#and then I got an even better idea:

[starfiresky]

“Undeniable”✨:

Plz do not repost. Thx.

[chloesimaginationthings]

Michael is very subtle about his daddy issues in FNAF..

[siggiedraws]

sonilver week - gardening

[xxplastic-cubexx]

personal happiness or what the fuck ever

bonus:

[floccinaucinihilipilificationa]

[kenjakusbraincum]

Heey, I LOVE your writings on soft sukuna, you write so beautifully🩷 please can you do one where he is jealous (fluff)😭🩷

Thank you sm for the kind words!!! Here's my best attempt at doing your idea justice <3

Sukuna has no real reason to be jealous. He practically owns you, controls every aspect of your life, who or what could he possibly be jealous of? Every servant who dared approach you in an inappropriate way would be dealt with swiftly. And you're a good pet, who has eyes for no one other than your master. You really don't give him a reason.

But there's this one thing... Since you've been so good and obedient, Sukuna has allowed you many liberties. You're permitted to skip around the mansion, watch Uraume cook, even enjoy little hobbies. You've tried many before you found that crocheting particularly piqued your interest. Ever since you've learned the basics, you've been spending hours working on perfecting your skills. At first it was cute, watching you squint in concentration as you move the hook. But then the math became really simple - having this hobby to keep you busy meant you approached Sukuna out of boredom a lot less. And he noticed it. It irked him, but you're not technically doing anything wrong. You were still as happy to serve him as ever, he just had to ask. But why would he have to ask? You should be all over him on your own. He should have to push you away, not beg you to give him attention. He didn't like this disturbance in your master and pet balance that this little hobby of yours caused.

He stands at the door now. You're crocheting again. You and your favorite servant laugh at your failed creation so sweetly, you don't even notice he's waiting. He clicks his tongue to establish his presence, and your servant falls to her knees immediately. You however, are not held to that high of a standard anymore.

"Master!", you call him, and hop up to greet him with a deep bow. Before he can say anything, you've picked up the piece of fabric you've been working on and ran into his arms to show him.

He looks at the ugly form and scoffs. "This is what I'm sponsoring?", he says and pulls a loose piece of yarn, making your little creation fall apart. He always was a bully, but you note his bad mood.

"I'm only a beginner...", you sulk.

"That much is obvious.", he flicks the yarn away and it falls onto the floor. Before you can bend to pick it up, he seizes your wrist and pulls you back. "Aren't you a little young to waste time with hobbies for the elderly?", he asks. You look at him with your cutest, practiced doe eyes, but it doesn't work.

"Come, pet. I know an activity more suitable for your age.", he says when you don't respond, and steps out of the room. You hop after him, unaffected by his condescending comments. You know that they're just for show. If he really thought you were a hag, you would've been gone a long time ago.

"Sitting at your throne all day?", you tease innocently and join him at his side, sliding your arm underneath one of his. You hope your playfulness will distract him from whatever is bothering him. "Or in a bath?" His lower set of eyes peeks at you and smirks, noticing that you're feeling particularly daring today. He's not sure how he feels about that. "Or in your bed." He rolls his eyes gently and opens the door to his chambers.

"At least then you'd be serving your purpose and actually spending time with your master.", he comments and shuts the door. His comment catches you a bit off guard and you stop in front of his bed. He makes his way towards you, and you look up at him with an insulted expression.

"Master, are you jealous of a ball of yarn?", you ask playfully, and squeal when he suddenly pushes you down to sit on the bed. Now you're at eye level... with his crotch.

"You've got quite a big mouth today. Put it to good use for a change, will you?", he runs his hand from the crown of your head to the back of your neck. You seem to have struck a nerve, so it really is the ball of yarn. Is it possible that Sukuna is this clingy?

"Will you?", he repeats and tugs on your hair and narrows his eyes. You smile obediently and reach behind him to untie his obi.

"Yes Master."

-

You try your best to manage the time you spend crocheting from then on, working on productivity in the hours that you dedicate to developing this skill. And it helps that you have a specific goal in mind now: helping Sukuna realize that this hobby is a friend, not an enemy. He still catches you engaging in it sometimes, and gives you a dirty look, but you're as quick as ever to drop what you're doing and join him. That seems to satisfy him.

When you're finally happy with the result of your creation, you look for Sukuna around the mansion. It's not really that hard to find him, as he frequents three places most of all: the dining room, his bedroom and his throne room. This time, he's sitting on his throne, and a small line of people wait for their turn to be gifted his attention. You on the other hand, don't have to wait in line to get it. His lower set of eyes spots you the moment you enter the chamber. You're allowed to roam the mansion, but barging in unannounced is not standard even for you.

Still, Sukuna has learned that you usually only feel daring enough to cross boundaries when you're sure he'll like what you have in mind. So for now, he will let this slide. He's bored as hell anyways. The people are dismissed and you pass by them on your way to his throne, nestled on a pile of bones. You stop in front of it and greet him with a bow.

"Master, I come to you with a humble offering.", you say with your hands on your thighs and your eyes fixated on the ground.

"Show me.", he says simply, but you recognize entertainment in his voice. You climb up the bones and feel his stare scan you from head to toe, before you sit on his knee.

"May I ask you to close your eyes?", you ask and flutter your lashes. Oh the way you seduce him. Who else could ask Sukuna to do something as dangerous as close his eyes? Give his opponent valuable time to land an attack. Who else could dare? And who else would he ever listen to and really close his eyes? Really do as he's told? Oh how safe he feels with you.

You take one of his large hands into yours, and gently pry his long fingers away to open his palm. He has beautiful hands. The only ones you've ever known, but you're sure they're the most beautiful hands in the world. So dangerous, so elegant. You want to press a kiss to his palm, but you hope your gift will have the same, maybe even more profound effect.

Something soft touches his skin, and then you speak, as politely as before. "You may look.", in your softest voice. And when he opens his eyes, he finds himself looking at you first. You're an offering on your own.

Then he looks at his hand. Two crocheted plush figures resembling him and yourself lay flat on his palm, connected through their holding hands. At first glance, it looks like they're two separate creations. In a sense, they are, but... He tries to part them.

"We're sewn together.", you explain. He hums in amusement and inspects your gift more closely. His plush is bigger, recognizable by the pink hair and four buttons for eyes. It's even wearing his favorite kimono. Yours is smaller and less detailed. You look like any other human when placed next to him, insignificant. But in a sea of pets, entertainers and lovers he's had in the past, he would never fail to recognize it as you.

He's spent so long looking at it with that face of his that you just can't read. You're starting to grow restless in his lap, and he feels your eyes dwell into his soul. When he looks back at you with one pair of eyes, your brows are furrowed in worry and you're fiddling your hands in your lap. He pats you on the head and pulls you closer, so you have no choice but to lean on his frame.

"It's beautiful, darling.", his fingers run through your hair, scraping your scalp softly. "No loose threads either.", he looks at you with all four eyes now, and you feel so small in his arms. You're not used to receiving this many compliments from Sukuna at once. Not ones that weren't directed at your body or performance. Especially not when he's looking at you so tenderly, when every word sounds so loving and genuine. "You've improved so much.", his hand is on your face now, and you catch him glancing at your lips. You part them to start thanking him, but you already know how much he hates listening to that.

You stay quiet instead, and lean closer, letting him take you. And he kisses you so softly, fingertips light against your heated skin. You feel like you're floating, like a lily pad in a warm pond. The littlest gesture of his affection has you melting in his embrace. The power he has over you... and how wonderful it is to surrender yourself to it.

None of the liberties and privileges you've been awarded with compare to this. You know that many pets have walked these halls before you. Many warmed his bed and claimed the title of his favorite. But how many loved him like this? Enough to dedicate time of their day to making intricate gifts. How many could say Sukuna kissed them lovingly, for no other reason than to show gratitude and affection?

You're flushed completely red by the time his lips leave yours. You can't hold the intensity of his gaze, as he stares at you in adoration. "I'm happ.. I'm glad you l-like it...", you stumble through the words and win a giggle out of him. You are just so cute. Like a pet should be. He rubs your head again and pushes you away lightly.

"Go now, the people await me.", he says with a benevolent smile gracing his face. "I'll see you tonight."

You bow to him and leave.

And when you visit him that night, he is as gentle as he was when he kissed you earlier, still in a good mood after your gift. Caressing your hair, shoulders and back, as you lay comfortably with your head on his chest. Keeping you warm in his embrace. You're trying your best to follow the conversation, but sleep is slowly taking over you. Sukuna notices and plants a kiss to your forehead, wishing you goodnight. The last thing you see before your eyes close, is your handcrafted plushies sitting on his nightstand.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Do you like sci-fi and indie animation? Check out Monkey Wrench!

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Thinking…

[housecow]

can i admit something… being lazy turns me on, a lot. which means i get hungry because the two are connected and i can’t help it. then i have to (over)eat and it makes me lazy. i can have two 32oz weight gain shakes, and entire meal, and keep snacking for hours.

it’s a vicious cycle i have no intention of breaking

[spoiledskullz]

sonic movie monkey paw: knuckles is more popular now than he was prior to 2022 but it's movie knuckles and his character is still misunderstood

[ganondoodle]

since tumblr always has to suffer my personal vents and breakdowns and rants and annoyances you get the most wips and pics of unfinished stuff, im sure that makes up for it

the (unfinished) shiekah arm concepts that made me want to explode and i dont think im gonna work on again

[m1d-45]

bloodletting

summary: a budding god needs a place to test their new powers, and childe was always a little too eager to lose a fight... a match made in heaven!

word count: 1.7k

-> warnings : minor AQ spoilers ? just like, general gi plot.. fairly graphic depiction of blood + other injuries (might be classed as body horror???). generally obsessive tendencies (childe <--> you). i cannot stress this enough, reader is 110% a sadist.

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt || @rozz-eokkk

< masterlist >

power was not something that came easy. it was fought over, stolen, defended with teeth and claw, tides of blood shed just so one could have power over another. social, physical, financial; no matter the leverage it provided, power was hard won. to give someone power was to admit defeat, a certain death that tartaglia had learned and taught more than his fair share of times. nobody undeserving of power ever held onto it for long; it was an acknowledgement that you were better, that you deserved it, that you’d won. power was a fickle resource that childe would kill to keep, only ever laying down his blade for a precious few.

the tsaritsa, of course. his fellow harbingers, skilled both on and off-field, who themselves could rival the archons. his family, for whom he’d happily give the world.

and naturally, who would be more worthy to hold power than you?

you, not just a god but the, the highest authority across all of teyvat. you bore a hundred names and a thousand monikers, your worship the one thing the world could agree on. granted, nobody could quite agree on how, but that was fine. childe did not need external powers to tell him what to do. he knew, in his deepest heart, that he had gotten it right.

he knew—and, on occasion, flaunted—that he was your favorite. of all the vessels you had chosen, you returned to him time and time again, wishing on his stars until his vision gleamed. his bow shone with power, even his weakest weapon more than enough to push his strength to new heights. part of him wondered what he could do if you’d granted him swords, or a claymore… but that was speculation for another time. didn’t it say something that you had still chosen him at his weakest?

the thought always made him smile. thick in the heat of puppeteered battle, before the sun to after dark, your presence was a constant in his life. at every altar, with every offering, when his hands stung from the rash of leather and his blade was covered in rust, your name a prayer behind blood-soaked teeth. he could not remember a time when his pocket was not weighted with a charm.

his devotion was no secret. he wore your bow with pride, entirely phasing out his other weapons. it didn’t matter that he was technically more controlled with them, for you had chosen this path for him. your word was his guide, a polar star through bitter nights.

he did not doubt when your presence ebbed or flowed. who was he to dictate when or where you spent your attention? no, his faith did not waver. it had no reason to. he waited patiently, going about his regular duties, lingering in snezhnaya for no other reason that he just felt like he had to.

who was he to question to buzzing in the back of his head? who was he to decline when he felt an instinct to leave, to go for a trip far past the city gates? who was he to think himself better than the guiding light that had never led him astray?

for you, he was whatever you needed. and so he went, armed with a thick coat and snowboots, hands shoved deep in the pockets to hide the slight shake. down the main road, an arbitrary turn into an alley and down an abandoned path, into a part of the city he’d never traveled. but a golden thread had tied itself around his heart, pulling without hesitation. he easily hopped over the fence gate, not bothering with hauling it open through the snow. the path beyond was covered in a thick layer of powder, his foot crunching through a foot of it before hitting solid ground. still, he continued.

snezhnayan winters were not warm. they bit and dug into every gap in your clothes, stealing away the precious warmth within. and yet, with his half-done coat and incomplete guard, he was not cold. or, rather, he couldn’t feel it. his hands were pink with frost, stiff at the knuckles, but he couldn’t feel the resistance. his body was not important, not now.

the snow began to thin. it fell from his knees to his shins to his ankles to his toes, until he was face to face with a thick wall of bramble, impossibly overgrown. he was beginning to overheat in his jacket. twin blades made quick work of the wall, and the sight behind it easily dispelled any breath left in his lungs.

the air that washed out of the bubble was thick and heavy, like a humid spring instead of snezhnayan woods. his breath came in short gasps, a shameful wheeze that he hoped was missed beneath the howling snow. he didn’t want you to see him as weak, as someone so easily tired by a short trip to a falling star; he didn’t want you to think of him as anything other than his best.

but you didn’t push him away. you helped him up—his head was buzzing with delusion, he could hardly see, when had he fallen to his knees?—and brushed the snow off his hair, not pushing him away when he leaned into your touch. he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, could barely collect himself enough to recognize that he needed to get you inside, away from the wilds.

that was power. to so effortlessly take over every thought in his head, to hold his mind in your hands and pull it into your liking, that was the power he adored you for. gods were figureheads of power, a physical incarnation of their dominion. a god of the entire world would only naturally have power to manipulate that world to their liking. how blessed was he, that he could be the first you made yours.

he was with you when you first stepped into zapolyarny palace, looking around at the chandeliers and fine tile. he opened the door for you to her majesty’s throne room, sucking in a sharp breath as you brushed by. he was by your side when the tsaritsa swore you her fealty, delicately placing the gnoses in your hands.

and oh, how he’d fallen to the floor right then and there, dizzy from the wash of power that rolled off you in waves, an ocean that he willingly dove into. the floor was cool beneath his forehead, his hair sticking to his skin as sweat quickly began to bead. he didn’t bother pushing himself up on his hands, teeth sinking deep into his lip again to control his panting breath. copper bloomed over his tongue, filling his mouth and clogging what remained of his senses.

dimly, he was aware that he was being pathetic, that this would surely change your mind about him. he heard your voice, faint through the fog of his mind, your wisdom lost to his own inadequacy. and yet, despite his weakness, every part of him was tuned into you. he knew it was your hand whispering across his shoulders, he knew it was your influence that stole the breath from his lungs. he knew it was you, because it was always you. you were all he could think of, and now you were finally able to leverage your full power over his self.

he’d woken up in a hospital bed. saline dripped into his arm and the lights pierced his eyes, his head full of snow and iced over. and yet, the moment he was cleared for release, he found himself desperate to be back to your side, racing through the tiled halls of the palace and following the urgent burn in his chest. you would have been right to turn him away, to deem him too weak to stay by your side, but you didn’t. you smiled when he lost his breath and laughed when he wavered, brushing off his concern. you invited him with you—his lungs burned with the need for oxygen—as you twirled the gnoses between your fingers, as if they were toys or paperweights rather than objects of divine power.

divine to him. child’s play to you. a courtyard of snow was cleared in an instant, ripples of pyro melting permafrost while keeping the flora beneath intact, a lazy show of power that pulled little more than a slight hum from you in response.

he wasn’t so much a fool as to think he could teach you everything, or even something, about being divine. and yet he clung to your side like a sailor in a storm, watching as you grew familiar with the elements. he watched, stubborn and weak, as you stopped hesitating.

flowers bloomed as you walked by, crumbling to ash with the slightest look. electro jumped from your skin to his, a painful spark that drew his mind from his head, finally seeing your amused eyes instead of just mindlessly staring. you could—should—have just left him behind, but you didn’t. you instead asked for his help, taking his hand in yours and leading him to a quieter hallway of the palace. you didn’t comment on his thundering pulse despite the fact that you could certainly feel it, tracing a finger along the crease of his palm.

“i wonder…”

a claw of geo cut across his skin, a sharp sting that quickly welled with blood. he barely felt it, watching with detached awe as it filled up his hand, sliding over the edge and dripping to the floor. you didn’t show any emotion, just… watching. his heart beat in his hands, a pool collecting on the floor, and still, you just watched. your other hand moved over the surface, barely an inch away, the blood collecting in a bubble beneath it. with a hum, your fist tightened, pain lighting up his arm. a strained grunt slipped between his teeth, hand flinching closed, brushing against the ball of his blood you had pulled from his veins. his hand was stained red, shaking in your grasp, minutes stretched into hours.

all at once, it dropped, forced back into his body as forcefully as it was removed. with a snap, the skin stitched itself shut, and you were again dragging him along like a child did their favorite toy.

you did that a lot. pull him aside and experiment with whatever new reaction you had discovered that month, week, day, hour, watching his reactions with unabashed delight. and he let you. every time, without fail, he eagerly followed, knowing full well he’d end up rigid with lightning or with ice crystals studding his throat. it was worth it, though. you always fixed him up, squeezing his hand with a whispered ‘good job’ that never failed to make him dizzy.

it didn’t matter what you did to him. it never did. even when his mind was hazy with pain and he couldn’t quite stand on his own, he never regretted it. unconsciousness licked at the edges of his vision, burning black stains that lingered even after you stopped, but he never once hesitated.

if you asked him to jump, he’d ask how high. if you felt like holding him underwater, he’d cherish every bruise. to be kept as a toy was still to be kept.

[heavenlydevil69]

When your Tav is too stupid to see a vampire right infront of them

[triglycercule]

so the dust smokes headcanon is really popular!!! i have an addition to it :33 cigarette smoke CLINGS to your body for a loooong loooong time,,,,, i don't know if monster dust has a smell but if it does maybe the cigarette smoke from his cigarettes could be used to cover up that smell so he doesn't have to deal with the scent of death all the time and yk,,,, feel the guilt :33

[astral-herald]

Jayce Talis' Joycean Epiphany

Tracking the textual similarities between James Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Jayce's character journey, specifically in Arcane season 2, episode 7.

As time goes on, my appreciation for Jayce's arc only grows, and I think episode 7 captures the best of the showrunners' narrative concision and cohesion. Within that perfect storm I noticed a lot of similarities between Jayce and James Joyce's main character, Stephen Dedalus, who spends the 1916 classic shedding attachments to the material world in pursuit of ultimate freedom, including monikers of creed and country and friendship, captured in his famous epiphany.

This isn't a perfect mapping, but comparing Stephen's epiphany to Jayce's meeting with Mage Viktor is pretty enlightening/interesting! More below!

The Joycean Epiphany

Stephen Dedalus' epiphany occurs in the last third (ish) of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and happens as follows: Stephen, consumed with anxiety, loneliness, and confusion about his place in the world, finds himself wandering toward the ocean. He steps knee-deep inside and sees the figment of a woman out of reach, who he describes as a "strange and beautiful seabird" who awakens him to "the wild heart of life." The Bird Woman inspires Stephen to shake off material attachments to nationality and religion, as well as to break off personal relationships in order to arrive at his true self, which he must do in isolation. This is the most egregiously brief synopsis possible...

Jayce's journey in Arcane does, in fact, follow a very normal, non-epiphanic arc in general; I'm not merging Stephen and Jayce together here. Instead I want to call attention to the visual cues and specific plot points that truly give me pause and think/hope they were intentionally building this parallel.

The Irish Coastline, the Undercity Grey

In Portrait, there is great emphasis attached to the sea's physicality as Stephen enters the waters. He's permeated a barrier as the tide wrestles with him:

"In a few moments he was barefoot...and, picking a pointed salteaten stick out of the jetsam among the rock, he clambered down the slope of the breakwater."

Jayce also permeates, with a lot of struggle, pain, and anguish, a physical barrier/obstacles - the Grey, which we see as a thick green miasma throughout the Undercity in this timeline, and the Fissures he's fallen into. Interestingly enough, Jayce also has a pointed stick that's figuratively eaten by the Anomaly. Not salt, by any means, but each character takes up a damaged implement at the onset of their journey.

The Epiphanic Figures

In Portrait, Stephen is drawn into the water towards the woman who inspires his epiphany: "A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to sea."

Within the Grey, Jayce encounters Viktor as the mage, staring at him with his face obscured. When he turns and leaves, he prompts Jayce into action, thus spurring the epiphany, the necessary movement through the Grey.

Upon his approach, Stephen describes his epiphanic woman: Her long fair hair was girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her face..."

"...and when she felt his presence and the worship of his eyes her eyes turned to him in quiet sufferance of his gaze, without shame or wantonness."

In Portrait, Stephen never reaches his Bird Woman; she remains out of reach, just like his ultimate freedom will remain until he commits to his quest for self-discovery. Similarly, Jayce and Mage Viktor never touch, despite Viktor and Jayce's established physical intimacy.

The Quest

Stephen spends the remainder of Portrait systematically shedding what he feels are restraints to his true self. If you haven't read Portrait, there is a lot, a lot, a LOT of syncretic philosophies wedged inside, Platonic, Aristotelean, Aurelian, etc., to showcase Stephen coming into his own intellectually and emotionally. But the way he describes this quest, when speaking to his best friend, Cranly, is key when comparing him to Jayce:

"You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too."

Jayce, inspired by his own Bird Woman, the Mage, sets out on his quest of ultimate solitude, wherein he traumatically relives his past mistakes.

But now, with Mage Viktor's wisdom and an understanding of what's to come, Jayce finally becomes a powerful and independent force. He doesn't rely on his betters or outside approval. He attacks Mel for her past treatment of himself and Viktor as tools/investments for her will. He will leave behind the comfort and privilege of his old life. In order to do what needs to be done to save Piltover, Jayce is willing to make those mistakes, to sustain on his own, etc., when he was never willing to do so before.

"Alone, Quite Alone"

Nobody asked, but my favorite scene in Portrait is the last dialogue between Stephen and Cranly, whom Stephen frequently describes as his closest friend, and whose opposition to Stephen's departure he considers the most. Try as he might to be sympathetic, Cranly struggles to understand why Stephen can't relent and warns him of what will happen to Stephen if he takes on his quest: "And to not have any one person...who would be more than a friend, more even than the noblest and truest friend a man ever had."

Cranly tells Stephen that "you need not look upon yourself as driven away...or as a heretic or an outlaw." He invites him to stay, to return.

And Stephen is grieved by this: "A voice spoke softly to Stephen's lonely heart, bidding him go and telling him that his friendship was coming to an end..."

"...Yes; he would go. He could not strive against another. He knew his part."

In killing Viktor as the Herald, Jayce has fully accepted loneliness and the necessary suffering it incurs on others. Guided by Mage Viktor, his own Bird Woman epiphany, he plays his part in the fate set before him.

In this moment, the Herald Viktor is Jayce's Cranly: "Stephen watched [Cranly's] face for some moments in silence. A cold sadness was there..."

"...He had spoken of himself, of his own loneliness which he feared."

*To note, Stephen's epiphanic realization amounts to isolation for his own benefit, whereas Jayce endures isolation and commits these "mistakes" (killing Viktor) for the greater good - very important difference!

Regaining Cranly

This same idea comes across every time I post about Arcane season 2: subversive endings. And while my opinion of the season has been on the downturn, I will never cheapen the shock and awe of the Mage Viktor reveal, and I will always find new ways to break it down and appreciate it.

In Portrait, Stephen leaves Ireland, his religion, and his loved ones behind. Stephen asks Cranly to clarify what he means by his talk of loneliness: "'Of whom are you speaking?' Cranly did not answer." In the essential modernist way, Stephen seeks out the independent soul amidst the masses.

Jayce, meanwhile, uses his newfound autonomy and sense of self for the greater good. He followed his epiphanic figure as Stephen did, and abandoned his Cranly, for a higher goal than self actualization.

And that's where this comparison just about falls apart.

Because Jayce and Viktor are "inextricably bound," the fundamental crux of the epiphany - its independence - isn't possible. Jayce guides his Cranly away from "his own loneliness which he feared." He invites Viktor to partake in his epiphany and they complete the quest together.

the end <3

I'm excited about this comparison! And I know I'm offering a very cursory read of Portrait here. I actually wrote about it for my latest conference CFP so it's fresh on the mind. And a lot of these comparisons can be chalked up to Joyce's just General Narrative Influence, that he refined this exact mode of quest -> self discovery -> loneliness, but we're here to have fun, not to submit to a journal lol.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Bonus 7: Time moves sideways

[First] Prev <–-> Next