#so if there are mistakes excuse them

[chalkrub]

this too is yuri (the relationship between me and two of my own characters i love too much)

[turtleblogatlast]

Headcanon that the boys were first introduced to Lou Jitsu through Splinter scrounging up an old movie to watch through a grainy projector. Splinter wanted to hype himself up at the time, to see a version of himself - however fictional - succeeding and being happy.

He watches, and smiles, mouthing along to the dialogue and outright whisper-shouting “HOT SOUUUP!” whenever it comes up.

Nestled in his lap are his four new sons, still learning the world around them and heavily reliant on their new father. They watch with wide eyes how lively their guardian looks, how happy he sounds, and they turn to watch the movie closely. Because, for as young as they were, they could recognize the source of their father’s joy.

So naturally, they come to associate Lou Jitsu with their father’s smile, and in turn, they feel happy themselves. To them, Lou Jitsu will always be a source of joy, and always make them smile, even if they forget why as they grow.

They’re not just movies for the four of them - they’re the distant memories of a warm lap and a smiling face.

[mickeym4ndy]

can we please stop with the ‘Mickey is objectively a bad person’ shit PLEASE.

I get it comes from a place of holding him accountable for his actions which is fair but going straight to “he’s a bad person” just completely disregards so much of his growth and development, and the nuances of the show.

I get Mickey fans got a reputation in the past for excusing everything he does and yea that’s annoying. But to counteract that by saying “he’s objectively terrible!” is so one dimensional and also completely goes against everything that shameless is about.

the point of shameless isn’t that all of these people are terrible, it’s to show the effect living in poverty has on a person and the lengths that are necessary to go to survive in that life, and the mistakes that ultimately causes people to make along the way.

no shameless character is perfect. that’s the point. even some of the worst things that characters have done have been because they are victims of their circumstances and situations. they are nuanced complex characters that can’t be put into boxes of good and bad

they’ve all done things to hurt other people and themselves. but the point is is that most of them have good within them, but all the factors against them make it harder to let that out.

“He’s a bad person” is a lazy reading of the show that completely lacks nuance in my opinion

[livvylubug]

I am a firm believer of the J-knowing-Tessa-is-cyn theory💪

NO ONE can convince me otherwise!

[rizukitikastuff]

Have no merch of him yet so I'll just draw my fav song as motivational card 🍎✨

[the-woman-upstairs]

It’s just…so painful to watch Armand readily submit in order to obtain the love he so desperately craves. And while it’s most assuredly a manipulative tactic, it’s still one borne out of fear and desperation. He cannot lose this person he’s come to love and so will become whatever they want, do whatever they want just so they’ll stay with him. But it won’t be enough. No matter how much he acquiesces or seeks to control (himself, others, the environment), he won’t be able to make Louis stay with him in the perfect life, perfect self he built in the hopes of finally being loved. It will all crumble with Armand left alone in the rubble of what he created, the author of his own abandonment.

[bugcatcherkit]

What are your thoughts on Reigen I'm so curious now

Ohhh where do i start with Contradictions Georg himself.... Masking Andy... (clenches teeth) I have to make a list so I don't rant about one particular thing only.

the thing that hits hardest for me about his character is his Existentialism man. it's terribly relatable. Indeed, he is a Very Small Guy in a Very Big World and it's difficult to be Seen because of that. But also he's littered with Fear of Being Perceived and Understood. So he deals with his Existentialism by reaching for something (he doesn't know what) that'll make him somebody (he doesn't know who, just that it can't be his genuine self). MAN!!!!!!

Second thing that hits hard about his character is his unfiltered insecurities and self-loathing. Every time someone goes "We have to talk" he goes over every mistake or possible mistake he's ever made. He's the type of guy to search up the meaning of a word before he uses it, even if he's used it a 100 times before. Because what if he's wrong this one specific time?? Also his insecurities frequently make him act worse (sometimes on purpose, sometimes not) rather than better (as opposed to Mob most of the time) and i appreciate that so much.

I appreciate his Just Some Guyness over his babygirlness (not that they can't coexist i guess). Sorry guys. This is also why i think i prefer manga Reigen over anime Reigen. Like i can appreciate anime Reigen's maxed-out eccentricities and stuff, but overall I like the more Reservedness (?) that manga Reigen has. Personally it makes his groundedness, bad actions, and self-improvement hit a little harder. It goes well with his struggle to display his emotions in a loose and genuine way.

but despite this he's still silly. and frequently outlandishly embarrassing. and these are super important to his character also. Alongside his very genuine concern and care for the lives of others at any given moment.

He's always talking about his interpersonal relationships in terms of the Respect the other party holds for him. and then Separation Arc comes in with a steel chair that says "you have to give respect back to make a relationship Good and Fair and Genuine, idiot."

the only relationship this doesn't hold true to is with Dimple. Neither of them have any respect for each other really. And it's awesome.

i love how he is always just some Mediocre guy. He slowly self-improves certain aspects of his life but at the end of the day he's still paying Grown Man Serizawa 300 yen an hour (last time I checked). So.

Him being Mob's foil also means he has a lot in common with other Mob antagonists. But he has so many Mogamisms that it drives me up the wall. Sometimes he'll say a Mogamism and in my mind Mob looks at him with such a sudden intensity that he gets Scared

I frequently think of the scene where he is at the bar during Separation Arc and he realizes the bar people aren't his friends. And he says "I'm not good at this" and leaves. I don't have much to expand here but just know that when I think of how he experiences interpersonal relationships I think about this line. Because he's so good at a lot of things but Not This (Relationships overall. But also probably solving their problems in the moment).

not a fan of Dad or Uncle Reigen. To anyone really. Sorryyy. No hate to those who are though.

uhhhhhhh umm this has gotten so long. Sorry this is so unorganized i think i do better with more direct questions because i suck at staying on topic/being concise when i have free reign. There's so many aspects of his character that I didn't get to here that I also love. But its so hard to think of them all. I hope this gives you an idea though?

[clowningaroundmars]

Hobie1610 pt. 2

after god knows how long (months tho tbh), i am happy to present: hobie1610 part dos! In this installment, we see how Miles eventually rounds right back to Hobie Jones to apologize after pt. 1's gigantic blunder

hope y'all enjoy! :)

>pt. 1 here<

>pt. 3 here<

It was several weeks into the first semester-- with winter just right around the corner-- before Miles finally got around to confronting the little Hobie Problem that he had.

Being laden with pounds upon pounds of assignments to get done before the holidays and then trying to keep up with Spiderman duties on top of it all, managing his parents’ overwhelming expectations once again, and trying to survive as a teenager in general forced his first day blunder onto the back burner for much longer than Miles would have liked.

Sure, his anxiety is a bitch sometimes, and it holds him back from directly addressing a lot of issues in his life, but Rio didn’t raise any neanderthal. Miles knew that when he messed up, he messed up.

Problem is, every time he’s tempted to just reach a hand out to his dimension’s Hobie Br-- Jones, pat his shoulder lightly, pull him into a corner somewhere during lunch maybe, and finally man up and apologize… that’s when some crook starts some problems downtown, or some mad scientist finally snaps somewhere and starts to wreak havoc with crazy gadgets a bit too unnervingly close to his neighborhood.

Or Miles gets back to his dorm room and sees that he has an assignment due the very next day that he hasn’t even had the chance to hop on yet, because of aforementioned crooks and mad scientists.

It was all driving him crazy.

And so now here he was, up on a rooftop in the middle of a chilly fall day, hanging out with his inter-dimensional besties (who he lightheartedly calls the Spider Squad but he hasn’t quite brought that up to them yet).

They were on a lunch break after pummeling and restraining some prisoners-- who somehow got out of the Raft-- that tried to make their way across the Brooklyn Bridge. Miles sure appreciated the help, which was one of the many positives of letting Hobie Brown make dimension watches for everyone, mostly so they could all help another Spider shoulder the burdens that usually befell them.

But the teens-- being teens, of course-- also used their watches to just pop into an open portal and hang out with each other as often as they could. Who could blame them? Being a superhero and a kid was overwhelming most of the time. Sometimes they needed a listening ear or a supportive shoulder to cry on every now and then, and getting the opportunity to chill and explore a whole new world for them was always a thrill.

(Miles himself could never deny the excitement of getting to go to Mumbattan for shopping trips every so often, either.)

So with all of that in mind it was tempting to, after seeing the long and lanky punk Spiderman climb through his own multi-colored portal, ask Hobie if he could go back to New London with him. He needed to get something off of his chest.

Hobie, languidly as ever, hikes a skinny shoulder up in a nonchalant shrug and goes “ye’ sure, mate. Somethin’ up, or?”

Pavitr leans forward from his conversation with Gwen-- the little snoop, goddamnit-- and swallows a particularly big bite of his sandwich. “Oooooh, Miles and Hobie? Alone, in New London? Wow!” He elbows Gwen, who shakes her head and snorts into her bottled juice.

Miles puffs up. ���Hey, it’s not like that! We just need to talk. In private. Nothing’s wrong, I uh… I just need some advice. That’s all!”

Hobie’s grin is full of teeth. “Waidaminnit. Miles Morales... Thee Great Miles Morales, needin’ my advice? Interesting!” His freeform locs bob and wiggle teasingly with every movement of his head.

Feeling put on the spot, Miles pouts as he picks at some lint on his spider suit and finishes off his soda as quickly as he can manage.

Gwen, bless her heart, notices his discomfort and scooches closer to him on the rooftop ledge. “… Is everything alright, by the way? It isn’t anything bad, is it?”

Miles glances at her before returning his gaze to the concrete several stories below. “Uhm, nah. Nah, it’s… y’know, it’s just more inter-dimensional weirdness. But I’m sure I can fix it. I think,”

He then shoots her a grateful smile for her considerate check-in, and pulls his mask back down over the lower half of his face. Gwen understands this as his “I’ll be back for another check-in later,” behavior and simply nods back. She knows not to push him.

“Well,” Hobie unfolds himself from his position on some scaffolding on the side of building, straightening himself up to his full height and stretching, “I’m all finished, then. Prob'ly not a good idea to go swingin’ on full stomachs, though. Let’s take a quick walk before headin’ home, yeah?”

Miles grabs Hobie’s hand and helps him hoist himself up over the ledge, and the teens all gather their trash into one plastic bag together. They chatter and slip their masks on as they casually walk down the side of the half-constructed building, finally touching down onto the concrete alleyways and relishing the quiet of an empty block before heading to the congested streets of downtown Brooklyn.

They all eventually bid each other their farewells after a few quick photo ops from excited New Yorkers, but of course not before Pavitr leans into Miles’ ear conspiratorially and whispers: “Let me know how it goes, bro! Good luck!”

Pav punches Miles on the shoulder lightly and winks at him, then he does a backflip into his golden-bright portal and blinks out of existence.

Miles rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Does he want me and Hobie to be together, or me and you? I can never tell with that guy,” he groans at Gwen, whose shoulders are shaking with badly-concealed laughter.

“I think he just watches too many of those soap operas, honestly. Trashy daytime TV will do that to a guy sometimes.” She quips just as humorlessly.

Miles gives her a sidelong glance and a smirk. “Right. Rots your brain. Poor Pav!”

Gwen and Hobie laugh at that as Gwen pulls up her own portal.

“I’m thinkin’ we need t’ stage an intervention, really.” Hobie adds.

“Yes, and soon,” Miles points out.

“I’ll see what I can do to pull him away from those shows, but you know how his aunt is,” Gwen snorts. “Plus, I’m pretty sure Pav is just a huge romantic anyways, soaps or no soaps.”

“When I’ve got relationship issues, I guess I know the guy to go to, then,” Miles shrugs, then throws Gwen a casual salute goodbye.

She stands in front of white and multi-colored splotches of watercolor floating out from her dimensional portal as she salutes Miles back, giving Hobie a quick wave. “Let me know how your little inter-dimensional weirdness problem goes too, Miles! Talk to us in the groupchat every once in a while!”

And like that, she’s gone.

So now Hobie and Miles were left alone together.

Standing in the middle of a dirty alleyway on a cold autumn afternoon wasn’t Miles’ exact definition of a good time, though… why wasn’t Hobie opening his own portal right now? Miles turns his mask’s gigantic white eyes up to his dimensional variant (and boy was that a weird thing to think about when Hobie brought that up one day during a Spider Sleepover at Gwen’s) and gives him a pointed stare.

Hobie’s own painted eyes meet his.

“So…” Miles says.

“So…” Hobie says, his grin evident in his voice.

“Are we or are we not going back to yours?” Miles stuck his fists on his hips impatiently.

“First,” Hobie says as he holds up a long skinny finger, “I gotta know what this is about. ‘Cause we all know you, Miles. I don’t wanna enable any avoidant behaviors, mate. You know how it is.”

“What?!” Miles throws up his hands in the air. “Dude! SO not cool! You are not my dad.”

Hobie shakes his head. “You know I’m right, though. This ain’t about your parents, is it?”

Goddamn Hobie and his parental instincts. When is this guy ever going to get off of mom duty?

Miles huffs. “No, Hobie. It’s not. Look. I just, uh… if you don’t wanna go back to your dimension, then can we get away from like… this area in general, please?”

Hobie hummed in thought, then shrugged and shot a web up to a nearby street lamp. Together, the two Spidermen swung through the concrete jungle that was earth-1610’s New York City until they ended up somewhere near the Financial District in Manhattan, happening upon a sort of indoor rooftop terrace party that a bunch of corporate yuppie-looking people were enjoying behind giant glass windows. A few of those yuppies were out onto the actual rooftop smoking and talking amongst themselves in the cold while the party bumped along behind them.

The sun was setting quickly, and darkness descended upon both Spiderman as they scaled a nearby building and sat on a water tank to secretly watch the party from a little ways away. Miles took solace in the dark most times, and drank up the view of what few stars could be seen in the New York City skyline.

The clouds were scarce on this particular fall evening, so the red and yellow hues on the horizon were completely uninterrupted. Miles’ dimension took on an almost ethereal glow sometimes, and during this time of day, he was more than grateful for it.

Hobie was silent as he watched the sun set alongside Miles, until the entire city was enshrouded in darkness and the stars of the cosmos seemed to have fallen from the heavens and landed right onto the buildings and bridges laid out all before them. Lights from cars making their nightly rounds and tall buildings glittered all around them, and just beyond the skyscrapers, bits of the Upper Bay could be seen shimmering and reflecting the glittery light right back.

It was breathtaking. Beautiful.

But time was running out. They couldn’t sit here and watch the scenery and the people from several hundred feet away forever. Miles also knew Hobie had stuff to deal with in his own world, a million miles away from anything he could ever know. With a world-weary sigh, Miles finally takes his mask off fully and winds it up and around his hands, over and over.

“Your problem botherin’ you that much, Mi?” Hobie grins at his friend, taking his own mask off and running a hand through his locs.

“It’s just… I…” Miles chews on the inside of his cheek, wondering how to proceed.

It really was a weird problem to have, all things considered. There aren't many instances where someone pisses off a dimensional variant of their friend, and they have another version of that very same friend right by their side to ask how to even go about fixing the rift they caused in the first place.

“It’s just that I... like… I messed up pretty badly, right? And I know it’s totally my fault,” Miles is speaking quickly now, bottled up words now spilling forth like water, “but my anxiety started spiking up randomly out of nowhere and I just blew it, man. I wasn’t really thinking. Well, actually, I was. I was overthinking but I didn’t really mean to leave this guy hanging for so long afterwards and--”

Hobie throws a leg over his other one, propping himself onto an arm and leaning back to face Miles. “Okay. Okay, Miles, that’s cool. Thanks for the disclaimer, bruv, but we’re gonna have to start from the beginning.” He chuckles.

Miles laughs nervously. “Right, right. Yeah,” he takes a breath, licks his lips and tries again.

“So… on my first day of school I bumped into… you. I mean, not you, I mean like my dimension’s version of you.”

Hobie raised a pierced brow. “Wait, there’s another me here, too?”

“Yeah, yeah and I just almost crashed right into-- wait.” Miles’ brain took a second to buffer. “What do you mean too?”

“Ehhh, we found another me in some odd dimension or another. Y’know, like, one of those ones we don’t go to often. It was whatever,” Hobie shrugs casually.

Miles had a couple of questions about that but he decided to stick to the topic and not get distracted for now. “... Right, cool. So yeah, I almost crashed into you at Visions, except it wasn’t you.”

Hobie nodded. “You almost crashed into Not Me. Got it.”

“… Because I was late for class and not really, uh, thinking. Like at all. But it was you, you know what I mean? Not You is super bad at directions and navigating buildings, I guess, so I helped him out. Annddd I guess he wanted to be my friend afterwards, but.”

“Mhmm,” Hobie hums, in a tone that sounded a lot like him saying go on, then.

“Did you, uh… did you know your name is Jones sometimes?” Miles scratches at his ear awkwardly. “Hobie Jones, not Hobie Brown. It was weird when I found out, because another student said his full name and so that’s how I found out in the first place,”

Hobie inhales. “Hmm! Interesting. Dunno that I like the sound of that, if we’re gonna be honest here. Doesn’t really roll off the tongue the same, I think. But alright. Why’s that so important?”

“Uhhh,”

Hm. Shit. This was the part Miles dreaded getting to in the first place.

How was he going to put into words the weird dread that befell him upon learning that this Jones character might very well be this dimension’s version of his MJ? How could he possibly explain the thrilling electricity that races up and down his spine everytime he totally does not think about dating, kissing, possibly even having children with this other Hobie? How was he going to get that across to this super-cool, super-hot, super-put-together version of him?

Speaking those kinds of words out loud right to Hobie’s chiseled face made Miles slightly nauseous. He opted to circumnavigate that little problem altogether.

“Listen, don’t ask, okay? Seriously, man, I’m not playin’. Buuuut… if I pissed you off real bad, how would. Like, how could I make it up to you, theoretically speaking?”

Hobie exhaled a laugh. Miles could see his bright grin even in the low lighting of the night. “Huh? How’d you go from helpin’ Not Me out to pissin’ ‘im off all of the sudden? We’re missin' a step there, Milesie. C’mon now,”

Miles laughed too. “Ho-biieee, I already told you, man!” He hated how whiny he sounded, but this really wasn’t the time. “You cannot ask me about it!”

Hobie tossed his head like a horse. “Oh my god, mate. I can’t give ya solid advice when I don’t even know what the hell I’m givin’ advice for. I gotta know what happened, bruv, what’d ya do?”

“Just--! Ugh,” Miles deflated. “I maybe sorta... ditched him all of a sudden. Like, out of nowhere. When he, uh, when he needed me.”

Hobie’s glittering eyes bore holes into Miles’ hot face. “Mhmm? Why for?”

“Hobie, for the love of all that is good in the world, just--! Throw me a bone, here, man. I am dying of embarrassment right now!” He buried his face in his hands as Hobie rocked back with laughter.

“Why’d ya ditch ‘im?! That doesn’t sound like ya, Mi. Sounds like a real wick thing, but not a Morales thing to do. C’mon, what did Not Me say to you? You can pretend I’m him and I’ll apologize an’ everything.”

“No no no no, Hobie you don’t get it,” Miles sighed. “He didn’t do or say anything. That’s the thing. I just… I freaked out I guess, when I looked up his name and saw that he was a super accomplished model and everything. He’s got thousands of followers on Flickstagram, even. But I just…! I dunno what my brain was doing to me, once I saw that. I guess I just had a mini panic attack and just… bounced. Then, obviously I had tons of homework and Spiderman stuff to deal with, so ever since then, we’ve just been avoiding each other in the halls and I haven’t had any time to even tell him anything. I really messed up, man.”

Hobie was unnervingly silent as he thought for a good minute. The night had really fallen thick onto the city and the temperatures were dropping fast. Miles could barely see his own breath clouding in front of him or even Hobie’s face now that the darkness completely enshrouded them both, and it made him a little nervous.

“So…” Miles prodded carefully.

“Super accomplished model and everything, eh?” Hobie quietly asked after a little while. Miles couldn’t see Hobie’s expression, but he could hear the rhythmic rubbing of fabric against fabric as Hobie rubbed at his arm with a gloved hand.

“Uhhyup.” Miles confirmed.

“Hm. Utterly fascinated now, mate. Tell me more about this other me, then. He cool like me, or a total neurotic space cadet?”

Miles rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, I can’t tell you much. We haven’t gotten to talk much. I guess you can be the judge, here’s his social media here...”

He then pulls his phone out of a recently-added pocket he found the time to sew onto his suit, taking inspiration from his mother’s own yoga leggings that she got as a birthday gift a few months before. The fact that spandex was able to hold so much but still stay so snug against your body was nothing short of a modern miracle, in Miles’ opinion. He was grateful for it now as he unlocked his phone and tapped on Hobie M. Jones’ page right out of the search history on his phone’s Flickstagram app.

Once he hands his phone to his friend, he has to resist the urge to suck in a breath as he watches the bright light from his screen illuminate Hobie’s features in ways he’s never seen before.

Hobie takes a second to scroll for a bit and Miles watches as the light plays across his features with just a bit more rapt attention than he normally would. Must be getting late, and Miles’ brain has historically been known not to work very well when he was tired.

Then, Hobie handed the phone back to Miles and folded his arms across his knees.

“Interesting, interesting,” was all he muttered. Thankfully, he did not comment on the “M. Jones” part of the username.

Miles tried lightening the mood. “Let me guess. You hate him because he’s not a fascist-fighting punk like you, huh.”

“I can’t be th’ judge of that, Miles. You know social media ain’t real life, and all that just looked like his portfolio to me, if we’re gonna be honest.” He checked his spiked bracelet in the light of Miles’ lit up screen. “I think that this other me doesn’t really feel too comfortable openin’ up and lettin’ other people see who he really is, though. So if you do go off an’ apologize to ‘im, I don’t think it’ll be very easy to gain his trust back.”

“Hold on,” Miles shakes his head and tucks his phone away again. “You got all that from looking at his Flicksta for not even a minute? How do you even know all of that?”

“’Cause he’s me, bruv. I know that look on his face, on those candids. Even them professional shots look… like, well, I dunno how t’ explain it. I guess it’s just sort of like--”

“If you know, you know?” Miles puts in.

“Mm,” Hobie smiles and nods. “Yep. That. He’s… withdrawn. Held back. I ‘unno… doesn’t seem like he has many friends.”

Miles sits back to think about the distant and carefully-put together mask that Hobie Jones slipped onto his face back when an annoying student butted into their conversation just before 2nd period that fateful day. Not to mention how famous he seemed, that the whole school wanted to pull him into a million different directions just for some selfies and autographs in general…

“He’s famous. He has a billboard up near the school, even,” Miles says without thinking.

“That explains it, then.”

Miles thought aloud for a bit. “He told me that I was the only person in the world who didn’t look at him like he was made out of solid gold. Hmmm,”

“Right then. That’s a start, eh?”

Miles sighed. “I-if… if someone who you thought could be like, your only friend in the whole world. Your only real friend… if that person abandoned you out of nowhere, with no explanation… how would I go about making it up to you?”

Hobie doesn’t comment on the phrasing of that question, either. He lays a warm hand on Miles’ cold shoulder and squeezes.

“Listen, Mi. You’re real special, you already know that. If he liked ya enough to wanna be your friend the very same day you two met, then I bet you can come up with somethin’ that’ll stick eventually. That being said… a little food ain’t never hurt no one.”

They stare at each other in the dark for a second.

“Uh, what?” Miles asks.

“Y’know. Like a peace offering. Bring ‘im a peace offering, make your apology, and then leave the poor kid alone. Let ‘im sorta… well, let ‘im kinda just chase you a little bit, right?”

Miles’ brow was raised high now. “What, like. Just leave some food and a note for him at lunch or something? Dude, that is so lame!”

“It’s about the mystique, mate. Trust me. Gotta keep the intrigue up, don’t crowd him too much or else you’ll scare man away, right? I hate when people grovel at my feet if I’m gonna be dead honest with ya. Don’t make too much of a big deal of it, and he just might forgive ya. You two'll be holdin' hands in no time,”

“Is that it? Is it really that easy?” Miles was skeptical.

Hobie shrugs and removes his hand from Miles’ shoulder. “Hell if I know, but if he’s anything like me, it just might work. Just be prepared to take it on the chin if he doesn’t forgive you in the end, though. Gettin’ ditched like that with no warning’s a bit hard on someone who’s never had any friends to lean on in the first place.”

Made sense to Miles. He shrugged, nodded, and then had only one question left to ask.

“… Cool. Got it. So, uh. What kinda food do you like, anyways?”

♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧

And that was how Miles ended up making a quick run (swing, really) over to his favorite Jamaican store for a dinner plate with some beef patties thrown in during the next day’s lunch period.

He couldn’t afford to be seen by security, so he suited up at his usual place on the rooftop of the school and sailed down to retrieve his peace offering as quickly as he could before lunch was over.

What luck, that he had the same lunch as Hobie Jones! Made this whole run a pretty easy thing to do at all, which was always a bonus.

Once he made his way back to the school, he hurriedly stuffed his mask back into his bag and practically jumped back into his uniform, not even taking the time to stop and check if his suit was properly hidden. No time for that, when the period was almost over and he hadn’t even gotten a bite to eat for himself.

Miles also took the time to write up what he hoped was a sufficiently appropriate apology note the previous night after getting back to his dorm room at a late hour, and he tucked that into the crinkled paper bag as carefully as he could manage. A grease-stained apology note was definitely not a cool thing to receive, especially from someone who wronged you out of nowhere and wasn’t even man enough to say that apology to your face.

He arranged everything as best he could while flying down several flights of stairs down to the cafeteria.

Once Miles pushes past the double doors into the large cafeteria area, he feels the tightness in his chest and the heat radiating from his gut outwards intensify more as he gets closer to his target.

It takes a bit of wandering to finally spot Hobie, but then Miles sees him: sat at a table near the center of the room. He’s surrounded by a bunch of fake friends all talking loudly over one another and trading phones over their meals. Hobie Jones himself looks forlorn even when in the middle of a group, surrounded on all sides by bodies he doesn’t even look directly at, even when he turns his head slightly to speak to them.

Well, shit.

Miles was not expecting Hobie to have fallen into so large a group of friends so soon. He spotted the same girl who pulled him aside for a selfie that one time sat at the same table, and her and her little posse were just gossiping loudly about any and everyone.

Miles found his feet stuck to the floor upon finally laying eyes on the scene.

Ugh. God. A bunch of preps poking their noses into his and Hobie’s business while probably begging to read the very private note that Miles wrote for him was absolutely not anywhere in his list of things he’d like to experience today.

So Miles did a sudden about-face and walked away quickly, before he was even spotted.

Plan B was set in motion, then: give the bag over to Hobie before the next period.

Miles always dreaded the class he and Hobie shared right after lunch. The awkwardness subsided after a while, since it was kinda hard to feel so bad about The Incident when the entire class had to cram for quizzes and do research for essays, but the pit in Miles’ stomach as he purposefully averted his gaze away from that corner of the room was never easy to ignore.

But now, after weeks of gloom and doom, Miles found himself actually being excited for the bell to ring. He quietly made his way upstairs to the top level and slipped into the classroom as gracefully as he could manage.

Sure, he was nervous as hell about it all, at the end of the day. But he wanted this little problem that’s been put away for far too long to just… finally be done and over with. If for nothing else, he just wanted one less student at Visions hating his guts, really.

He placed the paper bag onto Hobie’s chair and scooted it underneath the desk to hide it from the rest of the classroom. The last thing he needed was some other nosy student swiping it up and rifling through the contents before Hobie could see it.

Miles ate part of his sandwich in the peace and quiet of the classroom, enjoying what precious little minutes he had until the bell rang and everyone-- including the teacher-- filed in to start the class’s lessons of the day.

♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧♤♧

Miles’ simple plan was a success, just as his buddy Hobie Brown had predicted.

Hobie Jones had read the note quietly in his corner of the room and hastily shoved the dinner plate into his backpack soon after.

Miles didn’t know if that meant he was forgiven or not, but at least he took the (probably cold) food with him and read the note without tearing it up into a million pieces, so at least Miles had that going for him.

There was one last step to really clinch the victory, though; an invitation to meet up at the rooftop later that day, before the last bell finally rung and let all of the kids out of the school for the day. Miles still had a lot to get off his chest that he couldn’t quite lay down on paper, and he needed to properly apologize to Hobie’s face to finally put his conscience at ease.

Whether or not Hobie took the invitation was left up in the air, really.

Miles made sure to try and get a head start so he could make it up there before Hobie could, but he made sure to add “be up at the rooftop by 3:30pm if you’re coming or I’m bouncing” to the end of the note, because as much as he wanted to make amends with his dimension’s Hobie, he was not going to let petty school drama get in the way of Spiderman-ing.

Miles was a man of standards, and he held himself to some level of professionalism, thank you very much!

It was cold that day, very cold.

Miles was lowkey regretting his decision to meet outside now as he tucked his chin deeper into his big puffer jacket, warming his hands with his warm breath before shoving them into his pockets.

He hoped Hobie had gotten used to getting around the hallways a bit more now, and that he could find his way up to the roof level without becoming completely lost and just giving up entirely.

As the minutes crawled by, Miles found himself unlocking and locking his phone multiple times, checking the time, checking for any notifications to distract himself, and wondering just why he decided on the roof to meet instead of, say, his dorm room hallway or whatever.

Then, the roof access door slowly swung open, and there stood Hobie M. Jones in all his six-foot-something glory.

Miles sucked in his breath as Hobie’s big brown eyes scanned the roof and fell upon his face, and the both of them stood rooted to their spots for a split second like deer in headlights.

Then Hobie grunted, tugged at his ponytail to let it loose, and his long dreads fell all around his face in one graceful movement. Miles felt his mouth go dry.

Miles’ feet moved on their own. They met in the middle, and a strong wind rushed through to tousle Hobie’s impressive locs some more as they both stared each other down.

Miles finally opened his mouth to speak, feeling his voice catching in his throat for a split second, before being interrupted anyways.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Hobie says quickly, tucking his own chin into his expensive-looking jacket’s collar as well.

Miles’ brain bluescreened. “Wait, wha?”

Hobie huffed out a laugh, the vapors of his breath being carried away in the chilly wind like dandelion seeds. “I’m being serious, man. It’s… it’s cool, honestly. I get why you ditched me. It happens all the time,”

Miles’ heart sinks. “N-no, Hobie, look. I really messed up and I felt like I had to-- wait, what do you mean all the time?”

Miles had a sweeping feeling of déja vu overcome him then.

Hobie chuckled ruefully, shrugging as he shoves his hands deeper into his own pockets, mirroring Miles. “I mean, like… you think you’re the only one who ever ran for the hills after seeing how famous I was? It just happens. That’s my life, I guess.”

Miles’ lower lip stuck out a bit. “But that’s… dude. That is so depressing!”

Hobie shook his head, tossing a loc out of his face. “Sure, but it’s… it’s just my life. It’s just how things are when you’re a model around here.”

They looked sadly into each other’s eyes before Hobie averts his gaze to his shoes, scuffing the toe on the roof floor for a second before looking back up and continuing.

“… You, uhm. How’d you… how’d you know that I like Jamaican food, though? I’ve never told anyone about that before. Nobody but my family, anyways.”

“Uhh, lucky guess?” Miles offers him a lopsided grin.

Hobie smiles for real this time, the corners of his eyes crinkling just like his earth-138 counterpart. “You really are a weird guy, just like you said before. What else did you want to tell me, before we both gotta bounce?”

Miles gaped at him like a fish. “You… you have to let me apologize, though. Like actually. Before we both have to go.”

Hobie nodded. “Okay. I’m all ears,”

Miles took a deep breath. “I…!" His voice caught in his throat for a second. "Uh. Do you wanna maybe… hang out, like outside of school sometime? Maybe grab some more Jamaican food from my favorite place?”

Hobie looks at him with an unreadable expression on his face. “You… that’s your apology?”

Miles sighed. “I’m bad at conflict management, man. Just let me treat you to some more lunch and then… maybe we can just let this whole thing go, yeah? You won’t ever have to talk to me again after this, I promise!”

“You are seriously sending me mixed signals here,” Hobie says. But he doesn’t seem opposed to the idea.

“I know, I know! But please, just humor me, man. We can do it this weekend, even. I just… feel like a total dick after what I did and I wanna be able to actually make it up to you.”

Hobie directs his shy smile back down to the ground. “Jesus,” he mutters.

Miles holds his palms forward. “What? Is that a no?”

Hobie laughs, full and bright and it-- fuck-- it fills Miles with a dizzying thrill that makes him laugh, too!

“Fine… but if you ditch me again this time, you asshole--” Hobie grabs the front of Miles’ jacket and yanks it towards him, putting the both of them closer together and making a complete heatwave roll through Miles’ nerves, “I will-- uh,”

Miles doesn’t register why Hobie stops speaking all of a sudden until his eyes slowly follow down to what he’s looking at, and then both of their hearts stop at the same time.

In Miles’ earlier haste to jump into his clothing after his meal run, he forgot to button a few buttons on his shirt, which left his very visibly black and red suit out in the open with just one small yank of his coat’s zipper. The top of his red spider emblem shone bright against the dark spandex.

For a second, the world stopped. The wind stopped blowing, the cars down below stopped honking, Miles stopped breathing.

Then, he hastily took a step back and cleared his throat, hoping against hope that Hobie would not recognize the spider suit so easily.

“S-so, yeah? You’ll go? I, uh, promise I won’t stand you up if you do. We can, uhm. Exchange numbers if you want--” here, Miles starts fumbling around his pockets for his phone, a device that he clung onto like a lifeline moments ago now almost completely forgotten in the excitement of the situation.

Hobie swallows and takes a step back also. “Y-yeah… yeah, sure. Let’s uhm. Let’s link up later, then.”

Miles lets Hobie input his digits into his contact list, and then bids him farewell.

“I’ll text you later, okay? Gotta go now, bye!”

Miles almost wants to throw himself off the roof of the school just to land on the concrete sidewalks below with a splat. A flattened spider. It’s what he deserves, honestly.

But he swallows his embarrassment and rushes down the stairs towards his own dorm room, instead.

He seriously, seriously hopes Hobie didn't recognize his spider suit, goddamn!

Once Miles gets to his room, he sags against the door with a sigh and shrugs off his puffer jacket. Then, he fishes his phone out of the jacket’s pocket and flicks the screen on, which now has Hobie Jones’ digits input into it under the name of “MJ (from Visions)”.

Miles throws himself into his and Ganke’s shared computer chair and twirls over to the window.

It’s Miles. I am not ditching you this time, PROMISE, he sends over to the number.

A few minutes later, he gets a response and his stomach flutters with the chime.

You better not, Hobie playfully teases. I know where you sleep…

A few more knife emojis accompany the texts and Miles laughs out loud. Then he bites his lip.

Fuck… damn. This really is earth-1610’s version of MJ, huh. The name beamed straight into his eyeballs from where it sat right at the top of his messages and it continued to haunt him as he got his laptop out for the night to finally make some more leeway on his English essay.

Miles went to bed that night dreaming of him and a red-headed Hobie Jones holding Mayday.

[undertale-fic-librarby]

Featured Fic Friday!

Welcome to Featured Fic Friday! A day where I, or someone who suggests one, tell you about a fanfic that I really enjoy! Spoiler's under the cut! Today's featured fic is...

A Dog in the Cat House by SoloShikigami (General Audiences, Complete)

Nightmare has lived happily with his three cats, Dust, Killer, and Horror. But one day he comes across a poor dog in need of a home, and hey, he could always use a guard dog. But will his three cats get along with the newest member of the family?

A short but cute fic, I enjoy the concept behind it! It's a little unusual to find a fic where most of the characters are animals, but the author does a good job of writing the characters regardless!

Spoilers ahead!

I think it's a really cute fic with an interesting premise, having Cross as a dog in what was previously an all cat house.

The way the author writes the characters makes it known what they think & how they feel even without any dialogue spoken between them.

[evilfloralfoolery]

Daggers and Deception- Part 6

Shit gets weirder and weirder. This part is already over 2k, so I'm gonna cut it in half.

*This is plotfuckery. There will be much more snzfuckery in other parts. As always, if you enjoy my writing and writing of my fellow plotfuckers, we kindly ask for reblogs or commentary. In particular, I wanna thank @undersixskies for being SO motivating and listening to all of my bullshit lol.*

____________________________________________

Indigo paces the perimeter of the overgrown courtyard in quiet observance.  Amongst the patches of dead grass are distinctive patterns of nocturnal creatures, the small footprints of raccoons, the familiar stamp of buck’s hooves.  

And something dreadfully familiar that has no business being there. A myriad of prints, some recognizable and some not.  A cacophony of haphazard footsteps, restless and agitated.  Indigo furrows his brow, glancing over the rims of his glasses. The threshold did not appear to be crossed and yet, it had most certainly happened.  Had the time come for more assertive measures, to ask for permission?

He tugs his phone free of his pocket and thumbs through the contacts, finger hesitating just above Reginald ’s number.  No.  Not yet.  He would handle this himself.  

For now.

The walk back to the house is a short one, the blustery wind doing a number on his unbound hair as he navigates the creaking porch and makes his way into the library.  Within its confines is comforting familiarity, the scent of weathered leather and paper, the varying colors of dull brown and blues easing his mind into a greater clarity.  He walks the edges of the shelves, reading titles, tracing fingers down aged spines.  Dickens, Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald.  All of which he knows and has read.  Some of which he’d very much like to toss into the crackling fire.

He chooses a volume of Whitman’s poetry from the shelf and settles himself into the wingback chair near the fireplace under the pretense of relaxation.  But his mind does not allow him to completely immerse himself in the text.  He glances towards the window, ever vigilant, unable to unwind.  

Vacation, indeed. Hmph.  Nonsense.   

In the doorway, the hulking shadow of a frame he has come to know quite well in the past few days approaches and Indigo flicks his gaze back to the text on the page to create the illusion of an in-depth study of the words.

“Hey.”

“Good morning,” he says cordially, turning the page with a careful sifting of fingers without looking up.

“Look,” Grimm says.  “I’m sorry I barked at you last night.”  He runs a hand through his unbound hair with a sigh.  “But you were acting fuckin’ weird, okay.” 

Indigo closes the book with a gentle thump of leather and sets it aside, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair, legs crossed, back straight, hands clasped atop his knee. An interesting way to begin an apology, but he suspects such is the norm for this man. “I explained myself and acted upon that explanation.”

Grimm has managed to dress himself in a black T-shirt with some kind of emblem stitched atop the right pec, the fabric stretched tight across his chest and arms.  The pants are equally as fitted, worn denim that has become ripped in spots, frayed at the bottoms and tattered at the seams.  And no shoes to speak of.  The man looks disheveled, yet comfortable.  

Ruggedly attract---

Mind your thoughts, Solaris.  

“A bit cold to go about barefoot, is it not?”

Grimm glances at his feet.  “You know how hard it is to tie boot laces with one hand?”

In spite of himself, Indigo chuckles.  “Yes, well. I suppose it would present some difficulty.”  He nods to Grimm’s arm, which is currently sans sling.  “How is your shoulder, then?”

“Actually feels pretty damn good,” Grimm says.  “Not sure how, but I’ll take it.”

“Perhaps,” Indigo says, “it was my ‘poisonous’ pasta dish?”

Grimm winces.  “Yeah, okay. I get it.  Like I said, you were acting weird.”

Clearly.

Indigo adjusts the height of his glasses with an unconscious push of a finger and regards Grimm through the lenses.  The man is agitated, clearly uncomfortable with whatever he might truly wish to say.  This was more than difficulty with a simple apology.  This was something altogether different.  

“You seem troubled,” Indigo says at last.  

The words are more invitation than observation and the desired effect is achieved when Grimm runs a hand through his dark hair, glancing at the rug upon which he stands.

“Not enough sleep, I guess. Still fighting this fucking pseudo-cold bullshit that can’t decide if it wants me to be sick or not.”

“And yet, you just said you felt quite well.”  Indigo clasps his hands together.  “What ails you?”

“Fuck if I know,” Grimm says.  “It’s--- nah, it’s stupid.”  Grimm waves a hand. “I was probably tired as hell.  Hard to sleep much with this damn arm.”  

“Indulge me,” Indigo says.  “I do promise not to judge you.”

Grimm hesitates, runs his hand through his hair again, and stares into the distance beyond the window.

Indigo nods encouragingly. “Do continue.” 

Grimm looks as if he would rather not, both agitated with himself and at odds with was probably a code of sorts.

“Please.” Indigo softens his tone to a more compelling manner of coaxing. “I wish to hear what you have seen.”

The other man contends with the urge to speak for several more moments before sigh-growling in defeat.

“Must be some PTSD shit because I thought I saw something .  Someone.  Standing in the corner.  The shadows and shit were just right and I could have sworn--”  Grimm shakes his head.  “Forget it.  It told you it was stupid.”

Except that it wasn’t.  Indigo sits in false expectation, poised and calm, as if he hasn’t the slightest idea what Grimm might be speaking of.  If it is as he fears, lecherous lasagna shall be the least of his neighbor’s concerns.

“Did it speak to you?” Indigo’s voice is quiet in comparison to the crackle of the fire, a coaxing gentility that seems to soothe Grimm’s concern over how ridiculous his claim might be.

“No,” Grimm says.  “It laughed.”

Indigo’s eyes narrow to slits of blue-green.  “Is that so . . .”  

The conversation has grown precarious, but there is no sense in ending it now.  If it as Grimm says, discretion will become difficult, if not impossible.  But where to begin?  How much is allowed for discussion?  The phone in Indigo’s pocket vibrates with an insistent buzz and he slides it free, glancing at the screen.

What timing.  Then again, his mentor was uncanny with nearly all things.

“A moment, please,” he says to Grimm.  

Not that it matters if Grimm will grant him permission or not.  Indigo rises to his feet and strides to the nearest exit before the other man can contemplate an answer as he thumbs the “receive” icon with a swipe.

“Solaris,” he says.

“Ah, Indigo.”  Reginald ’s robust voice is as clear and cheerful as ever.  “Have you managed a bit of rest?”

“I’m afraid not,” Indigo says.  “There have been . . . complications.”  

Glancing over his shoulder, Indigo nudges the door to the sunroom shut, closing off the curious confusion of Grimm’s face.

________________________________________

“Where you going now?”

Grimm has managed to put on his boots somehow between the 20 minutes of conversation with Reginald. He follows him out of the library and down the decrepit steps, out past the dreary fountain full of stale water and leaves and into the overgrowth of the mockery that has the nerve to call itself a “garden.” 

Indigo huffs a sigh. Despite Reginald's encouragement, Indigo is reluctant to involve Grimm in this nonsense. It is too soon to reveal that which should be tested and cultivated slowly, but time and circumstance have not allowed for these things.  And honestly, why would they ever?  Indigo grumbles to himself.  Well, the gods certainly had a peculiar sense of humor.

“Hey!”  

Grimm is now in front of him, having moved faster than Indigo could track.  He blocks the way with the entirety of his frame, imposing and immovable as any wall, shoulders squared and chin lifted.  

“You gonna stop for a minute and explain to me what the fuck is going on with you?”

Indigo comes to an abrupt halt and fixes his gaze on the other man, a hand upon his hip, lines of irritation creasing his brow.

“Whatever I might be doing is of no concern to you,” Indigo says.  “You needn't understand. Why must you be so damnably persistent?”

“Because something smells like bullshit,” Grimm says.

Indigo adjusts the fit of his glasses with the push of a finger.  “Perhaps that might be your mannerisms.”

Grimm grunts.  “You’re a mouthy fuck, you know that?”  

“And you are a tiresome meddler,” Indigo retorts in his best icy, dismissive tone.  “Now, if you will excuse me--”

“Wait.”  Grimm’s voice is fraught with defeat and weariness. He steps aside, posture assuming a more neutral stance, the flare of his energy dwindling to normalcy.  “You know what was in my room, don’t you?”

Indigo pauses, gaze steady.  “I do.”  

A rolling gesture of the other man’s hand.  “Well?”

The fact that Grimm’s awareness had been keen enough to hear as well as see “him” was troubling.  Or enlightening.  According to Reginald, it had been a sign. The sign. 

“Come on, Indy.  If there’s some weird-ass dangerous shit going on here, don’t you think I oughta know about it?”

“Indigo,” he corrects sharply. 

 It wasn’t as if Indigo hadn’t the permission to speak of such things.  The opportune moment was now his choice, but he had not expected it to rush upon him quite so swiftly.  Barely 72 hours had passed.  Hardly enough time to acclimate.  Within the tree line, wind rustles the dying leaves like a clatter of skeletal fingers, the intrusion of biting cold a warning of impending unpleasant weather. Or something altogether different.

“I feel it is my duty to warn you that all is not as it seems here,” Indigo confesses.

Grimm cocks an eyebrow.  “Well, no shit, Sherlock.” 

Indigo rolls his eyes. “Honestly, Grimm.” 

He pauses, takes a moment to remove his glasses, and slips them into the pocket of his shirt. “Very well. I haven't the time for ruminations. Before I begin my tale, I must ask for your patience while I secure a few things.  We cannot speak before it is done.  And you mustn’t interrupt, Grimm.  Allow me to do as I will, no matter how peculiar my actions may seem.  Do you understand?”

A slow nod is not exactly the firm confirmation he had hoped for.

“Your word, Grimm,” Indigo says.  “And your silence.”

“Okay, “Grimm says with a shrug.  “Whatever.”

“Not ‘whatever,’ “ Indigo says.  He fixes Grimm with his best serious gaze and extends a hand.  “Your word.”

Fingers engulf his own, rough and warm, and give his hand a firm, gentle squeeze.  The protective energy of Grimm’s grip crackles through his blood, sweeps a chill from his skin, and Indigo uses far more exertion than necessary not to gasp aloud. 

No. Surely not.

Not this crude, yet astute behemoth with tattoos covering every inch of his arms and crawling up one side of neck. Not this abrasive, blunt, and entirely uncouth man. There must be a mistake. It had to be a mistake.

But no matter how he wishes for someone, anyone else, this was the hand that had been dealt. The hint had been present upon first sight, but when coupled with a vow of sincerity for such a simple task, it is undeniable.  

And this man hadn’t the faintest idea about any of it.

Indigo very much wishes he could extricate himself from the possibility of what might be coming.

 “I give you my word and my silence,” Grimm says.

“So it is, then,” Indigo says.  He releases Grimm’s fingers with a slow relaxation of his hand.  “Now.  Close your eyes and turn your back to me.” 

Grimm opens his mouth as if to protest, but a raise of Indigo’s eyebrows sees it shut again and he does as he asked without question or protest, eyes closing and presenting Indigo with the broad planes of his back and shoulders.  

“Do not react,” Indigo says.  “No matter what you hear or what you might wish, remain as you are.”  His voice drops to a softer pitch as he taps Grimm’s left shoulder.  “Be silent.”  And then his right.  “Be still.”  He presses a palm to the center of his back.  “Be invisible.” 

It is not until Grimm’s breathing slows to a steady, rhythmic pulse that Indigo walks around him to the tree line.  He pockets his glasses and tugs the cuffs of his sleeves to his elbows.  Things must be in proper order before any sort of explanation can begin.  

(TBC....)

[dukeofthomas]

I'm so done with the way everyone avoids calling Bruce an abuser. 'He's a bad parent' 'he's flawed' 'what he did was kinda fucked up' call it what it is!! He's an abusive parent, no ifs or buts about it! He's not just a bad parent, he didn't just fuck up, he's their abuser. Loving your kids or wanting the best for them doesn't mean you won't hurt them and it doesn't excuse doing so, and I personally don't think it makes it even slightly better.

[jade-len]

luo binghe better than me fr i think i would've gone fucking apeshit if the person i loved with my entire soul pretty much said "fuck you" because of my race and pushed me down into literal hell for me to suffer for years

i've said it before and i'll say it again, i really don't think we give binghe enough credit. that man was on concerning levels of forgiving all the way from the start

[practicedvmm13fullofpotatoes]

SFTHtober (Days 17-20)

[cyberneticfire]

Sleepy king

[andthespidersfrommars]

you might not think it’s hard to be a soc fan artist on tumblr, but let me tell you about the time I called someone out for drawing inej with light skin, so they blocked me and then wrote a long post about me that I couldn’t see, along with colour samples taken from my art as examples of how inej is “too dark” in them, and then they end the post with “I’m disappointed in you” 💀

[justarandomlambblog]

(Open in new tab for better quality)

Re-ordered some stuff but here we go

will I color it one day? maybe. For now here we go.

--

In this AU, the Bishops were children who were raised in a temple together, chosen from a young age to bear the crowns.

Shamura the eldest, who loved to read and learn and share this knowledge with everyone around;

Kallamar the second, who loved to entertain his siblings with stories and tales;

Heket the third, who loved to try new things and share them with her siblings;

Narinder himself, who loved too much for the embodiment of death;

and Leshy the youngest, who dreamed of a future beyond the palace walls, where he and his family could simply be.

As they grew older, though, things began to change. Vows were made and stations were created- and everyone settled into their roles, learning and growing and expanding upon their domains... they of war, he of blight, she of famine and he of chaos...

But Narinder, he of Death, could not. And that already widening chasm only grew as he did, anyway.

Azri, eventually, came to view Narinder not as a cruel god, but as a victim of his station- a pathetic personification, a pitiable brother betrayed by those he loved, the very ones who placed those lofty, unreachable, unnatural dreams into him in the first place.

And, well, why become Death when you can simply put Death on a leash?

--

Since the Lamb spares Narinder, Narinder remains god of death but is essentially under Azri's control. The other four Bishops get revived, but since they died they lost their god status and only retain their immortal souls. Azri is a god themself after defeating all 5 Bishops (killing 4 of them) and obtaining their crowns.

All five crowns are now in Azri's possession and they are nigh on unstoppable. Luckily for everyone, they just want a peaceful and happy life. Being worshiped is a nice side effect, and sure, there's a sacrifice here and there, but all in all it's a very peaceful life.

Just... don't step out of line. When you have Death under your thumb, death has no meaning.

you can't die without their permission.

also don't mess with Nari bc the Lamb will have Words™ for you.