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vulpixisananimal · 2 months

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(Do you mind?!?!?)

(Stars, come on! You had to at least try and see what was going on, right?!?)

(. . . I-)

<I'm right.>

(Shut up.)

(Craft exhaustion- stars, this is why, I wanted to-)

<We'll get over it. Just- just, breathe. . .>

(You breathe in, and out.)

(. . . Ack, stars. Why WERE we waking up here again? Wasn't it because of sleep that we make a checkpoint?)

(Yes I know we weren't asleep. I'm not stupid.)

(You grunt, and shake your head. You start walking down to the homestead, seeing Ramos and Mirabelle walking up to meet you.)

(Mira waves to you.) "S-siffrin!! Oh thank Change, are you okay???"

(You laugh half-heartedly.) "Yeah, just a bit dizzy, it's the stage."

"It's. . O-oh!" (Mira perks up a bit at that.) "Oh then! T-then I guess we've, told you everything already?"

"Yup." (You nod.) "I'll try and make this quick. . ."

>>>

(You quietly open up the back door to the Homestead, which lead straight to the kitchen. Mirabelle and Ramos followed behind you, ready for anything. With Isabeau waiting for you up front, and Odile possibly going after you upstairs, getting in the back would be the best idea.)

(After what you did?!? Not a chance.)

"Hey, wasn't Bonnie cooking here this morning?" (Asks Ramos.)

"O-oh, yes! They were getting along with Jan." (She tried not to bite her nails.) "W-we should, check on them! Make sure they're ok!!"

"Good idea." (You nod, continuing through the kitchen. Nothing too strange, so you continue-)

"I thought the kiddo usually cleans up after themself." (Ramos says, you look back, they're looking at some half finished dishes.)

". . . They do." (You squint. That's not like Bonnie. If they didn't clean up, they'd make sure someone else did.) "Let's hurry."

(You get to the doorway to the common area and stop. You hear some voices.)

"Get him upstairs, we can figure it out there."

(Huh? Oh wait you knew that voice. You pause for a second.)

"I, I don't, why should I trust you?!? I'm fine! I-"

(You didn't recognize that voice. You hear a craft spell of something. You feel Mira lean in a bit close to listen in. She asks,) "What is it?"

"People I met last loop. One of them gets effected." (You listen in again.)

"He'll stay asleep for a bit. I'll take him upstairs."

"I'll make sure everythings safe. Just be quick."

(You hear them walk off. You sigh.) "Stars, maybe talking to Polaris coulda helped but. . ."

"Maybe. . ." (Ramos starts.) ". . . Well, maybe next time I could do something about it? If we're quick to get here?"

(You nod.) "Right, next time. C'mon, lets find Bonbon."

<You're really worried about the Kid, aren't you.>

(You frown as you step out into the common area. Of course you are! You care about Bonnie, and you have to make sure they're okay!!)

(You ignore him. You start looking for anything out of the ordinary. There's a few random dishes left out, Jan wasn't around, those three travelers went upstairs, Isabeau was waiting outside. . . Hmm.)

(Looking up to your friend and ally, Mirabelle looked distracted, probably worried about the rest of your family. Ramos was staring at that sign in your language.)

"It's just a cheesy proverb," (You call over, going back to looking around.)

"Wait, really?" (Ramos turns to you, hand on hip.)

"Really."

"Why."

(You shrug.) "Not every island thing is some omen- Oh, yeah that reminds me, Mira?"

"O-oh?" (Mira looks over to you.)

"Did I ever mention that I found a book in my language in the Dormont library?"

"Oh really??? What was it about?? Was it helpful or anything???" (Her eyes brightened- genuine interest! Yes!!)

"I mean, I got the title," (You stick your tongue out.) "The Cursing of Château Castle, volume 2."

". . . Pfft-" (That makes her giggle.) "Of all the things to be found there!"

"I know right?!?" (You shake your head.) "H-haha, I was so excited, too. Finally able to read it, and lo and behold. . ."

"Hehe, It was just a book from my favorite series!"

"Exactly." (You finish looking around and walk over to her.) "Well, nothing here. Upstairs next?"

(Ramos and Mira nod in agreement. The three of you get back in formation as you lead them upstairs. You make sure to step quietly, listening as you go, not wanting to be caught off guard.)

(You hear some talking, a door opening, then closing. You take a few more steps, and peek over the top of the staircase. There's no one in the hall.)

(To find Bonbon, like I said!)

<Ugh, fine. If you're looking for the kid, why would they be here? Where should you go?>

(The room they were staying in? That's where you think, anyway. You walk through the hall, hand on your dagger, Ramos and Mira right behind you.)

". . . Which room was Bonnies again?"

"O-oh uh, that one, on the left." (Mira replies, pointing to a door further down the hall. You head over to it. Nothing out of the ordinary yet. You put an ear to the door.)

(You could see Mirabelle get more and more fidgety with each second. You wait, still. . . . No, you couldn't hear anyone on the other side. You try the door, locked.)

"Stars."

"I could break it down, probably." (Ramos suggests.)

(You shake your head.) "Too much noise."

"Uhm, what about the outside window?" (Mira asks.)

(You make a face.) "Yeah, that could work. Again."

"Why didn't you go in a window this time?" (Ramos asks.)

(Your face was all the response they needed.)

". . . W-well. . . Where, where else can we check?" (Asks Mira, finger to her chin.)

"I'm. . . Hmm. . ." (You tap your foot.) ". . . Your room, Jans, double check my own room."

"Lets check yours- out of Odile's way, hopefully, and maybe Isa did something." (Ramos suggests. You nod.)

(How did- Oh, it was YOU who was in charge this morning then?)

(Unpack that another day. You get to your room, listen at the door for a moment, then unlock it. The three of your slip inside and you lock the door behind you.)

"One bed?!?" (You hear Mirabelle exclaim. Uhoh.)

"Stars, you two really are like a bonded couple." (Ramos jokes, giving you a look.)

"S-shut up! I thought it was going to be two beds!!"

"Suuuuuure." (Ramos rolls their eyes.)

(You tug up the collar of your cloak. Stupid. Dumb. At least they wont remember this. You go over to your pack to check if everything's in order, only to find it isn't.)

"Oh blind it all!" (Your pack had been completely upturned, belongings spread out across the floor. Stars, what on earth was this?!? Null, did you forget to lock up once you woke up?!?)

<No. I made sure to lock the door.>

(Great. Mira came to your side with a sour look.) "Was, anything stolen?"

(You crouch down, sorting through your things.) "No, it doesn't look like it, but. . ."

(Among the items was a lot of scrap paper. You had been noting things down on them. A lot of things. Before you realized your amnesia was partially caused by freeloaders in your head, you had made notes to yourself. A lot of those notes you didn't remember. Each of those notes were laid out neatly, like someone was looking through them.)

"Someone tried getting in here." (Ramos comments, you look over, they were inspecting the window.)

"But isn't that window stuck?" (You echo.)

"Yep, but. . . Here, here and here, signs of an attempted forced entry. Probably gave up 'cause it would make too much noise."

<Very, very concerning. There is a good chance that was last night.>

(Yeah yeah.) "Who was trying to get in then?"

(Ramos shrugged.) "I dunno. Someone who could scale up to a second story window?"

"But whoever it was, that might be who we're looking for!!" (Mira says, almost excited.) "Oh this is like a murder mystery!!"

"But without the murder." (You hope.) "Stars, what a mess. . ."

"Don't think there's anything else here." (Ramos comments.) "Where to next?"

"I'm not sure. It was around now that Odile showed up last time." (You sit down on your bed.) "She was upstairs, and I opened the door and. . ."

(You hold up a hand, and a finger to your lips, and listened.)

(. . . There were a few footsteps outside, from down the hall. There were a few voices, possibly the other traveling group. No-one coming upstairs. . . You hear some light footsteps run past your door, followed by a slower, heavier pair.)

(Then you should go check on them! Make sure they're alright!)

<No. If Odile is being effected by Mind Craft, which I think she is, then Bonnie is too.>

(You frown. Stars, you hate that he's right. You wait a few moments more before saying in a low whisper.) "That might have been Odile going downstairs."

"R-right." (Mira nods.) "What, w-what's next then, Siffrin?"

"Don't know." (You shrug.) "This was where I died last time."

(You see Mirabelle wince at that. Oh, right, she's still not used to you dying. Eh, it was fine. You think for a moment, where to go next. . .)

"Uh. . ." (Ramos spoke up.) "I, know you can't exactly take a note thought the loops, but, maybe going through daily events could help? Where everyone is and such?"

"Right. . ." (You tap your foot. Where would you even start with that?) "Next loop, though."

"A-alright." (Ramos replies. They look out the window to the rain.)

(There's an awkward silence, and you're not sure what to do right now. Sneak to one of the other rooms? You weren't sure if Odile was still out there waiting for you. You were really sure she was downstairs now, but you didn't know.)

(Because he's being mind controlled?)

<No, stupid. Think deeper. Why would he be commanded to do that.>

(Why would he- right. Someone is in control, after all. Was it who talked to Ramos and gave them that star? They did seem like prime suspects, and they were interested in their guardian who was from the Island. Were they looking for more about the Island?)

<Good. You're on track. What about people we know are here.>

(Well. . . Jan? Maybe? No that just doesn't seem right-)

<"Doesn't seem right" isn't a good reason.>

(Alright, what about Vixul and her group? Sure, they seemed just as confused about this as you were, but she was a researcher. It would be up her ally.)

(What about that mystery couple who left this morning? We don't know much- well, anything about them.)

(But they left long before any of this Mind Craft started! Who knows if-)

"Crabbing Stars-!"

(The strange mix of curses snaps you back to reality. You turn to Ramos, whos face was pressed against the glass, looking, concerned.)

"W-what's wrong???" (Mira asks, standing up. You stand too, going to the window. Ramos moves to let you look.)

"It's that sadness again." (Says Ramos. As you look out. . . Stars, it was. It was barreling towards the homestead. Looking as mean as last time! Come ON! Why did this have to happen NOW!!)

"O-oh, oh no-" (Mira grabbed her sword, moving to the door.)

"Mirabelle wait, just a second." (You start.) "If, if we just rush out there, then we could be stuck between, u-uhm-"

(You stop talking at the look Mirabelle gives you. R-right. You, you couldn't just, leave a sadness to run rampant, even if you were looping.)

"N-nevermind."

(You hear a crash from downstairs, and a scream. The three of you race to save the day.)

#my art inspiration has been gone but i can write #heheheh #isat #in stars and time #isat spoilers #isat fanart #siffrin system au #isat au #sifstem #isat siffrin #isat fanfic #isat mirabelle #isat null #isat ramos #isat oc

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hbmmaster · 2 years

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Hi jan Misali, I’m very very new to tumblr (but I’m not from Twitter!) so I have a million questions, but the first is, how do you find people to follow?? Like I see all these silly little tumblr screencaps and I feel like the whole site is just an inside joke I’ll never be let in on

Remember, Anon, this website is a fully self-curated experience! If you want to figure out which blogs to follow, you'll need to find them yourself!

(You say that like it's easy...)

There are no influencers or celebrities here, only your fellow tumbloggers!

But where am I supposed to start? I mean, there's no algorithm telling me which blogs are the good ones!

Don't worry, Anon! You don't need al-Gorithm to find good blogs. Try this: What's a topic that you're interested in? Like a TV show, or a field of study? You have interests, right, Anon?

(Hmm, now that you mention it, I DO have interests!)

Just think of some of your interests, and search for posts tagged with those topics. You'll find a wide selection of like-minded bloggers making posts about that very subject!

So that's it? Just search through tags, hoping to stumble (or indeed tumble) onto blogs that I'll like?

Pretty much! When you're first starting out, try following anyone who makes any posts you think are good, and then unfollow later if it turns out they're annoying. I believe in you, Anon!

Now, would you like to hear that again?

#tumblr #tumblr tutorial #hbmmaster

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aihoshiino · 3 months

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Da Vinci Magazine Jan. 2024: A Q&A with Ai of B-Komachi!

In the January 2024 issue of Da Vinci magazine, there was an in-character interview with Ai as written by Aka Akasaka that you can read a translation of here! What I forgot to mention on that initial post is that there was also a little lightning round Q&A the original anon didn't translate at the time. Thankfully, they did post it and I just... completely forgot it existed until now. ;9 Shout out to past me who remembered to save it and kept me from having to dig thru the 4chan archives for it...

Unlike the original interview, this is my translation! So any goofs and gaffes are entirely on me lol. This is also totally spoiler safe, so you can read both this Q&A and the original interview no matter what point you are in the series.

Get to Know Ai Better! Q&A Session

Q. What motto do you live by?

A. I really like "Tomorrow is a new day." I'm one of those people who forgets all their worries after a good nights' sleep. (laughs)

Q. Tell us how you refresh yourself!

A. I like taking naps on my days off. I was saying earlier that I forget my worries once I've gotten some sleep but with this job, it can be hard to find the time to actually do it. Not just that, but lately I've been waking up in the night to take care of this and that, so when I do have the time to sleep, I really conk out.

Q. What is your routine on days off?

A. I wake up, prep some milk… oh, um - I like cornflakes so I always need milk for breakfast. Then I go for a nap (laughs). I know some of the other B-Komachi members like going to beauty salons or nail salons, but I don't do nails and I let my hair grow out so I'm usually just at home (laughs). I even cut my own bangs! I've been doing it for years so I'm pretty good at it. I've even cut other peoples' hair once or twice, though not anyone in B-Komachi.

Q. Your 20th birthday's coming up soon. What are you looking forward to doing once it arrives?

A. I want to try drinking alcohol. The president of my agency keeps saying, "I can't wait to have a drink with you!" He makes it sound like a lot of fun, so I'm curious to know what getting tipsy's like.

Q. What book left the biggest impression on you this year?

A. It's a manga, but I was moved to tears by "I'll Go With Sweet Today". The heroine is a girl who distrusts people and develops anorexia, becoming terrified of eating… I have a bit of that in me too, though not quite to the same extent she does, so I could really relate to her and her journey to recovery really moved me. If there's ever a live-action version, I'd love to play her!

Q: What would you like to do after the Dome concert?

A: I'd like to go on a trip or something. Where would be nice... Oh, I've heard of 'Mito Natto' before, so maybe Mito!

Q: What's something a fan said that made you happy?

A. You know, I didn't used to read any fan letters at all. But there was a time I was getting tired of being an idol and I was planning to quit, so the president made me sit down and read all the letters I'd gotten. That was the first time I'd ever realized just how much support I was getting and it made me go "in that case, I'll give them all my love and support in return!". I even wrote a song about it. So now I treasure all the letters and words I get from my fans. I actually got a gift from a fan recently, some 'star sand'. It was really beautiful and my real name "star" in it, it made me really happy. I've still got it displayed in my room.

Q: What is "true love" to you?

A. I guess if I had to sum it up, I'd say true love is being a genius who doesn't lie. I think maybe people lie to avoid lying. I'm not sure if that's a good answer and even I don't know if it makes sense, but it's just something I feel.

Q: Do you think you're a liar?

A: Hmm~~? That's a se~cret! (laughs)

#oshi no ko #oshi no posting #onk translations #ai hoshino #hoshino ai

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leftduck9986 · 9 months

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Picture This (What's in the Cardboard Box? A Meta/Theory/Watsit Featuring Mary Poppins)

Happy New Year!

A fun theory for you, told with accompanying picture collages from the Good Omens series, spoilers for Disney's Mary Poppins and occasional quotes transcribed from the Good Omens audio book.

As unbelievably silly this theory is, please remember, DO NOT ASK OR TAG NEIL GAIMAN ON FAN THEORY, thank you kindly.

After Armageddon is averted at the airbase, Aziraphale and Crowley are worried about what will happen to them:

"Is is over do you think?" Crowley shrugged. "Not for us, I'm afraid."

"I don't think you need to go worrying. I know all about you two. Don't you worry."

Adam knows all about Aziraphale and Crowley, ooOOOOooo!

He ALSO knows:

that Crowley had seen Mary Poppins on television one Christmas (...) and while he toyed with the idea of a hurricane as an effective and incredibly stylish way of disposing of the queue of nannies (...) outside the Cultural Attaché's Regents Park residence, he opted for a tube strike instead. And when the day came, only one nanny turned up;

that Aziraphale is extremely intelligent - And it was an angelic intelligence, which, while not being particularly higher than human intelligence, is much broader and has the advantage of having thousands of years of practice. - and what took Agnes Nutter's descendants centuries to decipher, he did in next-to-no-time, and;

that Anathema Device received Agnes Nutter's Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies and chose not to continue her life as a descendant.

He stopped halfway across the field. Someone was burning something. He looked at the plume of white smoke above the chimney of Jasmine Cottage and he paused. And he listened. He could hear laughter. It wasn't a witch's cackle - it was the low and earthy guffaw of someone who knew a great deal more than could possibly be good for them.

The white smoke writhed and curled above the cottage chimney. For a fraction of an instant, Adam saw outlined in the smoke a handsome female face. A face that hadn't been seen on Earth for over three hundred years. Agnes Nutter winked at him.

And if Adam knows what Agnes knows, there's no need to go messing anybody about. No need to worry ...

In the 1964 Disney film, Mary Poppins, Jane and Michael's letter advertising for a new nanny is torn up by their father Mr Banks and thrown into the fireplace. The shredded pieces of paper fly up and out of the chimney.

After a sudden and rather focused hurricane blows the queue of other nannies away, in blows the Practically-Perfect-in-Every-Way Mary Poppins. During her "interview" she reads from Jane and Michael's advertisement, MIRACULOUSLY intact.

∢ ∢ ∢ ∢ ∢ ∢ ∢

Musical interlude: when Aziraphale arrives in Edinburgh, the show music makes me want to sing "Chim Chim Cher-ee" (hmm, same style and minor in tonality, with the visual of all those chimney rooftops in-scene - that's gotta be on purpose, no?)

∢ ∢ ∢ ∢ ∢ ∢ ∢

The heavenly miracle sound - there are 2 parts to it. First, a descending bass, Vvvvvvmmm, second, a choral "ah" layered with shimmering. So, if attempting to sing it A Cappella: "Vvvvvvmmm-AH-shh"

At the end of Gabriel's trial: "I'll just need a-" He hears (edit, Sunday 7th Jan 2024: initiates the miracle with his eyes and we hear) the bass drop, Vvvvvvmmm, looks up in time to catch the cardboard box on the latter miracle sound, AH-shh, then looks inside the box and smiles in recognition. He now has a mission, and whomever has just sent him the box - and what's inside it (edit, Sunday 7th Jan 2024: the cardboard box) - is going to help.

At the very beginning of Heaven's overhead CCTV footage, the cardboard box can be seen with a very dark something inside (zooming in is required at this stage as the image begins small). Being able to see clearly to the bottom of the box's interior, in relatively natural light at the bookshop, one would think the intensely bright light in Heaven would also allow for a clear view, especially from above ...

While the Further Prophecies were only loose pages - Agnes would have known that they were going to be burnt anyway, so why go to the trouble of having them published and bound? - they could have been miracle-d into something modern and fancy, perhaps in the style of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy?

Gabriel places the matchbox in with it (I know I'd be worried about the fly escaping, as well as it being jostled about with the matchbox once Gabriel turns the cardboard box up-side-down, but after seeing the fly crawl back into the cardboard box just before Aziraphale brings it inside the bookshop, I'm trusting in the fly's ability to be controlled by will of thought and that the fly knows to stay close to its master). He closes just 2 flaps of the box and then a bass whoosh sounds in the right speaker (not part of the soundtrack). The "book" has entered the fly! Has it stayed in the fly?

Then, on Earth, Gabriel approaches the bookshop. The only Whickber Street person seen to be using their phone AS A PHONE and not a camera, [placeholder name "Mary"] is listening intently. Perhaps the voice on the other end of the call says something like, "how goes operation Escort the Queen to the Hive?" and perhaps she answers, "we have the package safely surrounded, it has almost arrived, standby ..."

Then, she and hand-on-face-guy have front row 'seats' (standing room only) to the show, behind Gabriel; beginning to lift her phone when it looks like Gabriel has been rejected entry, before Aziraphale finally agrees to let him in. She is the very first to leave the scene when the mission is complete, signalling for everyone to resume their usual buzzing about, as if to say, "He's in. Aaaaaand we out!"

(These last two paragraphs were a summary of my first Tumblr post, The Whickber Street Bees and Their Queen.)

∢ ∢ ∢ ∢ ∢ ∢ ∢

When Jim explains that he feels like an empty house, he justifies remembering "how it all began" by looking where the furniture isn't (the gaps!) and it seems that every other instance - lavender eyes activated or not - is covered here with this statement, what with recalling more about where his memory is, as well as Metatron's "institutional problem" line from the trial. The only instance unaccounted for with his explanation, especially because of the trance-like state of delivery followed with Jim in distress (not quite the same as his first memory in episode 2) - the tempest prophecy from episode 3.

Perhaps Gabriel was in part control about what thoughts needed to remain in his head, or it's simply because they were the last ones in use, kept at the forefront by will and repetition, in order to get himself to the bookshop. Though, he was given an ineffable assist, which perhaps included re-configuring the 4 box flaps to collapse, interlocking pin-wheel style?

So, the Whickber Street "bees" have provided an escort for getting the Queen to the hive or if you prefer, the book delivered to the librarian/historian. However, if the book was the first thing to enter the fly and then say, was accidentally swapped into Gabriel for his memories, the Tempest prophecy came forth when Crowley accessed it, by means of a keyword. An INDEX!!!

Agnes has heard you Crowley, and Agnes says, "N-gotchya."

∢ ∢ ∢ ∢ ∢ ∢ ∢

According to a previous meta/theory, the event this prophecy is referring to has already happened, so it would make sense that, as Anathema's mother says in S1E2, "The answers are always in the book, it's just sometimes you don't see them 'til afterwards."

Or rather, as Anathema says to Newt in the book: "[Agnes] managed to come up with the kind of prediction that you can only understand after the thing has happened ... she just picked up one little fragment of information ... most of the time she comes up with such an oblique reference that you can't work it out until it's gone past and then it all slots into place."

It would have been only too obvious to hear Jim speak this prophecy in the English style of the 1600s! But if the echoed voice we're hearing is Anathema's - did she ever pronounce the extra "e"s and "a"s at the ends of words, in the show?

∢ ∢ ∢ ∢ ∢ ∢ ∢

When Gabriel has his memories returned to him, has the book re-entered the fly?

When he and Beelzebub are reprising Everyday, is Gabriel, with his left finger, releasing the fly into the room, for Crowley to capture shortly afterward once 'alone' (the chair facing the staircase)?

WITH. HIS. TONGUE???

Just after Aziraphale touches his fingers to his lips, is he repositioning the fly for safe-keeping, as with The Bullet Catch?

Finally, in the lift during the closing credits, Aziraphale is trying so hard NOT to smile before giving in. It's as if ...

As If ...

AS IF HE IS READING THE BOOK!!! Discovering and reading the book, turning the pages with his eyes right before the big smile!

AAAAAAAHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And now Aziraphale knows what Agnes knows.

From experience, he can trust that any prediction made by Agnes Nutter will always be "on the money."

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #good omens theory #still haven't grasped the difference between meta and theory #really NOT liking how the Metatron's use of the phrase “Spit-spot” hit me just now with a pang

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srbachchan · 9 months

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DAY 5798

Jalsa, Mumbai Jan 1/2, 2024 Mon/Tue 12:20 AM

🪔 ,

January 02 .. birthday wishes to Ef Smita Buch .. Ef Nita Menon .. Ef Mohammad Amin Sarwar from Faisalabad, Pakistan 🇵🇰 .. and Ef Minie Manal from Russia 🇷🇺 .. love and affection .. 🙏🏻🚩

The hand goes in repetition to the 12 and '23 .. and then you realise it's done .. it is now 1 and 1 and '24 ..

It was the 31 st that was intriguing .. last DAY of the week , last day of the month , last day day of the year 🥹 .. pretty darn cool .. naaah !! .. too Gen Z colloquial .. errmm .. "it was rather coincidental" .. hmm .. better .. !

😁

So the year endeth as does the 23 to 24 .. bringing as is often expressed , a better year .. blessed and hope filled with achievement and prosperity ..

But they all say that at the end of the year .. always .. and then the year takes over and performs according to its willing .. to be assessed when it shifts from 24 to 25 .. and on ....

The celebrations on the turn of the tide remained quiet, sombre and mostly on solitudinous thought .. no reflections on what went by .. it never does bring any reflect .. and the memory simply fails to bring those visuals alive .. indeed the memory fails to bring many of the past, alive .. moments , names , incidents , details and places - there at the tip of your tongue, but ailing, yes ailing, not failing, to form those magical words ..

🙃

words that were readily available at the drop of the 'proverbial hat' ..

'proverbial hat ..' ?

where on earth did this expression come from ..

AAAAHHHH .. found out ..

'The phrase “at the drop of a hat” originated sometime in the early 19th century when it was common for people to signal the start of a fight or a race by literally dropping a hat or waving it down through the air.

This signal would prompt the participants to start fighting or running immediately. As years passed, the phrase took on a broader meaning and became associated with almost any activity done without a second thought.'

hmmm .. nothing very bright or original ..

but the GOJ is ever original and filled with the love of the well wishers and a joy as ever to be in their midst every Sunday .. and the consideration for having the drinking water available , ad also the fans that sprinkle a thin layer of the acqua into the audience just to keep them cool and comfortable ..

some complained that they were positioned right in front of them so they could not see, so had pedestals made for them and hope that the well wishers are adapting to this immediate request of theirs ..

see the fans on either sides of the gate .. ?

🕺

... the namaste .. hmm .. the little finger still struggling to straighten out after the surgery .. well .. most of the hand is struggling .. its strength not back to normal .. holding writing with pen and several other deeds that hands are involved in , are in limbo ..

The medical says it normally takes 5-6 months .. !

The hand .. the most complicated machinery on the human body .. serviced by several nerves .. in fact three of the fingers serviced by one particular nerve .. one and half finger serviced by another .. and the remaining by another ..

amaze .. !!

I often ask the medical professionalists how and what they feel when they - who are privileged to have access to the workings of most of the elements in the body - feel, at the complexities of our human system and its working ..

And they seem perplexed that we should seek such information .. for, for them, it is the education, medical degrees address .. much as the grammar equations they teach at English language classes or the attaining of degrees in their education .. the adjective the adverb the consonance et al .. frightening moments for me .. never could understand these delicacies of the language and still do not .. much of the reason I rejected BA English and took up BSc .. but then those 'delicacies' were equally non understandable !!!! 😳

see ya .. and love ❤️

Amitabh Bachchan

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saucyjothoughts · 17 days

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💫 missed me? anyway, if google uses my documents to train their ai, it will become dick obsessed and I'd love to see that happen.

this is a little fragment from a fic I'm gonna post soon; jankris humping and Kris being the desperate little whore he is. enjoy.

Annoyingly, Jan smiled and pulled back to watch his bandmate’s face, knowing Kris wouldn’t want him to witness him completely disheveling in real time just from some stupid touches and words. What was that saying - sticks and stones may break his bones, but nasty whispers gave him a new one to worry about. Or something along those lines. “Fuck you, Peteh,” he murmured again, more quietly this time, not ready to admit defeat and beg for the man to please, please just fuck me already I can’t do this any longer, please.

“Aww, bunny is so flustered, isn’t he? That’s all you got, hmm?” hummed Jan, his hand trailing down, over the front panel of the satin piece, sliding all the way to the bottom hemline and playing with it. Kris whimpered just from the proximity of Jan’s hand to his erection. Pathetic lost cause.

His tone was almost sing-song, mocking Kris as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, teasing the impossibly sensitive skin of his upper thighs. “Come on, darling,” Jan crooned, leaning closer and pressing a kiss just next to his lips, “tell me what you want.”

This was so needlessly hard. Hey, Kris had always been a confident man, alright? He could handle carrying conversations or being in the spotlight or public speaking, but this felt worse than being put on the spot. It was as if Jan was talking down to him, and he knew that it was wrong and that he should’ve wanted to be treated as an equal but there was something so, so arousing in the way his bandmate spoke.

In being treated as less than, and being called a slut, and degraded and the sweet bliss of not even trying to talk back because his man decided when he could speak or not. His beautiful, beautiful man who was now rolling his hips ever so slowly beneath him, just enough to give each of them a small taste of what was to come.

Kris couldn't really say anything, his thoughts tol jumbled to come out coherent and his tongue completely tied. All he could do was moan and hold on better, hand falling from Jan's hair just so he could wrap both arms around his neck and get a better angle. They slowly grinded together, and it felt punishing in the way it was restraining Kris from going further and getting his needs satisfied. His needs, which were now twitching and throbbing, basically demanding more, which never came.

"Use your words, dear,” Jan whispered softly, his breath brushing against the shell of Kris' ear. ...

I missed you so much, 💫boo!! This is beautiful.

Bunny 🥹🥹

#umazane misli #jan peteh #kris guštin #krisjan #💫

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imagine-darksiders · 9 months

Text

Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 23 - Evading Sunrise.

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

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

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

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

… It would take your ability to dream.

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

Why should you be the exception?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re still asleep. Just not soundly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah… So that’s where your head is at.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It would be easy…

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

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

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

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

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

The Horseman’s chin dips down. “Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“… Gone,” is Death’s only reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A single, glossy eyeball stares back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All is quiet for a time, until at last…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Birds…

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

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

Death almost slaps a palm to his mask.

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

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

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

Wow… You miss dogs…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is that… how you see him…?

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

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

A good man…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did that really only happen yesterday?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The makers?”

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

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

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

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

“… Wait. Seriously?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Draven.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“W…What?” you blurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And sure enough…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Horseman is no fool. Though the very notions of romance and attraction have forever eluded him, he’s old and worldly enough to have at least encountered both in some way, shape or form. Besides, even a dunce would have to be trying exceptionally hard to miss what’s right in front of his nose.

You’ve caught the Blademaster’s eye.

And there’s the rub. Demons, he can put his scythe to, corrupted constructs and bloodthirsty bugs can be slain to keep you out of their gullets. Even Karn and his, at times, glaring attachment to you were innocent enough, as if the youngling was more starved for meaningful friendship than companionship. But an amorous undead? Death doesn’t have any protocol for manoeuvring around that particular minefield.

Once again, if there is such a thing as luck, the Horseman would be cursing his own. Isn’t it just typical that in such a vast and limitless Universe, his path would somehow carry you right to the Blademaster – the only other sod in Creation who shares your origins? Musing on that, Death can’t help but wonder if there truly is some unseen, omniscient hand guiding you along your journey.

Whoever the puppet master is, they’ve got a sick sense of humour.

Draven was Human – famously unpredictable species, a stereotype you continue to substantiate – but more to the point, he’s an unknown, and Death doesn’t especially like dealing with unknowns.

“Well then,” he announces abruptly, causing you to jump and reminding him that he’s allowed the undead to linger for a few moments too long, “If there’s nothing else…”

The skin around Draven’s jaw stretches as he opens it until the holes in his cheeks are thin and long, but before he can utter a word, Death says, “Wonderful,” and with a deft swing of his elbow, he bumps the door closed, giving the bottom of the wood a kick on its way to make sure it slams firmly shut. The room is once more plunged into that grimy, too-green gloom.

“Oh, that’s real nice, Death,” you snap, “The poor guy gives me a meal and lets me sleep in his bed, and you slam his own door shut in his face.”

“… That’s it,” he grumbles, turning to face you and pressing the bowl and cup into your hands, careful not to spill its contents as you splutter out a weak protest and fumble awkwardly with the woodware, “Tomorrow, you’re coming with me to the Champion’s arena. Not-!” he quickly snaps when you open your mouth to speak, “- to fight. You’re to watch from the sidelines.”

Looking down at you through the dark, he can tell you’re torn between continuing to berate him and diving into your newly acquired meal. Your eyes flit back and forth between him, the bowl, and the door, through which you can already hear the fading footfalls of your gracious host.

You’ve bulled yourself up at Draven’s expense, lips twisting into an unhappy frown, but it isn’t to last. Not with how desperate you are to fill your belly with something warm and cooked. Venting out a huff, you begrudgingly expel all the hot air from your lungs and lower yourself down onto the edge of the bed, lifting the stew to your lips to blow at the steam that drifts from it. “How do you know I’m not considering Draven’s tour?” you challenge.

It’s a good thing you’re pointedly ignoring the Horseman in favour of tipping back the bowl, because the look he shoots you is venomous enough that it would have stung had you caught it head-on.

“Just... Just eat the damn stew,” is all he bites out.

Well… You’re only too happy to oblige to that request.

You try not to wolf down the whole thing in one go, but as soon as the thin, watery gravy touches your lips and washes onto your tongue, you’re almost bowled over by the sheer influx of taste. At this point, after surviving on little else but water and the strange jerky Thane gave you, you could have eaten a rice cracker and called it filet mignon. Several bursts of flavour warm the inside of your cheeks and seep over and under your tongue. A piece of meat slides between your teeth as you slurp it up and you bite down on it hard, finding the strip tough and chewy, but oh so mouth-watering.

You spare the briefest of thoughts to its creature of origin, though the moment soon passes when you swallow, letting out a groan that might have been embarrassing if you weren’t so sure you’re justified in making such a sound. Privately, you make a mental note to thank Draven profusely in the morning, though whether that’s before or after you apologise to him for Death’s behaviour, you haven’t yet decided.

“Holy-“ Pausing, you lower the bowl and sweep a finger over the corners of your mouth, delicately removing the gravy gathered there, “-Shit, this is good.”

He almost asks if it tastes strange or off in any way, but with the Blademaster's words still ringing in his ears, Death stuffs them down with the rest of his wounded ego and begins to grumble nonsensically to himself. In fact, he's so busy muttering under his breath and glowering at the door that he doesn’t even pause to throw a withering glare at Dust when the crow hops onto the bed again and struts up to you with the confidence of a bird who knows you’re a pushover.

Only too happy to reinforce that confidence, you deftly scoop a chunk of meat into your palm and offer it out for the bird to peck at.

“Overprotective…” Death scoffs heatedly, “The nerve of that…” His mask abruptly whips around towards you, giving you pause with your cheeks full of stew. “Do you feel I’ve been overprotective?”

Putting aside the fact that you’ve never seen Death get this riled about a jibe before…

Swallowing thickly, you draw out an unconvincing, “No?”

The strange glow of his irises flicker for a second – a twitch of an eyelid? “Well, if I seem that way, it’s only because you’re so damnably adept at getting yourself into trouble,” he complains, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall with a decisive thump, “And frankly, I’d rather avoid having an angry group of makers hunt me to the ends of the Universe if something were to happen to you under my watch.”

It’s not just a lie meant to preserve his pride. Not entirely…

“They wouldn’t do that,” you tut, bemused, tilting the bowl and taking another, long slurp of the stew, manners be damned. You never thought you’d eat a cooked meal again.

His chest rumbles moodily. “They would.”

A wordless peace lingers in the air between you then, disturbed only by the sound of you chewing through toughened meat and the gentle sloshing of stew as your fingers chase the pieces around their bowl. You pretend not to notice the quick, attentive glances being sent your way.

Dust throws his feathered head up towards the ceiling, his beak wide open around the hunk of meat you offered him. In a rather unappetising display, the crow gulps it down with a few bobs of his neck.

“Nice,” you grunt, pulling a face.

You don’t put your bowl down until every last piece of the stew is gone, and even then you have to fight back an urge to lick the interior clean, mindful that present company might find that habit a bit too uncivilised not to comment on. Even with the Earth and its civilisation far behind you, you can’t let go of table-manners. It would be laughable if the reminder of your lonely humanness didn’t carry so many undertones of despair.

Breathing a soft, satisfied sigh, you bend down and drop the bowl on the floor with a clunk, instantly exchanging it for the cup of water before you sit up again to watch Death glower at the doorway as though he hopes it’ll burst into flames.

There’s a rigidity to him that doesn’t suit the late hour and the warmth in your belly.

Casting your mind about for a way to free him from whatever monologue he must have rattling away in that enigmatic head of his, you take a swig of the water, regarding the Horseman ponderously over the rim of the cup.

“So,” you say, smacking your lips as the lukewarm liquid slides down your throat, “What do you think the chances are that Vulgrim’s delivered my message?”

Luminous eyes blink slowly, roving from the door to land on your face.

He visibly hesitates, then asks, “What would help you go back to sleep faster?”

Your deadpan stare is ruined by an unseemly snort and flutter of your lips. “Just humour me, wise guy.”

“Very well…” Death grunts, “Chances are slim.”

“… Don’t know why I bother.”

Despite your tone, you’re secretly pleased when his broad shoulders slacken as he chuckles, unfolding his arms and resting each hand casually on his hips instead. “Given how often you’ve surprised me so far,” he sighs with an air of begrudging acceptance, “I suppose it wouldn’t be so shocking to learn you’ve actually convinced the demon to go through with your favour.”

“I surprise you?” you smile.

“At every turn.”

“Aw~”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“Oh.”

It is. It absolutely is. But he’ll be damned if he lets you know what a luxury surprises are for a being who was confident the Universe had nothing new to throw at him. He’s already far too soft on you as it is. Paying you compliments paves a slippery slope towards irrefutable fondness.

Dust would be insufferable.

“Now then,” he coughs gruffly, more to disrupt his own thoughts than to get your attention, “You should… try and get some more rest. I’ll wake you at sunrise.”

All at once, what little levity had been draped around your shoulders sloughs away. He’s right. You should try and sleep a little longer. Moments like these, moments where you can stop to catch your breath, could well be few and far between in the coming days.

“Death? Will you…?” Your voice catches and you don’t finish your sentence aloud, working your jaw up and down wordlessly as a sudden but subtle wave of shame washes over you like an ebbing tide. ‘Stay’ is on the tip of your tongue. But you realise it’s a silly question to ask, even if a very small, very vulnerable part of you desperately wants to seek reassurance from the dour Horseman sharing this space with you. Death has given no indication that he plans to stray far from your side.

Bottom line? You’re afraid to fall asleep again, much as your overwrought mind craves a few more hours of unconscious bliss, and your arms feel heavy as lead when you lower the cup to the floor, setting it down beside the bowl.

If you sleep, you might dream, after all.

And your dreams are full of ghosts.

Fingers twist searchingly into the blanket you’re sitting on, squeezing and clenching until they ache. It grounds you, at least a bit.

You don’t really notice that Death’s mask is tilted to one side, watching your hands closely until he shifts, easing himself through the gloom until he’s only a step away from the bed. It’s sometimes convenient to forget what he is, when your heart misses home so badly that it wants to find humanity in everything around you, including Death. It’s easy to forget that he’s older than you could probably comprehend, that he’s wise enough to hear a human’s unfinished plea and be able to predict how it ends.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he assures you.

Relief unwinds your hands from the fists you’ve curled them into, like roses blooming from the bud.

Soon, you’ll be awake, and the tragedies of yesterday will be saddled to your back alongside all the rest, but you’ll carry them with you as best you can. You don’t have a choice, after all. You followed Death to the Land of the Dead.

When the sun rises, you’ll rise with it and face the consequences of your choice.

#I live #Darksiders #fluff #soft Death #jealousy #Draven x Reader #attraction #GOD it's late #But it feels good to post this #I'm still here

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punsmaster69 · 9 months

Text

7/JAN/20XX

hm.

hmm.

well.

this isn't working.

what isn't working?

okay

hold on.

's hard to write.

there.

it's a little windy. had to get the pages to stop blowing around as i write.

woke up today and decided that if i was gonna do nothin', i might as well do it outside.

that's gotta be a little better for me, right?

so i've brought a handheld console, some snacks, this journal, a blanket (got it for gyftmas) and set up on the balcony.

pretty sure this is most use i'm gettin' outta this folding chair for now. 'till summer rolls around again, at least.

i mentioned this blanket being from gyftmas. the socks i'm wearing are too.

they're from tori.

i know, shocking. not from asgore? infamous sock-gifter?

it was actually the sweater i got that was from him.

socks sound like a bad gift to most, but when you're into the sock collection game as much as i am, you appreciate it way more.

..though.

she definitely did it 'cuz my old socks all had holes in them, rather than for the sock-gifter prestige.

she points it out every time she sees one.

"Oh. There is another hole. I believe that one to be new."

"...so it is. jeez, i've got a 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 lot of 'em now."

"You should get new ones, should you not?"

"hey, i'll wear these bad boys 'till the bitter end."

"They look as if that may come sooner than you hope."

the sock pack she gifted me is animal-themed. i believe the ones on my feet currently to be llamas. they have fuzzy little ear attachments n' all that.

pretty cute.

#undertale #journal #sans #toriel #soriel #asgore #this is slice of life but i take the slice and cut it into slivers

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uhzuku · 2 years

Text

— 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐒. ; 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬.

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: ‘his heart goes warm, and his gaze softens…’

𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦: genshin impact | 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬: dainsleif. zhongli. itto. ayato. alhaitham. diluc. xiao. | 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: nsfw ; minors dni | 𝐰/𝐜: 7.06k. ( as of tues., jan. 31, 2023 ).

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this miniseries isn’t going to be posted for quite some time anywhere but my patreon, which you can find in my pinned navigation !! the full series will be posted there before being posted to tumblr, and any dayes on this post are hopes rather than set in stone.

— 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝟏𝟎.𝟎𝟐.𝟐𝟑 : 𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐢𝐟, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐤𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐢’𝐚𝐡 〚 𝟏.𝟎𝟖𝐤 〛

𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐭: “isn’t it? it’s all over?” he asks through gasped breaths, his cheeks soaked in tears as explosions shake the ground beneath them. the large horse beside them, a dappled grey-black stallion, shuffles nervously, one hoof accidentally kicking the half filled bag of supplies that had been shoved at them by a fear-stricken maid before she was struck down by a spear of stone.

𝐭𝐰: fem!reader, angst, canon divergence, knight x princess, panic attack, gore, world building, the destruction of khaenri’ah, pierro cameo, background character death.

— 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨, 𝟐𝟑.𝟎𝟐.𝟐𝟑 : 𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐢 𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐨, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐢 〚 𝟐.𝟎𝟔𝐤 〛

𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐭: “hmm, might as well pick up a few groceries since we’re already out, right?” she asks quietly, her voice soft and calm. itto smiles brightly and nods down at her, his eyes shining in adoration as she leads them both over in a drifting gait towards a stall.

𝐭𝐰: fem!reader, angst, previously established relationship, childhood friends to lovers, severe prejudice towards oni,

— 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞, 𝟏𝟎.𝟎𝟑.𝟐𝟑 : 𝐳𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐠𝐨𝐝 〚 𝟎.𝟖𝟐𝐤 〛

𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐭: its midwinter. snow litters the ground, and zhongli sips at a cup of tea imported from the distant shores of inazuma, the scent pleasant and the warmth of the freshly brewed drink seeping into his hands. something within him thrums, and he feels a part of himself almost leak away — and he knows. he knows that the title that he once clung to ever so greedily is no longer his to claim.

𝐭𝐰: fem!reader, angst, canon divergence, former god x new god.

— 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫, 𝟐𝟑.𝟎𝟑.𝟐𝟑 : 𝐤𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐲𝐚𝐭𝐨, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐨𝐰 𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐚𝐥 〚 𝟏.𝟖𝟔𝐤 〛

𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐭: the taste of fish fills his mouth as he places a bite of some inside, the cooked flesh practically melting in his mouth as his chopsticks then go to his bowl of rice. y/n mimics his movements in her own way as she also eats breakfast, and ayaka is in her own world at least, that’s what ayato believed until the young woman asks, “that’s a lovely kimono, y/n — when did you get it?”

𝐭𝐰: fem!reader, previously established relationship, husband x wife, anniversaries, set before the inazuma arc, spoilers for the inazuman archon arc, sakoku decree, vision hunt decree.

— 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞, 𝟏𝟎.𝟎𝟒.𝟐𝟑 : 𝐚𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 〚 𝟏.𝟐𝟓𝐤 〛

𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐭: “o-oh archons — ‘h-haitham, please!” y/n whimpers, clinging to him tightly. her cunt pulses around his throbbing cock, and he lets out a groan that ends in a whine as he presses closer to her, wrapping a thick arm around her middle and mashing their chests together.

𝐭𝐰: fem!reader, arranged marriage, marital sex, first declarations of love, hand-holding, kissing, more tba.

— 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐱, 𝟐𝟑.𝟎𝟒.𝟐𝟑 : 𝐝𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐜, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐮 〚 𝟎.𝟖𝟏𝐤 〛

𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐭: “and you already know that sunsettias and sweetflowers pair well with one another, but adding windwheel aster roots and the essence of a mist flower corolla would make the wine even sweeter!”

𝐭𝐰: fem!reader, childhood friends to lovers, kissing, first kisses.

— 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧, 𝟏𝟎.𝟎𝟓.𝟐𝟑 : 𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐬 〚 𝟏.𝟔𝟎𝐤 〛

𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐭: indarias nods and says, “as you wish,” before disappearing in a leap of flames that disappear into the wide, open sky above them. alatus leans back against the trunk of the tree, one leg hanging down from the branch he rested on, and his soft smile widens as his watchful gaze softens.

𝐭𝐰: fem!reader, canon divergence, god x servant, power dynamics, cameos of alatus’ yaksha companions, more tba.

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 © 𝟒𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐒 { 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 }; 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. 𝐢 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲.

#arataki itto x reader #alhaitham x reader #diluc ragnivindr x reader #zhongli x reader #xiao x reader #dainsleif x reader #kamisato ayato x reader #genshin impact x reader #HIS GAZE SOFTENS miniseries

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thesporkidentity · 9 months

Text

an incomplete list of texts i sent as i slowly lost my mind over the second book of rivers of london, because i fully intend to drag at least one more person into this pit with me. come read with me i promise you're gonna feel so good and normal over this book, come closer

wow okay peter remains the absolute horniest bastard ever. is he a tits or an ass man? yes

oh we are just getting the surface levels hints of nightingales MOUNTAIN of unresolved PTSD and i am very 🥺

you ever feel like a character was written specifically to appeal to you? i'm getting so many tantalizing hints and i KNOW he's going to destroy because he's catnip. he is bait specifically designed to hurt my feelings

also his description makes me think of lee pace or like, 90s/00s paul mcgann and that's just Very Good and i'm being deeply not normal about it

also nightingale reads as SO queer to me, and the potential in fic to explore what that means insofar as how he has navigated the changing landscape of queerness from 1900 to present day is so tantalizing. i don't care that the author says he's not, in this case the author is wrong lol

i must say, i do not care for simone. if we absolutely MUST have hetersexual nonsense in this book i would like beverly back please. she was cool and not a cheating homewrecking jazz groupie lol

still not impressed with simone. i mean, far be it from me to judge a woman's grieving process and all, but she doesn't seem very broken up over her within-the-week dead lover. i mean, i LOVE peter and all and he's hot shit, but immediately falling into bed with him? sus

in conclusion bring 👏 bev 👏 back 👏

also peter, buddy, WHAT ARE YOU DOING

he's a disaster so even though i'm screaming DON'T DO THAT i am unsurprised he is being led around by his dick by a beautiful woman throwing herself at him

but i just. i Don't Trust Her. she doesn't make sense, and i can't tell if this is a case of male author writing wish fulfillment and thus not giving the hot girl adequate motivation of her own

or whether i AM supposed to find it suspicious the way she basically doesn't mourn the man she homewrecked who died very suddenly and then IMMEDIATELY jumps into bed with the magic cop investigating his very probable murder

and i REALIZE the only way to find out is to keep reading, it's just frustrating that women are written poorly so often that, even if he's written good women before, i still have to debate with this is a subtle clue or just Male Author Syndrome

oh my god he finally twigs that this may be weird behavior. peter. bud.

at least he got it before trying to sneak her past folly wards?

side note: god lesley really got the short end of the stick. like, her face fell off, her teeth are a fucking mess, and she probably has brain damage. she got royally shafted

peter "i'm totally straight" grant, talking about how he wants to take a muscly guy by the shoulders and kiss his cheeks and making sure to mention how many phone numbers her got while canvasing the gay bar.

hmm sure, jan

look i KNOW peter is Incredibly Horny All The Time when near any attractive woman, but simone appears from NOWHERE half dressed while he's canvassing for the jazz vampire and he just skives off like that? while looking for a potential killer? that doesn't seem like him he's not that irresponsible. that smells like conspiracy and glamour and i don't trust herrrrrrr

like, peter was already horny wanting to motorboat mama thames (lol don't think i didn't catch that pun) last book. but this book has been a whole new level of horny, and peter may be distractible but not THAT distractible surely

another side note. i love molly and nightingale's weird friendship they've developed living basically with just each other for decades.

oh jesus that's fucked up

oh the severed head is talking

oh. oh no. it got worse

peter, darling, beloved, is now REALLY the time to be talking about how hot your boss is? like i appreciate your dedication to the thirst but time and place, bud

oh never mind i forgive you nightingale is so fucking cool, i get it, i love him

he's so good. the most tragic backstory and perfect stiff upper lip old fashioned english gentleman on the outside, and then just below the surface he's a daredevil and a bit of a bitch and he fucking CARES just SO MUCH and have i mentioned how much the casterbrook wall HURTS ME?? this was revealed in the last book but i just remembered it and it stabbed me again

okay i'm done

i feel like peter has miscalculated making a deal with his cousin to teach her if she aces latin. that's gonna come back to bite lol hope you like teaching too smart for their own good teenagers cuz that's gonna be your life now

"but sir, what do we do if you die??!" "well, that doesn't seem like it will be my problem at that point :)" he's such a bitch sometimes and i LOVE him, mother

ohhhhh. oh no. the pale lady looked like molly and now molly is obviously not okay after she died, that resemblance wasn't just coincidence she definitely knew her 😢

and this is the first person peter has killed, no matter how accidentally. and nightingale is back in the hospital with his chest infection. wow everyone is just having a terrible time right now

okay. i realize that as a memory for him this probably isn't a GOOD one, it's from the war and probably much scarier and MUCH more traumatizing than he makes it sound with his dry narration of it. but god. nightingale knocked out two TANKS. by himself. with his mind. fucking sexy lol

oh damn it why can't they just let me be horny about how powerful he is instead of immediately following it with the fact that he was rear guard and making emotional that it means he was the one trusted to watch over and protect the rest of his men while they retreated as that one final shield between them and enemy fire

hhhhhhhholy shit what did simone DO to mama grant???!!!!

she just bitch slapped her!

OH MY GOD SHE TRIED TO HOMEWRECK HIS PARENTS TOO???

she's PLAUSIBLY IMMORTAL???

fuck i was right she was sketchy as hell!!

she's a fucking jazz vampire and she's been glamouring and sucking him dry! buddy, get to dr walid STAT for a brain scan and make sure she's not turning you into cauliflower!

peter don't you make excuses for her you KNOW it's possible, stop lying about your mum and trying to make her feel better you need to take her in she's a m u r d e r e r

i mean, glamour yes i realize but god, frustrating

good lad peter, i see you fighting it 💪🏾

ohhhhhhhh. oh fuck. she didn't KNOW. she didn't know she was from the 40s and killing people. oh this is bad

nightingale, attempting to show concern: "that was not the most intelligent thing you've done" xD 10/10 nailed it buddy

umm, nightingale? this may not be the black and white moral situation you think it is to go in guns blazing...

it's both funny and little sad how militant both molly and dr walid are when nightingale is injured like. i do LOVE when the person who is SUPPOSEDLY in charge gets lovingly bullied, but it hurts because that's also probably the ONLY way to make him take care of himself is if they FORCE him. and peter's not any better, he's gonna need bullying too

i do love when they team up though. molly and nightingale ganging up against peter like. nightingale gets the special treatment and a hot cocoa from molly, but peter gets the dog's leash and smug little "i'm on bedrest :)" or nightingale foisting the rest of his kidney pie on peter while molly is out of the room then grabbing his empty plate back to pretend he ate it all himself when she returns xD

the cases are interesting and all, but i think it's the core characters that are really the standout of the novel and the reason i keep reading even while i'm asking myself things like, but WHY is she killing via vagina dentata instead of literally any other assassination method? i think it's also why simone stood out so much. she HAD no background that we were told (until now) aside from being sexy. which of course i now know was intentional

"this is your brain, which is not only clean and unsullied by thought..." i love dr walid. it probably says something about me that my favorite characters all have to be at least a little bit of a bitch

oh no i'm having feeeeeelings about both nightingale and peter trying to keep the other out of the vampire raid to shield them from the emotional effects of it, just from opposite ends. nightingale doesn't want peter to have the pain of ANOTHER death on his hands, this one purposeful as opposed to the accidental death of the pale lady, so he's trying to just cut him out of it. and then peter ALSO doesn't want NIGHTINGALE to have the weight of more deaths on his soul and wants to protect him from what he sees as the unfortunate necessity of having to off someone who isn't intentionally hurting someone but still may be too dangerous to live. nightingale trying to save peter from his bleeding heart and peter saving nightingale from his practicality overriding his morality 😭 i just love when characters try to take care of each other in mirrored ways

uh...uh oh peter...no i don't think those are the police OR nightingale's paratrooper buddies

okay the audiobook is fucking excellent though, his infomercial voice while extolling the virtues of doc martins is KILLING me

oh this posh wanker. "oh what is feeding on people but another form of exploitation, and we all know there's nothing wrong with exploiting workers, equality is morally bankrupt anyway" god i hate you already you're insufferable

like of COURSE a dining club oxford nose wipe would think that way. he thinks he's sooooo slick and original with his chimeras they're such exciting new COL crimes but it all just boils down the the exact same rich white bullshit mentality

he would hate it if he realized how dull and banal his villainy is once you strip back the shock value of the trappings. just another entitled prick who views people as things, fuck this dude

i'd be tempted to say the faceless man's signare smelling like pork was a dig at david cameron and piggate if i didn't know it was written a few years too early for that lol

peter: oh no nightingale is going to give me SUCH a bollocking nightingale, obviously so relieved he's alive: very much does NOT give him a bollocking and instead tells him how impressive it is that he didn't just immediately die against the faceless man

"for a terrifying moment i thought he was going to huge me, but fortunately we both remembered we were english just in time. still, it was a close call" 🤣🤣🤣

oh ouch peter. just use all his dead friends against him. effective but also, low blow

god he wants so badly for peter to be right, too, that they and HE doesn't have to kill anyone anymore, that how that it's not Just Him ALl Alone they might have the support structure for other options. oh no i want this to work so badly so that hope is validated, but i just know something is gonna go wrong

welp

i didn't like her but i didn't want her fuckin DEAD you know?

and now the ones left standing have to deal with the trauma and the fallout

oh lesley :( they're both trying so hard to be normal about it and they're such good friends 🥺

LESLEY DO MAGIC?

LESLEY JOIN TEAM FOLLY???!!

also don't think you've been sneaky there and that i haven't noticed SOME sort of thematic symmetry of lesley struggling with having lost her face involuntarily from magic, and the faceless man having voluntarily masked himself. involuntary vs voluntary loss of identity. i'm sure there will be more parallels in the next book but like. i see you. i see you setting up face themes with these two

hopefully with lesley regaining her face somehow and thus reclaiming identity while the faceless man is unmasked thus losing the identity he built for himself and revealing the true one he hid. maybe hopefully? i want good things for lesley and bad things for the faceless one.

#rivers of london #under a readmore because it's so long and i don't want to owe even MORE of an apology to everyone in the tag than i already do

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vulpixisananimal · 3 months

Text

(The characters Wren and Polaris belong to @fungal--wastes and @neoncityrain respectivley)

"Neeeearly there~"

(Isabeau was waiting in front of the homestead, so you decided to try something else. And that something else was breaking into one of the rooms from outside!)

(You were standing on Ramos' shoulders to get into one of the guest rooms on the second floor. You were digging your knife under the rim of a window to cut out the small lock. The rain didn't help, but Ramos was surprisngly sturdy.)

"T-take your time! I really wouldn't want you to fall a-and hurt yourself!" (Mira says, concerned.)

"Ha! Not like that'd be an issue anyways-"

"No!!!"

"H-hey careful, Isa might hear." (Ramos comments. They're right, gotta go quick. It should just be a bit more and. . .)

"Theeere we go!" (You say, smugly opening the window and climbing in.)

"W-what should we do, Siffrin?" (Mira calls up to you. You think a bit.)

"Try not to get touched? Maybe just be a distraction?" (You shrug.)

"We'll figure something out!" (Ramos gives you a thumbs up. You nod. Now, the room.)

(Small room. Single bed. There was a heavy looking pack by one side and a few clothes spread around the floor. There was a small desk with a well worn book on it, and a few papers. The bed was sloppily made, probably by someone who wanted it to look neat but still didn't want it to be a mess. There was a spear leaning against a wall. It was surprisingly chilly.)

(Whos room was this, anyway? Single bed, so none of your familys. Jans? No it would have more stuff, they lived here right? Not that bickering pair or bonded couple, you imagine they would have had a shared room. So that left that traveler.)

(Convenient!)

(You start at the pack, you had to move fast. Looking through it, it had a few changes of clothes, some rations, and a lot of things you didn't know what they were. Although they looked like something Odile would use. Maybe she was a researcher AND a traveler? Ha! Those two would get along. Some of the clothes looked wildly different, though. Fashion too?)

(You look up at the spear. . . Yep, that sure was a spear. Looked sturdy, long, and- dulled? Huh. The tip of the spear was blunt. Maybe it was for training.)

(Okay, then what about the papers and book? You go over to the desk and take a look. The papers were newspapers, a few letters from different people, oh it's research! They were all about the King and Time Craft. Didn't Odile say one time that scholars were really interested in Time Craft showing up?)

(None of the papers had anything you didn't already know about. You open the book.)

(. . . . . . Huh.)

(Flipping through the pages, you notice a lot of things. Theres a lot of drawing of landscapes, and people, and monsters. A lot of them had notes, too. That traveler must have a vivid imagination. There were notes about all sorts of things. Reminders written by the writer. And it looked like they were writing conversatons? Hmm. . .)

(You flip a few pages and stop. There's diagrams here. Measurments. Circles and symbols you didn't exactly recognise. Advanced craft? It looked VERY advanced whatever it was. You tried reading more, but it was getting more and more complicated. Maybe if you brought it to Odile-)

(You jump as a gloved hand reached around and covers your mouth. A second grabs you neck, both were freezing cold.)

"What the hell are you doing in our room." (You hear from a voice behind you. It sounded, very, very angry.)

(Ooooooooh stars oh that's, that's not good. Okay, okay you can deal with this Siffrin. And besides, you can also just try again. You mumble into the gloved hand.)

(Your assailant huffs, and uncovers your mouth.) "Quietly, now."

(Stars, what do you say?!?) "I-I uh, I-I was just looking around."

"Cut it!" (You feel that hand on your throat tighten, a familiar feeling.) "We are not in a mood for jokes."

(You hear the door to the room open and someone run inside, before closing it again. You smell mint. There's a new voice.) "Miss Vixul I- Who?!?"

"A thief, probably." (You hear, who you assume to be, Vixul say.)

"Unlikely, that is one of the Saviors of Vaugarde." (You hear the new voice say the title dripping with sarcasm.) "Although I suppose he could be both."

"N-nope!" (You squeeze out.) "J-just wanting to make sure the inn is s-safe to sleep in!"

"Lying." (Says the new voice.) "Miss if you could deal with this, I have to tend to Polaris."

"How is he?" (Vixul asks.)

"Befuddled still. Whatever is effecting his mind, it's strong."

(Wait!!!) "H-him, too?" (You mumble out.)

(There's a pause, and then the new voice talks.) ". . . Are others being effected by it, Savior?"

(You nod, frantically.) "M-my uh, u-uh, t-traveling companion, h-he, he's not himself right now."

"Traveling companion?" (You hear Vixul say in the same tone of voice Odile would use when talking about you two.) "Big buff guy?"

(You nod.) "T-that's why I'm here. It spreads by touch, a-and, I think you were the last to, to touch him, s-so. . ."

". . ." (There's a silence, Vixul speaks up eventually.) "You've dealt with this before, haven't you?"

(You nod.) "It smells like mint, spreads through touch. It changes your memories, or controlls you, o-or just, looks through them?"

"You do not sound very confident." (The new voice comments.) "But, that seems accurate."

". . . . ." (You hear Vixul sigh.) "I'm going to let you go. You're gonna help us with this, and we'll help you back. Don't even try to fight me, got it?"

"Can do!" (You laugh a little, your heart not in it.)

(She lets you go, you rub your neck and finally turn around to see who these two were- oh, three. The third person was unconscious and on the bed. You assume that was Polaris. The curly haired one was standing next to him. Vixul, was standing a few feet away, having grabbed the spear off the wall. She was glaring at you.)

(You breathe in, and out.) "Good to meet you two~"

(The curly haired one rolls his eyes.) "My name is Wren. This idiot is Polaris." (He says, gesturing to the unconscious one.)

"Vixul." (Says the tall one. Few words, huh.)

"Siffrin." (You smile at them.) "So! What happened?"

"Nope, you first." (Vixul says, glaring at you.) "You broke into my room after all. How do you know so much about mind craft."

"R-right. ." (You lean against a wall. Stars, where to start. Well, hmm, keep it vauge?) "Well, I experienced it first hand. Few weeks ago in Jouvente someone was going around messing with things."

"Details, please." (Says Wren, glaring at you.)

(Stars.) "Well. . . The person who was messing things was also being messed with. After sorting everything out, they uh, actually joined us on trying to find out who started it."

"Really?" (Vixul looked at you with a look that screamed dissapointment.) "That doesn't sound suspicious at all."

"I know I know!! Listen it just, made sense in the moment!!" (You shake your head.) "They still know some mind craft, and if they try anything they know I'll be after em."

"Stupid. If they know mind craft they'll just change your memory so you don't." (Wren retorts.) "You can't be that idiotic, right?"

(You wince, well, he WAS right.) "I. . . Have my ways?"

"There's a way to resist mind craft?" (He tilts his head.) "Tell."

(Stars above. Great. You look between the strangers you were talking to. No way you could bring THAT up here.) ". . . It's personal."

(You see Vixul and Wren give each other a look.)

". . . Fine, alright, how do we undo it." (Vixul asks, looking tired.)

"Last time there was a sort of charm that, once broken, dispelled the Mind Craft. It looked like a star."

(There was a silence as the two of them started thinking. You were thinking, too. Who was this trio anyways? They didn't seem like just ordinary travelers. You couldn't place Vixuls accent, and Wren seemed very. . . attentive.)

"So, what about him?" (You say, asking about Polaris.)

"Oh! Right." (Vixul huffed.) "Well that guy Isabeau, he went upstairs, came downstairs, said hi to me, hi to Polaris, Polaris said he felt sick, started acting weird, and Wren put him to sleep to take him up here. I got here first and found you and you know the rest."

(You nod, following along. So Isa started spreading mind craft after he went upstairs then back? Maybe it was someone up there who spread it to him. Then- wait a second.) "Why aren't you being effected by mind craft?"

(Vixul opens her mouth, then closes it, then looks away.) ". . . It's personal."

(Personal? What would be personal that could- oh.)

(Oooohhh. . .)

(She wasn't writing a conversation in her book, she was writing to herself. She resisted the mind craft. And she did say "we" instead of "I" earlier.)

(. . . . . .)

(. . . . Somehow, this makes you feel less alone.)

". . . Any other questions?" (Wren asks.)

"N-nope! That's all!" (You smile at them.)

(He nods, and sighs.) ". . . Then you should get going. Me and Vixul will look for that charm once Polaris is safe." (It was a very clear message of 'please leave'.)

"Sounds good to me~" (You say, walking over to the door.) "Don't be strangers now! Though, might want to work on your introductions."

"Same to you." (Vixul replies. Rolling her eyes.) "Try not looking through peoples stuff."

"No promises!" (You laugh a little. And open the door out.) "And if you need m- Oh!"

(Odile was standing in the hallway outside the room looking at you.)

(You wave to her.) "Morning, Odile! I was just-"

(She raises a hand towards you. What was she-)

<MOVE>

(You feel your body move on instinct at the sudden screaming inside your head. You jump back into Vixuls room You feel some powerful craft spell in the spot you were just standing-)

(What?!? WHEN did you show up-)

"Oh what now!" (Vixul says, grabbing her spear and standing up.)

"I-I don't know! One of my companions, she-" (What WAS Odile doing?!?)

<Dangerous. A seal, or craft break, or->

(What do you MEAN?!?)

"She's likely effected by mind craft." (Wren takes up a position between the door and Polaris.)

(You see Odile appear in the doorway. She's not saying anything. She's sweating, like she's trying really hard to focus on. . . Something. She holds up a palm again.)

"Move it!!" (Vixul knocks you out of the and takes whatever craft spell Odile was using. She stumbles back.) "Hrrgh-"

"Miss Vixul!"

"I-I'm fine! Hey! Lady!! What's your problem?!?"

"Odile. . ." (You mumble, what, she's, being controlled too?!?)

(But, she, there's no way, right? She's too smart for that! She would have helped so much with this! And, a-and-)

<Enough. You look around the room. Window, Wren, books, Vixul, Odile, bed->

"Leave us alone, please." (Wren says, annoyed. He holds up a paper sign of his own, crackling with craft. You see Odiles spell get caught mid flight by Wrens. Counterspell?)

"O-Odile! What's going on what's, w-what-" (You stumble out.)

"That's Odile?" (Vixul asks, looking between you and her.) "I think she's trying to kill you, bud."

"B-but-"

"Go, Siffrin." (Wren says, preparing another counter.) "We will be fine."

(You open your mouth to protest, but your words get stuck in your throat. B-but, but she-)

<It's time to go.>

(Null wait, I- WAIT WAIT- WE NEED TO HELP ODILE!!)

#HEHEHEHHE THE OCS!!!! THEY'RE HERE!!#wren #polaris #vixul #isat #art #in stars and time #isat art #isat spoilers #isat fanart #siffrin system au #sifstem #isat au #isat siffrin #isat oc #isat fanfic #isat null #isat odile

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