#This one just took on a life of its own a bit

[narnian-neverlander]

What Could’ve Been [Viktor x GN!Reader]

Plot Summary: In which you find yourself in a world so similar yet so different to your own and are simply too tired of life knocking you down again and again to still play the selfless hero.

Word Count: 3,9k

Warnings: spoilers for Arcane Season 2, talk about character death and illness, suicidal thoughts, slightly suggestive at the end

A/N: I saw that alternate timeline and went ‘Ekko’s a stronger man than I am’ and went with that; actually wanted to write sth fluffy and happy, and this is wholesome-ish, but with some very bleak undertones so I might have to write some actual fluff to compensate. Also, the religious imagery wasn’t planned from the get go but it kinda happened and it is on brand for this man, I just decided to turn it on its head a little 🤷

“Interesting. When I told you about this last, you advised the exact opposite.”

You freeze mid movement, plate hovering an inch or so over the table you were setting. “Well I… I suppose I’ve changed my mind.”

The soft tap of a cane against the floor alerts you to him crossing the room, appearing in your peripheral as you put down the porcelain with shaky fingers. “A rather… hm, siginificant change in such a short time, wouldn’t you agree? Not to mention you acted like I was telling you for the first time.” He doesn’t receive an answer, so he keeps going. “I’ve had a theory for a while. I don’t believe I’ve told you about it, because really, it’s only a pipe dream at this point, but entertaining for the duller moments nonetheless: alternate timelines. The possibility of several different realities, all co-existing with each other simultaneously. Some would call the mere idea preposterous, I’m fully aware, but then again, how would we know for certain? How could we know? Unless one or more of said timelines happened to… overlap.” The silence that follows is deafening and heavy; a precursor of what’s to come. “You’re not originally from this world, are you?”

While he knows this is a conversation that needs to be had, the way you curl into yourself and seem to wither and grow small before his eyes makes him wish he could take it all back. He tries to catch your gaze, but you purposely avoid his as you drag yourself over to the couch. Body heavy and tired, you all but slump down into worn cushions, blankly staring into space as you weakly reply with “No. I’m not.”

He doesn’t move, nor does he speak, cause while he’d been expecting your answer to a degree, now that it’s out in the open he’s… unsure what to even do with it. It isn’t a worry for long, though, as you continue speaking, slow and weary. Like you had been expecting, dreading, this moment just as much as him.

“It wasn’t a… conscious choice. To come here, I mean. It was an accident really, I didn’t even know what had happened at first.” A weak chuckle. “This was a shock to me as much as it must’ve been for you.”

And what a shock it had been for you. To have been standing with your friends in the bowels of the Hexgates one minute and to wake up in an unfamiliar bed the next. Dizzily traipsing through a space that had felt familiar yet foreign all at once; pictures and mementos from times you couldn’t remember staring at you from every surface. And to have had Viktor come through the door, bag of baked goods under one arm, to find you in the living room of what should’ve been your home, looking every bit as lost as you felt. It had been a miracle you’d stayed standing then and there, with the way he’d looked: same lanky figure supported by a cane, same messy chestnut locks, same two beauty marks against the pale skin of his sharp face, same concern in his honey colored irises when he took in your state. But no dark circles borderlining bruises under his eyes, no hollowed, sunken in cheeks, no blood on his lips to betray another attack. And no Hexcore devouring him whole. Your downfall had come in the form of slender fingers gingerly wrapping around your forearm to try and steady you; a silent question and a gentle offer of help. One of those fingers wearing the very same ring you usually kept on a chain around your neck, because you’d always been too busy or too in your own head to just ask him. To offer him your heart, your life, your everything, if only he wanted it. Always too terrified of rejection, of losing him to his illness; too scared of fucking something until it was too late. And when your hand had come up in search for said necklace, a nervous habit that had developed at some point, and you’d found a matching ring on your own finger instead, you’d finally dissolved into a wailing, sobbing mess against his chest, never wanting to let go again.

And what a shock it had been for him. To have talked to you, not twenty minutes prior, an exchange of sleepy, lazy kisses and quiet murmurs, telling you he’d go get breakfast and be right back, watching as you’d curled back up under the blankets with a content sigh. To come through the door, expecting you still in bed and instead finding you in the middle of your living room, looking utterly lost and misplaced in your own home, an almost manic look in your eyes, staring at him like you’d seen a ghost. He’d approached you, carefully, like one would a wild caged animal, and then a simple touch of his had sent you into a meltdown. And at an absolute loss, he’d simply held you. Let you cry yourself to utter exhaustion in his arms, the both of you a heap on the floor, propped up against the back of the sofa. When you had finally, finally calmed down, you’d played it off as the aftershocks of a nightmare. The kind that makes you believe they’re real and keeps you trapped in them for what could feel like a lifetime. And Gods you’d looked like you had aged a lifetime while he was gone. And ever since that night you’d been… different. Getting lost in your own head more often than not. Suffering from nightmares almost every night. Migraines and something akin to epileptic seizures every once in a good while. He had let it go on, assuring you that if you needed anything he would be there for you, and in the following months, you’d seemed to settle and things had gone back to normal. Relatively. But it had been the memory loss that had made him suspicious. Or more so the fact that while some things remained, others seemed to have happened differently for you and some had never happened at all. Never having been able to leave well enough alone, he’d started digging for explanations. And now, at the end of his research, his most impossible theory proven right - he’s yet again at a loss of what to do. How to help you.

“I didn’t know how I got here, much less how to get back. From what I do understand about all of this, and it ain’t much, the thing that sent me to this world doesn’t even exist here. So at first I didn’t have much of a choice but to just… live. To pretend like everything was normal and I belonged here. But eventually I realized that even if I got the chance to go back, I didn’t want to. I wanted to be selfish, I wanted—“ Your voice cracks, thick with emotion and he watches your head drop forward like a doll’s whose strings have been cut, eyes downcast at your trembling hands. “I wanted to be happy again. And for once in my damn life I wanted it to last. It just never fucking lasts…”

Stride over to you and hold you tight, kiss you and tell you that everything would be alright, that you would figure this out together, like always. That’s what he should be doing. Every bone in his body tells him to, but just like so many other times in the past, his oh so brilliant mind prevents him. Tells him that there is no ‘together, like always’ because the person in front of him isn’t the person he’s known his whole life. Isn’t the person he married. Everything’s an ugly mess and he doesn’t mean for his next words to come across as cruel, doesn’t perceive them that way; blissfully unaware of the implications, he’s simply, truly curious.

“What would you do if you were to go back home?”

An inelegant snort leaves you and you wipe the back of your hand over your eyes in a desperate and vain attempt to stop the tears from flowing.

23 seconds.

You were counting, just to give you something to occupy your spiraling mind with, really.

23 seconds.

That’s how long it had taken him to no longer refer to this world, this apartment, him as your home. To prioritize whatever might be going in your other life. And you know it’s not fair, to be this upset with him, this version of him that you’ve been deceiving from the start; even though he has never wronged you. But you can’t help it. Guilt and regret would soon be all you’d have left again, so might as well leave him with some, too.

“Well… if I hadn’t gotten sucked into this mess, I would’ve killed myself by now. I guess I’d be getting back to that.”

The breath that escapes him sounds like you actually just sucker punched him in the gut and immediately makes you feel terrible about how casual and bitter you’d made it sound, but he’d wanted the truth and that was it. Limbs heavy und unsteady, you rise from your position on the couch and make your way over to the front door. “I’ll go take a walk or… you know, go do… whatever. Give you some space, time to think.” Your hand’s already on the door handle, but you pause and somehow find it in yourself to turn around and at least give him the courtesy of looking at him for what you’re about to say. “For what it’s worth, I never meant to let it go this far. It just became so… easy to pretend like things had always been like this. You made it easy. And while I’m sorry that I lied to you, tricked you, intentional or not, I got the chance to fall in love with you all over again. And I could never be sorry about that.”

You’re fairly certain you’ve never seen him move as fast as he does now and before you know it, you’re wrapped in a hug almost too tight, his cane landing on the carpeted floor next to you with a dull thump. “You cannot say things like that and expect me to just let you walk out of that door, I-“

Readjusting his hold on you, he cradles your head against his shoulder and loops his other arm around your middle, continuing in a hushed, gentle tone. “I can’t bear the thought of harm befalling you. Even worse, you harming yourself. In any timeline. Please, just stay. No matter what might happen in the future, just… stay with me. Right here.”

He means for it to be reassuring, comforting, loving, you know that. It’s not his fault that it has the exact opposite effect.

Wincing, a new wave of tears springs to your eyes and you remove yourself from his hold, but can’t bring yourself to let go completely; hands now linked between the two of you. “Viktor, I stole the body and life of a person you actually love. I don’t want you to force yourself to try and love me out of pity.”

“And why are you so certain that’s what this is?!” It surprises you, how genuinely upset he sounds, and a gasp is forced out of your throat when he wrenches his hands out of your grasp and his palms find your face, to force your gaze onto him and keep it there, wether you want to or not. The expression he’s wearing almost scares you; thick brows furrowed in anger and lips curled back in what could nearly be a snarl, but as soon as gold eyes find yours, red and puffy and so very desperate and grieving, whatever fire seemed to have been burning him up inside goes out all at once.

His shoulders drop and he rests his forehead against yours with a sigh, warm breath fanning over your face. “I’m sorry, moje láska, please forgive me. I’m not angry with you, I just… I can not comprehend why you are so ready and willing to accept rejection, but will not even entertain the possibility that loving you comes as easy to me as your affections for me do to you. Why can you love every version of me, but I’m not allowed the same with every version of you?” He watches you blink owlishly, your mouth opening and closing several times and he’s not sure wether it’s endearing or heartbreaking, how clear it is that this possibility never even crossed your mind. “You act like this entire situation only penalizes me, when in reality, I’m not actually your Viktor, either, am I?”

He expects this to help, to give you a new perspective. To make it clear to you that you are both the same; you are not a villain in his story. And there is a smile on your lips, but it’s so small and sad that his stomach drops at the sight. “No, you’re not. You couldn’t be. My Viktor is gone.”

And all of a sudden, it makes so much sense. How sometimes you’d stare at him with the most haunted look in your eyes, like he was a dead man walking, ready to collapse at any given moment. How you’d grow frantic when he came back late from the academy. How you’d insisted on tagging along on the most mundane of tasks, always under the guise of wanting to spend more time with him, but really just keeping a close eye on him at all times. Though he suspects the former to be true; the chance to spend even a few more precious hours with a loved one you’d thought lost, who wouldn’t jump at that chance?

His world would simply seize spinning if you were no longer in it, he can’t even begin to imagine how you feel. How tormenting it must’ve been to see him everyday, a second chance dangling right in front of you, but never certain if you were to wake up back in a world where he was gone.

You’re in his arms again in a heartbeat, one hand carding through your hair, the other rubbing soothing patterns into your back; whispering sweet little nothings into your ear as you bury your face into the crook of his neck and sob. All so much like the day you arrived and saw him for the first time, and yet… softer. More intimate.

You stay like this until your bawling dies down to whimpers and sniffles at which point he gingerly coaxes you to look at him.

“Miláček, listen to me. As it stands now, you have no way of going back to your original world.” He doesn’t call it your home anymore, you notice. “You did not ask for this, you did not choose this; you had it thrust upon you while going through enough pain and grief you considered taking your own life. For the love of everything, you needn’t feel guilty for wanting to use this chance to find happiness again. And you shouldn’t feel guilty if you continue to do so.” Still sniffling you gently caress his face, thumbs running over his chiseled cheekbones and heart stuttering when he leans into your touch. But then you catch sight of the ring on your finger again.

“I’m not… I’m not the person you married, Vik.” Unknowingly, you parrot his own thoughts back to him, but surprisingly enough, he finds he doesn’t much care anymore. He’s flabbergasted how he could ever even doubt for a second that it would matter which timeline you were originally from. Because it’s still you. Damn it all, it’s still you. “Maybe so. But I’ve seen the same kindness in you in those past few months that I’ve always known. The same wit. The same ambition and passion. All the things that made me love you in the first place. You said this gave you the chance to fall in love with me again; would you allow me the chance to do the same?”

The truth is, while you want to try and build a life here, you feel guilty. Guilty about the friends you left fighting a war. Guilty about taking over the life and joy of someone else, even if they are a different version of you. Guilty about forcing the man you love into a relationship with a person he technically doesn’t even know. All these months, you’d only ever reciprocated his affections, never initiated them, had barely let him touch you at all, because you’d always felt like somehow you were coercing him into cheating on someone he actually loved. But here he is now, telling you that he wants you, this version of you, all of you. Could you really do it? Leave behind everything and everyone you’ve ever known, for a chance at happiness, a fresh start? You had no guarantee that things would go smoothly in this universe either, after all. Wouldn’t you just be playing pretend for the rest of your life?

“So what, we’ll just… pretend like it’s the first time then?” you ask, a quiet breathless laugh accompanying your question. He shrugs and smiles at you. “Something like that. Falling in love with you again and again and again? I could imagine a worse fate.”

So could you. Much, much worse, in fact.

Your expression shifts somewhat without you even realizing and he immediately recognizes that he must’ve triggered some form of painful memory. He places tiny little kisses all over your face, murmuring apologies all the while and when you sigh in contentment it finally dawns on him that this is very much the first time you’ve let yourself enjoy being close with him since you got here. He doesn’t blame you; the moral dilemma that was forced on you would put anyone on edge and make them anxious about what they could allow themselves to experience without some form of consequences. He would prove to you that there would be none, he’d make sure of that; singlehandedly destroy them if they did decide to raise their ugly heads. That you didn’t always need to give and give and ask for nothing in return. That you could take what you wanted and not be punished for it. You’d taught him that after all.

“Moje světlo…?”

Gods have mercy on your soul, you never could say no to him when he used those damn pet names on you.

You crash your lips to his, desperate and practically starved; in direct contrast to all the sweet promises and gentle reassurances you just shared, there’s nothing romantic about it. It’s all tongues and teeth and absolutely filthy and it’s exactly what you need right now. Your back makes contact with the door you’d been oh so insistent on walking out of not even fifteen minutes ago, that thought now the furthest thing from your mind as his hands are already under your shirt, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Your head falls back against the worn wood with a thump as his lips find your neck, leaving marks and bruises for everyone to see and maybe the moan that escapes your throat with a broken version of his name coupled with how weak your knees already feel could’ve been embarrassing, but you don’t have it in yourself to care; it feels like it’s been years since he last kissed you like this. Touched you like this. The whine of protest as he pulls back is cut short when he drops to his knees in front of you, hands on your hips to keep you in place and placing on last kiss on your stomach before he puts some distance between you both, not more than a few inches really, but still too much for your liking. One hand goes to cover his own, while the other cups his face, trying to tug him closer again, but he refuses. Brows knitting together in confusion and frustration, you’re about to ask him what he thinks he’s doing, but he beats you to it.

“I won’t go further unless you tell me you want this.” You almost laugh, because he can not be serious. How much more obvious could you be? Your own body is doing half the talking for you, really. But of course that’s not exactly what he means. “I want you to admit to me, and more importantly to yourself, that you want this life. I want you to realize that it is perfectly alright for you to be selfish every now and again.”

His words trigger a memory from long ago, when you’d found him passed out on the desk in the lab one too many times. After you’d been done yelling at him, you’d told him that he couldn’t just always give and give and give until there was barely anything left of himself. That it was okay to be a little selfish and take things for himself every once in a while.

Take your own advice, liar.

A voice somewhere in the back of your head purrs bewitchingly and it’s right. You are still lying. Not to him though - to yourself. Telling yourself that you feel guilty for wanting to stay here, when in reality that’s how you should be feeling. But the truth, the real truth, is that you’re scared.

Scared of how little you actually care. About the friends you left fighting a war. About taking over the life and joy of someone else, even if they are a different version of you. About forcing the man you love into a relationship with a person he technically doesn’t even know. You haven’t truly cared about any of it from the get go; always too self righteous to admit it to yourself, though.

Practiced fingers slip from his cheek to the hair at the nape his neck and pull; he goes along willingly this time, head forced back and his eyes lock onto yours, right as fresh, hot tears start to travel down your face. But you’re done grieving; you are livid, plain and simple. “I want this…” you breathe out, so quiet he almost misses it. You don’t stay quiet, though, you can’t anymore, and your voice rises in volume with every sentence spoken. “I want to stay. I want a life with you. All blissful boredom and domesticity. It’s all I ever wanted. Why…? Why was even that too much to ask?!”

He doesn’t have the answer, but he does have the solution, delivered with a slight turn of his head and a kiss to your wrist.

“It wasn’t. It isn’t.”

Breaths heavy and irregular, you simply take in the sight of him: all disheveled hair and kiss swollen lips, pretty blush all the way down to his neck, eyes dark and pupils blown wide, only a thin ring of gold left, looking at you so longingly, on his knees for you and you alone; like a worshipper ready to commit any atrocity for the sake and love of their god.

“You can take what you want, anděl. No one will punish you for it. I won’t let them.”

Angel. Oh, the irony. Irony turned certainty. Certainty turned reality.

So take you would. And you wouldn’t bother looking back at the things you’d left behind.

[h3k3t]

Ok it's neither romantic nor spicy, but in my opinion it's worth listening to, okay?

Geta has anger issues, Caracalla also has the disease...they need a support sister and we need an angst scenario. (just to be clear again, it's PLATONIC, okay? Okay)

tw: caracalla and his madness, toxic way of showing affection towards family

Geta:

We all know that even though Geta shows off his coolness and chillness, he has a fragile psyche like Caracalla, you see it when he throws wine in his brother's face, or when he yells at Acacius, or the terror he feels when he sees Rome in revolt.

So I imagine him going to his sister, the only bastion of light in that darkness, in that chaos; You are in your rooms when you hear Geta shouting your name, then suddenly enters in the throes of a nervous breakdown. Dropping whatever you were doing, you advance towards him but not before miraculously dodging the crown that the young emperor threw after putting his hands in his ginger hair.

In the room only his angry voice could be heard, the servants had all disappeared while he was spewing out words about how he could not handle Caracalla, the senate and "And the people...they're ungrateful and demanding. It's like they expect me to fix everything for them without lifting a finger."

Of course it was always the people and not him you thought sarcastically, knowing the story very well by heart, but now it didn't matter, as much as you hated your brother's cruelty, you had always felt pity for him and Caracalla. And you simply sat on the bed, calling him in a calm voice to you, like a mother would do.

In an instant the emperor whom everyone feared was on his knees, clutching the fabric of your stole with possessive force, his face pressed against your thighs; a caress in your hair was enough to feel a shaky sigh and then a sniff, while Geta bit his tongue bloody so as not to cry in front of his dear sister, the only thing he truly cared about...

"Geta..." you tried to say, but he interrupted you. "No, don't talk, stay here, with me..." He didn't want to make a fuss, he needed silence and to feel your warmth, your closeness.

"...if I lost you too, sister..." he said taking your hand and kissing the back of it, hiding it under his face "...I would burn every inch of Rome and myself with it". Atrocious words, enough to make anyone shudder, yet in that sea of putrid hatred, there was something corrupt that in its own way was love... a desperate redemption, too late.

"Never abandon me, never leave my side..." he said after raising his head towards you, black makeup running under his lower eyelids "Swear to me" and with your heart torn between the guilt of a lie and a loving smile you said: "On my life, dear brother".

Caracalla:

It had all happened so quickly, a fight between two brothers and then Geta threw the wine in Caracalla's face, bitterly regretting it soon after. You ran after your brother, before Macrinus could catch up. The man was a complete stranger, an unnecessary addition to your pile of problems, he had no interest in the empire, just stick your three heads on a pike.

"Caracalla..." Your voice echoed through the room that seemed desolate, until you heard the high-pitched verses of the monkey Dondus. You sighed tiredly, mentally exhausted, your mind took a leap back in time, when life was easier and illness had not taken Caracalla away; The nurses had taught you a nursery rhyme, and you two always sang it when one of you lost his way...

"Five little ducks went out one day..." you hummed, but Caracalla didn't answer, however you saw the little monkey scurry away from under the table, you knew he was under there "...Over the hill and far away..."

You slowly approached the table, but still no response, until a shaky voice said, "Mother duck said, 'Quack, quack, quack, quack'..." and a small smile appeared on your face, before you crouched down and found your brother lying on his side under the table.

His blue eyes were filled with tears, his face looked like that of a lost child and not that of a young man in command, your heart tightened, and the anger for a moment was replaced with so much sadness.

"...But only four little ducks came back" you finished the song looking at him with eyes full of compassion, kneeling on the floor. "My sweet brother...come out, do you recognize me, yes?"

There was another moment of silence broken by a sob from Caracalla who crawled towards you, and curling up again towards your lap burst into tears again like a child.

Your heart tightened with anger and sadness, you hated him; you blamed him because he had always been weak, even before his illness, he spent his days with whores and various luxury, while the blood of conquered peoples stained the soldiers' blades, leaving only sand and ashes on barren lands to govern; You hated him because it was his and Geta's job to protect you, and instead it was you who picked up their pieces every time, or you could barely keep them away from vultures like Macrinus. You were tired, it wasn't fair, you hadn't done anything wrong, and yet...and yet, your mother had shaped you between blood and empathy, and even though you hated those two, you couldn't stop loving them.

"I'm gonna kill him" you woke up from your thoughts when you felt Caracalla tightening your clothes and gnashing his teeth "He thinks I'm weak, he wants to take everything away from me...even you, isn't that right?"

"What?" you asked, but before you could react, you found yourself lying on the ground, your brother's hands on your neck, an iron grip. "Caracal--!" you gasped, your nails digging into the pale flesh of his arms.

"I see you, you know? I see you hidden in the shadows, with those ears always ready to eavesdrop... do you think I can't hear you at night, walking aimlessly who knows where" Caracalla continued to accuse you, barking out his repressed anger from his lungs. It was the disease talking, but he still kept his sharp tongue "You went to his chambers, aren't you? To Geta! You're going to be a co-conspirator, you want to kill me, aren't you?! Traitors!"

"Caracalla--!" you shouted, giving him a desperate slap to the arm, which destabilized him for a moment "Break the spell!" that was the phrase that you and Geta used to bring him back to his senses "I'm your sister and I love you.. please, don't go where I can't reach you" you said bursting into tears scared and exhausted...exhausted of all this, exhausted of fighting.

Caracalla seemed to come to his senses and, opening his blue eyes wide, looked at his trembling palms, the same hands that were suffocating his sister... he had hurt his sister. "Sister...?" he fell to his knees in defeat "N-no, no no no! Forgive me...I'm sorry I'm sorry... I'm so sorry" he said before your arms wrapped around him in an almost suffocating embrace.

"I'm here..." you replied in a tired tone "Breathe, follow my heart, everything will be okay, brother..."

There was no lie in the world more cruel than this...

[heartnanase]

scaramouche

i dont know what this is but my love life has been cooking recently so i decided to write again after months (i’ve been left on delivered for 16 minutes so you guys get angst)

“look seriously? don’t be like that— hey! wait! it wasn’t my choice! the fatui? i wanted you to be safe!”

“im getting married. deal with it.” you said while quickly walking, holding onto the sides of your heavy wedding dress, not even 3 minutes into putting on your outfit and you already regret wearing heels. “who? tartaglia huh?” he looked like a fool, you assumed he did at least. getting the courage to look at him was difficult. “it’s ajax.” you coldly say. you could picture his eye roll in your head as he mumbles a “whatever.” all you could do was watch his shadow in the corner of your eye trying to match your pace, while he reached to grab your hand. you angrily turn to him. “no! no just go! its been five years and now i’m just supposed to believe that you suddenly want me again?” all he can do is stare at your teary eyes, all he can do is chuckle. it’s weird, you had no clue why you were crying. was it cause the way he trims his hair now is different? was it cause his voice has changed, it sounds restless; was it cause it’s been so long? or was it because your heart still beats the same for him as it once did years ago. it didn’t matter how you felt anymore, you had a husband. well you will have a husband. so—

“listen okay? i just needed you to be safe” he cuts off your thoughts. scaramouche is nervous, he thinks he’s hiding it well with his smirk but he’s really not. you watch as he awkwardly try and fix his posture and grins at you, shoving his hands in his pocket hoping you didn’t notice his shaky fingers. you couldn’t stay here with him much longer, ajax would be furious. it’s not like you loved ajax, nor did he love you. it was a mutual agreement that your marriage would be perfect considering you and ajax both came from respectable families. however your dad always hated scaramouche, and you wish you listened to your father about how boys like him are pieces of shit. “you don’t get to decide that!”

scaramouche scoffs, “so what? what would that make me if i was the reason you died?” you slowly gulped as you both stood in science. he sighs and continues, “look i love you okay i still do and being away from you was one of the hardest things i’ve done!” you kinda always hoped the break up hurt scaramouche, even if it was just a little bit. you hoped that seeing you with someone else makes him bite his inner cheek. so it makes you feel better about drawing doodles of him. and making playlists dedicated to him. and learning the stupid piano just so you could play his favourite songs. “you have no right… no right to come back into my life!” your lip quivered, “it took me so long to fall asleep without you. do you know how difficult it is to eat with a heavy heart? maybe you didn’t kill me physically but the world stopped spinning the day you left so if you’re trying to come back the moment i’m starting to feel okay i’m not letting you.” of course you still loved him, but he was the reason why you put such restrictions on love. and now you cant even break your own rules, not even for him. scaramouche opens his mouth to speak but a voice calls out for you.

“hey! ajax is looking for you!” a guest you didn’t even know yelled from across the room. you look at scaramouche one more time before walking past him.

[rei-ismyname]

Let's talk R-LDS

R-LDS or Resurrection-Linked Degenerative Sickness was alluded to in X-Men #4 and the Infinity Comics before being named in X-Men #7. We're told that Magneto has it and it's directly caused by Krakoan resurrection/The Five, kinda.

Here's Beast doing some alluding.

In the panels above, we learn that Hank McCoy is the only one working on the problem - the problem being Magneto's loss of his powers and his body breaking down rapidly - his very chromosomes unraveling. He seems quite sure that it could happen to 'any of us' though the lack of quarantine suggests it's not contagious.

The next bit of information we receive is from Magneto and Scott in conversation, reflecting on The Iron Night. They took down a wild sentinel that was attacking the town and Mags lost control over his powers immediately after, requiring Scott to knock him out for safety's sake. Scott is no scientist, and while Magneto is a genius polymath autodidact (with plenty of experience in genetics) it's not a character trait that's seen focus lately. Thus, I'm assuming they're discussing it as amateurs and as patient zero in Magneto's case.

Magneto confidently names the condition for the first time as well as using an acronym for it, suggesting it's confirmed to exist, he's had a positive diagnosis, and they're using the term enough to require shorthand. He even spells out the subtext for us - it was a hidden flaw in Krakoan resurrection. I'll come back to that notion. Scott says 'we don't know that for sure,' implying that R-LDS is just a theory or speculation, which Mags doesn't directly refute. Instead he lays out the worst case scenario. They can't both be right here, so what's the deal? Magneto's symptoms are obviously confirmed, but how did they get from there to here?

If Magneto is the first and only person affected by his condition, why are he and Beast so sure about its providence and everyone being in danger? How could they possibly link it to Krakoan resurrection? I'm no scientist but I do know that there's only so much you can conclude from a single data point. Magneto was indeed only resurrected by the Five once, but he died again after that on Arakko (X-Men Red #7). The body he's in came out of a portal from Overspace in Adam Brashear's underwater base (Resurrection of Magneto #3.) His body suffering a condition borne of something that happened to a different body doesn't make sense. Considering he's the only person to return to life that way AND the only one allegedly with R-LDS, that would be the place to start for Beast's sciencing.

There he is, good as new.

Word of God

In a recent AIPT interview, Tom Brevoort removed any ambiguity and just straight up confirmed it. With the caveat that his recent X-history knowledge seems pretty poor, he is the de jure ultimate authority on the matter. I don't agree with that, and not just because I don't respect him as a creator. This habit of on-panel ambiguity and editorialising in interviews is vexing.

It's especially vexing when he contradicts himself. He counterpoints his own information with some of what I just pointed out, but the fact that they've made a list of who was and wasn't resurrected suggests R-LDS is a plot point they're committed to. I have to wonder why he bothered giving a detailed answer to this question if it's 'yes,' then 'maybe', then 'it will definitely be a thing you'll see as we progress.' Saying all of that and then ending with 'we know very little so far' really makes me wonder what he's thinking. Tom Brevoort could have given his usual cagey answer about not wanting to spoil anything, but he didn't here. I'm saving most of my Brevoort-specific criticism for a separate piece, but this glib and irreverent tone is typical of his commentary - even managing a light jab at Jordan D White.

Frankly, I think it's a graceless and cynical development. There are so many character beats, mistakes, and conflicts to use from the First Krakoan Age that choosing to create R-LDS feels like a shot at the core of hopefulness and creativity that blew our socks off in 2019.

HoxPoX

House of X/Powers of X was hopeful and magical. After a decade plus of endless misery and genocides, dull stories and bizarre characterisation, for once mutants got a W. The ability to use mutants working together to right the horrendous wrongs they'd suffered was central to that - the power of community and cooperation. What they built wasn't perfect but The Five was something they got right.

What would possess someone to take the cornerstone of the greatest X-Men story of all time (don't @ me) and try to tear it down? Remember, when the dust settled we ended up in Moira X life 10E. In 10A, the original Krakoan experiment, the mutants won! They thrived and protected what was theirs against Dominions. It took a literal apex AI God existing outside of space and time directly opposing them to fail. Enigma, on the back foot, sent Omega Sentinel through time to start ORCHIS years early and ensure Krakoa's collapse. Am I to believe 'no, sorry. That was a dead end?'

Haven't we been here before?

We've had mutants suffer from the Legacy Virus and M-Pox already, and I might even be missing other examples of nebulous diseases that threatened to wipe out all mutants. Obviously it's the prerogative of the X-Office to use whatever plot points they want, but do we really have to do this again? There are plenty of ways to sideline Magneto as a combatant that don't require repackaging old storylines. We've even had Hank McCoy decades behind the curve desperately trying to catch up before - in All-New All-Different X-Men.

Small World

Defenders-era Hank McCoy might be the worst possible 616 scientist to tackle this problem. He's literally decades behind the science curve and doesn't have the experience in dealing with anything like this. He's not the same guy that worked on M-Pox or the Legacy Virus. He never set foot on Krakoa and has never met any of the Five. We don't know how much data was recorded or kept from The Five but Beast may not have access to it.

Why isn't he talking to Cecilia Reyes, Forge, Jean Grey, Reed Richards, Doctor Strange, Adam Brashear, Healer, Doctor Nemesis? Even doctor dickhead that extorted Storm has the ability to instantly diagnose anyone. It makes the world feel tiny, and when you're following an era of interconnectedness that's just so disappointing. Portraying him as supremely concerned about 'all of us being ticking time bombs' rings hollow if he's working on it solo. Hank McCoy has always had a sense of arrogance where his scientific ability is concerned but not to this degree. Look at the guy! He's hating the stress he's under.

Sins of Sinister and the White Hot Room

I have to wonder if the implications of linking Magneto's illness to The Five's resurrection have been fully considered. The Sins of Sinister timeline ran for a millennium with the Five resurrecting on an industrial scale. Rasputin IV would have noticed, or the Quiet Council. The mutants left behind in the White Hot Room in RotPox spent 15 years bringing back ALL the dead mutants. That's 16 million, minimum. 15 years is less than a thousand but it's still longer than the First Krakoan Age, several times over. Nobody noticed anything? Elixir, member of the Five and Omega biokinetic, with his unlimited mastery of DNA didn't notice anything? Sounds dubious as hell to me.

Towards the end of the era many humans were resurrected too. 5% of the Five's work was set aside for bringing back poor children etc through the Phoenix Foundation. Steve Rogers was resurrected into his current body on Judgement Day. I am extremely skeptical that this has been considered, and in Steve's case whether the X-Office can even use him.

Conclusion

Magneto's physical degradation has been swift. Here he is in Uncanny X-Men #700, implied to be at most 6 months before X-Men #1. I think I've demonstrated that the concept is nonsensical and to reiterate, I think it's a terrible narrative choice. If I'm being generous, it'll be interesting to see if they can explain R-LDS in a way that makes sense - if they can do something new and interesting with a tired concept. There's only been one issue since it was introduced, so perhaps I'm jumping the gun on breaking it down. Let's check back in 6 months.

What do you think of R-LDS? Do you think my reasoning is sound? As always, I'd love to hear what other fans think.

[writingfics-passingtime]

Look at you superpowering your way through that fic. I haven’t had time to read in sooo long but I’m definitely going to put some aside to read OTR parts 2 & 3 as I adored part 1. Anyway, here’s my prompt for the song request! The song is Hey Girl by Stephen Sanchez (my little sister’s wedding song apparently, though she’s also said that about a hundred other songs lol), & the character is Andrew’s Spiderman. Have fun!

Head in the Clouds

This drabble is part of JJ’s Mixtape - a mini series based on my followers’ favourite songs and characters. You can read more of them here!

Song Prompt: Hey Girl - Stephen Sanchez

Pairing: Peter Parker x female reader

Word Count: ~2000

CW: mentions of crime and death

Note: Cas, do forgive me for the fact that this took nearly two years. I hope it was at least a little bit worth the wait. Thank you for sharing this song with me, it is so sweet and tender and this idea flowed out of me. Hope you like it!

The subway car hummed with the rhythm of its own chaotic life. Peter sat slouched against the seat, his head low, the rim of his hood shadowing his face.

He didn’t want to see the city today.

Didn’t want to see the ghosts that lingered in the faces of strangers, or worse, the ones that followed him like a haunting memory. The night before replayed in loops that wouldn’t stop. The mugging. The panic. The older woman he couldn’t save.

He curled his fingers into fists inside his jacket pockets, the faint tremor in them making him nauseous. Every sound - the faint screech of the rails, the muffled conversations, the hiss of air brakes - rubbed raw against his frayed nerves.

Then you stepped onto the train.

Peter didn’t look up at first. He was too lost in the cavern of his thoughts. But something shifted in the air - subtle, like the faintest hint of a spring breeze brushing through a winter morning. A quiet presence, steady, unassuming. You sat across from him, balancing a sketchbook on your lap, pencil already in hand. He caught a glimpse of your headphones, wires trailing into the folds of your coat. Whatever you were listening to must’ve been good, because your lips tilted faintly upward, your expression soft and serene.

For a while, he didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare look too long, didn’t dare make himself known. But his gaze kept drifting toward you, a fragile kind of curiosity building in his chest. You weren’t just sitting there, zoning out like everyone else. You were drawing.

Peter watched the way your pencil glided across the page, your hand light but sure, creating shapes and shadows that looked effortless. You tilted your head, studying someone across the car - a man in a rumpled suit who looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Peter saw the way you captured him on the page, not cruelly, not mockingly, but with a surprising kind of reverence. You made him look… important. Worthwhile. Seen.

His chest tightened. How long had it been since he’d felt like that?

The train jostled, and you didn’t even flinch. Your hand adjusted, your lines precise. You worked quietly, invisibly to everyone else, but not to him. Peter watched the way your brow furrowed slightly in concentration, the way your lips twitched when you got a line just right. There was something almost magical about it - the way you turned the mundane into something remarkable.

The man you sketched got off at the next stop, and Peter thought maybe that would be it. Maybe you’d close the book and tuck it away. But you didn’t. Your gaze wandered briefly, settling somewhere near him, though not directly on him. He held his breath as you started to draw again.

Was it him?

Peter’s heart thudded. He resisted the urge to pull his hood tighter, to shrink into himself. Instead, he stayed perfectly still, letting the rattle of the subway mask the sound of his shallow breathing. He dared a glance down at your page. The lines were faint but unmistakable - long limbs, slouched shoulders, a figure weighed down by invisible burdens. You captured him, but not the way he saw himself. You didn’t draw the guilt, the failures, the shame. You didn’t draw Spider-Man. You drew Peter Parker - someone who was tired, yes, but still human. Still real.

Something inside him cracked.

Weeks and months passed, and Peter found himself noticing you more and more. He couldn’t explain it. The way you seemed to bring light to such an ordinary space felt like a balm to his fractured world.

if he was really lucky, he’d end up in the same train car as you once a week.

Still, every morning, he looked for you, his chest tightening each time he spotted your familiar frame, your sketchbook in hand. Sometimes, he’d catch glimpses of your work - portraits of subway performers, a mother holding her baby, a tired worker slumped against a pole. Every face told a story. Every face mattered.

One morning, Peter’s resolve crumbled entirely. He hadn’t slept. The weight of his failures clung to him like a second skin. He barely managed to drag himself onto the train, collapsing into a seat near the door. He pulled his hood low, resting his elbows on his knees, his head hanging in defeat. The last thing he wanted was to be seen.

But then you sat down next to him.

Peter froze. He didn’t dare turn his head, didn’t dare look at you directly. But he could feel you there, close enough that the faint smell of your shampoo reached him - a hint of something floral and clean. Your sketchbook was open again, your pencil moving with quiet purpose.

This time, he couldn’t resist. He risked a glance from the corner of his eye. You weren’t looking at him - your gaze was focused on a mother and her young son sitting a few seats away. The boy was clutching a balloon, his wide eyes full of wonder as he chattered about something Peter couldn’t hear. You smiled faintly as you worked, capturing the scene with the same delicate care as always.

Peter’s chest ached. How did you do it? How did you see the world this way, even when it was so often cruel and unforgiving? How did you find beauty in the cracks and crevices, in the quiet, unremarkable moments no one else noticed?

The train lurched, and your pencil slipped. You frowned, erasing the errant line with quick efficiency before continuing. Peter almost smiled at your determination. For the first time in days, the heaviness in his chest lifted, if only slightly.

And then, as if sensing his gaze, you turned. Your eyes met his, and Peter’s breath caught.

You didn’t say anything - your headphones still nestled in your ears - but your expression softened, your head tilting slightly in silent acknowledgment. Peter felt a lump rise in his throat. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words tangled up inside him. Instead, he gave you the faintest of nods.

You smiled, small but genuine, and turned back to your sketchbook. Peter let out a breath he’d been carefully holding. The train rattled on, the city blurring past the windows, but for once, he didn’t feel lost in the noise.

He watched you sketch, the quiet rhythm of your pencil grounding him, reminding him that there was still beauty in the world. Still hope.

Still something worth fighting for.

The next time Peter saw you, something was wrong.

The train doors slid open, their mechanical groan pulling him out of his thoughts. He glanced up instinctively, eyes scanning the platform. And then there you were - only you weren’t quite you.

Your usual energy, that quiet, creative spark that seemed to light up the gray monotony of the subway, was missing. You stepped onto the train slowly, your shoulders slightly hunched. No sketchbook was tucked under your arm. No pencil rested behind your ear. Your hands clutched the straps of your bag, gripping them tightly as though they might anchor you to something solid.

Peter sat a few seats away, unnoticed. At first, he wasn’t sure it was really you. The vibrance he had grown accustomed to - seeing you sketch, lips sometimes moving faintly to the rhythm of your music - was gone. You sat down heavily, not directly across from him this time, but on the opposite side, a few spaces to his left, staring down at your lap.

You fiddled absently with your bag’s straps, the leather creaking under your restless fingers. The movement was almost hypnotic. You were present but not here, your gaze vacant and distant. Your headphones were in, the faintest buzz of music leaking out, but whatever song you were listening to clearly wasn’t helping.

Peter’s chest tightened. Seeing you like this felt like seeing a bird with its wings clipped, something small and free now tethered to the ground. He’d never spoken to you, but in the months he’d spent in your presence, you’d become a quiet constant, a beacon of life in his otherwise heavy days. You made the world look softer. Brighter. Now, you looked like the light inside you had been dimmed.

He couldn’t ignore it. He couldn’t just sit there.

Peter’s fingers twitched against his thighs. What could he do? He wasn’t sure what had happened to you - whether it was something big, or just the weight of a bad day. But the thought of you sitting there, carrying whatever invisible burden had settled on your shoulders, made him ache in a way he didn’t quite understand.

His eyes dropped to his backpack, slumped against his feet. An idea - reckless, impulsive - began to form. Slowly, as inconspicuously as he could manage, he unzipped the bag and rifled through it.

Books. Notes. Crumpled papers. Pens. He didn’t have much to work with, but he didn’t need much.

He found a scrap of paper tucked between the pages of his physics textbook - half an old assignment, blank on the back - and a cheap blue pen that was on the verge of running dry. He hesitated, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

You hadn’t moved. Your hands still toyed with the straps of your bag.

Peter straightened in his seat and pressed the paper against his knee, clicking the pen. His heart thudded as he bent over the makeshift canvas.

He wasn’t an artist. Not like you. His lines were awkward, shaky. The pen smudged slightly, leaving faint streaks on the page. But he kept going. He drew the way your hair framed your face, the slight downward tilt of your head, the way your hands gripped your bag. He tried to capture the quiet sadness in your posture without letting it define you, the same way you’d drawn others with tenderness and care.

It wasn’t good. It wasn’t even close to good. But it was something.

The train slowed, brakes screeching as it approached his stop. Peter hurried to finish, his fingers trembling slightly as he folded the paper in half. He shoved the pen back into his bag and slung the strap over his shoulder, standing as the train lurched to a halt.

His eyes flicked to you one last time. You still hadn’t looked up.

He didn’t think. He just moved.

As he stepped toward the doors, he passed your seat, hesitating for only a fraction of a second. Then he dropped the folded paper into your lap, the motion quick and deliberate, a secret passed between strangers.

You startled, your fingers freezing mid-fidget. Your gaze lifted briefly, confusion flickering across your face as you looked at him. But Peter didn’t stop. He kept walking, his heart pounding in his ears.

The doors slid open, and he stepped out onto the platform.

He didn’t look back.

Inside the train, you blinked, staring down at the folded paper in your lap. For a moment, you weren’t sure what to make of it. You glanced toward the doors, catching a glimpse of the guy in the hood as he disappeared into the crowd.

Curiosity tugged at you. Slowly, you unfolded the paper.

The drawing stared back at you - a clumsy but earnest portrait of yourself, captured in pen on a crumpled scrap of paper. The lines were uneven, the proportions a little off, but there was something in the image that stopped you cold.

The figure in the drawing looked… real. Recognizable. But there was more to it than that. He hadn’t just drawn you - he’d seen you. Even in the shaky lines and imperfect strokes, there was care. There was tenderness.

There was hope.

You pressed your lips together, your vision blurring slightly as your grip tightened on the page.

For the first time that day, something inside you felt lighter.

On the platform, Peter shoved his hands into his pockets, walking briskly toward the stairs. He didn’t know if you’d unfold the paper. He didn’t know if it would mean anything to you.

But he hoped it did.

And for the first time in a long while, Peter felt like maybe, just maybe, he’d done something right.

[toximblee]

hello smeefo nation ,,, new fic alert ???

ao3 has yet to send me an invite email so ill be posting this fic here :3 very inspired by 'feral love' by bdoubleds on ao3 !!! i wouldnt say its to the point of a rewrite but i thought the fire metaphor was too good not to try out ,,, absolutely open to criticism, but pls try to keep it polite :D i copied the text str8 from my word doc so the formatting is a little off in some areas for some reason :( word count : 967

              Etho was burning. He was being swallowed by it. Flames licking at every bit of his body, consuming. The red and yellow of his bone marrow was blackening, charring with the outside, crumbling off in pieces.

              Being red was smoldering him alive, and he wanted more. Uncontrollable. The forest fire in him would engulf everything in its path, taking him with it.

              The flame in his chest didn’t start out blue-hot and rising. Episode 1, as he was spawned into the Game, something was gnawing at his upper torso like someone had taken a diamond pick between his pecs and hollowed him out. Then he met Joel in the mines. Playing around, joking about how he was so disappointed. Beside the hole, a small, supine red candle-flame flourished to life.

              Then Joel built him the ‘Relation’ ship. The fire swelled, crackling orange and marigold. Joel’s hand fit perfectly in his as he dragged him along, and so did he himself inside the soulmate-shaped cave in his chest. With Joel above him that night, Etho took to memorizing every mole and freckle on his skin, and all the constellations they linked together to make. Committing to memory very scar and discolouration, and the sandy beaches and crashing, rolling, foamy waves that consisted of them.

              Etho began to fall in love with everything Joel did. With Joel. With the green streak in his bangs, how he stuck out his tongue in concentration while belatedly redying the clump of hair yellow in the Relation after their Joel-enderman caused death. With his little cackle-giggles. With how he softened the ‘th’ in Etho’s name to a ‘f’ as a result of his lisp.

He too, softened around Joel, trusting him so far as to close his eyes as his soulbound would pluck arrows out of his body from the pillagers and smear an herbal ointment stretched with an awkward potion over the openings. Relaxed as he woke in the early mornings to Joel beside him. Thanked his mask for hiding any sort of embarrassing emotion after Joel traced the scar across his one red eye with tender, feather-light fingertips. Not that it did too much for him, as the tips of his pointed ears would flush pink-red occasionally. Traitorous things.

The transparent string of the fishing rod wrapped around Joel as he was tugged up. Unable to clutch, he plummeted.

<Smallishbeans> fell from a high place

<Etho died>               Joel’s eyes had turned to red after they respawned.

“They killed me, Etho. They killed me.”

Red. Red. They were Red.

Yellow. Canary. White-hot.

Joel chased Pearl down, who was clutching his chestplate. He sliced at her with his diamond axe before she died and her items exploded out across the moonlit grass, the blue-teal of the head of his axe shimmering with red.

Red.

“Shouldn’t have messed with us, Pearl! Shouldn’t have messed with us!” Joel cried as he laughed and took his items back.

The others started scrambling and fleeing. Cowards. Etho’s gaze connected with one before they’d left.               ‘You really let him do that?’

Etho’s eyes conveyed a message of their own.

‘You think I can control anything he does?’

Nah. He was just along for the ride. Joel was an unstoppable force. No immoveable object would even slow him. He didn’t let Joel do anything. He simply watched, strapped into the rollercoaster that was his soulmate. The most he could do was throw his arms up and laugh along.

“You do have it, we’ve been- we’ve been told you have it, you just lied through your teeth to us,” manic, frenzied red eyes focused in on Scar as Joel cornered him, diamond axe to his throat, “do you wanna lie to a red-name, Scar?”

Nervous laughs, attempted de-escalation from Grian.

“Oh, you don’t have any sugarcane, huh, Grian?” Etho felt the red curse biting as he walked towards Grian, “No sugarcane?”

He reveled at the laugh and hiss through his teeth he heard Joel make, teeth bared under his mask mirroring the sharp grin of his soulbound’s that he knew was boring into his back. Joel had changed him, or perhaps it was the curse, or both, and he had to tug himself back from slicing at Grian, from watching the crimson flower bloom and blossom and pour out.

Etho had never been red for long before in the Life Games. His series always ended soon after. This, this was different. He was with the infamous Red Joel. He was alive, and the red curse was swirling in his brain, and he’d wake up in the middle of the night, crazed for blood.

The Games tinkered with everyone’s brains, especially when the end of them were close. Everything became more lucid, nothing seemed real. It made people do stupid things. Too stupid.

They burned the ship.

Blue. Perano.

“The ship burns, everything burns! The ship burns, everything burns!” Joel yelled, chanting hysterically as he sprinted across the server, flint and steel in hand as he set fire to anything in his path.

The ship had burned. Everything would burn.

The yellow streak in Joel’s hair was red. Smeared, having been dyed from soaking up the blood of his kills.

Joel screamed, groaning, growling after he’d killed Scott. His red eyes glowed. If Etho looked too long, too hard, he could spot the flames flickering behind them.

“Etho, they trapped it, get back through!” Joel’s voice was shaky for once, not with mania, but with fear. He sputtered incoherently as his hands scrambled, latching onto Etho.

And they laughed. Foreheads pressed together. Laughed.

<Etho> tried to swim in lava

<Smallishbeans> burned to death

The flame in Etho’s chest mixed with the lava, dwindling, flickering out, as did the ones behind Joel’s irises.

After all.

The ship burns, everything burns. Including them.

[regular-gnome]

huh...

So when the Archivist find a planet capable of sustaining life but currently without life, they... Release single celled organisms? ...Just to archive them in the future? That's so odd to me.

Why not just wait, is archiving some sort of deep-seated urge or instinct that they NEED to do? Isn't it counterproductive to not just let life naturally develop, or is artificially creating new life apart of the reason they exist?

The short answer (its kinda a tdlr, the text got long)

So life develops slowly and needs stable conditions, what is hader when things like stars have finite lifespans (our Sun is already halfway through!). The Starchildren can’t create life or bring it back, and not all planets have the right conditions for it to start in time when planet is habitable, but might adapt once it’s there. They treat planets bit like gardens in a region where apocalypses are common, with the Archive serving as a storage for seeds, saplings, and tools. Its more usable and not as much lifeless museum of life

Most planets do well on their own, so only parts are collected but beyond that left alone, and some are destroyed or struggle to progress beyond microbes. In those cases, they might step in to improve conditions or remove threats. Sometimes, they just observe how life adapts to what chaos it has. If it can.

There are also personal reasons for work, things like attachment or desire for control, but their mission began when the first life-sustaining planet was destroyed, leaving them alone in the void believing everything was lost forever. When life SLOWLY re-emerged on other worlds, they began preserving and protecting it, spreading across the void.

Long answer under the cut

Life in general develops extremely slowly. Earth is around 4.5 bln years old (Ga), it's estimated that it took around 1,1Ga to go from anoxygenic bacteria to aerobic bacteria (after some ox producing bacteria ruined the party for all those who couldnt deal with it, also called Great Oxygenation Event). From there, it took roughly 0,5 Ga for eukaryotic cells to develop. Shortly after (like 0.1 Ga), life transitioned from single-celled to multicellular organisms. In comparison it took 1.7 Ga for evolution to progress from algae to humans—about 1.6x faster than the journey from primordial soup to microbes

There could be planets capable of supporting life that are just off the mark, preventing organic material from developing well enough. Some might have all the right conditions but lack the right combination of energy sources, maybe too far from a star, maybe something else. But, once life forms and we get a "Last Universal Common Ancestor" (LUCA) It could spiral to the point where, as on Earth, almost no surface remains untouched by life (you really don’t want to know how many bacteria are on your phone). But thats only really because life got a really good footing here. If a catastrophic event wiped out all complex life, bacteria adapted to extreme would probably be fine and maybe evolve further.

If primitive cells formed under specific conditions and those suddenly changed, all that progress could halt or go back entierly to a primordial soup (Going with the Heterotrophic Theory, this is my gen favourite term for this, soup). And there is another aspect. Suns are not eternal; our sun, at ~4.5 Ga, is already halfway through its lifecycle before becoming a red giant. At that point, Earth will lose its "habitable" status. If Earth went through a hard reset, and assuming everything went the same, next intelligent life might be one witness their star’s death, sooo there is a finite window of habitability.

Each evo step is faster than the last one, Archivists intervene at mostly early stages making the beginning bit smoother, more controlled. They aim to make planets with potential more habitable or stoping them from losing it. For example they might create an atmosphere if one lacks it but is otherwise perfect, and past that let life develop naturally.

And even with perfect conditions, factors like astronomical events could mess up whole process. In the infinite space it's not really a question of if but more which planet heads into a catastrophe, so they stay around. Archive functions like a backup, preserving progress where possible. If a planet faces extinction, they might change the enviroment, whatever is esponsible for it, maybe introduce creatures more capable of surviving—or even short-lived organisms, some that arent meant to survive but will provide enough short term nutrients for the native organisms to pull through.

That being said they usually try to avoid too much interferance, sometimes its just patching up small element before it becomes an problem. But sometimes they will just stay clear. If one is doing okay or particularly fascinating they'll stay back and watch how it adapt to the unique environments. World where due to temperatures the only habitable zone is on the edge of a star’s light? Organisms adaptation might give some insight for future and give templates for backing up similar ecosystems elsewhere. But there are limits to their interference. If saving a planet requires more effort than its results justify, they let it fade, something Wayfarer was upset about

There’s also a personal element. Archivists sometimes release life forms they’re familiar with—ancestors of creatures they once befriended. While they know these won’t develop into the same beings, it’s comforting to see familiar traits re-emerge (and to know how to deal with them). When universe is so hellbend on reminding of inevitable end, its a small victory.

Those are some words about methods, when it comes to why they even start its bit diffrent. The Starchildren’s mission stems from witnessing the first total extinction of life on a first developed planet. Unable to create life or reverse what had happened, they were confronted with the vast emptiness of the void and believed all was lost, that was it. And then saw the painfully SLOW emergence of life elsewhere, collectors agreed on a mutual goal to prevent life fading out of existance, not taking for granted it will work out. Bit ironic joke of fate that ones suited to live in isolation of void are also one to seek company. When the only other comapny is one that lives in blink of an eye its easy for the unguided Starchildren with almost divine power develop some quirks and complexes (not an excuse, just a reason).

But maybe its by design, just the right trait to have something always watching tirelessly over the gardens, ensuring there is someone there. I wouldn't say there isn't a quiet internal push for it, a drive that took root in the right environment and grew into a lifelong mission. Magic, like energy, isn’t created—it once formed part of Everything. When Everything awakened, it wanted to be more, sought to ensure there would always be something

[trashisstillhere]

Welp. I did say in my post with Serenity’s ref that i would show the villain who is part of my fanmade Rc9gn story ‘Hidden Danger’ later or next time since she also has a ref and all so…now I think its about time I do that rn before I continue doodling or something, idk.

Here ya go, meet the ‘cursed samurai’, Honoka! (Unfortunately I haven’t thought of a last name for her yet.)

The villain for my ‘Hidden Danger’ story!

As you can see, she wasn’t always evil. In fact, the REAL Honoka was a good person! She just ended up in an unfortunate state thanks to the ‘curse’ that took over her the moment she touched a not so normal stone.

Here is also the ‘curse’’s ref! (Still no actual better name for it for now, also planning on coming up with an actual name for the stone. Like how the power balls are actually really named ‘Chaos Pearls’!)

Now allow me to try explaining her story and telling some stuff about her so you can understand her stuff more and her purpose kinda. Along with the curse here!

Backstory: Honoka is, or was, a woman who spent most of her life training to become a samurai back in the 1200’s. She wanted to become a Samurai because she wanted to be worth something more, to achieve things just like her own family has. During her trainings and such, she went out travelling quite alot while looking for some challenges.

-one day during one of her travels while wearing a bit of samurai armour she obtained (the ones you see on the cursed form), she found a stone. But it wasn’t no ordinary stone, it seemed to have some strange mark kind of resembling a heart. Curious of this, Honoka went to go pick it up to take a closer look, finding its design to be strange yet kinda beautiful..

she stared at it for so long that she didn’t seem to realise that her fingers were suddenly turning darker, she only did once she saw the heart mark on it suddenly glow. Honoka was both shocked and confused by this and she was gonna drop the stone but for some strange reason, she wasn’t able to, it was like the stone was stopping her hand from doing so. As she was now slowly starting to panic, she heard a voice, speaking in an eerie and dark tone that screamed: *FINALLY!*.. the moment she heard that, red strings suddenly came out from the mark on the stone and started wrapping themselves around her arm, all the way to her chest which they immediately went into where they dragged the stone over to and placed it on against her chest plate, somehow burning against it till the point it connected right to her heart and starting to take over her completely as her body started changing.

She screamed for her life until the painful transformation was finally over, she wasn’t herself no more. She wasn’t even in control of herself anymore. The curse that was in the stone was. With its new host who was almost colorless now, ‘she’ could finally begin what she always planned: chaos.

Many people had seen the now cursed Honoka as she wandered all around some places but they all either were too scared to speak up about it or ended up losing their lives trying to, cursed Honoka didn’t want to be well known out there to the public as she really didn’t feel like having to deal with people trying to stop her plans so in order to make sure that wouldn’t happen, she tried making up a brand new home/hideout to keep herself in for the many years that would pass, keeping her whole existence a secret. Many years later, Her plan to be hidden from the public eye was working quite well….until she got an unexpected visitor, a ninja.

—————————————-

Info:

-the real/normal Honoka, during her cursed/possessed state, is self aware of everything happening around her but can’t do anything due to her body not being in control anymore. Not only that but she’s in constant pain, especially with how some parts of her armour seems to have become completely stuck against her flesh, like on her forehead…making her look like she has some horns now.

-the curse, while it’s identity and origins are unknown, is mostly interested in having a female host more then a male one. That’s kinda why their appearance seems feminine, she even likes looking ‘beautiful’ even though her current Host, Honoka, doesn’t really look….normal. Also her mouth is literally gone, kinda resembling the curse in a way as it doesn’t have a visible mouth either.

-Honoka’s weapon is just a ordinary katana with some design but after getting cursed, it was given some of the curse’s power in order to be more ‘powerful’, giving it that ‘magical’ appearance. Cursed Honoka also takes it out right from her ‘heart’, from that heart mark on the chest plate, where the cursed stone is now hidden in.

-‘the cursed Samurai’ is actually a nickname she got from Serenity! Before she was never really called anything but now she got that name, she doesn’t really have an opinion on it so she doesn’t stop the little ninja girl from calling her that.

-like many other people, Honoka (both the original and the curse version) thinks there only one Ninja who has existed for 800 years. Because of this, she actually thought that Serenity was the same exact ninja. But then later on in ‘hidden danger’ when Serenity comes back to her place with Randy, she gets to know the truth and realises that the ninja she had to deal with right now these past few days was actually not only female but a completely different person this whole time. Let’s just say, she was extremely puzzled.

-due to Serenity visiting her hideout again and again so many times to try to ‘defeat’ her, Cursed Honoka has placed a lot of traps around to try to keep her away. The more the little ninja comes back, the more traps will appear.

—————————-

And that’s all I am basically gonna say for now because I have literally spent almost too much time writing this all down. Yeah, I haven’t this written down somewhere, I just wrote everything I had worked on and all in my head lol. It’s also dark outside now where I live, damn.

But yeah, now you all pretty much know the villain of my Rc9gn story, ‘Hidden danger’!

[cursedfortune]

Mortem laughed lightly at the thought of his boredom leading him to harass the Heavens. She'd love to be a fly on the wall for that. Upsetting deities was a respectable hobby, in her opinion. Though, given his reputation, she was sure it would cause quite the stir.

"But I see your meaning. I've had plenty come to my home demanding the same. Or not even having the courtesy to ask - sometimes they go straight for the jugular under their own assumptions." Mortem lamented playfully. She wasn't really that bothered, it kept life semi-interesting. At least, when someone worth the interest came along. But even when it wasn't someone of interest, at least the corpses could make for good fertilizer for her gardens.

Despite the audacity the deities had, she supposed it was nice they recognized his power enough to talk first instead of trying to attack. Showed a bit of wisdom on their behalf, also meant his mountain wasn't constantly getting banged up or worse. Unlike her cabin. The enchantments she had to place upon it to cease fixing it constantly was a bit ridiculous - if not a bit sad.

His opinion of the festival was one she was amused by. It was rather quaint they upheld such a tradition, especially in an age where harvests weren't a thing mortals struggled with any longer. Still, appreciating the trials of the past was something that would always garner her respect. The importance of history, the value and relevancy it had - setting a foundation for the present, as the present set a foundation for the future... it was all of value. She worked hard to ensure history would not be forgotten, regardless of where in the world it could happen.

"If you'd like to attend a festival that celebrates a great battle that was overcome, I certainly know of a place back home. You ought to come visit at the end of spring." She invited. The capital city and high kingdom that unified all the others often held a celebration. A remembrance. It was a bittersweet event, but it possessed a reminder of their history - the value of keeping that knowledge alive was important beyond words. And hearing people speak so fondly, so admirably of the people she knew so longer ago still... It was always worth attending for that alone.

As they walked, she observed the passing people - the happy children, smelled the various foods in the air. All before she noticed his hand signaling her to pause. Curiously, the witch followed - wondering just what caught his eye.

How unexpected... an appreciation for stained glass? He'd really like the festival in her capital, then. Those from the neighboring desert always brought with them sand-blown glass. Wind chimes, vases, art of all kinds with such beautiful craftsmanship.

The chime of it was pretty, no wonder he was drawn to it. Mortem observed the way it swayed, the hum of its chimes, the way the light caught the glass.

"This would look nice upon a mountain, I'd think." She took her chin between her fingers after a moment, "I can imagine the sunlight catching the glass - the breeze making pleasant music." She considered aloud, totally encouraging and enabling him without an ounce of shame. To see such wonder and appreciation from Wukong, well, how could she not suggest such when it clearly made him so happy to see and hear?

From her pouch, she pulled out a coin that would suffice in its payment. It idly rolled across the back of her knuckles before she set it down on the counter before Wukong as a gift - unsure if her new friend had the currency for this country or not. Not wanting him to feel put on the spot to buy it or not, or possibly regarding whether he had the currency or not, the witch walked away to let him decide what he wanted to do. She opted to meander down the tables, admiring the glasswork as she flicked a bell from another wind chime along the way.

Money meant nothing to someone as old as she. What was priceless was seeing the little joys that adorned another's face. Especially the face of someone whose company she was enjoying.

The sounds of children, people talking among one another, of animals and who knows what else, Sun was starting to be glad he had the correct number of ears. He wondered, idly, how Macaque would deal with this much sound; if he’d get overwhelmed, or would simply ‘turn off’ his ears in favour of whichever company he tended to keep in this day and age. Sun knew he wouldn’t be part of said company, but he couldn’t help but to wonder about his fellow Stone Monkey during celebrations.

❝Well, you’d be happy to know that I’ve been bored lately. So perhaps the Heavens will get a visitor some time soon.❞ The Monkey had said, grinning, as if he was already scheming away; making plans and ideas to cause as much havoc as he could.

Or, perhaps, he’ll simply visit; cause them more anxiety knowing that the Monkey King was simply around and doing not a thing to disturb their holy lands. He knew that’ll cause the most trouble, to do nothing and simply grin – a prologue to the schemes he could be planning, and the anxieties that came with him.

Yes, the Heavens were nothing but peaceful; there was barely a ruckus to happen, unless one of the many Deities decided to do something. The last he heard, Nezha had a position of high respect – the kid, he remembered, being a thorn in his side when they last fought. He was glad the boy grew up into such a role, and he wondered if the Bull Demon’s son was still underneath the Goddess’ control, or if they were back together with their family. . .

. . . Although, he did piss off the Bull Demon in his later life; causing a rift in their brotherhood. It didn’t matter to Sun either way.

If the Bull Demon wanted to hate him over actions beyond his control, then so be it.

❝It’s nice, yes, to be checked up on but. . . Don’t you think most people would have more tack? Instead of coming to my home, and demanding to know what I’m up too.❞ He complained, although from his tone it was obvious it was nothing to be upset about. In fact, he seemed to miss it – a longing was in his voice, as if wishing for more intrusion from the Heavens would do him some good.

For a moment, the Monkey King wondered how it’d go if he was to have a visitor to his mountain whilst he was out; no doubt, it’ll cause a commotion in the Heavens.

Where did the Monkey King go, away from his people and mountain?

As children and people ran about – slipping by people without a second thought, still as agile as ever even with his tail wrapped around his waist – Sun couldn’t help but to hum out at the Witch’s explanation.

❝A, a festival of a bountiful harvest! How kind of them, to still celebrate such things.❞ He said, golden eyes everywhere but at the company he had besides him; falling on the booths of trinkets and novelistic goods. He was interested, certainly, but not enough to buy.

He had enough treasure and goods at home within his mountain; far more than he know what to do with, trinkets and do-da’s that even the Hells would get upset of him having. One of the most dangerous must’ve been the ink scroll he had hidden away, but hidden exactly he didn’t know. He needed to keep that protect the most, for it held. . .

❝Here I had hope this was a festival celebrating a win of sorts; although I doubt most would hold such events for such things now a days. Most ‘wins’ in the world these days tend to be celebrated at one’s home instead.❞ If this city was at war before, Sun couldn’t tell now; it’s people were cheerful, and unharmed by what war could do to a population.

There was no tired warriors walking about, longing for today to be over so they could go home to their families, nor was there a chorus of people celebrating a victory. It was as Mortem had said:

A festival of harvest.

One thing finally caught his attention for it shined in the light – catching his bright eyes with a refraction of light. He paused, bringing his hand up to tell her to pause, as he went to look. Hanging from a booth, from a vendor far too old to be handling a busy table at such a festival, was a stain glass wind chime of sorts, it gentle chime also causing the Monkey’s ears.

It was gorgeous as gorgeous could be; it’s stain glass of purples and blues and greens and teals caught the sun’s light and shined it colours about. With such child-like amazement. He was bewitched, it seemed, by it.

[sophieswundergarten]

Alrighty, I finally had a minute to sit down and smack out some of my thoughts. @itsgoghtime, I am tagging you as a full participant :)

Brought to you by the Moth Realization that I am in charge and can do whatever I want

Okay, so we're leaning more into the mirror-world stuff, with certain things being representations of real life and such.

It opens with Madge flying around the house and landing outside the window where Nathaniel is sitting, just as a little nod to the owl :>

Nathaniel is trying to fit in with his brother's family, but there are so many of them

One day, when he's trying to get some peace and quiet and read the copy of Ivanhoe that he swiped from Nicholas' office, the kids all burst into the room falling over each other and laughing and chattering and making an absurd amount of noise

Nicholas is, of course, right behind them, giggling and trying to keep from falling asleep

Nathaniel fully loses it, dropping the book and yelling at the children.

Nicholas ushers them out, and tries to calm his brother. It doesn't work, and Nathaniel just lets all of his frustrations and pent up resentment come out, shouting at his brother and leaving Nicholas stunned (and hurt)

Nathaniel storms out, going on a walk and trying to calm down after all the things he said. (He hadn't intended to get that upset, but it had all spilled over and gotten a little too close to comfort to a vulnerable heart-to-heart, so he had to leave in order to save face)

After a bit, he feels suitable under control again, and enters the house, only to find it totally empty

The place is ransacked, a complete disaster with books and papers scattered and flapping in the breeze from open windows

Nathaniel searches, but there's no one to be found, so he heads to Nicholas' office

There, he sees a suspiciously spotless room, and the Sister (We're calling her Eurus for simplicity's sake) sitting on top of Nicholas' desk, reading Ivanhoe

(She looks spooky and flashy, somehow more dramatic than Curtain but in a more old-fashioned style like Nicholas. Also purple, to round out the cool-colour sibling trio. Just look at this, because it's amazing)

Nathaniel demands to know what happened to his brother and the others, but she just laughs menacingly

Closing the book, she swings her legs off the desk, smiling at him

"Wouldn't you like to know, Natty?"

Nathaniel is affronted, and tries to cover his confusion with Awkward Curtain Bluffing

Eurus introduces herself, and mocks him further by revealing a model of Nicholas with a flourish, toying with it as they speak

"This is what you wanted, right? To be free of little Nicky and his nuisances? Now you can read your books and make your silly plans in peace."

Nathaniel vehemently states that he'd rather have his brother back to deal with on his own, please and thank you /s

(And his plans are not silly. They are genius)

"Oh, but he's mine now. I can't just give back such a fun toy. Besides, Nicholas will forget all about you soon enough, and then I'll have him and his friends to myself, permanently"

Nathaniel is, obviously, perturbed by this, and demands that she stop whatever game she is playing and return his brother and his associates

She laughs at Nathaniel again, and figurine in her hand turns into a pocket watch, with an abnormal thirteen hours on it

"Well, I do love games. And a game is no fun without some stakes to keep things exciting, so here are the rules: You have thirteen hours to win all of them back, or Nicholas stays with me. No more, no less"

She hands the pocket watch over, which starts ticking as soon as it hits Nathaniel's palm

He looks up to ask her who on earth she thinks she is, but she's gone, and so is the office

Nathaniel is standing outside a massive labyrinth, with no discernible entrance

As he's looking around, who should he find but Dr. Garrison!

Or, not Dr. Garrison, since she's wearing strange clothes and looks at him with confusion

(It doesn't matter, but I think she'd be wearing a typical fantasy poet shirt/tunic, red vest, and probably black pants. Her hair's braided, instead of cropped short or that longer style she kept in a bun)

Nathaniel addresses her and demands to know what's going on, and why she's a part of this ridiculous farce

Not-Garrison responds to her name, but maintains that she's never seen him before. She explains that she's the caretaker of the Labyrinth

Nathaniel sarcastically asks if she'll let him enter, and she shows him the gate

Nathaniel enters the Labyrinth alone and is confronted with a huge, apparently endless hallway that continues on in the same way for as far as he can see

(Part of me wants to include the Atrocious Hallway Painting just because)

Eventually, he stops, seeing that he's wasted a lot of time, and still gotten nowhere

As he's standing there, cursing the insanity of his situation, SQ appears!

(Also in different clothes! I know these aren't important, but I am a highly visual person and I love the artistic style of the movie, so we're going to have a lot of side-notes about how stuff looks)

(SQ is wearing a dark blue jacket [Slightly reminiscent of his dad's colors] and a red scarf, and carrying his sketchbook)

Nathaniel is startled by this, of course, but SQ introduces himself as if they haven't met before

Nathaniel carefully asks him what he's doing there, and SQ tells him he's been drawing some of the interesting creatures that live in the Labyrinth

SQ then inquires as to what Nathaniel is doing, and he exasperatedly explains that he's trying to get to the centre, but the whole thing is nonsensical and the endless hallway must be a trick designed to keep him from winning

SQ asks why he doesn't take a break, but when Nathaniel refuses, he says (somewhat cryptically) that maybe he just needs to look at things from a different perspective

**Clever Metaphor Plot Shenanigans Ensue**

And Nathaniel enters a new part of the Labyrinth

CUT TO WHAT EURUS IS DOING

Nicholas awakens in a spooky castle

He wanders through, looking for other people, but finds no one

Eventually, he comes across some guards, but they do not acknowledge him in any way, so he continues searching

He enters a weird throne room/office thing filled with books

(It looks like a warped version of his office, with lots of shelves and stacks of books all around, empty picture frames, a potted violet in the corner, and a big, impressive throne made of books in the middle)

He finds his copy of Ivanhoe on the ground, and opens it

This, and all the other books, are blank

Eurus appears, sitting on the throne and watching him

Nicholas tries to politely and calmly ask about what's going on, but she ignores his questions

Instead, she asks him about why he's bothered, since he obviously doesn't care about his family

And of course Nicholas is aghast at this and starts panicking over what she's done to the others

She goes on a spiel about how he left Nathaniel and he doesn't really care about his family and how he's only being so nice to Number Two/Rhonda/Milligan/the kids out of guilt

(She's kind of a terrible person in this, in case you hadn't noticed)

And Nicholas is horribly upset and trying to keep a lid on his emotions, when she gets up and walks over to him

"Now, wouldn't you like to be free of that guilt? To not have to worry about all of those strays you took in to make yourself feel like a good person? You're better off alone, you know that, so why not embrace it?"

CUT BACK TO NATHANIEL

Nathaniel comes across two doors, with Jackson and Jillson standing in front of them!

(Jackson is wearing a royal blue doublet/pants, and Jillson is wearing the same but in red. Both have floppy bard hats on)

Together, they communicate that one of them only tells the truth, and one only tells lies

(I've learned this is called a type of logic puzzle called "Knights and Knaves!)

One door leads closer to the castle, and one to "certain doom"

After some typical banter and circular logic, Nathaniel discovers which door to go through

He enters, and falls down into an oubliette

Garrison appears to let him out, and tries to get him to leave the Labyrinth

Nathaniel persuades her to guide him to the castle, and the two set off

(Garrison somewhat reluctantly)

They continue on their way for a bit, before Eurus shows up again

Nathaniel takes the opportunity to complain and ask why on earth she's doing this

She chooses not to answer this, and instead asks Garrison what she thinks she's doing

Garrison responds with cagey assurances that she hasn't forgotten her job in this, and Eurus threatens that she better not

Nathaniel demands to know what she's done with Nicholas, but she tells him that showing him would be cheating, and she isn't about to let the game end early

He asserts his confidence in being able to beat her, at which point she offers to make it more of a challenge

Eurus disappears and a huge machine starts pushing its way through the hall, about to crush Nathaniel and Garrison

Luckily, they escape, and find themselves in an upper part of the Labyrinth

In that area is Kate and Reynie!

(Reynie is wearing a brown tunic with a belt, and Kate is wearing a red tailcoat with feather designs)

The two of them are bickering about the way to the castle, and Nathaniel hesitantly approaches

He's used to the way things work now, and resigns himself to the fact that they are not going to be the people he knows normally

Eventually, he's able to get some even more cryptic advice from them, and he picks a random direction in frustration

Garrison attempts to leave him, but he steals her notebook and makes her agree to help him

Immediately after this, sounds of fighting come from nearby, and Garrison runs off

That's all I've got for now, but I will be adding onto this in a bit! Apparently this is the new thing my brain is refusing to let go, so we'll see what happens

[x-naut-fortress]

tec xx humanoid robot design(look at the tags for the rambling of a very normal man)

[moe-broey]

Idk if I'm gonna be able to articulate this on the fly like first thing in the morning, but. I think my ENTIRE body of work is This: Examining how family ties, bonds or lack thereof, the good and bad AND ugly, seep into every facet of who we are and how we come to interact with others. How sometimes, a family tie (or again, a Lack of one), will sometimes bleed into how you act and treat specific people. Will bleed into how you CONNECT with those people (or, will be the very reason you fail to do so).

HOWEVER. HOWEVER. THERE IS A DELICATE LINE. A BALANCING ACT. You CANNOT just simply attribute fanon flavored ideas of found family to such characters. That's too simple, and sometimes, is a complete disservice to the specific character you're working with. I am once again bringing up Chilchuck. YES, him being a dad Absolutely seeps into how he treats his party. But if you call him the party's dad, you're Insane. Do you know ANYTHING ABOUT THAT MAN???? He would prefer you didn't. But I digress. He strikes a fascinating balance, between having The Qualities and ESPECIALLY expressing his care for his party in a Really Specific divorced (separated.) father of three fashion, but that does Not make him a "dad friend". He's a professional. He's on business. He's going home at the end of the day, and at the end of this adventure he's thinking of setting up a shop. I wanted to keep this more vague and broad but like. The Chilchuck example REALLY DOES perfectly articulate What I'm trying to get at, here. He's the perfect encapsulation of How his family shapes him, how that bleeds into his relationships with others, vs Who he is as a person.

How we were raised, our family ties, whether you adhere to it or you've fallen FAR from the tree -- you still fell from that stupid fucking tree. It's in your blood. Literally. It gave you shape, whether you liked it or not. And sometimes some things just set off weird domino effects, that also affect us irrevocably forever.

WHICH IS. TO SAY. I have no fucking idea what I'm talking about. I'm always trying to figure that out. Found family is/can be real, you're not strictly bound by blood if you don't wanna be. BUT. The bullshit I'm constantly on, is trying to figure out how to balance all that without slotting everyone into reductive roles. I'm gay and I seek to destroy the nuclear family. Not attempt to recreate nuclear family 2.0. You CAN reconstruct What Family Is/Means from the ground up, but you have to accept that things are going to get Weird. Because you're Queer. You are fundamentally incompatible with the status quo and normalcy, the solution is NOT assimilation and palatability, the solution is to just. Get weirder. And be fluent in canon. Okay. I love you

[the-stranger-of-the-hidden-world]

Watching as Hiccup deciphered what she was trying to get across, it seemed like she had succeeded. Though, he wasn't as excited. Relieved, maybe? Happy to understand, though there was some sort of undercurrent to it...something like pity, perhaps? She supposed that made sense. It wasn't uncommon for dragons to pity her for as far as they found her strange and odd and had a lack of trust in her, they also seemed to just pity her.

Like her very nature and existence was a pitiable one. Like a wounded animal that wouldn't live for very long whose only option left was to be put out of its misery.

Well, she wasn't a wounded animal. She didn't need to be put out of a misery she didn't feel. Loneliness and isolation, perhaps, but she wasn't miserable. Far from - she loved her brothers and for as 'othered' as she felt, she liked being herself. She liked who she was. Even if she didn't always understand it, she didn't know any other way to be...so how could she know anything else?

And if she couldn't know anything else...why be morose about it?

Perhaps the name she was given was a bit cruel, but it was hers. It was who she was and she couldn't be anyone else but herself and her namesake was part of it. She was who she was...and she couldn't and wouldn't change it. "Yes. Stranger." She replied with a warm smile of her own, nodding at Hiccup putting a hand on her chest to further emphasize her response. "Stranger."

It wasn't long before she felt a gentle nudge from her side, Streak nuzzling himself underneath her arm as he cautiously glanced between her and Hiccup. It seemed he had grown tired of being chased around with a stick, but Seabreak was still holding his. Did he ever get tired? Is...is it working?

Smiling and giving him a little croon, Stranger pressed her face against his smooth and shimmery forehead, rumbling in her throat at him. It is! I'm getting used to this. I'm learning...and I think they are, too. Looking over at their dragons as well, she hummed a little to herself as she leaned against her brothers. I think...I really think we can trust them. I really think...they could be our friends.

Sunchaser had his reservations about her growing sentimentality. Not all dragons stayed within the Hidden World, that much was true, but it felt strange to be so close with humans after staying away from them for their whole lives. But at the same time...Stranger had been cut off from her own kind for essentially her whole life. Would it really be right to try to convince her to still leave like they had planned? Though, maybe she still was.

He would leave that up to her. Whether they stayed or left, they would not lead humans to the Hidden World. That was the rule and they had it for a reason. Stranger was an exception.

Turning the page, Stranger got to work once again. She'd gotten the hang of using her drawings to communicate. She'd always used them to copy whatever she saw around her, since she never had a need to use them in this way, so it was different trying to copy her thoughts to make external meaning out of them than just copying something she saw.

It was different! It was stimulating! She had always been a deep thinker, even if the only language she had access to was that of the dragons, but she had one - a language of images and colours.

On the left page, she drew the waves of the sea with a sharp break in the middle where the crests spread out and up in a splash, the break extending down into a V shape from which another Light Fury burst out of the water. She tried to emphasize the way the water was completely broken up by him splashing out, finishing with a couple vertical dashes to signify that he was the second brother. Now that she knew this worked, she didn't need to wait to draw the next one.

Which was...a little trickier. She named the youngest brother as such because when he took a running start, he became a white blur. She tried to draw his shape to be more fluid and like a vague shape that trailed behind him with speed, but it didn't quite get across what she saw visually whenever he ran that fast.

She huffed a bit to herself in frustration, resting her head in her hand for a second as she pouted with the pencil in hand...until she noticed in the corner of her eye the charcoal smudges on her hand, peering at it curiously through dark eyes as her thick brows furrowed.

Rubbing it between her fingers, Stranger's eyes widened with a small gasp. The charcoal could smudge!

With renewed vigour, she used her fingers to smudge his shape and drag the smudges behind him, leaving his head and his front shape clearer than his wings and tail, making that more obscured. Now that she had figured out that she could smudge the charcoal, she felt a lot more confident in what she was trying to explain. Now, he properly looked like a streak across the page.

Marking it with three vertical dashes, she turned the sketchbook to Hiccup and pointed from the corresponding pages to her respective brothers on each side of her. Sunchaser was easy to explain, but she hoped that the others wouldn't be that much more difficult. Though, she wouldn't blame them if Streak's was harder to understand.

She tried her best...that was what counted.

As she repeated their names, Hiccup smiled, nodding. "Yes, yes that's us!"

Valka watched with interest, as this was uncharted territory, but Hiccup seemed to be doing well in communicating with the girl.

They waited patiently as she drew, and when she showed them her finished work, they both leaned forward to get a better look.

Hiccup's brows furrowed, trying to make sense of it.

Both figures on either side had their backs turned to her. What does that mean? Shunned? Not belonging?

And, her face scribbled out...she was different, a...

"...Stranger..." Hiccup's eyes widened.

Valka turned to him, "What?"

"She's...she's a stranger, even to herself. Don't you see? She's human, raised by dragons. She knows she's different from them, but she doesn't know much about humans either. She's both, and neither at the same time..." Gesturing to the picture, he said, "This? This is how she sees herself."

Looking at Stranger, he offered a kind smile, pointing to her. "Stranger?"

[vampiremourning]

anyway as soon as i pry myself off this couch im gonna share some screenshots of bg3 protags on my sideblog. just gotta like. reach the desk first.

[basslinegrave]

stop me before i make an au for the escape room clones

[konshokoentaiko]

i always thought i was a very typical enemies to lovers girlie but i think i just realized my actual taste in ships is the dynamic where the two are supposedly equal rivals/enemies who represent diametrically opposed themes (for the Aesthetic), but in actuality it’s just one of them yanking the other around on a chain while the other whines and rages and protests and ultimately makes an absolute spectacle of themselves

so uhhh. how did THAT happen and when and why