#also: happy 2k!

[hrokkall]

I call to you, Lord...

[peachebo]

I remember I had a concept about alternative ending of sl where michael brings ennard home and jus lives very normal life with a killing machine...

also here's ennard with da cat

[tiffycat]

Mr & Mrs Harker

[unknownhyperial]

Happy 2k followers @rorydrawsandwrites !!

I meant to draw this way sooner, but admittedly I only had motivation to start properly drawing this 2 days ago. I've had this idea for what to do for this picture for around a week now so I'm glad I finally sat down and drew it!!

Rory, you are such a creative person and very sweet the few times we've talked! I can't wait to see what you do in the future! Just do not feel obligated to post about Puppeteer if you have no motivation even if it did gain you some popularity. :]

[dailyweezer]

Homestuck Day

(Original Image)

[namtanlovesfilm]

finally watching the secret of us ep 1 and like,,, the fact that they got tina & aom from THE og thai gl movies yes or no to do a cameo in 2024???? BEYOND ICONIC!!! my jaw dropped I did NOT see that coming, slay 😭🫶

[jgnico]

How do you feel about Gojo saying Sukuna was holding back and the people saying that this is out of character? Because to me it doesn’t seem out of character in the slightest considering how Sukuna didn’t actually go all out??? He didn’t use any of his techniques and relied on ten shadows. Which is great btw!! I think Sukuna using ten shadows is a nod to how ingenious Sukuna can get during battle and in general him solely relying on ten shadows doesn’t discredit him or anything it just shows that he is still got a lot up his arsenal. Also Gojo saying he put his whole soul and body into the fight is true he gave it his all and that’s all that matters idk why people are saying that the writing of this specific part is off because it was very clear that Sukuna was holding back on using his original form and techniques? I could be missing something idk

Short answer? I think it's silly. I've seen people call Gojo's scene in the airport outright character assassination and all that that tells me is that either a) they weren't following the fight very well or b) they don't give Gojo as a character the credit that his writing deserves.

As often as I rag on Gojo for fun, I do genuinely think that he's one of the best written characters in the manga, and his conversation with Geto, Nanami, and Haibara only adds to that. There's nothing wrong with Gojo acknowledging that Sukuna's strong, because he is. Likewise, it's not ridiculous for him to say that Sukuna didn't give the fight his all or that he might have lost even if Sukuna didn't have Ten Shadows. All of that is true and Gojo, out of anyone, would know that.

Long answer?

I think that a lot of the confusion over Gojo calling Sukuna strong comes from Gojo's confidence in the fight and people's own emotions toward Sukuna. We've all seen the fraud memes and Gojo did an expectational job showing his own fighting prowess during the second half of the fight, but a lot of people seem to be forgetting that Sukuna almost killed Gojo as soon as the fight started. Up until the fight flipped in Gojo's favor (after Sukuna was hit by Unlimited Void) Gojo was struggling. If Sukuna hadn't been holding back his other techniques to a) keep them a secret from spectators and b) ensure that Mahoraga adapted to Unlimited Void out of sight, it's very possible Gojo would have died after their first Domain Clash ended in Sukuna's favor.

Quick Explanation: In chapter 226, after Gojo's Domain breaks and he loses his technique for a time, but before he uses Simple Domain to save himself from Malevolent Shrine, Sukuna could have used his fire arrow in the same way he did against Mahoraga in Shibuya. With the amount of damage Gojo was taking at the time, we don't know if he would have been able to survive it, especially when all of his CE was being focused on healing the slashes Sukuna was dealing and likely couldn't have been spared to reinforce his body. (But once again, Sukuna was holding himself back, so neither us nor Gojo will ever know if he could have eneded their fight there.)

This is why I personally don't see anything wrong with Gojo being unsure if he could have beat Sukuna even without Ten Shadows.

But moving on to the less combat focused section of what I want to talk about. What was up with Gojo's confidence up until the literal end, only for him to doubt himself after the fact? I have two points for this one:

Gojo has to be strong for his students.

I touched on it in my response to one of your previous posts, (read: here) but I can't stress enough how Gojo's strength and, by extension, his confidence in his strength is for his students' sake. He teaches through his actions, but more importantly, he never shows them his own doubt.

The first time he fights Sukuna, he points out that Megumi is watching and, in his own words, "shows off."

Then, going into their actual fight in chapter 222, he looks serious in a way that we never really see from him. At least, up until the point where Yuuji reminds him that he and all his other students are there, that they're confident in him, and we see his entire demeanor going into the fight change. He's smiling; he's not worried in the least. He says, "Yeah, I got this," with a grin on his face, and that, more than it'll ever be for himself, was for his students.

There's another shift after the opening stage of their fight in chapter 224. What always stuck out to me from that chapter was Gojo noticing that their fight was being broadcasted. I won't go so far as to say he was less confident before that point or even that he wasn't trying as hard because that simply isn't true. But after he realizes that his students can see the fight as it's happening, Gojo's approach to fighting Sukuna changes almost entirely. Before, he was visibly having fun. Before, he was treating Sukuna as an equal to cut his teeth against. Was he getting on Sukuna's nerves intentionally, yes, but there was an aspect to it that felt more similar to how he spoke to Geto in their teenage years. Still antagonistic, that's just how his personality is, but not degrading in the way that he is later. (I'll expand on this thought in another post. For now, let's get back to my original point.)

After he spots Mei Mei's crows, Gojo never, not once, for the remainder of the fight expresses doubt in himself in any outward way.

We see frustration, we see anger, we see surprise, but never doubt. Never worry. And what does he say as soon as he get's the upper hand in the fight?

But why? Why is making sure that his students remain confident in him so important? Well, what's the answer to almost any question when it comes to Gojo's motivations?

Hidden Inventory and losing the person that mattered to him the most: Suguru Geto.

The same confidence that Gojo shows as an adult is what we see here, with one important distinction. He shares the place of being the strongest with Geto. "We're the strongest" isn't about them individually holding the title; it's about them together. They as a unit are the strongest. But here, Gojo tries to shoulder the burden of his fight against Toji alone while he sends Geto off with Riko and Kuroi. He seperates them and that duality of strength becomes weaker. Gojo loses, Riko dies, Geto loses, and they fail.

In the aftermath, Geto takes the guilt from that loss onto himself, and it only widens that separation into a chasm that Gojo is never able to cross. But we spend so much time talking about Geto's guilt over Hidden Inventory that I think we overlook Gojo's.

Even in a state where he'd feel nothing over killing a roomful of people, where he can't feel anger toward Toji over Riko, he feels like he messed up. He places blame on himself for their failure. Not just because he had lost but because Geto --someone that shared the position of being the Strongest with him-- expressed doubt in him shouldering so much of their mission at multiple points, only for Gojo to give him confidence in return and have that confidence ultimately be misplaced.

But isn't he making the same mistake with his students? Yes, and no.

Yes, in that he's giving them reassurance that is tragically (for lack of better word) misplaced, but no, in that they never expressed doubt in him. Not just because they aren't on his level when it comes to strength like Suguru was, but because he never gives them the chance to doubt him.

From the very beginning, when Yuuji first becomes his student, he makes sure that Yuuji doesn't have any doubt in him winning against Sukuna. And even when he's asked again at a time where none of his students are present, he thinks of this exchange with Yuuji. And his response to Kenjaku now was the same that it was to Yuuji.: "Nah, I'd win."

This isn't to say that Gojo didn't have faith in himself going into the fight or even through the majority of it. It would be at least disingenuous and at most outrageous for me to say that Gojo's confidence in himself was an act only for his students sake. What I'm saying with all of this is actually my second point in this post:

Gojo only expresses his true feelings to himself and....

I'm quickly running into the photo limit for this post so I'll be using quotes, but in chapter 233, we get, "Even though the opponent was the King of Curses, said to be the strongest in history, a thought nobody considered possible began to spread; Satoru Gojo could lose. Gojo himself was aware of that prospect. Yet, along with the signs of defeat came an undeniable feeling of satisfaction."

I've read through the entire fight multiple times now, and this is the only time that we see Gojo express doubt in himself. But instead of it feeling like a loss, as we'd expect, it's written as a positive. Gojo isn't upset at the idea that he might lose. He embraces it. As was stated both in chapter 233 and again in chapter 236, he's satisfied. Not just because he gave this fight everything that he had, but because him losing means that he'll return to the person that understood him --and the burden of being the strongest-- the best.

Much like Suguru couldn't smile from the bottom of his heart until his last moment with Gojo, Gojo couldn't be truly happy in a world where no one understood him. If Geto had been there with him, if Geto had been alive and by his side to share the burden and isolation of strength in the jujutsu world, he could have been truly happy with his life.

But that wasn't the reality that he lived in, nor was it something he could ever hope to accomplish.

Gojo's dream was to raise stronge allies, but that was never so that they could share the burden of strength with him. It was so that they could share it with each other. So that they never experienced the isolation of being strong alone the way that he did for the majority of his life. He wanted them to have their own Geto in each other.

It's not that he changed up his attitude regarding the fight and Sukuna after he died, but rather that his death brought him back to the person that he could finally (finally, after so long of being a pillar of strength rather than a person) express his true feelings to.

Or, to continue the quote from 233: "Being the strongest came with a sense of isolation. So the source of his present sense of fulfillment was..."

[sargeantsarmy]

EMMA BIRTHDAY !!!! (My queen <3<3)

[mirrortouchedsea]

dark. that was all he had ever known. cold, dark, damp. the boy shivers in the small room, painfully alone, only a book and his magic to keep him company. he tries not to use his magic very often, though. it seemed that the people above knew when he used it and they always always always refused to give him food until he “woke up” next, if they bothered to keep track of that. maybe this time he’ll learn their lesson. the boy whispers his spell, cur memini, and creates a small light in his fingers. this is the only spell he can cast safely, too small to be noticeable by the people above. he holds his hand over the fading book on the floor. the boy can’t read the letters on the page, but this book has pictures. he flips through it again, careful of the pages that were falling apart, admiring the figure in armor who always comes to rescue the figure in the tower, cut off from the world, just like him. the boy frequently dreams of a figure in armor coming to save him, despite the years he has spent alone. dark and cold and damp. 

the room the boy lives in, the only room he has memories of, is empty besides himself and the book. sometimes the people above would give him water and stale bread to eat, and then there was a cup and a dirty plate, but otherwise it was just the boy and the book. the boy knows why the people above have locked him away, they told him that he was a freak of nature, unnatural, dangerous. but the boy could only make lights in his palm, and that wasn’t very dangerous at all. he thinks to himself that the people above are the dangerous ones, locking away a child for something like this, but he can’t say that out loud. he doesn’t want to die again. 

the boy’s stomach grumbles and he curls in on himself, the light in his palm fades out. he longs to see the sun again, to play with the other children he can hear through the ceiling, to be normal. the people above must have decided to punish him again, though, as he doesn’t remember the last time he had anything to drink, to eat. his stomach would eat through his skin and he would still wake up the next day. why can’t he just die once and for all and be rid of the pain? why is the world keeping him here? why was he even born?

the boy closes his eyes, and falls asleep. maybe this time it won’t hurt so much. 

--- 

how long has he been here? the boy doesn’t keep track of time. he knows he’s died at least a dozen times, but how long does it take for a dozen lifetimes to pass? 

--- 

a clattering on the floor wakes the boy up. the people above decided he can eat today. stale bread and water again, but better than nothing to the boy. he crawls closer to it, listening to the door. it closes and the voices disappear. where was the sound of the lock? did they forget? 

the boy scarfs down his food and water before tiptoeing up the stairs. he doesn’t hear any voices, but he needs to be careful. he doesn’t remember what the above looks like, but he needs to leave. he needs to be free. 

slowly, quietly, he opens the door. it’s dark on the other side of it, but still much, much brighter than his room ever was. he closes his eyes but keeps the door open. breathe in, and out. opens his eyes again, blinking the brightness away. pushes the door further open. steps on the hard ground outside the door. he’s so close. closes the door quietly. turns around and holds his breath. where was outside? pick a direction and go. his legs hurt. turn the corner, listen for voices. voices are dangerous, get away from the voices. whisper his spell, create a small light. keep moving keep moving keep moving. window ahead. break it? open it? is he strong enough? lift the window up. too weak. voices coming. hurry hurry hurry must get out now. whisper spell again, hand on window. break the glass and jump through it. cuts on feet cuts on legs deal with that later. voices getting louder voices shouting. run run RUN. 

the boy runs away from the building, away from his room. freedom is so close. first get to the trees, then… he hasn’t thought that far, but he will find a way. gunshots from the house. he runs faster, must get to the trees, must hide, must be free. cur memini, he whispers again, crossing into the forest. his spell can make lights and now break windows, but he needs it to protect him at this moment. run run run until the voices are quiet again. his legs are giving out, but he needs to run. he can’t die now or they’ll find him. keep running. bare feet on sticks and stones and sharp things, everything hurts but he can’t stop. he keeps running until the sun comes up. his heart beats out of his chest. 

--- 

when he wakes up he doesn’t know how much time has passed. his heart beats fast and he sits up. did they find him? he looks around. trees, rocks, a gurgling stream. he’s free. he’s free. he sighs and lays back down. how far did he run? he needs to go further. away from other people, away from anyone who might lock him up again. he sits up again and forces himself to stand and walk towards the sound of the stream. he can start there. water is important, and he might be able to get food from the little stream too. 

his first drink of the stream water is icy cold, quenching his lifelong thirst in just a few swallows. he washes his face with it, removing years of sweat and grime. he wants to sit by the stream forever if only he could, but the people will find him eventually if he doesn’t keep moving. but he allows himself a few minutes to bathe in the water, savoring the feeling of water on his skin. his stomach still growls, wanting something more filling than the freezing water of the stream, but that would have to wait. he needs to get his bearings. 

the light of the outside world is almost blinding, he realizes. the sun and the snow made it almost impossible to see anything. he should get up above the trees. can he even do that? cur memini, he says, trying to get his voice to be louder than a whisper. his feet float a few inches above the ground. he closes his eyes and says his spell again with more conviction. Cur Memini. he feels himself shooting into the air before he opens his eyes. he can see the forest stretch out for miles around him. trees covered in snow in every direction. if the old house is behind him, he should fly straight ahead, towards the forests on the mountains. tentatively, he leans forward and focuses his magic on keeping himself afloat. 

it doesn’t take much to exhaust what little magic he has, but he’s put more distance between himself and the old house and the people above now. he should be safe to rest, truly rest. but first he should find something to eat. is there anything to eat out here? something in his head tells him to look a little closer to the ground. to his left. there’s a bush full of berries. he’s never had anything but stale bread, and doesn’t know what to expect as he crushes one with his teeth. 

the sensation overtakes him for a brief moment. the berry is sweet, yet tart, and delicious. it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten and he thanks the little voice in his head for the information as he picks several more berries from the bush. the juice runs down his chin and makes him sticky, but it feels good. he feels truly alive for the first time. 

once he’s finished picking the bush clean of its fruits, he needs to find a place to rest, to stay warm. he’s shivering in the intense cold of the north, but it’s nothing he isn’t used to. the room was never very warm after all. he listens to the little voices calling out to him, guiding him towards a small cave, instructing him on how to make a small fire to warm himself up. a small rabbit brushes against his leg and he swears one of the voices is coming from it. and with the fire going, he thanks the rabbit before it hops away back into the snow. he would be roasting that same rabbit over the fire a few months later. 

the boy can’t stay in the cave forever though. as days turn to weeks turn to months, he worries that the people above are getting closer to him. they’ll put him back in that cold, dark, damp room again. he needs to keep moving. he has been practicing his magic, casting stronger spells, and he needs to be ready to fly. it's been long enough. cur memini he says holding his hand out. a rough stick with twigs tied to the end flies into his hand. it’s a poor excuse for what he understands is a broom, but it will work. he climbs onto it and focuses. cur memini cur memini cur memini. he lifts off the ground and watches as the branches of the trees get shorter and eventually he passes above the treetops. 

he takes a moment to gather his bearings. he no longer remembers the direction the house was in, but going up is his best bet of staying away from the people above. he laughs, realizing that he is the one above them now. after a moment, he flies into the mountains. the small voices change into bigger, unfamiliar ones as he gets further into the mountain range. they tell him to hide, to stay away. he doesn’t listen. they cannot be more dangerous than the humans he is running from. 

the boy lands, still exhausted from using so much magic, but he was able to travel further this time. that has to count for something, surely. he gathers some sticks and looks for another cave to make his home in. the caves remind him too much of the room he left, so he chooses to stay close to the entrance, close to the light that reminds him he is free. the fire keeps the animals away, but the voices are curious about the new presence in their woods. they make him curious too. he should stay in the cave tonight though and regain his energy. maybe he can get some small game to fill his stomach before settling in for the night. he listens for a rabbit’s voice, or maybe a squirrel, anything that would be small enough to kill with his hands. 

at last, a small fox’s voice is heard nearby. he wonders if fox will taste different from the other game he’s eaten thus far. he lifts a hand-sized rock and slinks out of the cave towards the voice. it takes a few minutes to find the source, but the fox is curled under a tree, shivering, hungry, just like him. the boy hesitates before bludgeoning it and slinging the corpse over his shoulders. there are more foxes. he is much more important. 

the fox is only the first animal he hunts in those mountainous woods. he spends several years in that forest and eventually humans settle up there as well. the boy, or rather, the man now, has made a name for himself amongst the human populations of the north. he is no longer afraid of humans capturing him and locking him up. they are still terrified of him, but now he is in control of that terror. the hunters that left his territory alive whispered tales of the great wizard owen who inhabited the mountains and terrorized anyone who had the bad luck of running into him. 

all of this is perfectly fine with owen. eventually his reputation will grow beyond himself, encapsulating atrocities that were impossible for even someone as strong as oz to commit, but that would be a problem for future owen. for now, he is still young and living in his cave on the outskirts of a small village and scaring hunters who stray too far from their boundaries. the wolves don’t like these visitors either and gladly listen to owen’s lamentations. it keeps his hands clean of the bloodshed if he isn’t casting the spell himself. the wolves don’t care for owen either, but they respect him. and that is enough for owen. 

the first of the unwanted visitors was a young man, someone who wanted to provide for his family. he pleaded with owen and the wolves to let him go and he wouldn’t cause any problems. those pleas fell on deaf ears though as owen looked the man in the eyes. won’t your family be disappointed, he asked almost innocently, you don’t have anything to show for your efforts. the man stammered a response, they’d rather i come back alive with nothing than die trying to find food. is that so, owen reached out for the man’s chin, the distance between their faces was almost nothing. y-yes, sir, please just let me go and i won’t bother you anymore. owen grinned. oh i’m sure you won’t be causing us any trouble again. the wolves stalked out of the woods, drooling at the prospect of tearing a piece of that man for themselves. owen snapped his fingers, and they came running forward, only to stop mere inches from the now trembling man. there was a suspicious yellow stain in the snow beneath him. p-p-please sir, anything you ask, it’s yours! then make sure you tell the rest of your little village that this forest belongs to the great wizard owen. the man ran off, leaving behind a hunting rifle and a ratty sack. the rifle would be of use, but the sack became tinder for his fires. 

despite the warning from that first man, hunters continued to enter into owen’s territory. and one after the other, they ran off screaming with their tails between their legs. this should have annoyed owen, that people would ignore all of the warnings and stories that had started popping up about him, but it doesn’t. their fear feeds into his magic power, only making him stronger, and that is all fine with owen. he is no longer a weak child locked in the damp, dark basement, and he never will be again. 

[azurityarts]

for that art ask game; #4, #22 and #28!

4. piece you wish got more love?

oh BROTHER where do I even start-

It's a common joke among artists that our shitpost doodles end up getting a lot more love and attention than the pieces we spend much more time on, and let's just say there's truth in jest sdhngdhnfdf

If I'm allowed to be self-indulgent, I'd probably go with this recent one? At the end of the day I'm still grateful for whatever I can get though ^^;;

22. do you have a favorite color palette to work with?

I don't think so? Every palette has its purpose in different places, and I usually just want to go with the colors that can bring out the effect I'm going for!

28. whats a piece you would like to redraw at some point?

Answered in this ask!

[dawnquafam]

“Are you afraid of me?” “Yeah. I mean, kinda. Definitely.” For Stephen & Mera

Enjoy 2.2k words of Stephen being a bundle of anxiety and Mera being a supportive future sister-in-law!

Time ceased to matter when Stephen was with Orm. Lying on a blanket in the lighthouse’s front yard, he talked and talked, one arm wrapped around Orm’s back while the other hand gestured emphatically. Any of his exes would have fallen asleep or asked him to stop by now, particularly when he ranted about Atlantis, but Orm listened attentively to every word he said about every topic that crossed his mind, his head pillowed on his shoulder and his leg draped over his thighs, occasionally offering a thoughtful question that set him off on an entirely new tangent. The only idle thing about him was the way his hand traced random patterns across his stomach, alternately wrinkling and smoothing his shirt, the softest touch from someone who could crush steel without batting an eye. Stephen talked from broad daylight to sundown, his boyfriend’s warmth keeping the cooling temperature at bay, and his attention never wavered.

Orm listening to him like this wasn’t new, but everything else – the relationship, the cuddling, spending time like this with someone who cared – very much was, and he never wanted it to end.

The front door creaked open, footsteps crossing the porch. “Hello, lovebirds.”

Time slammed back into full speed. He and Orm both jumped, but while Orm’s clenched fist immediately relaxed upon realizing it was Mera, Stephen’s entire body tensed. He sat bolt upright, guilt twisting in his stomach when the movement very abruptly dislodged his very comfortable boyfriend. “Um, hi, Mera,” he greeted.

Orm shot him a wounded look, but there was concern beneath the indignation. Mera stopped in her tracks. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

“Totally fine, yup, why wouldn’t it be?” he responded, barely suppressing a wince at how blatantly awkward it sounded. Which wasn’t exactly unusual for him, but he didn’t want his rambling mouth to betray his nerves right now. Though it’s far too late for that.

Mera arched her eyebrow, predictably seeing straight through the forced cheerfulness. Orm did, too, and Stephen didn’t miss them sharing one of their silent conversations about it. She glanced at her best friend, and he tore his gaze away from Stephen to subtly shake his head in response. Frowning, she tilted her chin towards the lighthouse, and Orm nodded. “I’m going to make us some sandwiches.”

Stephen’s heart sank when he started to sit up, a chill already creeping across him where he had lain. “You don’t have to,” he tried, almost reaching for his hand to pin him in place until he remembered that Mera was watching. He withdrew his hand before they could touch, heart aching when Orm’s hand closed around empty air.

“You said you were hungry a little while ago,” he answered through visible disconcertion. He glanced at Stephen’s cheek, clearly wanting to kiss him, but Stephen couldn’t make himself lean in for his usual invitation, and Orm didn’t push him. “I won’t be long.”

“Ok,” he mumbled, looking away to avoid the confusion in his eyes as he stood. I swear I’m not trying to push you away, he wanted to say, but no words made it out of his throat.

With one last glance at both of them, Orm headed inside. Mera took his place before Stephen could even think about protesting, sitting down in one graceful motion. “I could be diplomatic about this,” she said, “or we could skip straight to the whale in the room.”

Wishing, for far from the first time, that he had even a shred of her poise under pressure, Stephen hoped that his attempt to shuffle slightly away just looked like he was getting comfortable. “There’s no whale,” he lied feebly.

“Not when I first stepped outside,” she allowed. “You were as happy as could be. Until you heard me.”

He ducked his head, unable to argue. She was a born and raised politician who had lived a lifetime in secrecy, trained from childhood to observe even the tiniest of details about everyone around her – of course she had noticed his timing. “It’s ridiculous,” he mumbled.

“Arthur insisting that the president might be Atlantean solely because he looks similar to Orm is ridiculous,” Mera said. “Whatever this is… is not.” She paused, considering him, smoothing the fabric around her thigh with fidgeting fingers. “Are you afraid of me?”

A million judgmental stares flashed through his mind, a lifetime of seeing the exact moment everyone around him mentally wrote him off as ludicrous at best or insane at worst. A lifetime of struggling to make relationships work, of fighting tooth and nail not to be himself long enough to get to the meeting the family stage of a relationship, only to see the crushing disapproval in the eyes of the few people he did manage to get introduced to the second they recognized him. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I mean, kinda. Definitely.”

She furrowed her brows. “Why?”

“It’s not… I mean, it’s…” He sighed, taking his glasses off to scrub a hand down his face. “It’s not you, exactly. It’s- it’s all of you, but it’s not… it’s not really any of you, either. I’m just- I’m not really used to my boyfriends’ families… liking me.”

And they were just normal people, he added to himself. Not… the Atlantean royal family.

“We’ve all been rooting for this relationship for the better part of the last two years,” she reminded him. “You two were the last ones to notice your feelings. Arthur and Tom are the ones who talked Orm into realizing he’s queer in the first place.”

“I know,” Stephen said wearily. “I know it makes no sense. You guys have been there for me since Antarctica, and it’s not like any of you are going to think I’m crazy for believing in Atlantis. It’s just…” He put his glasses back on. “I’m a scientist. I like patterns and data. And my entire dating history… is a lot of data forming one big pattern. Recognizing that far sooner than I actually did could’ve saved me a lot of heartbreak.”

“Allowing old data to scare you now would only cause more heartbreak,” she pointed out gently. “Patterns can always be broken under the right circumstances, and you have those here. We all do. Just about everyone in that lighthouse has broken one or two in their lives, and we have no intention of stopping now. You became part of this family well before you officially began dating Orm. We’re not going to suddenly turn our backs on you simply because everyone else made that mistake.”

“You say that now,” Stephen muttered, anxiety bleeding out as bitterness, as the twisted pain that had built walls around his heart for so long. It had taken a lifetime of agonizing rejection after agonizing rejection, but he had finally learned to push people away in the end. David had been the first exception in a long time, and everyone knew how that went. He had nearly forgotten how it felt to put those walls up when dating Orm was no more than a wild fantasy, but now… “Everyone changes their mind at some point.”

“No.” She laid her hand on his arm, catching his eye. “You saved my son, Stephen.”

“I sent a message,” he said with a shrug. “Two years ago.”

“You sent a message that no one else could send,” she said firmly. “And you were nearly killed trying to protect him on your own until we could get there. Every moment that I’ve had with my son for the last two years has been because of you, and every moment after this will be the same. The gratitude I feel for that will stay with me until my dying breath. We are together because of you, and the least I can do in return is approve of you dating my best friend.”

He searched her expression, looking for the lie, looking for the doubt that had shadowed his every relationship. “You really do?”

“I do,” she assured him. “We do. You’re kind, intelligent, and brave. The two of you make each other happy, and you trust each other in ways neither of you trust anyone else. We would be fools not to continue welcoming you into his life and our family.”

“Even though I’m not a prince?” he asked, the silent insecurity slipping out, tinged by the desperate need to believe her. “Or a warrior? Or anyone special who can keep him safe when the Fishermen come looking for him?”

“I was a princess and I didn’t deserve him.” Old guilt haunted her eyes until she blinked it away. “Just as he became a king who did not deserve me. He can protect himself, and when he cannot, that is why we’re here. If he cared that you can’t do for him what we can, then he wouldn’t feel so safe in your arms. It matters far more to all of us that you are one of the very few people in his life who has never hurt him.” She squeezed his shoulder, letting the words sink in before she continued. “You do not need a title to be noble or superpowers to be strong – those are qualities that only mean anything when they are found in your heart, and you have a good one, Stephen. That is what makes you special. That is why we will always want you here.”

There was no hesitation in her voice, no reservation in her touch. Her words didn’t reek of false pleasantries, of the pressing need to tell Orm to dump him the second he stepped out of earshot. She really meant what she was saying. Maybe David did go horribly wrong, he conceded slowly. But it landed me here, didn’t it?

Hope dared to bloom where once there had only been despair. Stephen looked over her shoulder when the front door creaked open again, and she followed his gaze to Orm, heading back to them with a couple plates in his hands. “Cuddle with him all you want, Stephen,” she told him. “Gods know you both deserve it.”

He learned to lower his walls to get us this far, he thought, remembering the withdrawn, touch-averse man who had first moved in with him. If I want this to work – and I want nothing more than that – then… it’s my turn now.

Orm paused a short distance away, head tilted in question. Stephen nodded, and his shoulders visibly relaxed in relief as he resumed walking. The same relief escaped him in a heavy breath, the same weight lifting from his own shoulders. “Thank you,” he murmured to Mera.

“I’m always here if you need to talk.” She leaned in, and Stephen thought she was going for a cheek kiss until her eyes started to glow, ominous in the fading daylight. “Never forget, though,” the queen whispered, a mischievous smile softening her words, “that I am still his best friend. If you break his heart, I will break you.”

“Don’t worry.” It was far more foreboding than any of the stiffly polite conversations his exes’ families had exchanged with him, but his answering smile was easy and reassured. “He’s safe with me.”

And I’m safe with him. With… our family.

She sat back, content. “Good.”

“Stop threatening him,” Orm said, reaching them in time to catch her teasing. “And get out of my spot. Please,” he added grumpily when she didn’t move.

She sprang lightly to her feet, stealing a chip off his plate. He frowned but didn’t protest, handing the plates to Stephen before sitting down, still not quite as graceful on land as she was. Happily crunching her stolen chip, she headed off for her regular evening swim, and Orm asked him, “Are you feeling better?”

“Much.” He set the plates aside and cupped Orm’s cheeks. “I’m sorry I got weird.”

“It’s all right.” He leaned into Stephen’s touch. “Weird is normal in this family.”

“True enough,” Stephen said with a laugh. “Come here.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He kissed him gladly, and Stephen savored the combined hint of salt and taste of Atlantean heat that had quickly become one of his favorite things in the world. The last traces of bitterness and fear melted away at the touch of his lips, as loving here in front of his family’s house as he was in the privacy of their apartment, a far cry from the sudden uncomfortable distance his exes had shown when they took him home. He even savored the pulling away, breaking apart just enough to breathe, because it was his choice, just as it always was, and Orm lingered just as he always did, staying close where everyone else had only pulled away.

Maybe that was all the proof I should’ve needed that this time is different.

“You do know that I would protect you from her, right?” Orm asked, their noses still brushing, his hands on his waist, his fingers curled into his shirt.

“I know that you would try,” Stephen said. “But we both know that you can’t beat her in a fight. Or during game night.”

He pouted. “I defeated her at Monopoly once.”

Stephen shook his head fondly, kissing him again and instantly wiping away the adorable pouting. He pulled his boyfriend back down to the blanket, the sandwiches entirely forgotten, caring only about holding on to him and never letting go, regardless of who might see them.

[dyshonor]

the importance of burning birthday bread

Randal knows the season his birth is supposed to be from.

In most- but not all- places he's been in, the leaves change color. They had in Elibe, which was really the only time it had mattered. He hadn't appreciated it then, the continuity of it all.

That was fine. Placing importance onto dates seemed a silly thing regardless. At this point, who cared?

—

"Keep a diary," he tells Emma. "Write something for every day."

Her bow seems to twitch with a life of its own. "…my progress isn't that interesting," Emma says, like she's ashamed. "A-and you know I'm not one to slack off, even if you or Shade aren't around."

"That's not—" and Randal catches himself, because that would be rude. He tries again. "Emma. When we don't move through time the same way as everyone else, it's easy to lose track of the days."

She stares at him, unimpressed. "The sky is blue. Duh Randal, I'm living out this whole world-hopping thing just the same as you." She turns back to the task she had been tending to, which was massaging out grass stain from her tights into a bucket. Hesitates. "I- well, I appreciate the sentiment. But it doesn't bother me too much."

There's no intentional rudeness in her voice. She's simply baffled, a bit talked-down to. This is an understandable reaction, particularly when Randal has stumbled his way through more accidentally demeaning comments than these.

Here, however, there is the reluctant admittance of concern. Emma is thirteen, was probably thirteen when she got roped up into this whole mess, and will not (will not. he emphasizes this to ensure it) be thirteen forever. She does not deserve to second-guess herself at every memory, when she experiences three autumns in a row because the Chaos has elected to toss her whichever way it goes.

Randal sinks himself into the dirt besides her and sighs overdramatically. "Well, y'see, my memory's awful fading me."

"M-memory?"

A grim nod. "When y'get t'my age, these sorts o' things creep up on ya without even realizin' it. I'll be needin' you to remind me."

Quiet. Randal chances a side-glance at Emma. Her scrubbing has faltered. He presses on.

"And besides, when we're separated, I'll wanna know-"

"If."

Randal fights off the sigh that rises in his throat. The guilt that trickles up his back at stumbling through such posturing- and intentionally, this time- does not pass him by. He keeps himself silent and lets Emma do the work.

Sure enough, she relents.

"W-well, if you're gonna be this much of a poop about it…"

"Mm."

"But you've gotta do it too, okay? So I can know what you're up to!"

"'course, kid." Randal does always tend to get what he wants, even if only for a bit.

—

When he turns soft-cheeked and bright-eyed, he wonders how old he is.

Right now, he can make vague summations: whatever has sent him back into this finer form, free of wrinkles and stubble, is likely not Boundless Chaos. Thus, any rules he had figured out beforehand of determining his age had been merrily thrown out the window.

Randal massages his jaw, traces his finger down the edge of his earlobe. Were the scars that were supposed to be there erased, or had they not been formed yet? Either way, their memory was there.

How old is Randal now, really? His body is: twenty, ish. It has freshly won itself a mansion a good score of years ago, it is the lord of fistfuls of pawns that turn their nose and swords for it.

He is: forty? Fifty? Old. He does not feel old, not even in a young-at-heart sense. Every memory that that older self had dredged together is held in a mental tome, read out to him as if by an entirely different person.

A strand of too-long hair trails in front of his face. He pinches it, twirls it between his fingers.

Here, in the academy, they actually keep dates. The twenty-third of the Wyvern Moon, the tenth month of the calendar year. Regardless of how much time has passed, this is the 'date' of his birth.

That older him had never been affected by things like that. He had passed by the date the first time he had stepped foot in this academy and not mentioned it to anyone, not had anyone mention it to him. There is no grand 'desire' built into him, and so he should follow suit. If he really is that 'same Randal'.

His fingers drop. What did that Randal like?

—

Here is what Randal did during the anniversary of the forty-fourth year of his birth, unknowingly:

Pull an all-nighter to see the sunrise

Rebraid his horse's hair

Make fresh bread

Turn in early for the night

Here is what Randal does during what might be the anniversary of the forty-fifth year of his birth, knowingly:

Dresses, then re-dresses when he catches the stain on his sleeve

Comes late to breakfast and eats cold food

Gets bitten by his horse

Gives up and lies on the grass

Why hasn't he left yet? Sensibly, tiredly, he knows this is what he must do. The second he woke up like this he knew he needed to plod his way on over to his mansion or what ruins remained of it. At the very least, get away from whatever sort of set-up that Randal had established for himself.

Yet here he was, pussy-footing his way out of taking any action. He did not need anyone else here to tell him that he was pretty definitively pathe-

He shuts his eyes. What sort of person wallowed in self-pity on their birthday? Faintly, he recalls making it a whole good-and-proper affair, before time had changed around him. Inviting neighboring lords and making it quite clear to everyone involved his staying power, that he had his shit together.

Hm. So it hadn't been much of a celebration as much as it had been an establishment of power. Not that any of that had mattered in the end. Great thanks, Boundless Chaos. Siccing that blue cunt onto him was pleasant icing on the cake.

One day will bleed into the next into the month into the year into the decade, and he will still be twisted nicely by whatever wants to have his way with him. Then, inevitably, he will be wiped clean back onto the slate of that older him, and nothing he will have done will have mattered. It won't even be written down.

He sits up forcefully at the thought.

—

The calendar let him know. That inconsequential day, which didn't even reside in the mental book of memories he kept, so useless it had been, forces itself into paper. A scrawled on recipe of the bread he had made that day.

'prety damn good. make again.'

He hadn't. He hadn't even bothered to spell the reminder correctly, so why'd he take enough of a step to write the recipe in clear lettering?

Randal bites the bullet and hands it off to one of the kitchen staff, who wear smiles that grow more strained when trying to make out the lettering. Ugh. This was embarrassing. If there weren't bigger things he was afraid of, he'd lie and say that it hadn't been him who wrote it there.

They rewrite the lettering on a napkin, admitting as they hand it off to him that they're making some educated guesses on a great deal of this.

That's fine.

—

He burns it. Of course he burns it.

Even after sucking it up and extending a begging hand towards the staff, begging for a touch of starter, even after nabbing flour he probably shouldn't have owned, even after stealing a salt shaker from the common room table when it was explicitly forbidden given the frequency that they disappeared, he just burnt it.

It sits in the open, still-lit oven, far more akin to a block of coal than anything edible. Hell, it seems to glow just like one, too.

What did he want from this? He doesn't entirely know. Probably something romantic like: here is this memory, it was good, I was here. Transient and forceful and an all-together good thing, where even if that dastard wanted to dismiss and forget it entirely, wafting scents would resurface the thought. Might even be something he missed.

Of course, Randal could not even conjure up this much.

He hangs his head and bunches his hair up in the back of it, practically ripping at his ribbon. Useless, useless, waste of—

"Randal?"

He startles up. There's that girl again- Emma. All dressed up in concern and worry. Shit.

"A-ah, Emma! You know, girls like you really shouldn't be—"

"Take it out!" The concerned expression on her face explodes into near-fear. "It's going to catch fire!"

"I- oh! Uhm-"

—

It sits in front of them, burnt and soggy all the same. An altogether disgusting lump.

"Can you read?" Emma asks plainly enough.

"Wha- yes, I can read! Of all the daft-"

"Mmm." She folds her hands. "Okay. I was gonna offer to read you the instructions in the future, since I thought you were just winging it out of necessity, but I guess not…"

Randal blusters. She hadn't even meant it as an insult, which only makes it sting all the more. "I'm not incompetant, you know."

Emma doesn't respond, instead just entertaining him with a roll of her eyes and a prop up of her chin. She chews noisily. "I guess that'll be somethin' else to tell him…"

"I'm… sorry?"

"Or write down. If he doesn't remember." She snorts a bit. "Let him know what shenanigans you got up to. He got up to." Her face twists, as if she bit something unpleasant. "Sorry, uhm... it's still weird."

Randal doesn't have anything to say to that beyond the usual protest of being the very same, so he doesn't. "You record these kinds of things?" he ventures instead.

Emma shrugs. "He doesn't tell me to do much long-term stuff, so I might as well… and I like having a diary! It's fun flipping through old entries." She pats her pocket, evidently where it's being kept. Ever on her person. "The world is so big! Keeping track of it is nice."

He stares, painfully aware of the owlishness of his blinks. "I see," he settles on instead.

There is a temptation, then, to ask: what will you write about me? The Randal that stands before you now, will you make special note of it? Will you recount other memories of him, to others? Probably, she didn't seem to discriminate. And if all he wanted was to be recorded, then-

"Well. Time to get to it."

Before he has the time to ask her what it is, Emma has ripped off a piece of the bread and slammed it back.

"I- excuse me?"

She holds out a piece to him. "Come on! Wasting food is no good." She speaks around the bite in her mouth. Randal is somewhat shocked she hasn't gagged on it. "It's your responsibility, y'know…"

She looks expectant, but not hostile. Randal takes it from her. It's not as if she could've poisoned it in the seconds she had her hands on it, probably, and even if she could, she probably wouldn't risk that dastard dyi-

"You've gotta eat it. It's your mess, y'know." She swallows thickly. "It's not the worst…"

Randal takes a bite. The freshly soggy, charred crust pairs nicely with the gooey, underbaked center.

—

It's not as if that dastard would care to remember what Randal did, and Randal finds it even less likely that he'd actually read the entries in here, but he writes it down anyway.

on how to bake a loaf of sourdough bread. properly. for days that you want to remember.

gather ingredients: yeast - salt - sugar - flour - water, lukewarm. find someone to get starter from.

begin.

[wistfulwatcher]

i feel like your roman candle; misty/nat, 8k, explicit

written in response to a series of tumblr erotic prompts (since i ended up getting many more than i was expecting, i have combined the ones that fit!).

prompts used: caught masturbating, torn lace, against the wall, fingers (@igotreallyreallytiredofmyoldurl), “do that again”, hair, panting, love bites, taste, restrained, desperate, tease, on the edge, and in public (if you squint)

read here on ao3

[conivolos]

its my birthday!! yippee!!

[curiosity-killed]

where the world will never find me

Nine months after the world ends, Wolfwood gets a visitor.

Wolfwood & Vash | 1k | Post-Trigun

[starstruckodysseys]

*gripping the sink and staring into the mirror* i don’t have to write 7k word stories in order for them to be good i don’t have to write thousands of words to tell the story i don’t-