered in any way. By the time you left, you were both exhausted and grateful. You expected to leave in separate cars, as you always did, but instead of sticking to the usual routine, he opened the door and helped you in. Cameras flashed, capturing the rare moment, but none of you really cared. You were simply looking forward to the perspective of heading home for some much-needed rest, and you could tell that he needed to have you close, at least for his own peace of mind.

By the next morning, the Internet was ablaze. Photos and videos from the fundraiser were everywhere, showing the two of you together in ways that left no room for ambiguity. People were notably crazy about one picture, where he could be spotted guiding you through a small crowd, one hand on your back. Twitter threads speculated wildly. « We’ve seen him with her before, but this? This is different, » one user wrote, linking to a clip of him helping her into the car. « I’m telling you, they’re not hiding it anymore.��». The speculation grew more intense with every passing hour. Was this your way of confirming the relationship? Were you going public after years of silence? Marshall, as always, ignored the noise. He spent the morning in his home studio, tinkering with beats, while you scrolled through your phone, half-amused and half-exasperated by the Internet’s obsession. You walked over, wrapping your arms around him from behind. « You know, you’re kind of bad at the whole ‘keeping a low profile’ thing lately. ». He tilted his head back, looking at you with mock indignation. « I’m just making sure you’re good. They’re the ones reading into it. » You laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. « Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty amazing. »

[ymechi]

The hidden creator

I had a plot bunny idea

TW: usual cult stuff, hints of yandere

-gn reader (I tried making it gender-neutral if there is a comment that is off please tell me and I will fix it)

EDIT: 14/11/2023 (changed some wording and other stuff nothing major)

Creator Reader Pov:

-You were just a regular person who one day woke up in Teyvat out of all places

-You realized you still had all your game features and figured it was one of the perks of being isekaied like in other isekai stories

-The whole thing is weird and why you were here, you had no idea

-After the novelty wears off you take some time mourning the loss of your previous life and the people you knew

-After that you try to get a semblance of a normal life like getting a job and trying to be independent

-Despite having a game system you do not want to be an adventurer or learn how to fight it's not for you

-You were previously an average civilian and raised as one it would be hard to become a fighter now

-Instead you gravitated towards creating things, you found an apprentice position in a clockwork shop in Fontaine

-It is fun and you get to tinker with gears and clocks, learning how various machines work and how to create your own items

-overall you are content

-Except weird people occasionally come by the shop you work at including the Iudex of Fontaine which had both you and the shopkeeper sweating the first few times

-Yet the man who insisted you call him by his name Neuvilette is really polite and nice to talk to, soon you warmed up to him

-You could not help the feeling as if you knew him from before, as if you forgot something, you were unusually fond of him.

-Your other "clients" if you could call them that were more intimidating, you had no idea what they were doing in this shop and it scared you

-The Fatui Harbringers occasionally stopped by the shop to buy a trinket or two before leaving, it honestly scared you and the thaught of running away to another nation had crossed your mind once or twice yet you liked your job and your boss and you made some good friends here so it was hard to leave

-Overall you were doing okay

-Except it seems the people here almost in a cult-like manner worship a creator that was never in the game lore

-It is said they resided in Celestia and not many people actually got to see them, not that it mattered for a nobody like you

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tsaritsa Pov:

-The Tsaritsa knew their so called creator was fake

-She knew she had to get rid of the fake creator as they and Celestia had caused irreparable damage

-Even if she had to stain her hands

-One day it happened something shifted in the earth, air, water- no the whole of Teyvat

-It happened so softly like a small snowflake landing on the ground

-She was hypnotized as if a siren was beckoning her she found you.

-You were their true creator

-You were wearing apprenticeship clothes tinkering with something in your hands and deeply concentrated

-She wondered if that is how you created the universe with careful and steady hands guiding and shaping it to your will.

-She wanted to take you away from this. . . small shop, yet she knew begrudgingly you were safe here, if anyone were to find out a sliver of your existence. . .

-You were safer hidden among mortals

-It left a bitter taste in her mouth

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Neuvilette Pov

-It just happened one day, out of the blue, he could feel it in the shift of the waters

-The way Furina shifted and turned her head unable to sit still confirmed he was not the only one feeling this

-Something happened and he had no idea what exactly happened

-There was this familiar presence this comforting feeling, ancient old instincts waking up

-He followed it without thought until he came upon an in inconspicuous clockwork shop

-He was confused but did not hesitate to step inside

-Then he saw you and everything clicked

-It was you his creator his universe his everything

-You were back

-It seems in this incarnation you were just a human

-That was fine he was oaky with that as long as you were here

-His heart ached seeing you

-He wanted to hug and ask you to never leave again to always stay by his side, for you to comfort him after what had happened and console him

-He should take you way somewhere safer somewhere better not here-

-But weren't you safer hiding among mortals, a part of his mind whispered, no one would suspect you being here even the fake (he cursed them) would not think of finding you here, if he brought you back with him it would create more attention on you

-Attention that would cause you trouble

-He left with defeat on his steps

-It was later he would met the Tsaritsa and a deal was struck

-All for your sake

[the-moon-files]

Hi! I'm kinda new here but I was hoping to leave a request or at least something to chew on. So there's this genshin sagau where the reader has a bit of a language barrier with the other characters and I was wondering if that translated over to the Linked Universe as well? Like imagine the boys finding this random person with different clothes, accessories, and they talk in a language never before heard of? What are they, some kind of eldritch being? Meanwhile reader recognizes them obviously but frustratingly can't express any feelings asides from base concepts! Man.

Some funnies include; reader voicing more thoughts out loud now that no one can really understand them and reader eventually learning the language and getting a really sick accent out of it.

That's all my tired brain can think of atm so I bid you adieu. Have a good rest of your day :)

First Official Request!! :D oh and its amazinggg, ooOOO a language barrier AU, genshin? hm wonder who wrote that

Reader wasn’t specified and ive adopted masc!reader as the normal over here, so masc reader it is 👍

Sun: Masc/Male Reader (”you”/he/him)

Orbit: EXTRA LONG Headcanons-ish/scenarios SORRY 😭, Language Barrier AU my beloved

Stars: The Classic Chain of Links <3

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: mild cussing, typical mild loz violence, & Trigger Warnings: none known.

Please comment if I missed any. /gen

so for the sake of even funnier confusion, lets say the boys kinda missed u falling thru a portal, and instead just see the portal, and it disappears w/nothing coming out

(bc u obv are a competent person and clearly recognize the giant horse head stable from Breath of the Wild and went inside, like to orient urself, u will NOT be a Y/N damsel in distress 💀)

the boys had already been heading to that stable to sleep for the night, and needless to say, u nearly have a fit LMAO

first, the Hero of Time walks in, then the Link from Hyrule Warriors, then from Link’s Awakening? Breath of the Wild/Tears of the Kingdom Link?? Wind Waker Link, Four Sword Link??? The original Legend of Zelda Link-!!!!

well at least u arent the only weirdly dressed person there

(well, u arent weird looking for the hylians in the stable, theyre used to this weird shit, but the Chain of heroes on the other hand…)

they get to observing their bunkmates for the night, subtly squinting at you, then turning to talk to each other, and slowly every link gets made aware of ur prescense, u didnt think u stood out that bad..

(”くいんね しら んらな すいそらきみについ ちみん らは かくちか まいていりすん はすらも んらなす いすち・”) *

it also quickly becomes obvious to every traveler in the stable that you either cant speak, or wont speak, as when ur exchanging money for rupees at the front desk, the owner is accommodating with you by pointing and grunting and ur just nodding and pointing back

well, its not like when u first greeted the guy u understood even a single thing the guy said, it sounded like some sub-dialect of Japanese or something

u had realized earlier with horror that the game was staying true to its creators, and that most likely everyone spoke a special version of Japanese and ur English ass was abt to be so lonely and confused 😭

Wars/Time/Sky/Four in particular clearly noticed u exchanging all ur currency, as u can see them whispering or glancing at you occasionally as u pocket ur now little green gems the size of coins, rather than strip of paper

(”しにし くい まなとかるるる みらか くちひい すなせいいと・ てくら しらいとみゃか くちひい すなせいいと・ かくちか くちとみゃか すいちりりん そくちみきいし らひいす かくい いすちとね くちと にか てにりし・”)

and the boys move on in the morning, and its acc torture for u bc u had no idea how to even begin to quell their suspicions enough to let you travel along with them

u think u could say u came out a portal, but.. how would tell them that? drawing pictures in the dirt?? 💀

and this just keeps happening.

even when u just try to admire from a distance or even outright just leave them to it and go off to explore Hyrule (as safe as u could after acquiring a weapon and some more clothes)

but its like fate (or maybe Hylia tbh) wants u to run into these legendary heroes (both kinda in ur world and definitely here) constantly

after the stable u manage to run into them in Kakariko Village, which wasnt crazy bc u needed more supplies, and it was the nearest town to the stable

ur sure they noticed, but u outright avoided them out of paranoia or making them paranoid u were following them, and u definitely saw who you thought was the hero of the Four Sword whisper about u as u walked by, not that u caught much

(”るるるかくちかゃと かくい とちもい とかすちみきいほりららのにみき きなん はすらも かくい とかちこりいる てい とくらなりし のいいせ ちみ いんい らみ くにもる”)

but you’d started to recognize some Japanese words! …and tbh anime is the only reason for that, something definitely like “watch, him” 💀

which rlly didnt make u feel any better, and u avoided them even harder, u bought a map, so u made sure to head in the opposite direction of them out of, lets be honest, kinda lowkey fear of what theyd do if they thought u were stalking them

but despite u trying to actively go away from them, either you, or them, would show up everywhere the other went,

you passed by Wind playing in the water in Zora’s Domain,

Twilight riding Epona around the plains in Central Hyrule, Sky hanging laundry outside Wild’s house in Hateno

Honest-to-fucking-god seeing Wars, Wild, and Legend all crossdress to sneak into Gerudo village- u cant fucking escape them-

and the worst part is, you cant understand anyone, other than some basic words atp 😭

its as the Chain come from a path that merges onto yours on the way to Rito Village when Legend snaps first

You’re not even surprised, tbh it was more surprising it took them so long 💀

(”にかゃと んらな!! ちきちにみ!!! てくん ちすぃ んらな はらりりらてにみき なと・ くらて ちすぃ んらな はらりりらてにみき なと・・ くらて ちすぃ てぃ はらりりらてにみき んらな・・!!”)

the look on ur face must have drawn some pity from Twilight bc he’s trying to talk Legend out of his yelling and pointing his sword at you,

(”ひいか そちりも しらてみ! りにのい んらな とちにしね に かくにみの ていゃひい ちりとら とらもいくらて こいいみ はらりりらてにみき かくいも からら!”)

Wars joins in, giving you a confused look, before talking to the group at large, most of which have their hands near their weapons, but dont look that inclined to use them, thank the fucking gods or whoever rules over Hyrule-

(”かくい すちみそくいす くちと ち せらにみかね かくにと すいいのと らは もちきにそ ちみし にゃも となすい にかゃと くんりにちゃと しらにみきる てい とくらなりし まなとか かすん から かちりの から かくいもね といい には かくいんゃすい いさせいすにいみそにみき ちみんかくにみき とかすちみきいる”)

oh no. they want to talk you, you barely picked out in their argument

Time nods in agreement, before stepping forward to talk first, you cant even imagine how anxious u look rn lol

(”かくい らかくいすと ちすい すにきくかね かくにと にと りらみき らひいすしないる もん みちもい にと かにもいね ちみし かくいとい ちすい もん かすちひいりにみき そらもせちみにらみとね ちと にゃも となすい んらなゃひい きちかくいすいし はすらも なと すなみみにみき にみから いちそく らかくいす とら もなそくる てくちかゃと んらなす みちもい・”)

why has Hylia forsaken you. what did you do to not receive some sort of fancy natural translator power in ur brain or something after getting portaled here, its the least she could do for fucks sake- talking to someone in a diff. language is SO much harder than just listening to them to understand what theyre saying-

you desperately try to recall the words people have said at stables and whatnot when introducing themselves, before they realized you couldnt speak the same language

(”Uh… もん みちもい にと… and I’m not following you…とらすすん”)

you just try to say ur name and then say sorry LMAO 😭

Nearly every Link is staring at you bug-eyed in shock, confusion, and understanding all at once

the Chain’s attitude changes pretty quick after that, and they quickly connect the dots after, yes, u do a drawing of a portal in the dirt 💀

u gather from the few words u can get that it was indeed magic (probably Hylia) that kept shortcutting you and the group of heroes together over and over again

…

she can move your position in space time and yet she cant get u an auto-translator after being forced to be here.

(in the middle of u drawing to communicate Hyrule manages to understand the gist of what you meant by that and laughs)

the Chain are quick to be very accomdating, Wars/Sky/Wild all offering to try and better teach u their language, but in return they want to learn yours?

actually, that was smth u noticed pretty early on in the ensuing weeks of travel, was the fascination they had w/English and ur voice??

Wind constantly rambled at you and poked and smiled at you to try and get you to ramble back, and after getting more comfortable around them,

u start to talk like they cant understand a word ur saying, which is entirely accurate, and you notice some like to lean in when you talk, or respond with humming/saying smth like u can understand, or even just gesture for u to keep going

Four/Time/Legend?? surprisingly/Hyrule/Twilight like when u get rlly talkative like ur having a one-sided convo w/them all the time, and they constantly are looking at you poinetedly to hear u narrate whatever ur doing or give a response whenever they same something at you (Rulie/Four/Twi/ and sometimes Time, (and he turns away but Legend too) give a little smile whenever you ramble)

Wild is Very Interested in your langauage, bc the Zora, Rito, Gerudo, and Gorons all had their native tongue that he ended up learning, and so he constantly makes notes to try and decipher some of what ur saying in English

he lights up anytime ur able to successfully tell him another something abt it, like the alphabet, or grammar or structure etc

they seem to pay attention esp in the mornings or late at night? ur not sure why until Wind both draw pictures and tries to get the general idea to you to explain

(”かくいんゃすい ちりり きちんる んらなす ちそそいみか にと くらか ちみし んらなす ひらにそい にと しいいせる かくいんゃすい ていちのる”)

smth abt ur voice being nice? deep? but theirs do that too? u dont get it, but thank him anyway

they also help u out at markets, keep out of trouble w/locals, and other misc tasks that need some language help

everythings going great, the Chain trusts you, ur getting better at their language every day, and bc English is one of the hardest languages to learn in the world, theyre slowly getting some of urs!

it isnt until ur camping out in the Temple of Time when things get weird again

Not only is there English carved into the walls, which u read as the Chain give u “explain now” looks and u communicate that the rlly ancient looking script they may or may not be able to read is, in fact, the written version of ur language-

but then another portal opens, and there’s sentences wrapped around the edges, which are fully in English too.

☆

* = hint: JIS

So i love ciphers for language barrier AUs, so have a cypher! have fun decoding it if u like, but don’t worry abt translating it, as its purposefully not important for u to enjoy this :)

JFC IM SO SORRY AB THE LENGTH I WROTE THIS FROM MIDNIGHT TO LIKE 1:30 AM- UGH sometimes this happens when i get on a scenario kick, SORRY 😭😭

also so sorry abt late reply! at least i already established im slow w/u guys so ig its not a huge surprise 😭

tysm for the request it was such a fun idea to write abt :D

i also like genshin, just a little bit u could say, so it was cool to see this carryover across fandoms lol

language barrier is so versatile, could be angst, crack, etc. so that makes sense

have a great weekend!!

Peace out,

🌙

[peachy-writings]

PARADOX | Viktor AU Pt. 1

Summary: Reader receives the shock of their life when Viktor essentially materializes into their world, forever altering their version of reality as he tries to get back to his own.

Content Tags: Gender neutral reader with They/Them pronouns (no use of Y/N), Kinda follows S2 Pt. 2 canon, Angsty, Vi and Jayce deceased in this universe, Strangers to Friends?

Note: May become a series, or at least a 2-parter if people like it!

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Sulfur.

That tang has always sprinkled pockets of air in the Undercity, to the extent that those dwelling within barely take notice anymore. Therefore, when you do, it takes you by surprise. You glance around the room, troubled. Had the ventilation system halted? Or worse—had Piltover’s best decided to poison your already polluted oxygen with sewage, or something similarly offensive? And then a sharp, metallic singe punches you square in the nose. So sudden that your eyes squash shut, overwhelmed.

After taking a moment to reorient, you are shocked by the sight of a man scorched onto the coarse floorboards of your shabby homestead. Like a meteor had cannoned through the building, but a cursory glance upward reveals no such destruction.

Even more curious is the man’s appearance; he is a sinewy splat, draped in a white robe, crumpled on his side and perfectly pristine. Despite the edges of his garment and the surrounding space having been kissed with char. Mahogany tresses cover most of his pale face, shifting over sharp peaks as he stirs to consciousness. All the while, you are struck statuesque with bewilderment and a whisper of utter captivation.

How?

Who?

Why?

The stranger groans, a hand coming up to soothe his head that must be pounding from such a sudden entrance. Amber eyes blink open slowly into a squint. Confusion, then some kind of realization has his eyes widening when they meet your own. Your expression must match his as the two of you scrutinize one another, a pregnant pause scribbling the walls of your mind with even more questions that you cannot fathom one single answer to.

“Tell me…” He breaks the silence with an accent that tells you he is a Zaunite, in spite of such an odd appearance for this origin. “Do you know who I am?”

“No,” you reply softly, cautiously. And then your walls come up, as though your subconscious punches an internal panic button. No matter how otherworldly this materialization has been, this is still a stranger. “You better explain whatever the hell this is before I manually eject you from my home.”

A nimble hand reaches for the nearest weapon: a knife you’d left out on the counter to be washed. In his direct line of sight, you hold the flat of the blade against your thigh, posed to get rid of any threat quickly and efficiently.

“There is no need for that.” He says your name. Your real, given name. You almost don’t react since it’s been eons since the last time you’ve heard it said aloud. That hand at your side clenches the hilt of the blade—Not in anger, but petrification. “You don’t seem to know me in this timeline. I promise I am not here to hurt you, but to ask for your help. You are the only person I can trust.”

“How do you know my name, and what do you mean by in this timeline?” You take a step backward, bumping into the counter and jolting when the rough surface meets your clammy skin.

“I will answer all of your questions, but first,” he clears his throat. “May I have some water?”

Viktor is the name of your unexpected guest. This is the first thing you learn about him, after he drains two full glasses of water. The second piece of information you glean is that he is a scientist from another version of your world. A version in which you knew one another. In fact, the two of you were co-creators of a scientific breakthrough in his world with Jayce, another man you don’t know. Supposedly, this creation led him to end up here, on the other side of your dining table, looking as if he has been through hell and back.

While it is an interesting anecdote, you still do not trust that he isn’t someone sent by the heathens that haunt your past. How can you even believe something so utterly improbable? Does this man take you as a fool?

“If you are who you say you are, from where you say you’re from, how can I know that? How can I know what your intentions are? That little magic trick was impressive, but if you’re a minion of my father’s, I will find you out and you won’t be leaving in one piece.” You begin in an even tone, but work yourself up to a growl by the time the last words rattle from your mouth.

A small smile quirks the left side of his mouth upward. Fed up, you plant the tip of your knife into the table in the blink of an eye. “Your time is up.”

“Wait! I can prove it,” Viktor sputters, shock widening those gemlike eyes. “You cannot stand the way looking into deep water makes you feel. You have a need to protect those weaker than you, especially if they are children. And one of your dreams is to be able to ride in one of those fancy carriages the wealthy do, no matter how much you despise them.”

Your stomach churns, nauseous from the fact that all he said is true, even the truths that solely live in the back of your mind, never voiced to another soul. He explained himself perfectly— The how, the why, and the who— but you have great trouble comprehending that what he says could be— No, it is true. It has to be, right?

Is he attempting to disarm you so that he can kill you? No. The man could barely stand and make his way across the room to his chair. He is weak. He is begging you for help. And worst of all, he knows another you. That fact makes you feel as though you stand in front of him exposed. He has all of the power, even though you could take him out in seconds.

“What are your intentions?” You finally ask after a good few minutes trapped in lip nibbling thought.

“I am determined to get back to my world, with your help of course.” His tone is so annoyingly matter-of-fact, it brings out some of the bitterness you’ve been attempting to wrangle since he first said your name.

“And how am I supposed to help you? Clearly I’m no big scientist in this world!” Frustration is the way you naturally cope with all of this.

“That is fine, but you still harbor a love for inventing, do you not? Over there.” He points to a shelving unit on the other side of your living space. “That was your favorite creation: A simple device perhaps, but it works as a security system for the community, to warn children and the weak of impending danger. Your city would be left vulnerable without your work.”

That crude little contraption is, in fact, your proudest work. A vaguely cat-like creature that joins two wires when provoked, to make a noise the whole town can hear. To give the people enough of a warning to protect what they hold dear… If only there was someone in your hometown that had such a thought. Maybe you would have ended up in Piltover with your version of Viktor. Maybe things would have been different.

A deal is finally struck after hours of slow conversation. The two of you sit at that table until you can hear his stomach growl, and his expression screams exhaustion. Over a meal you almost burn in your distracted state, you agree to try to help him. But in exchange, he must answer all of your questions about the other version of yourself.

He agrees, of course, but not without a warning that some things are better left unknown. That flying too high does, in fact, come with grave consequences. You can only imagine the horrors those tired eyes have seen. A man beyond his years, steeped in tragedy, from a world that seems a whole lot better than yours. How so? You must know, even if it destroys you.

First thing on the agenda is to get Viktor equipped with a cane or crutch and some regular clothes. You learn of his disability and the impact growing up in the lower levels of Zaun has taken on his overall health. As he tells you more about his life, you wonder if the two of you could have been friends if you’d bumped into each other organically. Even though he has an irritating air of knowing what you do not, something about the way he looks at you makes you feel… odd. You mull this over as you browse the town market for the items on your shopping list.

Kids run between peoples legs, causing a man to fall on his ass and yell after them. They laugh and sprint faster with reckless abandon. A woman with a large basket of goods spins gracefully to save herself from the same fate, giggling as she adjusts her grip. The smells of the street food and perfumes and the people fill you with a sense of pride in your environment. A moment of peace amongst the absolute shitstorm that awaits you back home.

Last night, you were unable to get much rest with a virtual stranger on your couch. The lack of sleep as well as all that you’ve gleaned from the sudden appearance of Viktor has left you pensive. Your hand skates over the fabric of a plain shirt and you wonder what he usually wears, how he would look in something more familiar to you. It isn’t lost on you that this man is attractive, and his attentive attitude toward you leaves room to wonder just how close he was to the other you. You could see yourself falling for him, maybe in a different life. A fleeting thought that causes you to chuckle under your breath. There is no time for such thoughts, never has been.

A slightly banged up, but still fine-looking, cane catches your eye and you immediately inquire about it. It would cost nearly the rest of the coins in your pouch, the money you need to use for food. You stand dumbly in front of the grizzly man that runs the small shop off the top of beaten up tables, a hand on your chin as you go over your options. All the while, the man in front of you looks unamused at your indecision.

As he goes to spew some most likely unkind commentary, you hear a familiar voice bellow from behind you. “What’cha doing at the market? I never see you here.”

“Powder!” You chirp in surprise as your blue haired friend rounds you, peering curiously at the cane sat atop the table.

“What the hell do you need this for?” She considers the object, not paying any mind to the vendor as she holds it in front of one eye, mimicking peering through a telescope. “Some kind of sex thing, huh? Always knew you were a bit…” She makes an inappropriate gesture that shocks you into temporary silence.

“Whatever,” you disregard, gently prizing the item from her sly hands. You sigh as you roll it up and down your palms. There is no doubt it was made well, with consideration for anyone who may need it. “I was just trying to decide if it was worth the coins.”

“Ah, I see. Old man Harry’s marking up his goods again?” One pointed look from her has the aforementioned scrambling to explain himself, but she interrupts him. “How much did you get this for?”

“Well, you see, I- I didn’t buy it, so much as acquire it,” he splutters.

Powder hums. “And so you’re gonna make our people pay out the ass for some stolen goods?” She shakes her head, scolding him with a simple motion.

“Fine, I’ll lower the price.“ He chuckles nervously. “And tell Vander I say ‘Hi’.”

“With pleasure!” Powder remarks, her infectious smile beaming at him as she drops a small fraction of your coins into his open palm.

The two of you swiftly exit the area with all of your items stuffed into a rough, burlap pouch. The cane hangs safely from the strap, rhythmically thudding against your leg as you rush forward. Powder is hot on your heels, no matter how hard you try to lose her on the way home. She is relentless as always, too inquisitive for your own good.

Shit, she can’t see Viktor, you think. But there is no stopping her once a seed is planted in her head.

“You gotta tell me what all this is for, c’monnnnn,” she whines as you arrive at your doorstep.

“I’ll talk to you later, I just have a lot to do and it’s all so boring, you should just—“

With no consideration for your privacy, your friend bursts into the front door. Viktor is in plain view of the doorway, sitting on your grungy couch with a book poised in one hand. His eyes widen at the sudden invasion, taking in your embarrassment and then focusing solely on Powder.

“Ha! I knew it was a sex thing,” she exclaims, all the while you attempt to push her out of the door, talking over her in an attempt to distract from her brash exclamation.

“You.” Viktor’s voice is barely audible, but the iciness to it causes pause for both you and Powder. He scrambles for something, eventually landing on a glass vase that he holds as if to defend himself.

As you look between the two, it clicks that something must have happened between them in Viktor’s original world. Now is not the time for theorizing though. The energy in the room is building and you must get Powder out of here. A protective feeling overpowers you as Viktor glares at the girl.

“Jinx,” he spits at her, then he turns to you. “Why did you bring her here?”

“Whoa, okay. Chill out. What the hell did I do?” Powder’s hands fall onto her hips and her bottom lip pokes out in a provoking manner.

“She’s dangerous, get her away from me!”

“Wow, your boyfriend’s being rude—“

“He’s just a friend,” you grit out, nearly seething now. A harsh inhale through your nose. “Listen, Powder, I need you to leave. I’ll explain later, but things are complicated and I need some time. Please understand.”

She is silent for a moment before scoffing and quickly leaving, slamming the door behind her. A frustrated groan escapes you and your knuckles kiss the rough wall paneling.

Your gaze lands on Viktor. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” You throw the bag of clothes and the cane at his feet. The things you’d spent your hard earned coin on. “She’s not dangerous, she’s a nice fucking girl.”

“That girl is a terrorist in my world, responsible for countless deaths. Jinx—“

“Stop calling her that!” You scream, every muscle within you coiling up with rage. “She is the sweetest person I know. Do you know how much she’s gone through? How many times I’ve had to pick her back up after the guilt of her sister’s death nearly destroyed her?!”

You rant on about that day, about how early on Powder learned the value of life and kindness. When their little group showed up at The Last Drop without Vi, three kids in tears, all covered in soot, you made a promise to yourself and Vi that you would take care of her little sister. Claggor and Mylo were never remotely attentive to her, Vander and Silvio had their own things going on, and Ekko was just a child himself. It had to be you.

“… Violet. She is dead?”

Another sharp look from you wounds Viktor as you snap, “How do you know Vi?”

Viktor runs a hand over his face, appearing even more exhausted than you know him to look. “Things are so different here,” he whispers to the floorboards beneath his feet.

Heavy breaths turn calm as you watch him, clearly having a hard time adapting to this place. You can acknowledge that this must be like a weird dream to him. Hell, if you were in his place, in a timeline different than yours, you would most likely lose your mind. Two long breaths.

In.

And out.

“Listen. This is a whole lot to take in, for the both of us, but I think laying out a few ground rules and giving each other the benefit of the doubt would be very good for us. If we intend to get along and get you home.”

“Home.” Viktor nods slowly. “I think you are right.”

“Anyway,” you nudge the bag you tossed at him earlier with the toe of your boot. “I got you these.”

He notices the cane and gains the first genuine smile you’ve seen out of him, mumbling something about feeling like himself again. Quietly, you observe as he tests it out, getting used to its assistance after a few steps and then giving the object a little nod of approval.

He looks over to you with an unearned softness that irks you just a bit. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. Just some things to help you blend in and get around,” you brush off, scooping the bag up and handing it to him. “Get changed. We have a lot to do.”

When Viktor returns from getting freshened up, you find yourself taken aback. Replacing the man with scraggly tresses and a tattered robe, is a completely new person. He has tied up the top half of his shoulder length hair, and you notice the blond underlayer for the first time. The look softens his striking features, and accompanied by the casual style of clothing you picked out—a long sleeved yellow shirt tucked into some straight legged brown slacks—it looks as though he will fit in quite well now.

“Lookin’ good,” you comment offhandedly, looking him over and mentally patting yourself on the back.

You catch a faint redness painting his cheeks before he turns away from you, fiddling with the cane. An oddly nervous innervation wraps around him for a moment, and you choose to ignore whatever is going on with him. There is a mission you must complete. The sooner you finish it, the sooner you will be rid of this man.

“So, how do we get you back?”

What a simple question for something so complicated that it may nearly be impossible.

“We will have to go to Piltover and talk to Jayce. He is a friend, one of the only people who will understand this situation and be able to help us,” Viktor supplies after clearing his throat.

Simple enough. Although you hate going up there, you follow his lead, creating a plan and mapping out where exactly this Jayce guy lives so you can get in without raising too much suspicion. A quick meal, some supplies from a couple trusted merchants, and you’re off.

Viktor and you begin the journey through the undercity, to the elevator that will spit you out on the opposite side of the river from Piltover. It is silent from the moment you exit your place, until Viktor dares to cut the odd atmosphere.

“I may sound crazy, but I missed walking through these streets,” he muses offhandedly, eyes taking in every little detail on your path through Zaun’s city streets. As amusing as this is to watch, it is dangerous nonetheless.

“Don’t act like a tourist, unless you’d enjoy getting your ass kicked. Or worse.”

Almost as if on cue, the two of you round a corner and nearly bump into somebody. You are initially ready to square up, but then you spot a familiar head of choppy, blue hair.

“Powder, what are you doing this far out?” Your tone is scolding, but your hands grasp her forearms protectively, having stopped her from tumbling over.

You feel Viktor’s hand on your bicep, tugging you backward, away from Powder as if on instinct. It pisses you off just a bit, scratching at the just barely scabbed over wound that was the last interaction you all had. You must center yourself, remembering the agreement of peace that came into place right after all the theatrics. He should remember too, though. His hand falls from you when you move out of his grasp to the side, freeing your hands and standing between the two.

“I could ask you guys the same thing.” Powder’s arms cross over her chest, hip cocked out in a defiant, and admittedly petulant, stance.

“Uh, we were just going out,” you explain, half-honest.

“So you are together!” A shit eating grin causes your eyes to roll. “You should’ve just been honest from the start, instead of rudely kicking me out.” She punctuates the statement by sticking her tongue out in the direction of Viktor.

Quick on your feet, you decide to go along with this narrative. It’ll be easier to get out of this quickly without involving her in this mess. “Sorry, Powder. You know I’m not the most… open person, and Viktor here was just confused. He thought you were someone else. Isn’t that right, babe?”

“Mm. Yes, of course. I do apologize, Miss Powder,” Viktor quickly plays along.

Powder hums and accepts the shitty explanation in all her victory. She values being right over being alert.

“Well, where are you going? Somewhere fancy, I bet.”

“I can’t afford fancy, but—“ Viktor cuts you off.

“But, I want to show them some beautiful spots I’ve come across in the uppercuts. The sky is so beautiful there, when I first saw it I was in awe.”

It’s your turn to become struck off guard and Powder giggles excitedly.

“Oh, I see. Treat them well, or I will find you and kill you.” She says it in an overly matter-of-fact manner that is clearly humorous, but the way Viktor’s eyes narrow lets you know that he isn’t trusting of the girl at all.

It is true that the sky is beautiful in Piltover. The way the fluffy clouds dapple the rich blue backdrop is breathtaking. Yet there is no time for sight seeing. Viktor is leading you straight to your destination with the vigor of somebody who is late. You know he’s trying to get back to his timeline and all, but his urgency leaves you a little on edge.

Finally, you reach the outside of an apartment building and he stops dead in his tracks, focusing on a giant hole in the space where you can only assume a very nice penthouse used to lie. Viktor begins mumbling to himself, something about the explosion still happening but a something-core can’t exist here because— he stops and turns to you.

“Something is wrong here. We must make another stop, but first I would like to investigate.”

He suggests that you stay outside, but there’s no way in hell you’re doing that. You stick with him and end up in front of a gate at the base of a staircase within. Locked. Viktor curses in defeat after rattling the barred door. You scoff at his simplicity, grabbing a set of lock picking tools from your pocket and instructing him to keep watch. Upon seeing your rolodex of tools, he is baffled, but then a smile develops on his face. He is impressed.

Upstairs, you come upon a memorial outside the door the two of you seek out. Viktor freezes for a moment, closes his eyes and sighs. He places a hand atop the one already resting on his cane, the weight of this revelation leaving him physically laden. You inspect the display and spot the name Jayce Talis.

Realization instantly hits. The man with the answers is dead. More so, Viktor’s friend doesn’t exist here. Hesitantly, you place a hand on his shoulder and he squeezes his eyes shut harder, lips pressing together. A long silence before he turns to you.

Voice just above a whisper, eyes still cast downward, he says, “I hate to ask for more of you, but would you happen to have anything to add to the memorial? It would mean a great deal to me.”

You slowly nod, shucking off your bag and finding a pretty rock you collected on the way over here. You place it near an unlit candle on the polished floor, gentle and with care. The heaviness somehow extends to you and wraps around the both of you for the time that you spend in that hallway.

“We must continue,” Viktor finally says, gesturing to the door. You try the handle and find the wooden slab barely attached to its hinges. It swings open and then adjusts to its weight, hinges squeaking before it settles on the floor permanently.

Viktor waits outside for a moment, eyes cast downward, and you wait to go further until he joins you at the threshold. Fragments of a blue gem embedded in the wall are collected and placed in a stray vile you find on the floor. It is difficult to maneuver the place. It looks as though there was an explosion that blasted the hole through the outside wall.

Some effort to clean up afterward was made, but you notice some blood spatter on the floor and wall. Your skin crawls, and you wonder if this incident could be connected with Vi’s death. From the little Powder has filled you in about that day, you are able to spot connections within the little details here and there. Your heart sinks and you halt your imagination from going any further. As soon as you get what is needed, you rush to get out of there, Viktor in tow with the same sentiment.

That secondary destination Viktor spoke of is Piltover Academy. You ask many questions about why you’re here exactly, and Viktor feeds you continuously bland answers. All you can glean is that you seek a person that will be in the courtyard shortly. Viktor has memorized their schedule, so they must’ve been close in his world. You hope, for his sake, that they actually appear.

And they do. The person in question is a professor: Cecil Heimerdinger. You’ve heard of the Yordle inventor in passing, word of his contributions to Piltover reaching even the far sides of Zaun. Enough to know that he is a highly respected scientist, and you deduce that this is why Viktor was so insistent on finding him.

Viktor gets straight to the point, spilling his guts about traveling to another dimension and wanting to get back to his original timeline. He speaks of the crystal fragments you gathered, how they have the potential to create a machine capable of taking him back.

“This is very much feasible with the correct mechanics, I am quite impressed,” the professor remarks, a hand on his chin as he mentally scrutinizes the possibilities. His eyes then land on you. “And who is this friend?”

A pregnant pause. Viktor stares at you for an uncomfortably long time before speaking. “This is my only ally here, a co-creator of the technology I speak of… They were also my significant other in my original world.”

This is news to you, and the way Viktor tears his gaze away from you tells you that he didn’t want to divulge this information. But why? What difference would it have made in this whole affair? The unearned affectionate glances and his shyness around your compliments all make sense now.

“Oh, I see. How poetic that they should lend a kind hand to you here as well,” Heimerdinger muses.

Viktor hums, looking lost in thought. You remain silent, ruminative for the rest of this interaction. The Yordle agrees to lend one of the university’s labs to the two of you, with the condition that he oversees your work. He connects the explosion at the apartment with the gem fragments and notes the dangers of the operation. While he is wary of such a conquest, he seems almost tickled by the prospect.

An appointment is made for Viktor and you to return tomorrow. At that time, you’ll receive the keys to a lab and the consent to invent… A magical machine, you suppose. You just hope this endeavor doesn’t take too long. You have already grown tired of the friction Viktor is causing in your personal life.

On the long journey home, a thought you’ve had since you heard Viktor’s confession spills from your mouth before you can hold it back any longer. “If we were together in your world, why did you tell me you hadn’t seen me in a while when you—appeared here?”

“I don’t wish to discuss that at the moment. It has been a long day,” Viktor responds, voice rough with his exhaustion.

You let it lie, for now at least. He promised to tell you all that you ask, and you intend to hold him to it. A quiet meal and a few more words are exchanged before bed. Tomorrow, more answers await the two of you. You can’t help how heavy you feel after today, or what to think of Viktor’s unwillingness to divulge the truth about your other self. It must be more than a simple falling out, or a breakup.

What could have happened to the other you? Could he have hurt you? You don’t think so, but the guilt behind his eyes makes you uneasy. Once again, the night is restless with too many unanswered questions. You will get to the bottom of this, but will you regret it when you do?

Viktor’s haunting anecdote rings in your mind all night.

Some things are better left unknown.

• next chapter here

Viktor nation! It is done!!! Please leave me your thoughts, I would really appreciate it :) The huge, positive response to the preview post motivated me to get this done quicker than I thought I could. Anyway, thanks for reading, I appreciate every single one of you 💕

[coatree]

So I do some writing on the side and recently a couple friends of mine started making this DND style AU about their WL/SOL/CTM maps, I’ve, accidentally, become obsessed with this AU and figured I’d put some writing on here for fun

These were made with a one time pass through as a fan of the AU, if you want to learn more about it, most of the content of this AU and its basics are here, and spread through out Lew’s blog. it’s creators are Lew (Ellery), CJ (Syyrin). Smurg (Flint), Chris (Iscariot), and Maruu (Mar).

Please check it out. They have made me insane about this. There is so much art and things I will post because of them.

Card Games

“You ever play cards before?” Iscariot blinked out of his half-asleep state and glanced over to Flint, who was waving around a small box in his hands. Iscariot looked to the box, noticing the similarities to something he had seen some of the other people in the cult hold onto whenever it was a particularly long day. He blinked back to reality when he remembered Flint was waiting for an answer.

“Uh, no.” Iscariot said bluntly, recalling that no one ever really offered to teach him cards. It made sense to him, he wasn’t supposed to show weakness, and play was a form of weakness. It may have been a good way to pass time, but it was never, well, in the cards.

“Really??” Flint said, sitting up straighter with his face shifting to confusion. “Not even Crazy Eights? Go Fish? Poker??” Flint pushed, only getting closer to Iscariot as the man shook his head and leaned back in response. Flint huffed and sat back, opening the box and pulling out a stack of cards.

Flint shuffled the cards in front of Iscariot, confusing the hell out of him, before the deck was placed on the grass in between the two, and cards were being given to him. He held the cards gently, not trying to put a hole in them, as Flint held his own row of cards, looking up at him with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“So first, I’m going to teach you the easy basic card game, Go Fish. You can play this anywhere at any time basically, no matter what cards you have, as long as you have a full deck.” Flint started. Iscariot listened closely, not wanting to mess up what Flint deemed the “easy basic card game”. While every inch in his body told him that he shouldn’t be playing games, the other parts of him said that he should at least give it a shot, and he shouldn't back down from a challenge.

So, he started playing Go Fish. He slowly got the hand of it, sometimes fumbling his cards, or messing up the names of the suits, but overall he wasn’t terrible. He had even won a couple of times. After the fifth game, Syyrin came over and joined in, wanting to play as well after she saw the two “having fun”, which Iscariot wanted to protest. but he bit his tongue.

Eventually, Mar also came over, deciding to join the game. She made it her life mission to target Iscariot, obviously, with her one goal being to make Iscariot lose at any opportunity. And yet, despite all that, Iscariot felt… something weird. It wasn’t what he usually knew, it felt new, fresh, it was similar to a feeling he got when Ellery…

Whatever. Regardless, it was peaceful, calming, and-

“Can I join too?”

Iscariot’s breath caught in his throat, he turned to look at Ellery who was looking at them all playing cards with an expression Iscariot couldn’t place. He didn’t get a chance to say anything before Flint lit up

“Yeah! Of course! Here, after this game we’ll get you some cards.” Flint spoke excitedly, the group watching as Ellery sat between Mar and Iscariot. He watched the rest of the game, Syyrin won, and held the cards that Flint handed to him

Iscariot was fine. He could be fine. Being so close to Ellery was perfectly fine. It was just, a normal, card game. There was no reason for the pit of guilt to-

“How do I play?” Ellery asked. It was a seemingly normal question, something that anyone would possibly ask, but the way Flint and Syyrin’s faces dropped at Ellery’s question, only made the pit inside Iscariot grow.

“You- you don’t know how to play?” Syyrin asked, to which Ellery shook his head.

“Did I?” Ellery asked again, confused as he stared at Syyrin and Flint.

The space went silent, the cracking of the fire and the rush of wind being the only noise heard. Iscariot, however, could only hear his heartbeat, the loud, drumming sensation of his heartbeat as Flint and Syyrin looked devastated, and Ellery realized why. The new feeling he felt earlier vanished without a trace, falling into the deep pit of guilt that took its regular place in his gut.

He stood, dropping his cards on the grass before stepping back, causing the others to look at him.

“I will… check around the area. Play without me.” Iscariot mumbled, heading over to his weapon and grabbing it before vanishing into the woods, leaving behind the stares of the other four as Flint once again taught someone how to play Go Fish.

[belit0]

I have a little different request than the usual pace and content of this page but i hope you would do it 🩷

Idk if you have watched boruto but if you did , can you write Indra + All the Uchiha's being reanimated by Sarada to use the power of their mangekyou sharingan against Eida's senryugan and cast a powerful genjutsu to return things back to normal ? How would things unfold ? How would they react ? Esp for Shisui and Itachi after learning that their lovely little brother have grown up and has a daughter...🥲🥹😭

~🥥 anon

I don't watch Boruto. I can't tolerate it, as a diehard Uchiha fan, I can't tolerate it.

I tried the first few chapters until Sasuke reappeared and I literally disliked it so much that I'd rather act like it doesn't exist. The fact that Sarada knows absolutely nothing about her lineage, where she comes from, her predecessors, the creator of the clan, the fourth war where her ancestors defied death itself, HER UNCLE FOR GOD'S SAKE HER UNCLE! I had to do some research in order to answer this, and it is done to the best of my ability. I hope it is correct.

I have no idea what's going on now, but did Sarada learn about her clan? Or is she still absolutely ignorant of her family's past?

(PS: there are many details that I don't remember exactly about each one's eyes at the moment of their death, the last time I re-watched naruto was 2 years ago, so there may be some mistake).

The first thing Indra registers upon awakening is summoning.

A summoner.

A force daring to pull him back from the abyss of time.

His form materializes in the present, body reconstructed by the unnatural force of the Reanimation Jutsu, and his eyes—his ancient, indomitable eyes—snap open.

He is not alone.

Beside him, Madara’s presence is undeniable, radiating power even in this mockery of resurrection.

Izuna follows, always at his brother’s side.

And then, the newer generations—Obito, Shisui, Itachi—all bound to the same forced return.

They do not speak, not at first.

The gravity of their summoning presses down upon them, their revived eyes scanning the warped reality that stretches before them.

A world distorted, rewritten by a power none of them have ever encountered.

And then—they see her.

A girl.

Standing before them, her small frame rigid with defiance, the unmistakable Uchiha fire burning behind her glasses.

Their eyes lock, and in that instant, they understand.

She is the one who called them.

Itachi's sharp inhale is the first sound among them, his hand flexing instinctively.

His gaze flickers over Sarada’s form, then past her—to the broken state of the world around them, to the unnatural pull of an ability that defies even the Sharingan’s comprehension.

And then, it hits.

—Sasuke…— The name falls from his lips, a whisper laced with disbelief.

Shisui stills beside him. His expression goes through a hurricane of emotions, but there is something undeniable in the way his gaze lingers on the girl.

—You’re... his daughter. What's... what's your name?— Shisui voices, way too soft for what's happening around them.

She lifts her chin, unwavering. —I am Uchiha Sarada. And I need your help.—

Obito lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. —Sasuke has a kid? Guess we really were gone too long.—

Shisui swallows, an unreadable tension in his throat. His mind reels. Sasuke—the boy he once knew, the boy he died for—has lived, has grown, has become a father. There is relief in that thought, but also a twisting in his gut, an ache he does not yet know how to name.

Itachi remains shocked, and beneath the surface, something shifts—something that only those who truly know him would recognize.

The weight of time bears down upon them, heavy with all that has been lost.

Indra observes silently, arms crossed, mind already dissecting the situation. His descendants, different generations, the level of power and chakra accumulated in bodies that should no longer exist. An absurd and realistic look into the future he could not witness through his own eyes.

—A power that rewrites reality itself.— Indra’s voice is cold, analytical.

—A nuisance,— Madara corrects. He steps forward, his towering presence casting a long shadow over Sarada. His Rinnegan flickers to life, appraising her with something caught between curiosity and annoyance.

—You reanimated us to deal with this mess? A mere child using the power of the dead to fix what the living could not?

Sarada does not flinch. —You’re the only ones who can counter her Senrigan with a powerful enough genjutsu. I need you to help me set things right.—

Izuna scoffs, but there is something dangerously amused in his expression. —And what makes you think I care for your version of right?

Shisui says nothing, but his gaze remains sharp. Calculating.

The Uchiha stand at the precipice of war against a power none of them fully understand.

Eida’s Senrigan is absolute—an ability that twists reality itself, rewriting the very nature of hearts and minds.

But the Uchiha are genjutsu.

They are the masters of illusion, the wielders of sight beyond sight.

And so, when they move—it is together.

Indra and Madara lead, their ancient power carving into the fabric of reality itself, their eternal eyes defying even the laws of nature.

Izuna’s presence flickers like a shadow, a deadly counterpart to his brother’s overwhelming force.

Obito’s Kamui bends space, weaving a distortion within a distortion.

Shisui and Itachi—their Mangekyō Sharingan synchronize, the Kotoamatsukami and Tsukuyomi intertwining, forming a counterweight against the Senrigan’s manipulation. Their power seeps into the fabric of the rewritten world, challenging the falsehood Eida has imposed.

Sarada stands at the center, her own Mangekyō flaring, her lineage culminating in the union of past and present.

And then—

The clash.

A battle not of weapons, but of wills. Of illusions layered upon illusions, of rewritten realities collapsing under the weight of something even stronger:

The undeniable truth of the Uchiha’s gaze.

When the battle ends, when the world settles back into its rightful shape, the Uchiha find themselves standing at the crossroads of time once more.

Their purpose fulfilled.

Their existence—a borrowed moment.

Shisui and Itachi’s gazes linger on Sarada, on the last thread of their lineage still left in the world.

Obito exhales, glancing up at the sky, a ghost of something bittersweet in his eyes. —Guess it’s time to go, huh?—

Madara, ever himself, huffs. -You’re lucky I was in a good mood.—

Izuna laughs -Yeah, cause you'd always avoid a good fight instead of facing it, right?-

Indra says nothing, merely watching.

Observing.

And then, one by one, they begin to fade.

Sarada watches them go, her heart heavy with something she cannot name.

But before they vanish completely—

Itachi speaks.

—Take care of him.

A simple request.

A whisper of a legacy left behind.

Sarada clenches her fists.

She will.

[midnight-blue-goth]

Duncan as a girl dad vs boy dad headcanons

(I will never get tired of doing this)

*rubbing hands* hehehehe

Duncan as a Girl Dad

Willing to endure hours of travel just to track down the specific doll or toy his daughter wants. No shortcuts, no substitutes—the one she asked for, or nothing at all.

The ultimate karma: his daughters are obsessed with boy bands, the same ones he used to make fun of. Now? He’s at their concerts, surrounded by screaming fans and forced to listen to pop music. Is he suffering? Maybe. Is he letting his daughter (and quite possibly her girlfriends) go alone? Absolutely not.

Spending forever outside makeup stores and clothing shops? Check. Complaining? Not an option, his daughter would murder him if he so much as thought about leaving.

Duncan gives her an allowance, yet he has no idea how she keeps affording the ridiculous amount of stuff she buys. (Sorry Duncan, your daughter is already a business mastermind.)

He becomes her personal chauffeur at all hours. He doesn’t say no… until she starts learning to drive herself. And oh boy, she’s terrifying behind the wheel. Not because she’s nervous...quite the opposite. Road rage in a teenage girl package.

She wants to be an influencer, mimicking her favorite content creators. Duncan tries to talk her out of it. "It’s just a hobby, trust me, you don’t want to be famous." Does she care about her old dad’s opinions? Nope.

Does she know her dad was famous once? Yeah. Does she care? No. She thinks he was cringe and had terrible fashion sense.

When it comes to romance, Duncan lost the plot a long time ago. Every day, it’s a new drama—one crush today, a new ‘ick’ tomorrow. She’s juggling three different people who are giving her gifts, but "It’s not that serious, Dad. You wouldn’t get it."

Duncan thought he’d have to scare boys away from his house, but nope! His daughter already has them wrapped around her finger.

Duncan as a Boy Dad

Way more hands-off and confrontational. No sugarcoating, no bullshit. Having grown up with brothers, he already knows how this goes.

They start some kind of collection together—knives, postcards, vinyl records, you name it. It’s their thing.

They get way too into the idea of a zombie apocalypse. It starts as a fun interest but escalates quickly. They make legit survival plans. Stockpiling canned food, setting up a radio frequency, even keeping a gasoline reserve. They feed into each other’s paranoia until his son inevitably moves on to a new fixation.

Duncan isn’t into sports—especially watching them—but after dealing with competitive dads, he starts giving his son alternative strategies. If the other dads want to take things so seriously, fine... Duncan will teach his kid how to bend the rules just enough to make the other kids look stupid.

After the zombie phase, they move on to motorcycles. Duncan, knowing how to build one from scratch, takes his son under his wing and helps him build his own. He does insist on a helmet… but only when people are watching.

They live close to a forest with a lake and a waterfall—their spot. Duncan regularly challenges his son to jump off the cliff. The first time, his son is terrified, but instead of offering encouragement, Duncan calls him a chicken and shoves him. It works—the kid jumps and loves the rush. From there, the daredevil stunts only escalate.

Adventure is a way of life. Climbing trees, road-tripping, sneaking into abandoned places. If it’s risky, they’re doing it.

School? Yeah, they get in trouble for missing it. Duncan’s philosophy: life is learned outside a classroom, not behind a desk. He gets why it’s important, but still. Homeschooling even crosses their minds at some point, just to have more freedom.

When it comes to dating, Duncan doesn’t stress. Standard advice: "Be smart. Don’t get anyone pregnant." Beyond that? His son can figure it out on his own.

First heartbreak hits hard. Duncan laughs at first—until he realizes his son is genuinely crushed. Seeing him actually cry, Duncan dials back the teasing and offers some real advice. "You’ll have more fish to fry, my guy.

✨More headcanons✨

[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]

---------------

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.

[co-mixed]

Fantastic Four by John Byrne 

This run is considered to be one of the must-reads, so well, I read it. And the whole thing left a weird aftertaste. Very similar to the one you have after learning more about its creator. Yes, one could be a good artist and a decent writer without being a good human. 

But we’re here to focus on content, not the creator, and that’s what I’m going to do. 

What it feels like

I jumped into this run right after Lee/Kirby, skipping most of the stuff in the middle. So it was a new take on the team right off the bat. Byrne focuses on the human sides of the FF a little more than the original run does. The structure of the stories also changes from a day at the Baxter Building -> a villain appears -> the villain is defeated. We start getting multiple chapters or issues in every arc, and it makes them more complex. 

In fact, complexity is certainly something that appears and grows from the 1970s to the 1980s. That’s true for most comics. 

But then there is the how it’s done and the what is done. And while one is a huge leap forward, the other is very controversial. I couldn’t find any explanations for some of the storylines aside from the idea hat (you know, when you get a hat, throw random ideas in it and start pulling.) Because of that, the stories seem disjointed. They connect to one another but it’s hard to say what exactly was the writer implying. Unfortunately, the more we know about the writer in question, the less chances we have left to misinterpret it into something more digestible. 

It’s not like that (or it shouldn’t be)

Byrne leans into the white savior trope. Every time the characters encounter racism, it feels ingenuine. Especially when blond blue-eyed Johnny jumps in to save Wyatt. This same feeling I got from Roy Thomas’s apartheid issue (FF #119) and it doesn’t get better. Yeah, we can argue that this is the 80’s but that trope is in no hurry to disappear. 

When it comes to political takes, Byrne’s are controversial, to say the least. I wrote a whole longread, complaining about the bizarre Latverian arc, in which the FF organized two coups in a row first bringing democracy to the people of the country, and then, handing it back to Doom. It’s all disguised into a lesser of two evils issue but it won’t sit well with anyone who’s familiar with autocratic regimes. 

Barely moving forward

Byrne also shakes up the character dynamics. But was any of it for the better? At times, he presents a more acceptable version of Reed. He is still an easily hooked, eager scientist who can neglect his family in favor of his work. But he’s not an absolutely intolerable garbage human anymore. He is also the least interesting character of the bunch because aside from science and condescending explanations, he doesn’t have much going on. He becomes more observant though, even noticing the change in Johnny when he starts dating Alicia (and I later will circle back to that absolute eww moment.)

While all that is true, Reed is also shown to be racist against Skrulls during his trial. His statements are what any racist would say. Verbatim.

It almost feels like Byrne himself is interested less in Reed and more in other members of the team. 

Women of Marvel

A lot of attention goes to Sue, Frankie Raye, and She-Hulk. And here I’d have to give Byrne some props. They are shown as competent and as strong (or potentially as strong) as their male counterparts. It’s suggested that Sue is actually the strongest member of the team, and it’s a very reasonable statement too. She stops being a quiet voice in the back and even reflects on that.

Unfortunately, I have to retract the props immediately because there is a weird violence kink that accompanies all the development. Like Alicia being badly beaten up by Annihilus, Sue being tortured by Mephisto, She-Hulk being photographed and then verbally assaulted by an editor. This is a repeated offense with Byrne's writing. 

Then, of course, there is the arc with Sue’s miscarriage and the one with Malice. Now the first one might not rub everyone the right way, but I think it’s something that made the 80s comics relatable - human issues that heroes face. And in this case, it’s one that comes not as a result of her superhero life but of her being exposed to cosmic rays. She doesn’t immediately forget it either, this arc echoes through the following issues and while I don’t know whether the portrayal is at all genuine, it’s there and that’s quite innovative. 

Go ask Malice

Malice is another Sue-centric concept, it’s her evil alter-ego that’s brought forth by a villain.

And here I have an issue because maybe instead of Psycho-Man - a hate-based villain (which was a mediocre concept all around) it could’ve been a manifestation of her grief and exhaustion with his behavior.

This could have (and should have been) an internal family matter for the FF with Sue confronting and possibly blaming Reed and Reed finally acknowledging how crappy he’s been and changing for the better. 

Sure this doesn’t have the scale of the whole NYC in a hate-fueled frenzy but it does have just the right tone for a family. While we’re at it, Byrne doesn’t have the best track record with tackling racism or bigotry issues so again, that would’ve been much better. 

Even if the concept itself was interesting, Byrne’s execution fumbled it completely. Sue’s hate is a twisted form of her love. And when it comes to Reed, Malice actually addressed all the reasonable points. He really has done every single thing she’d accused him of, and he proceeds to do them again. So really, he doesn’t learn anything from this whole ordeal. 

It’s even worse that Sue attacks him later, again, with reasonable demands of revenge on Psycho-Man, and Reed tries to dismiss her to focus on ‘more important stuff.’

I’d say the right thing to do would be to allow She-Hulk to immediately side with Sue because that’s what any woman would do no questions asked. Ideally, Johnny should have done the same – he was raised by Sue after all. On the other side, his only male role models are Reed (ew no thanks) and Ben (ew no thanks.)

When they finally face the villain, Byrne goes back to his favorite tools - torturing Sue. The torture isn’t physical but Sue keeps seeing an exaggerated version of Reed who blames her for everything and treats her like garbage. Shockingly, he’s not that different from the real Reed. 

I don’t have to be too negative here because, in the end, Sue does defeat the villain, punish him, and save Reed. She even changes her monicker to Invisible Woman (and that’s the name we know her by now). But again, some very odd decisions preceded that positive outcome. 

This arc is pretty sad to read because psychological manipulation and violation of a person’s psyche is a big deal. This could have been a groundbreaking arc. But instead, it gets cringey at times and doesn’t do the characters justice.

...And others

Like I said, Sue isn’t the only lady who gets to stand in the spotlight. I quite liked the character of Frankie (before she fell in love with Galactus for like 3 panels). She has quite a story, having a power she couldn’t access and a phobia connected to said power. With a little more development (I’m talking modern-day standards) she could’ve been a way more compelling character. But ultimately everything worked out pretty well, especially after her over-eagerness to resolve everything with brute force paid off when she became the herald of Galactus. 

She-Hulk is always a joy to encounter, and she takes over the Thing’s spot on the team for a while after the Secret Wars. She has a cute romance with Wyatt and that’s probably one of the most adorable things in this run. Because, you know, all the other romances are getting a hit. 

But not everything is as well as it may seem. As soon as Byrne’s done torturing Sue, he proceeds to torture She-Hulk.

What about love? 

Byrne delivers us one of the most unnecessary romance stories ever, and I’m saying this as someone who’s seen Scott fall in love with Jean’s clone, Gambit making out with Storm every chance he gets (I still ship it), Wanda and Cap, even Batman and Batgirl (and that was a new low).

So Johnny and Alicia. What was that about?

I could see that happening if she hadn’t been Ben’s very serious girlfriend: there are very reasonable elements in this story that reflect the schism in their relationship. They are both growing out of it and it makes perfect sense since Alicia is younger than Ben. In fact, she’d described as just a couple of years older than Johnny who in the beginning was in high school so… best not to think about it at all. Why are old comics like that (heavy sigh). 

Either way, before they break up, Ben stays on another planet and contemplates his relationship with Alicia, deciding that they should break up. Alicia comes to the same conclusion and bonds with Johnny over tragedies and danger. 

Here’s the thing though (for this, imagine me with a cup of tea and my glasses on). Johnny has known Ben his whole life and he has to have more decency than to start a relationship with someone who hasn’t yet broken up with Ben. The same can be said about Alicia but I hardly can hold this against her, since she is friends with them all but she still isn’t (at that time) tied to them that strongly. So yeah, I can see her do that and feel justified. 

But in general, what is this whole thing about? It’s a story that doesn’t do anything but portray both characters in the worst light. And it would’ve made sense had it been the endgame. But it wasn’t, we all know that. So I’m going to take it as a temporary insanity thing and push into that ‘We don’t talk about…’ drawer where things like Connor (Angel’s son), Xavier’s crush on Jean, and the whole Avengers 200 thing go to die. 

Another thing that goes into the same drawer is the origin of Sue and Reed’s relationship (I’m guessing pre-retcon). I’m not going to comment on that because I hate Reed enough as it is. There’s just nowhere for the hate to grow.  

Moving on

There’s also Franklin and he is growing, he’s 5 now and he… becomes an adult, puts blocks on his powers, goes back to being a kid, defeats Mephisto, and sees prophetic dreams about impending Doom. Not necessarily of the doctor variety. 

I have nothing to say about Franklin just yet, except that he looks like a very short adult rather than a 5 y/o. And that’s the creepy trend that plagues the comics of the 80's. 

Same old story

I feel like Byrne simultaneously tried to bring something new to the story and burn (or Byrne!) everything just to watch the flames.

And yet so many conflicts remained the same! Johnny goes through a weird love triangle just to end up with Alicia. The Thing is stuck in the same I-wanna-be-human-I-don’t-wanna-be-human vicious circle and I’m starting to wonder if they’re even planning on giving that up. We covered Reed already, and Sue is the only one who has some new stuff going on. But she is enough to make the run interesting.

As the run nears its end, there is an issue that reminded me more of Nocenti’s style (which I don’t know who started in the comics but she definitely perfected it), that focuses on Johnny dealing with his own impact on humans. It started out interesting with the boy burning himself to be like Human Torch, but then Beyonder showed up and instead of a psychological journey (as Nocenti probably would’ve done) we get a Deus ex-Machina solution.

Was it worth it? 

I write the following with a clear understanding that I was ready to give up at least thrice during this read-through. 

I would say that there are several arcs that deserve attention: the rewritten origin of Doom (that still doesn’t explain how we’re supposed to view him as a necessary evil rather than a terrible dictator), Galactus stories, Negative Zone travels, Sue telling off Reed, and so on. So if you’re thinking of reading the run, I’d say do. 

Keep in mind that there are trigger warnings, such as racism, violence against women, and miscarriage. Byrne's run is… a lot. If you feel too disgusted, better skip it. 

At the end of the day, we're really talking about this whole thing from today’s perspective. That means we all know the red flags in writing just as well as we do which tropes are harmful and why. 

We also realize that there are more ways to look at an issue than through the eyes of a stereotypical protagonist of the era. In the 80s comics were still becoming the art form we know and love today, and narrative mistakes were made. It’s easier to follow the story if you note them but don’t focus on them. Without that, they’ll be just a bunch of outdated narratives and harmful stereotypes.

[ecargmura]

Oshi No Ko Episode 14 Review - Woes Of Mangaka

This episode is just showing how adaptations can work well in different forms of media and Aqua falls for all-around theater and believes that it’s a form of media that is very unique. Given how complex Aqua’s life is with everything he does being for revenge and finding his biological father, it’s actually kind of cute that he falls for something as simple as watching a theater performance. While it has been sixteen years since Goro died and became Aqua, it sort of shows that he enjoys simple things in life like a good theater performance. It does make you wonder how much of Aqua is himself and how much of his self is from Goro—this is one part of Aqua’s character that I find intriguing and the reason why I find Oshi no Ko an interesting story despite its flaws.

It also makes me curious about Akane. She’s a lot different than her first appearance and she only started to shine once she managed to get a good grasp of Ai and caused Aqua to become flustered. Since then, it makes me wonder who Akane is as a person. While Akane admires Kana and pursued acting because of her, she’s a method actor, so she’s excellent at getting into character. Is everything she’s doing after Episode 8 all because of her pretending to be Ai to grab Aqua’s attention or is that who she really is? She’s definitely hard to read.

Aqua also tells Raida one important thing about Abiko: she cannot make a script that’s suited for theater. She can’t because she’s a mangaka and GOA has many years of experience with theater. Raida did mention that she’s stubborn and that’s the case. Abiko’s young and found success so quickly that her arrogance has skyrocketed.

The Sweet Today trio plus Akane goes to visit Yoriko and they (and we) learn about some insight about the manga industry. Basically, the reason why some manga series drag on unnecessarily is due to editors wanting to grasp onto a popular series. If an editor makes a series popular, it shows off their business talents, but the downside is that it affects the mangaka’s mentality negatively. That is why editors have to have work a side job of being their author’s babysitter because of it. It’s an excruciating workforce. Yoriko calling out how weekly serialized manga authors are monsters does feel like it’s Aka Akasaka’s own personal feelings on the manga industry as a whole. Hey, it’s a very ‘write what you know’ scenario.

The second half of the episode is basically the woes of the manga industry. Yoriko writes monthly serializations, so she has free time to herself and doesn’t stress herself out too much. Abiko, on the other hand, works a weekly serialized series and doesn’t have assistants, so she basically does everything herself. She’s literally overworking herself to death, something Yoriko points out to her. The argument between the two is actually rather nice to see because it’s as Aqua said, only Yoriko can help convince Abiko to change her mind about the script. Abiko manages to pour out her feelings, showing off that she’s awkward and cannot convey what she really wants well. It’s because of Yoriko that she wanted to be a mangaka, but seeing the failure of the Sweet Today drama adaptation caused her to become jaded about adaptations and stories in general. She believes that 90% of the creative works are trash, meaning that 90% of content creators are trash too. Hey, I take offense to that! However, her words are true in a sense. Everyone has their own perception of good and bad works. Abiko’s sense comes from the fact that she drew something she wanted to write about and it quickly became popular. However, Abiko is very socially awkward, so she was basically handed fame and success when she wasn’t really ready to and it got to her.

Now that Aqua gave her a ticket to see the Prince of Tennis parody, Smash Heaven (Why wasn’t it called Prince of Table Tennis?), hopefully Abiko’s mindset will change. I hope that she is able to find a middle ground with GOA soon. Oh and Ruby finally shows up, but eh, she’s not important right now. What are your thoughts on this episode?

[positivlyfocused]

When A Nazi Salute Is, Isn’t, Then Is Again

Elon Musk is keeping the body politic guessing. He’s keeping others enraged and some others gleeful. People, generally, are going nuts about his latest gesture. Indeed, with Trump coming back into office, a lot of people are feeling really, really insecure. Meanwhile, the media are making advertising bank stoking fires of that insecurity.

Indeed, there’s no better time than now to see how powerful beliefs create reality. In seeing how powerful they’re playing out in current events, we as individuals can benefit from those examples. We can learn a thing or two, in other words.

How?

By using current events, which are reflections of our collective inner state, as tuning devices, thereby increasing our alignment to what it is we want. Doing that, we can actually become happier. Even while others are in emotional upheaval and with not a thing changing around us.

Let’s use what Elon Musk did last week as an example. Then let’s amplify our clarity and discover how a Nazi salute that was, wasn’t, then was again.

First a disclaimer and trigger warning

This post contains potentially offensive content. Whether you experience it that way depends on your beliefs. If you’re Jewish or progressive and sensitive about the long history of fascism in the world, I STRONGLY RECOMMEND YOU STOP READING RIGHT NOW.

SERIOUSLY, NAVIGATE AWAY FROM THIS PAGE. If you continue reading, and you make disparaging comments in the comment section, you are, for sure, going to be blocked because you can not control yourself. And this work, this Positively Focused practice, requires an extraordinary measure of self control.

Second disclaimer: I don’t have a dog in the fight that is US politics. It doesn’t matter what happens in politics to me because I’m the creator of my reality, not politicians. So while I’m diving into this political moment, the moment itself, and politics in general, are of little interest to me other than as learning experiences.

So I’m totally indifferent about what Elon Musk did. Ironically, because of that, I enjoy a broad perspective from which to understand what happened. What happened and why it happened. So, with the disclaimer down, let’s dive in.

So what happened?

At a rally following the Trump inauguration, Elon Musk took the stage. With great emotion, he expressed how important the past election was. Then he profusely thanked the audience for what he believes was doing the right thing: electing Trump. His thanks took the form of saying “I give my heart to you!”

Either right as or shortly after saying those words, he made a somewhat awkward gesture. With his right hand, he thumped his chest over his heart, then threw his hand outward, extending his right arm completely straight and upward. Immediately after, parts of the world went apoplectic.

The Southern Poverty Law Center said the gesture set off a “firestorm of controversy.” Meanwhile many US Politicians heavily criticized Musk for giving what they described as a “Nazi salute”. Also, according to the Associated Press, many right wing groups embraced the gesture, interpreting it similarly. Austria and Germany both called for banning Musk. And, of course, social media is equally ablaze with apoplectic opinions about Musk’s act.

Musk himself basically responded by saying “guys, give it a break.”

When a client sent me a cartoon depicting the act, it intrigued me. That’s because, as I wrote above in my disclaimer, I’m indifferent to politics. But I had a sense this event might offer a window into how people’s beliefs literally run them. That’s why I took interest.

What I found interesting was, the more I dove into this affair, the more empowered I became about what I know.

Momentum and Nazis

The first thing I did was go watch the original footage. Watching it perplexed me. I know what a Nazi salute looks like and what Musk did was not that. It didn’t surprise me that the Anti-Defamation League (ADL), an antisemitism watchdog group, agreed. Referring to the gesture, the group said Musk didn’t make a Nazi salute. Rather he “made an awkward gesture in a moment of enthusiasm”.

That’s what I saw.

It’s widely known that Musk is on the spectrum. He’s an awkward person. And he often appears uncomfortable in ordinary situations. Being on stage isn’t “ordinary” and I’m sure, for Musk, emotional expressions aren’t either. So what I saw in the gesture was an awkward guy expressing deep relief and thanking his audience in an equally awkward way.

That’s all.

But it doesn’t surprise me that people, especially politicians, went crazy over all this. Think about it. The left has been building up a lot of fear about Trump returning to the White House. Left-leaning, biased media has been doing the same. Individual progressives did the same thing too. Through social media they’ve enrolled a lot of people into the momentum of their trepidation. Their disgust with Trump includes expectations that his authoritarian speech defines the new president as a fascist. Maybe even a Nazi.

Consider all this focus has been underway since Trump’s last term. When a person focuses on something for a long time, that focus creates momentum. Get enough of that going and it will keep going on its own. Before long, that momentum will turn into physical reality. That reality will then prove “true” thoughts and beliefs that person focused on. Then the thoughts and beliefs will no longer be thoughts and beliefs. They’ll be the “Truth”.

Willing stooges 

When that happens, hardly anything will change that person’s mind about what they believe. What’s more, that person will see everything through the lens of that truth. 

So when Musk joined Trump during election season, everyone thinking Trump was a fascist lumped Musk in to that category. As Trump continued with his authoritarian speech, people’s truths were further confirmed. When Trump won, the emotional upheaval among liberals caused those same people to double down on their truths. Truths mainly based on fear-filled future expectations.

When Musk then got on stage and made his awkward gesture, of course liberals, many Jews, Holocaust rememberers, and more would interpret that gesture through their collective memory.

The problem is, a rich and well-documented history supports exactly what a Nazi salute is and what it isn’t. And Musk’s gesture fails the test of history. Furthermore, if some people had an ounce of self-control and reasoning capability they would have seen the difference between Musk’s gesture and a Nazi salute.

Instead, many people live their lives through their emotions. That’s not a good thing. Because when a person lives their lives through emotions, they give a lot of their power away. In other words, they become willing stooges for manipulators. And that’s what we’re seeing with the large number of biased media outlets.

Those outlets make a LOT of money off out-of-control people living through their emotions by triggering those people and keeping their attention on everything going wrong. It doesn’t matter if it’s ACAB, BLM or MAGA.

Here’s the thing: You don’t have to be one of those people!

Your next four years…

If you allow yourself to become one of those people, however, woe unto you. You’re limiting your future.

Allow yourself the empowerment that’s naturally yours, however, and you make your future unlimited. Indeed, the only limits an empowered person puts on the future are those limits which shape a future of their desires, thereby leaving everything else out.

In other words, an empowered person limits their now to include only those things that match what they want to see in the future. By “now” I’m including thoughts and beliefs they think, as well as things they share with others, whether through social media, or through their speech.

We can’t help but limit our future. That’s because our focus, the ability to put our attention in certain places, is only so broad. So whenever we focus, by definition, we’re placing limits. And when we do that, we allow into our experience only those things matching our focus.

That’s why those thinking Trump is a fascist and so is Musk saw only what they saw: a Nazi salute. But it wasn’t a Nazi salute, unless you think it was.

And if you do, well, you’re in for a very uncomfortable four years.

Meanwhile, for others, the next four years are going to be positively astounding. Want to know how? Consider joining this event I’ve planned for March. Have a MeetUp account? Go here.

[mliter]

Fortnite Chapter 5 - Chapter 2 Remix.

So, how do we go about the magic of Fortnite OG without straight doing it again?

A remix.

The first we'd get about this season is the teasers sent out to content creators. They were pretty cool looking. They had pins that hinted to things about the season, 2 pretty looking tickets, a tape player that played a track from the battle pass, all put in a nice looking black box.

At the beginning of the year, a roadmap was leaked. Everyone assumed we were going to get Fortnite OG 2 but with the chapter 2 island. We were right about the island, but we would later learn through a surprise live concert both in-game and in New York the true season theme. (Something that was cool about this concert is that the in-game effects was synced to the actual concert that happened in times square. Pretty impressive on a technical level.)

Rappers. Isn't that cool? Snoop Dogg and Ice Spice appeared physically for this announcement. It was cool to me. After the concert, we got a season trailer. Snoop Dogg, Ice Spice, & Eminem have taken over the chapter 2 island! The iconic agency is now the Doggpound. Eminem & Ice Spice even took over POIs. With a cool graffiti theme, courtesy of Hope.

Speaking of Hope, there isn't much of a story to go off of this season. Like the previous OG season, this one's a fun break from all of the madness. Given the stress Hope went through last season, it's good to see her relaxed. At this point, the war with Dr. Doom has ended. The Chapter 5 island is strangely intact, and Hope has left it behind to Nisha to rebuild. And maybe Valeria. We learn of this through voicemails that Hope leaves to her neglectful older sister. She doesn't pick up any of them.

When it comes to the battle pass, this one didn't excite me as previous ones have. But i still like all of the designs to come from it. Mashups and different iterations of fan favorite skins from this era of fortnite return.

My favorite skin from this pass has to be Undercover skye. A fusion between Guff and Skye. She's just adorable. Strangely, she looks even younger here though. How'd that happen?

With this battle pass, a new cosmetic type appeared. Kicks. Shoes you can put on your Fortnite skin. Honestly? It's pretty interesting. I'm always down for another level of player expression and customization. This is unique to me though. With the games i've played like this, it's usually different color schemes or aura effects that flash from your character. But here, it's straight up.. shoes you can put on your character. And you can make some crazy combos with it. At first i thought it was stupid, but now i've warmed up to it.

At the time of writing this, only a handful of skins can wear these. But with every update, the number grows. They really do try to make these work. Removing shoes and even giving skins socks to work with them. I see the effort here. Pretty cool.

Remember what i said about that theme? There's also a 4th rapper. Juice WRLD.

He would unfortunately pass in a tragic incident in 2019, leaving many of his fans heartbroken. From what i understand, epic was working with him on a fortnite collab years ago, but they never got to see it through due to his sudden death. it appears that Epic worked with his estate to turn this season into a tribute to him. Back then, Juice loved playing Fortnite like how EVERYONE else was during that mania. Epic took special care in honoring him in-game. If you look throughout the promotional material, there are a lot of things that were left there in his memory.

Throughout the season, his figure would appear in the sky, visible at all times. There was also a free juice wrld skin released to all players that simply logged in during the season. Essentially becoming a new default skin. At the time, Juice WRLD was everywhere! That's one way to be immortalized. To this day, you'll see mini Juices running around the island.

At the end of it, we were shown a music video created in collaboration with epic, with stellar 2D & 3D animation. It's Juice WRLD's final release. An unreleased song. One thing i found touching about the direction of the video is that we never directly see his face. I'm not exactly sure what kind of message it was supposed to send, but i took it as a way to help let go. he really is gone.

I don't think i've ever seen a Fortnite season be dedicated to someone like this. It was unique. I've never seen a memorial like this ever. I think Epic did him right.

999 Forever

[piqueconcentration]

Sonny Boy Retrospective

Originally written 11/27/21

When I was very young and enjoyed things like the Alice in Wonderland remake, I remember I asked my mom what made something (I’m assuming that I asked about movies but for the purpose of whatever this is I’ll say all media, even though that is absolutely not something a child would say) “good.” I asked her because I had noticed that she usually wasn’t very fond of the movies that I liked, which I said were “good,” and I couldn’t really find much value in the old movies that she would talk about. In response, my mom said that she thought the way to tell was if the movie made you feel something. As I was, I took that definition and stored it in the important section of my brain and I’m sure I parroted it off to people who did and did not ask- this was before I recognized my own opinions.

In any case, the divide between knowing what most consider to be objective quality in any media versus just knowing that it made you feel something has become something of great import in my content-addled brain. I can say that a camera angle or shot is really cool or difficult to pull off while secretly holding the knowledge that I watched a video about something mildly related on youtube, and I had miraculously become a connoisseur of film after falling down an internet rabbit hole of people with all their own opinions, presenting them in a carefully crafted or just very loud manner. I can absolutely tell you a fun fact about a script in some movie that is considered “good” by the masses (that absolutely must be above my age- if the piece is popular among my peers, that is a big no-no) that I can’t tell if I actually enjoy or not because of all of the armchair cinema genius I have consumed over the years of lying on my stomach, arms draped over a pillow with a phone in hand.

This is not to say that I have learned nothing from the videos I have watched, in fact I hold a great respect for their creators in all learning domains- it is much more a Disputation on the Power and Efficacy of a young [My Name]- my younger self (but older than in the first paragraph- you get the idea) was due for a bit of a reconstruction in terms of my ability to form my own thoughts about the media that I present to myself. Even now, though I have more faith in my ability to actually know whatever the fuck I’m talking about, if i tried to fully separate my thoughts from the part of me that yearns for pop-culture centric admiration, I would have trouble finding the line between what I know because I know it myself and what I know because it relates to something that someone else said at me. I have not fully rid myself of the epigonic urge.

Anyway, I just finished watching Sonny Boy. As I’m writing this, I’m worried that I may have written more in the introduction than I will have written in this whole-ass thing because the surge of motivation to write after watching will have faded by the time I get to the godforsaken point; the point being: Sonny Boy is really quite good. I could say that the animation is beautiful and the music is powerful and the story is impactful but there are an extraordinary amount of anime like that that I haven’t bothered to watch, and if my goal is to get people to actually watch Sonny Boy and not just put it on their “plan to watch” list to die of neglect, I want to take a different route.

A haiku~

I don’t understand

What the fuck happened at all

But it made me feel.

I will also say that I actually understood the plot more than the friends who watched some of it with me, so there’s that, as well. Another thing: I’m usually not a fan of shows or movies that are incomprehensible- I tend to think that one of the most important challenges of the creation of these things is relaying information to the audience with as few barriers as possible (which, I’m now realizing, is super ironic, considering I’m an American who regularly watches Japanese television in Japanese with English subtitles, not to mention the state of the translation of the show in question, which I’ll get to later), while it may have been one of my favorite shows at the time, it is difficult for me to look back fondly on the last few episodes of Neon Genesis Evangelion because I don’t really feel smart enough to either form a satisfying interpretation or piece together the jumbled information, gorgeous as it may be.

Sonny Boy, like many anime, is about high schoolers. The similarities with the other anime that I have seen mostly end there. One day the school is transported- actually, no. I think, honestly, it’s best if you go in blind. The sheer number of concepts -ideas that I hadn’t thought anyone would have the literary courage to expand upon- that are introduced is immense. Each episode feels like, at their least intense, an invitation to look back at your mind and your comfort zone- a philosophical stroll where you can choose how deeply you want to explore the themes through your own level of engagement. At most intense- a stupefying accusation where, in my case, my sentence was to sit in silence for several minutes after the episode ended, mind completely caught up in that painfully perfect outro song.

In all honesty my personal high school experience, externally, wasn’t that bad- there wasn’t really any social hierarchy at my school, I had a lot of good teachers, I found some really wonderful friends; but if I’d had bullies or social trauma or if most people actively disliked me instead of just thinking I was awkward and leaving me alone- I think Sonny Boy would have made me bawl my eyes out (it did get pretty close regardless). I don’t usually cry that often, but if you do, tread with caution.

It’s difficult for me to judge the show by comparing it to others, though, and I think that has something to do with its structure. Each episode is layed out/edited, it seems, not with narrative cohesion or continuity in mind, but with the flow of the emotions that it attempts to evoke. Scenes happen one after the other, but the first may be in the “present” and the next may be a memory, or a shot from the future. Honestly, using the word “present” doesn’t feel quite right because there often isn’t a continual flow at all- past and future and middle occurring side by side in seemingly random order. But it isn’t random. Somehow, I have no idea how, the editors or storyboard artists or whatever -I don’t know how it was made- put the whole thing together without making it feel jarring or really that disorganized, there’s just a shift from perceiving the show as a sequence of events to a strung-together series of feelings where, at the end of the episode, sometimes it makes sense and sometimes it doesn’t.

It has some problems. Usually I can’t really comment (thankfully- I’m conceited enough with scripts in English) on anime scripts and dialogue because I can’t understand Japanese aside from your usual anime and manga phrases/words that are repeated ad nauseum. In this case, I will only say that the official English translation (for the subtitles- the show probably wasn’t popular enough to warrant a dubbed version) is not good when compared to the ones for most other seasonal anime. You can usually tell what the subtitles mean, but it’s a puzzle for the audience, not the creators- words are jumbled up, there are typos and grammatical errors, many phrases are just off enough to make you think about how they were probably translated by someone who just mostly understood English, and by that point there have been two more lines of dialogue.

Also, sometimes the editing does bug me. Maybe I would benefit from a rewatch, but there were definitely a couple times when I got to the end of an episode and just had even less of an idea of what was going on than what is required to get the desired emotional impact.

Sometimes I will read a review of something, and, as a human, I tend to most heavily remember the negative things that were listed, so I’ll say this: I adore this show. It hit me like an emotional truck. It has one of my favorite soundtracks in any piece of media. It has taught me things (not entirely sure what yet, but I’ll figure that out in time- I know that I learned) about the nature of will and familiarity. One of those shows that I will absolutely recommend, but it affected me so much that I might not want to watch it with you.

I don’t know. Maybe it just hit me harder for whatever reason. I realize that a lot of this analysis has just been me writing about my own experiences, but that’s what this show did to me. I was left with not just emotion, but the desire to look back on my own life. It made me actually create something, which, for me, is the ultimate compliment. If you can get this box of raw spaghetti to willingly get up and write, you have achieved more than the majority of my thirteen years of schooling.

It also has the best soundtrack of any I've ever heard.

In short, Sonny Boy was a very fulfilling drug trip of a show. I feel like I’ve undergone a change and had an intensely meaningful experience, but trying to wrap my head around how I got there is too much for me to handle. What I mean to say is that, though its inscrutability may be a deterrent to some, it happened to give me a clearer view of the show as a whole. I can’t tell you exactly why I love it so much, I can’t tell you why it was created or what definitely happened in the story or even what it’s really about, but for me I know, without a doubt in my mind, that it’s “good.”

[varricsgirlmags]

From the Diary of Fen Harel

'Halam vhenan'din dirth’elgar'

"Beware the god when stillness comes."

*Meow*?

Frowning at the unfamiliar sound I turn. It's one of June's creatures. Gray Fur, four legs, a long tail and delicate features interrupted only by a small piece of gold and silver over one eye that seemed to serve the same purpose as the yellow one beside it that blinked up at them both lazily.

“Hey you,” June's rare smile returned as he carefully scooped the beast up into his arms, rubbing its belly gently. It began to make a quiet thrumming sound of contentment I did not recognize immediately, “how's my good girl?” he asked her; dancing his fingertips past her grasping paws, careful to avoid the metal affixed to her small face.

Memory invaded the moment at the sight of her wound.

“Andruil's doing better,” I hazarded slowly, “In case you were wonder-” 

“I was not,” My brother's tone could have cut stone.

Your creation turned her into an abomination!” 

"My 'creation' did nothing of the sort! ”

He's glaring at me now and I notice his eyes are almost identical to the beast in his arms, ”She came to me and demanded the artifacts needed to go on her insane little expedition into the Abyss for fucking trophies. I *warned* her.

No, that's not true, I *told* her *to her face* she wasn't strong enough to endure what she was asking of me. She disagreed."

he held up his hand then and pushing his thumbnail into his palm, began to bleed: silver and blue that sparkled and hummed.

Titan’s blood. Now our blood. Required to give us physical form.

Lyrium.

The day we met, do you know what she asked of me? ‘"Give me a weapon"’.  Not a book to learn from, not stone to craft or trees to nurture or a seeing stone to witness the cosmos, no, a WEAPON. Give me something to kill another living thing!"

June tightened his fist and I could hear the sizzling of his anger, “I helped the others create life and the first thing our dear, sweet, sister wanted was a way to kill it and mount it in her idiotic lodge as a testament to her skill and acumen. To satisfy her godsdamned vanity!”

“I did not make her a monster.   That credit is hers alone.  All my work did was bring it to the surface!"

"You corrupted her! You poisoned her heart! You blackened her soul!"

"I don't do that! Think! You self righteous moron! If I had the power to corrupt her, don't you think I would have used that power to FIX HER?!To make her *not* be an insatiably bloodthirsty bitch! You keep calling me 'Puppet King' because not *ONE* of you can accept the fact that you pull your own strings!"

"Every monster you will ever become has been within yourself all this time. I don't 'tempt' you any more than a brightly colored fruit is deliberately tempting you to eat it".

"Empathy seemed like such a good idea at the time didn't it? Our creators believed that if we could experience the pain and suffering of others, it would make us kind. All it did was make us cruel. Tormented by the fact that we're surrounded by the misery of others and none of us seem able to make it right."

"Don't say that. If you don't like where you are in life, change it. You're the only one who can-"

He's on me before I can scream. His thumbs pressing into my eyes.

And I saw

I saw Andruil put arrow after arrow into a dying stag; watching it bleed in the cold winter air with a look of sheer contentment on her features as she drew her hand back and loosed another arrow.

"Do you see?"

I saw Elgar'nan ruling over a race of horned beings who worshipped order bereft of mercy or compassion. I watched as he slowly worked to drive away every scrap of individuality, of self.

"Do you see?!"

I saw Ghili'nan pulling apart a living creature to study the most effecient way of keeping it alive through whatever tortures she inflicted upon it.

"Do you see?!?"

"Yes!" I screamed

"I'm trying to explain a perspective build around the geometry of perpetual and unfathomable suffering...and all you have to offer is 'buck up'? As if I'm to blame for this by standing by helpless spouting useless platitudes as you seem to be doing!"

His hand is around my neck.

"I could kill you, little brother;I would be doing both of us a favor. You spared further unhappiness; me spared further disappointment as I realize that this is literally the best you can offer?"

And suddenly he released me

"But what would that solve? It wouldn't bring you understanding. It wouldn't bring me peace. All it would do is purge the last soul from this mockery of an existence that is at least *trying*to do better. However incompetently."

He looked at me with such despair, "One can only be as good as their world allows them to be. It is not your fault your world spared you the horrors needed to understand my own."

"It is a strange thing; this madness we call 'love'. It demands we protect those who care for us from experiencing the same torments needed to protect us in return. For how can one hope to defend what they cannot understand..."

[myheart-pumpsink]

I'm obsessive

It's written into my dna

I'm obsessive in the way that it just consumes my every waking hour

And it's always been fine

I've always channeled into fiction

Mostly

The earliest thing I can remember being obsessed with was a Minecraft streamer, Tubbo

I watched every stream

I watched start to finish, even the ones that lasted 10+ hours

I read fanfics and watched his YouTube video and made and consumed fanfic

I was thoroughly obsessed

And then I became obsessed with shipping

He began interacting with ranboo and they got married in Minecraft and then suddenly I was reading about their domestic Minecraft life after the wars and dealing with ranboos memory loss and them raising Michael

And that was even better honestly, because then I wasn't obsessed with a person exactly. I didn't have to wait for streams and new uploads I could just read fanfics anytime I wanted.

Then they stopped interacting because of the shipping and it ruined me. I felt bad of course but it ruined me because suddenly my obsession was ripped out of my hands and I had nothing to latch onto

So I switched obsessions and began watching more technoblade

It wasn't as intense as the first but it was there

And then he posted his last video

It sucked and I'm still sad but I learned my lesson and started obsessing over anime and fictional ships

And it's fine

I obsess and bury myself into fandoms

It works but recently I've become obsessed with a person again and it's terrible

Ids terrible because they're real

Not that the first two weren't, but they're content creators

It's easy to detach from reality when you can't even speak to them

But this person is my friend and I'm obsessed

I can't help talking to them and fuck the jealousy I feel when they talk to others

It's not healthy

I want their attention always

I want it all and it isn't fair because I don't devote myself to her the way I want her attention on me

I just got so used to being a priority for them

I'd text and always get a response within 10 minutes even though they're hours away and have their own life

But she can't always make time for me and I shouldn't expect it because I can't do it for them either

But I crave it so bad

I'm so obsessive and not above doing stupid things for her attention

So I've spent over 100 dollars in two days while online shopping

We roleplay lawlu and they always play Luffy and she also cosplays him

She goes to cons and likes to find Laws and makes friends with other one piece cosplayers

And I want her attention so fucking bad I am putting together a cosplay of Law just so I can get their attention

I cut my hair in the mirror with fucking safety scissors for this

I bought paints and clothes with the purpose altering and makeup and now I'm practicing

All because I desperately need her eyes on me

So now I'm ordering contacts and hoping I'll be able to put them in and not mess it up

I'm also putting together outfits for aus of the character I can also cosplay

It's unhealthy how obsessed I get

I should have learned my lesson the first two times

I need to re focus myself on fiction but I simply can't