#but i realized the only other attack i posted is ALSO a polish

[moltensunlight]

Realm of the Departed

Character design belongs to @absolutelynotsanebaby

Artfight attack inbound!! >:) I love Ms. Departed's design so so much, and I was super excited to try and capture that otherworldly feeling they have! I hope I did them justice!!

[stellabk]

FVRY OF THE FIRE

Part IV

Author’s note - Hi! So, I thought I posted part 4 last night after work, and I looked and it was gone. Not just form tumblr, but also my google docs so I had a heart attack. I cried since I had to rewrite it, but this one turned out better than the original in my opinion, so I hope you like it!

Summary - No amount of delaying could push the wedding off any longer. Deianira is forced to marry the tyrant that her father has sent her and her sister to bring down, yet she seems to grow a small soft spot for him.

Warning(s) - blood, violence, a bit of sexual abuse, public displays of affection; of you see any grammar mistakes or missed warnings please let me know!

Deianira’s eyes fluttered open as the sun shone through the curtains that billowed above the balcony. She smiled at the feeling of the sun warming her cheeks and the chill the gentle breeze brought. It would have been a day she would’ve loved to enjoy if it weren’t for the harsh realization that she was to be married today. Her smile faded as it weighed her down, making her groan as she threw her feet from off the side of the plush bed.

“Good morning, your grace. Today is the day!��� Aelia entered with a tray of fresh fruits and bread that still steamed from its warmth. Aelia handed her an apple from the tray, smiling at the way her mistress scrunched her nose in distaste at her statement. “I know it’s not ideal, but I’m selfishly glad that you are stuck with me, ma’am.”

”There is no other woman who I enjoy being trapped in a grand palace with.”

Deia had spent all morning with Aelia and a few other maidservants, first getting scrubbed and polished in the bathhouse like a priceless artifact, emerging smelling of apple blossoms and pomegranate. They lined her eyes with kohl, rouged her cheeks a delicate cherry color, glossed her nails, and adorned her with jewels and finery from the top of her head to her toes. She looked like a proper empress now with all of the embellishments, not able to take her eyes off the new mirror that had been brought in while she bathed. The sight of herself made her forget just how miserable she felt only moments ago.

“They will be expecting you at the temple, empress. Come,” Aelia motioned for the future empress to follow as they delicately bounced through the halls, smiling and laughing.

In front of the temple, Deia’s sinking feeling returned as she stood on the other side of the doors, knowing just what awaited her on the other side.

“Lia, dear, how many people would you say are inside?”

”The whole court of important politicians and close friends of the emperors, I’m sure, but do not fret. Just look to your future husband and all shall turn out right.”

’If that doesn’t work, your sister is sure to be close to Caracalla; look at her and she shall erase all tension you feel,” another servant chimed in.

Deia faced the door once more, shimmying her feet further back into her sandals, and took one last deep breath before the door opened before her. The people stood and stared at her in awe, looking as if a true goddess had stepped in their midst. Deia forced her heavy lead feet forward, pushing herself to where Emperor Geta stood waiting for her. He had a smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He seemed exhausted. She shook the thought from her head, instead opting for focusing on the floor. She couldn’t look at her sister or she would cry, knowing that there was no escape for either of them.

She grew closer and closer to the end of the aisle, her steps growing heavier with every pace she made. She stopped in front of the two stairs that kept her from Geta, a hand with a ring on every finger outstretching into her line of vision. She looked up to see her future husband smiling at her, and she took the hand, breaking the invisible barrier that kept her from standing at his side.

The officiant stood in front of the both of them, rambling on about the Gods in a monotonous, bland tone that made Deia want to yawn. She glanced at Geta through her peripheral, noticing he no longer smiled and looked like he had been drinking. He smelled as if he’d been drinking too. She turned back to the officiant, bored out of her mind. He continued to drone on, the future empress tuning him out and looking at the grand statue of the God Mars looking down on them, helmet just showing his eyes and spear in his hand. She looked at him wondering why his eyes seemed to be so full of life unlike the other statues she had seen around the palace. A cough broke her concentration on the statue, snapping her attention back to the officiant.

“You may kiss your bride, emperor.”

The two of them faced each other, Geta’s superficial smile returning to his face, as he reached a shaky hand toward her cheek. He leaned in, placing a kiss on her lips ever so gently. He pulled away, releasing a sigh. The crowd cheered for the newlywed couple.

A banquet was held with the same people who were at the ceremony to celebrate the new union and empress, food and the best reserves of wine were laid out on a grand table. Deia walked around without her groom, examining the decoration and getting stopped by a few people to voice their congratulations. She looked toward the center of the table, a rhinoceros head with its meats delicately and morbidly served as if it were a common dish. She shuddered at the sight, swallowing the bile that raised in her throat at the sight. She took deep breaths as she made to exit the banquet hall and look over the railing down at the city below. It was beautiful this time of night, the stars sparkled in the sky as the chatter of men and women of the market packed up their valuables to go back to their homes.

”Lovely, isn’t it?”

Deia startled and turned around quickly, bracing herself on the railing to prevent her fall. Geta chuckled at the reaction as he grew closer and looked out over the city beside her. “I love coming up here when the city looks like this. You can hear every conversation below from here.”

”It is quite nice,” Deia looked at him, her back still resting against the edge of the railing. “Have you come to push me over and tell the court that your young bride has met her untimely demise?”

Geta laughed once again. “I actually came to make sure you were alright. It must have been something quite bad for a bride to leave her own wedding celebration.”

”It was,” she looked at her feet, Geta looking at her now with a twinge of anger that someone could have potentially ruined the party for his empress. “There was a rhinoceros’s head just lying on the table. I thought surely I would become ill.”

Geta let out the loudest, most genuine laugh as his head fell into the palm of his hand, Deia’s tension flying away as she allowed herself to laugh with him. Geta relaxed in the silence, watching as the moonlight made his bride's hair resemble cooling embers. He felt at peace as if all the voices screaming in his head had silences to stand in awe of her as well. His peace was broken as the door opened, a voice growing closer. He didn’t think, it was stupid to pull her in, yet he did. He pushed the sleeve of her shoulder down and sank his teeth in, the other hand flying to her mouth before she could yelp.

”Oh, brother. I didn't mean to interrupt time with your bride… at least defile her in your own chambers instead of the corridors, dog.”

Geta pulled his mouth from Deia’s shoulder, turning to his brother. “I wished for everyone to know she was mine, that is all.”

”Well, they requested you back in the banquet hall. They wish to make a toast soon.”

Caracalla shook his head with a smirk as he returned to the celebration. Geta turned back to his bride, a swift, sturdy hit landed to his gut. He slumped to his knees in slow motion, seeing that Deianira had kicked him, which made him smirk through a grimace.

”If you wanted me to come to my knees, wife, all you had to do was ask.”

She grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head so he could look at her face. “A mark for a mark. To think I almost enjoyed a sliver of time with you. Know this, it shall be the last for as long as I breathe. Goodnight, husband.”

She dropped the hold she had on his hair, storming off toward her room and leaving him alone in the darkened hall. He collected himself off the floor, hearing Caracalla beginning a toast in the hall as he stood against the cold stone wall to listen in, still holding his stomach where it ached. Caracalla quipped that Geta was supposed to make the toast to his bride, but had most likely disappeared to consummate the marriage. The crowd of mostly men had laughed heartily, but Geta felt a pain in his chest. He knew why he had bitten her, but he doubted she would stop to hear him out. Still, he had to try to explain himself. He ran down the hallway that his bride had run down, trying to catch up.

Deia slammed the door to her bedchambers, letting all of her anger explode in a loud scream that echoed through the room and shook nearby objects. She took off rings and threw them on tables, taking one of her sandals off and chucking it at the door. The shoe sailed through the air, and Geta entered, ducking just in time to narrowly evade the hurling sandal.

“Have you come to sink your teeth in again, your highness, or was one lashing not enough for you?”

Geta glanced at the sandal that had slipped through the crack in the door he had just come through, then back at Deianira. “I hope you plan to get that later on.”

Deia growled, taking off the other sandal, ready to throw the second one. Geta held his hands up in surrender. “I came to see if you would hear me out.”

”I will hear nothing from you after your vulgar display. Get out or I swear my aim will ring true with this sandal.”

“You have to be the most stubborn woman of akk I have ever met, have you ever been told that?”

Deia shrugged, still holding the sandal above her head. “Once or twice before. Now leave me to my peace.”

”I don’t think you know the definition of peace. You seem to be of the bloodline of Mars.”

”I knew peace until you and your tyrant brother forced me here. Just because you knew no fatherly love does not mean you had to rip me and my sister from ours!” She got in his face, spittle flying to his cheek. The blow had been delivered, an arrow right through Geta’s chest. He felt as if it were a real attack and that he would crumble in a bloody heap on the floor.

”I shall grant you the peace you want. Goodnight, empress.”

As he left, closing the door behind him, the second sandal was launched, colliding with the door as it closed. The thud shaking Geta to his core.

Geta entered his own bed chambers, his servant behind him.

”Are you sure, emperor? This seems to be quite extreme.”

”Quite sure. If the court were to find out, they would treat her cruelly. We must ensure she stays in good graces. If you tell a soul, you shall be thrown in the Coliseum before first light, understood?”

The man watched the emperor as he sat on the bed with the small knife in his hand, holding the handle out to the servant. The servant nodded, taking the blade, and cut a small incision on the emperor’s thigh. Geta hissed, but bit it back as the crimson flowed and made a small pool on the white bed linens. He nodded, satisfied by the result, as the servant began to cleanse his leg. Though satisfied, Geta only stared into the red stain with a grim expression, his thoughts only echoing one thing: she will be safe now.

[color-craz]

AF MidWeek Round-up!

This is just a simple post compiling all of my attacks so far along with some artists notes! Mostly because I found myself much more active this year than last year (Minus these few couple days due to some appointments). I'll be tagging everyone and linking to other socials so you can see these lovely folks. Of course if you want to attack me, I'm ready to fight! Without further ado, here's all the attacks so far :>

@cosmicdenro @stellarknightz - Weekend Date The name of the game for these first few attacks was to get everyone who I was supposed to last year but ran out of time ^^;;. I decided upon Jesse's Zircon over Jesse the character (one in my bookmarks) b/c it seemed like Turquoise Zircon was less drawn this year but was his icon on AF. So easy pick from me :> (Btw doing Sodalite's stripes and copying Zircon's shape language was really fun!!)

@/clawothy (Twitter) - Chill Cat Another attack from last years bookmarks! It was definitely a soft but enjoyable opening into drawing furries since Claw's so human shaped. It was fun drawing his tail and patterns :>. This is just a nice character design all around.

@twidaisi - Speedy Service Twi was also one from my bookmarks, but also a doorway down an ArtFight rabbit hole. Which will become apparent in the next two pieces. For this one, I had a pretty clear pose in mind so I placed it onto O.R.B.I and went from there!! His design is so neat and he seems so cool! The pose was also pretty fun to do as well, just an overall fun art piece (Also this one got a revenge!!! I still really really love thank you so much!!!!!)

@scratchgeist - Escapism Ho! This was a doozy! Twi had Scratch's profile linked so I ended up hitting him with an attack too. Drawing Scratch's mane turned out to be a pleasant experience despite me originally fearing it. This scene idea also came from a prompt of Scratch going outside. I ended up putting Polish on this because all those scratchy "ink like" lines I actually did manually (take a fuzzy brush and then go over it using a sketchbook eraser). It was nice dipping my toes into BatIM again and trying out more animal feature.

@/stylin.art Instagram @/crypticc0rpse Instagram - Pirates in arms One of those two people were linked on Scratch's profile and the person linked also linked to the other person. But I realized that both Stylin and Crypt had some shared characters. So this ended my little rabbit hole of people by attacking these two lovely fellows at the same time. This little crossing swords idea took me a nice minute to come up with but I liked how it ended up anyway. I really did like drawing James together like this (probably helps that I really like pirates in general). Also yes I know her hand is fucked up I noticed way to late to fix it.

@smoresthehalloweenqueen - Listen to the waves Once I finished up with that I moved onto the next bookmark, which was Smores! Originally I was gonna draw Brutus but then I was like "I like his sona it looks like fun!" So I drew them listening to music because why not :>. I struggled on the arms initially but it came out real clean and nice. Honestly might be my best work so far! (Fun fact, I color picked the waves + background from Seafoam's icon.)

@skittisketch - I got it! Mr. Sascachawean himself! I referenced this pose form the classic Objection point because I thought it would fit his personality. This was also a little bit of a test with a style I had only done in sketches (Basically my human style but omitting a neck which somehow shaves off a lot of time). This was a super fun pose to do with a pretty nice background! (Once again, fucked up hand I know I noticed too late again)

@justpainterrobot - Rare Nightly Sight I had this really really clear picture of what I thought up for this attack and I'm happy that I was able to make it a reality. I put the polish tag on this one because I almost got super super detailed of what the junk was below her (Stuff coming down from Elysium n all that) but due to a lack of references I just went with typical metal and wood. Fun fact, the night sky in the background is based on the one from Deponia itself (The first game's scenes with the professor at night). I think this rewrite of Toni was really cool from what I could find about her. Overall a labor of love type of attack.

@coelpts @swan-swanno - Boss Battle I thought to myself "Hm, I see Coelpts around a lot, lets hit him with an attack." and it turns out Ciel's gay married to Swanno's charater Mikhail, who was the last one in my bookmarks from last year. So another double attack for this one! It was a struggle starting this one mostly because I was debating whether or not to draw Ciel's Lord outfit but I ended up doing so because why not :>. It was a fun experience copying Swanno's more angular style, which is a stark departure from my more rounded shapes (As you can see here). Has a nice venture doing the lighting as well, overall a good experience.

@tailsylennon - Sweet Treats Mitchell showed off Tasily's proflie one day and I saw their sona and was I was like "Lemme draw it!" and did! I ended up following another prompt by her because it was their birthday! (By the time I started on this it was 8 pm and I freaked tf out and got to work). Her sona was really cool and I really loved drawing them. Fun fact, each of the set pieces references the Hallows Souls trio. The chair is decorated after Terra, Markus is the table, and Whistle pallet is used for the tea set :>. It was just a pleasant and cozy attack to make overall.

@ceaseless-enemy - Congratulations!!!! I've actually known about Voila for quite awhile now and thought his design n theaming is quite neat! I actually based the pose off of Ai from Oshi No Ko (I think one of her key arts before the anime released, ifykyk). But I skillfully cut out the legs because I can't draw digitigrade legs... Hooray... Otherwise it was quite nice to work on this attack in particular, especially the eyes and the hair :>.

@killbent - Getting Ready This is another one I had a real clear idea of prior to doing this, specifically because Killbent gave a prompt to give Mr Fairchime pink hair, so i thought a "pre-show" set up would look nice :>. The lighting was another new venture for me, because I usually do cool/night time like lighting but I think it turned out nicely for Fairchime. It was also fun doing the accessories and stuff on the vanity as well. Fun Fact, it's a bit hard to see through the watermark + lighting but the face paint and pallet both have the colors of his make up! Overall a pleasant and warm attack for this year.

And that's all of them so far! I picked up some new bookmarks + I gotta get Twi back for drawing Compact!! So those will probably be compiled by the end of AF so about, early August-ish if I keep up the pace. Anyway, thank you so much for reading and gracing me with the opportunity to draw all of these amazing characters!

Until next time!

-Gappy, Witch of the Stars

[satans-codpiece]

Darkfic Enjoyer here. please share some of your dark thoughts since you said you only unleashed your demons in only one fic of yours >:)

With Ramattra, you mean? Because EY doesn't even come close to releasing demons as compared to a lot of stuff I wrote with Kylo Ren or Michael Myers.

I just never really got a lot of darkfic inspiration for him? I honestly haven't in quite a while-- I dunno if that's better commentary on my relationship with my recent string of blorbos or on my mental health lol. Because the potentiality for darkfic with Ramattra is right there.

TW: Noncon, kidnapping, paralysis/forced to watch, injury, probably more

I briefly started a hard noncon fic where Reader is injured and/or pinned in the wake of a Null Sector attack and Ramattra unleashes some of that pent-up rage on them. Lots of Ramattra using his strength to keep Reader still and him talking about how this is justified by the simple fact that they are human and deserve to suffer as so many omnics have.

But I just didn't have the drive to write it?? There's so many WIPs I have with him that I want to finish but can't force my awful brain to look at for more than a few minutes at a time, but with the noncon fic I wrote a little bit and then my brain was like mmm, no. not this flavor. I still love reading noncon with Ramattra, I just don't have that drive to write it.

Hell, even, a Reaper/Reader noncon fic (with Sombra/Ramattra noncon in the background) was of higher interest to me than Ramattra/Reader noncon.

(For interested parties: where Talon is done using NS so Reaper & Sombra are sent to deal with Ramattra & Reader, but in particular Reaper's more than happy to make a point on what happens to people who betray Talon. so Sombra disables Ramattra-- but makes sure that he's awake and aware of what's happening as Reaper attacks Reader, with maybe some unwanted wireplay so that he's forced to cum watching it).

But with Megatron it comes so naturally. The very first thing I wrote with him was “Mmm, fabricating desire in exchange for your own survival is hardly the worst idea your species has had.” Literally the first line of dialogue my muse spat out to me was him accusing (and approving of!!) Reader trying to seduce him so that he wouldn't kill them.

And everything I have written with him since then-- which is all unfinished or no-context snippets that idk if I'll post-- has involved some degree of fuckedupness.

Megatron/Reader mutual noncon + Starscream/Megatron/Reader where Starscream catches Reader & forces them to suck off a regular gun. And Reader's humiliated and scared and just so confused as to why Starscream has this regular human gun laying around- until they realize it's literally Megatron stuck in a new alt mode that they've been polishing with their tongue. To which Starscream giddily fucks them with Megatron's barrel and the whole time Reader is terrified because... what does an overload look like for a gun? Also, Starscream's motivation is much more centered on Megatron, Reader is completely incidental and just gave him an opportunity.

Megatron & Knock Out discussing the mental health implications of kidnapping a human for morale (everyone is jealous of the Autobots' pets obviously). Namely, Reader is having a bad time of it- who wouldn't?- and Megs suggests to KO that he'd rather kill this high-strung human now and replace them with one more... agreeable before the crew gets attached. KO (who is already attached) insists that Reader will feel better as they get acclimated.

During the events of Rock Bottom (TFP), it's Reader who finds Megatron. They, naively, agree to help him (because it's the right thing to do TM) in exchange for his promise that he won't harm any of the other humans or autobots in the mine. Of course, he just kidnaps Reader at the end instead. When they're furiously kicking the inside of his jet form, he'll insist he didn't lie; they weren't harmed, were they?

Not really super dark in the way any of the above are, but literally just a little dubcon-y drabble with Reader & Megatron making out and Megatron's denta cut Reader's lip. And Reader tries to back off, but Megatron is so fucking horny about it that he holds them still and kisses them harder.

And that's just what I've written. I've also toyed with Facsimile!Reader where Megatron fucks you because why not, you exist only to serve the decepticon cause and, well, you basically feel like a human on the inside and he's curious. Super fucked up not because of the dubcon but more in tone, that you entire existence is for obeying him and serving him and dying for him and you're okay with that.

[sagethegremlin]

I want to hear about your object show!

OK SO (please stick with me im bad at explaining things) in the series theres these two freshman in high school and one (creator 1) is a huge object show fan and the other (creator 2) just kind of enjoys them passively but theyre both friends so they decide to make an object show together so they get their little computer and they create some guys to live in the space they created on thier computer and compete for them (so basically when they "code" an object its alive in the program and gains its own autonomy), but the creators are kids (party as a riff of how most object shows are made when the showrunner is in their early teens) so they dont really know what theyre doing so they create challenges and do their best to host the show but when it comes down to the elimination they dont know what to do with the object thats going to be eliminated so they just. delete them. (thereby essentially killing them but they dont really see it that way for a while)

as the show goes on theres this kind of rift between creator 1 and 2 because they see the show as very different things. creator 1 is an object show superfan and has this idea of what the show has to be and is constantly imposing different things onto it, while also becoming fascinated with its contestants and how "alive" they really are. their actions start to become less "heres a challenge they can do that could be fun" and more "i want to see how far pocket knife can be pushed before he finally snaps and starts attacking people like hes programmed to do"

on the other hand creator 2 is also slowly starting to see the contestants as alive but in a much different way. creator 2 is more fascinated by the relationships that the contestants cultivate with each other, and becomes more and more dissatisfied with creator 1 the more the show goes on. creator 2 wanted to make a silly object show, and the longer it goes on, the less silly it gets (theres also a point of contention of it being "derivative" as some of the challenges and some of the objects appear to be loosely based on things from other object shows ex: pocket knife is written to be a mean guy; the second challenge is to stay on a balance beam)

meanwhile theres also the contestants! the contestants are of course the most important parts the stuff with the creators is just background stuff and i wont go into them too much just so i dont make a crazy long post but basically they dont know much about the world theyve been born into. they cant hear the creators, and the only information they get from their "hosts" is from what they create and leave for the contestants to see. the contestants all generally start lighthearted, but things start to go downhill once they realize that theres no coming back from elimination, and the more they start to question their world, the more mysterious things keep happening to them...

my big thing with the contestants is i want almost all of them to have something related to their object in some way so like charm bracelets personality is affected by what charms is on her, pocket knife can change out his hands for different tools, clay is constantly changing its appearing to mimic that of other objects, etc etc

i have a cast of 24 objects split into 4 teams:

team 1: taffy, charm bracelet, yo-yo, novelty snow globe, paperclip, clay

team 2: egg, framy, yarn, key, nail polish, racket

team 3: dreamsicle, vase, dixie, skaty, starry, projector

team 4: stamp, d20, cinnamon roll, planner, chocolates, pocket knife

OH AND I FORGOT THE NAME yeah the shows called A Tragedy of Object Chaos because thats what i came up with as a high school freshman and im sticking with it c:

[gio-dude]

any more thoughts on paper mario so far?

I LOVED it honestly and the only reason I'm not playing TTYD is because I'm waiting for my new pc to get fixed cus my laptop is 🥔

Not as much as I did at the start, unfortunately. I've done a few more posts in different formats, but after the prologue and chapter one it's been a game and the humors been there but not quite as funny as that first chunk for me. Like, the attention to detail is absolutely INSANE throughout the whole game so far (the hidden spots, the funny npc dialogue, the dizzy eye animation, the text effects when people are speaking to show emotion and emphasis, etc), and some of the clues and stuff have been really well done where it guides you, sometimes by even straight up telling you what to do, but only if you like talk and interact with everyone and it sounds like gossip. I love how much world building they put into it, and like all of your companions get letters, so like Kooper is going to join Kolorado in an archeology adventure after helping mario, bombette is going to help cut the ribbon for a new train station since she cleared the tracks of the toad town one, they all have really cool stories for AFTER the game, which I really love and appreciate since I don't remember that from TTYD.

But yeah PM 64 has had solid characters and great world building and I am baffled at how complex and absolutely massive it feels to me for its time (I mainly played the pokemon stadium [1 & 2] mini games and kirby 64 shards and the OG ssb for comparison/context, and like kirby felt big but the open world of mario and the dynamic background where things change each chapter and characters reacting differently based off what degree of fighter you are make it feel massive) (also the timing of enemies for blocking and command attacks feels like each one would need its own code for, and there have been a lot of enemies and I'm only on chapter 3!)

It's been very interesting playing PM 64 after TTYD, since TTYD had a LOT of polish which, I hadn't realized, made it incredible. And like I watched a video or read an article ages ago about other games like the first two paper mario games and the mario and luigi series (both series, best games) and it was talking about how TTYD took a LOT of inspiration from PM 64, almost to the extent of copy+pasting, like "you did a train mystery in the first game and so let's do another train mystery" and "you get a smart Goomba, a small town koopa, a bomb-omb with character, and a ghost as a companion, so let's do that all again". And it's true (I haven't gotten to the train bit yet but I know it exists since there is a PENGUIN detective and we love penguins), but like all of the characters in TTYD had WAAAAAY more character and although both games' companions are charming, the added character design in TTYD was great.

Final thoughts are for both the paper mario and the mario and luigi series as a whole and their successors, both spiritually and literally.

As for the literal successors of PM and M&L, M&L has stayed true to its nature and although the stories are different and the abilities raise the stakes unnecessarily in my opinion, they still play like M&L games. PM on the other hand...

I feel like the bowser sections in TTYD directly influenced mario and luigi: browsers inside story, which was spectacular and probably the strongest in that series (partners in time will always hold a special place in my heart and I love it. Super stars was okay, the story was amazing but the fighting felt more tedious than the later games. Dreamy luigi was alright, I wasn't a fan of the new art style [that all the remakes, unfortunately, decided to continue to use] I don't think I ever beat it since it never hooked me in the same way. And I've seen NO ONE talk about that one cross over with paper mario, so I know nothing of that one.)

Paper mario and M&L are like my favorite games since I like that you still interact in battles even when it's not your turn. I hate JRPGs with a passion since I would literally rather play around in excel sheets all day (which I get paid to do) than click the same buttons over and over again without thought and then have to wait for the enemy animation when it could all just be text and skipped and be done with.

These games add the element of skill, albeit a pretty small element that can be boring and tedious and repetitive too, but it adds engagement for the entire time you are battling and battles are directly and immediately impacted by your skill, as compared to mainly "strategy" (pick the strongest move) in JRPGs. I care about getting each action command and each block in PM, my skill directly influences the outcome of the battle compared to sheer luck (there's a little luck with like status effects but that isnt the same as variable damge based on luck). If I'm playing a game I want to be engaged with it the whole time, not constantly mashing A while checking my phone since I'm spamming the same attack agaim since there is nothing else to do (glares at pokemon).

I feel like undertale was a spiritual successor to these games based on the bullet hell dodging in combat and the timing of attacks. The dodging was actually way more engaging and difficult in undertale than in PM and M&L and I think that was a large part of its success. I'm really surprised so few games have taken this approach to the rpg formula, of making the whole battle actually engaging, but there are a lot in development!

One that's out already is bug fables and if you have not checked that one out PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE CHECK IT OUT! It's glorious and the best successor to TTYD I've ever seen. There's also born of bread of which I've heard mixed results on and haven't check out myself yet, and there's also a sea horse one in development still also I had checked. There's also "OTHER:her loving embrace" which takes a more similar approach to combat as undertale but instead of bullet hell dodging it's a seconds long mini platformer where you have to run around dodging and you can even counter attack and it looks like everything I've ever wanted from a game and I am INCREDIBLY excited for that one. I'd also be down for a bug fables 2.

Now, disclaimer, I haven't actually played any other paper mario games than 64 and TTYD since they have all sounded awful. Sticker star had all moves be dictated by one time use stickers so your combat move options were constantly changing and combat seemed slow and not engaging (like a usual turn based jrpg) since I think it was just the stickers gimmick the whole time? 64 had some funny paper gimmicks, and TTYD really stepped up its paper inspired mechanics, what with the mario curses (airplane, tube, boat, etc.) And like busty genie's blowing ability, and then the one paper mario for the wii (super paper mario? I'm not willing to look it up) seemed to build more upon that with being able to like turn the world sideways and stuff, which makes for a cool puzzle game but I don't know anything about the combat that I can remember- that's how unmemorable it was despite looking into it multiple times because not enough of these types of games exist. I've heard nothing of the PM x M&L crossover as I've said above, and from what I heard about origami King the story was cute but a little shallow and the combat got switched up YET A-FUCKING-GAIN. It seemed liked an interesting combat system, but it sounded like it got extra tedious really fast since I think it involved having to draw a path through enemies that surround you in a circle and again, seemed cool but it wasn't paper mario. I once played a cooperative star trek board game that seemed to have similar mechanics, and like, as a combat system I could see it being really cool, but just not good for paper mario which has refuses to go back to what made 64 and TTYD so successful and charming and wacky, since Nintendo wants M&L to be the big rpg mario line games, which like... GIVE US BOTH.

So, yeah! Thank you so much for giving me an excuse and outlet to ramble and get all my thoughts out, it may be a bit more than you bargained for but you asked for thoughts! And paper mario was vague so I couldn't tell if you meant the 64 game specifically or the whole series, so you get the whole series!

Although I have this typed out on the 23, it's nearly 11 pm and I have work in the morning and I want to go through and edit this since I am notorious for having awful spelling and skipping whole words when I'm thinking anything quickly and I want to make sure this all looks and sounds good and at least has some coherence with the order it covers topics so thou must be patient.

[remxedmoon]

UPDATE TIME BABY

so!! i’ve been making a lot of edits over the past few days after i noticed a few Issues so!!! i think it’d be a good idea to list them here? consider this an update to this weird little pseudo-mod i’ve accidentally created. plus there’s some extra art here (if you, uh, couldn’t guess from the sprite directly above me :3)

okay!! big news first!! thanks to @horatiocomehome, i finally have access to the actual game files! kinda. at least enough access to actually know what the files are named. so, i’ve renamed all of redraw files to be compatible with the game! this should make it way easier to mod them into the game. yipee! so sorry these weren’t correctly named before auauua

i finally made “official” spritesheets for my battle portrait redraws!! ttthese are not intended to replace @/thea2l112’s mod or anything, i just wanted to make ones that included my custom sprites! because i’m very proud of them. i don’t think the custom sprites should cause any issues, but just in case, i also included versions that exclude them! the only differences you’d actually see in normal gameplay are act5 siffrin’s buff sprite and act6 siffrin’s ko sprite (or lack thereof). you can find them in the portrait redraws folder, but i’ll also include them at the end of this post for ease of access 👍 also the fourth spritesheet doesn’t actually do anything in normal gameplay it’s just there so my custom bonnie and loop sprites have a place to go.

okay the changes here are a little less important so they’re going down here. anyways

added the afterimages(?) for the special attacks! i genuinely didn’t realize these were a thing until one of my partners actually put my cgs in the game. so those exist now!! yipee!!

predictably, isa and mira’s jackpot cgs having different aspect ratios did in fact cause issues. i put in a bandaid fix, but i still can’t actually test it out (and i don’t want to pester pastell about it) so, uh, maybe let me know if you encounter any problems with their placement??

so you might’ve noticed that there’s two copies of each of siffrin’s cgs during the final attack scene? that’s just how it is in the game files. i don’t know why. they’re identical in every way, just there to make sure things work properly 👍

made an alt version of the mal du pays death animation! nothing drastic, just cut out a hole to match the original. probably safer to use the one with the Hole for modding, i don’t know what the layering for the cg is in that scene. alas. sspeaking of death animations though!

so!!! there’s two new sprites for this little update thing!! i forgot to do siffrin’s unused battle portrait during my first batch of redraws, so i went ahead and made it! as you can see above! nothing too difficult, i just reused the lineart from my bigfrin sprite (since they use the same lineart ingame)

second of all!! act6 siffrin death animation :3. or well, i guess it could work in other contexts, but i intended it to be for the twohats fight. idk! thought it’d be fun! use it for whatever you desire

aaaand i think that’s it! again, sorry there were so many issues with this batch! i might’ve drawn these for use in mods and fangames or whatnot, but i really did not expect all the interest and support i’ve received??? at all?? it really means a lot!!! so i want to make this thing as Polished and Complete as i can!

aaaa. enough rambling. if you’ve read this far, thank you!!! i hope the redraws are a little easier to work with now!! here’s the spritesheets as promised, please enjoy :3

spritesheets without custom sprites here v

so all you need to do right now is disappear.

HHHHAPPY ISATVERSARY EVERYONE. here’s redraws for every single battle cg in the game. 36 drawings this time around, with 11 of those being custom (though admittedly a good portion of those are edits). combined with the portrait redraws i made back in september, i’ve made 114 redraws for this project! jesus christ! just like those redraws, these are completely free to use!! as long as i’m credited and it’s not for commercial purposes, go wild!! do whatever you want!!!

no i didn’t make these for isat’s 1 year anniversary this is just wildly good timing.

i genuinely can’t fit all of these cgs in one post even with the 30 image limit on browser, but i’ll still try to fit Most of them below the cut (without making this post horrifically long), along with some notes that might be important 👍

okay! once again, i labeled all of the custom art as such in the drive(UPDATE. NNOT TRUE ANYMORE. reformatted file names to be easier to mod in auau. apologies!), but if you want a full list, the customs are hatless siffrin jackpot, bonnie jackpot, bonnie special attack, bigfrin attack, and a bunch of alts which are definitely not related to any projects i’ve been thinking about don’t worry about it. and out of those customs, only like. 3 of them are actually completely from scratch.

while i did my absolute best to keep the aspect ratios completely the same as the originals, there’s 3 exceptions that i just couldn’t get to work.

isabeau’s hair in his special attack cg wouldn’t fit in frame if i kept things completely accurate to the og, so i moved his cg down a bit. it shouldn’t cause any issues with modding or anything, it’ll just appear slightly lower than it does in game. alas…

isabeau’s sleeve and mirabelle’s hair made their jackpot sprites a little larger than the originals? i’m hoping this doesn’t have too much of an effect (since the jackpot sprites have inconsistent sizes) but i can’t test this myself unfortunately. aaa feel free to let me know on discord if any problems arise!!

i managed to fix these, so they aren’t going to cause problems now, but my original drawings for mirabelle and siffrin in the final attack scene were a pain in the ass to fix. mirabelle’s sprite was slightly too talk to fit in frame and siffrin’s hat whacked bonnie in the face while i was editing everyone together. i’m only mentioning this because it took like an hour and a half to fix them and finish the scene.

all that aside, these were a fucking BLAST to work on. apparently this ended up taking 57 hours over exactly 10 days. which is a little worrying if you do the math on that but somehow i have not burnt myself out. i will be doing enemies at some point!!! but probably not for a little bit. i think my friends will actually kill me if i don’t take a break.

once again, happy birthday isat. you’ve ruined my life and i wouldn’t have it any other way (silly).

also, on an actual serious note, this little timeloop game has genuinely changed my life for the better? you guys are probably sick of hearing it at this point (or maybe not, i don’t talk about myself That Much. i hope), but i was practically a ghost for about 2 years before joining this fandom. it’s a little surreal to suddenly have friends (plural!!!) and people who Care about me, or even know i exist, honestly. it’s weird!! in a good way!!!

i don’t think i would’ve ever come back to social media if this community wasn’t so welcoming. i’ve met a lot of really great people through this game!!! so, uh, thank you isat, i guess. here’s to another year.

[shotorozu]

you like their hands

character(s) : todoroki shouto, bakugou katsuki, midoriya izuku (1/?)

legend : [Y/N = your name] they/them pronouns used, quirk’s not specific

post type : headcanons; accompanied with a small scenario [fluff, the mildest of spice not nsfw]

note(s) : i was thinking about todo’s hands today— also i’ll be adding pictures of what i think their hand looks like so.. 😳

»»————-　♡　————-««

todoroki shouto

i’d like to believe that shouto’s hands would be long and pretty— kinda like how i’d imagine akaashi and kageyama’s hands

but have y’all seen that man’s hands in the anime and manga 😳 they’re not really what i’d call them “long”

so i had to find a mid point, kinda like a fusion of both.

his hands are either really pale, or the knuckles are just really red

moving on..

you have a weird infactuation with his hands, and you were gonna tell him! but you just didn’t know when

he didn’t really get it at first??

yes, he will respect and properly entertain your interests. but.. his hands? he doesn’t get that part yet

shouto can say he takes care of them well. washing his hands at least 3 times a day, and applying lotion on them with the slightest mint scent in it

and he takes care of his hands because he needs to rely on them everytime he uses his quirk.

speaking of quirk— his hands are either scorching to the touch, or cold.

so the first time he reaches out for your hand, you just.. freeze?? you were talking about something random while walking with him

then he just suddenly reached for your hand

seeing your reaction, he’s like.. “oh. my hand must be too cold for them. gotta switch.”

then he switches hands, holding your hand with his left. and you’re still the same, and it appears to be that switching didn’t really help

scenario

“what’s wrong, love?” he pulls you aside, staring at your expression— seeing that you became stiff when he reached for your touch.

you want to downplay the entire situation, really. but shouto doesn’t budge, that’s just who he is, and he’s still left wondering what’s wrong, and if he did something.

that is until you mention his hands, and that you like them

“your hands.. are really nice i guess,” you avert your gaze “i like them.” you say in almost a whisper like tone.

he sighs in relief. and he feels better that it’s not about the fact that you hate the temperature of his hands, since they’re either abnormally sahara desert hot or cold like fresh snow on a december morning.

his cheeks flare pink for a moment, in sudden realization “y-you like my hands?” shouto asks this as a confirmation, hoping that he actually heard it correctly.

but when you nod, he takes full advantage— entertaining your interest in his hands to his best abilities

he smiles when he sees your expression change when he brushes the back of your hand with his own. then, he finally holds your hand— the coolness of his right hand is making you hyper aware

your heart only pounds faster against your chest, when he presses his lips to the back of your hand, maintaining eyecontact as he does soz

after dating you, he paints his nails with clear nail polish. it makes him feel better knowing that they’ll stay clean even with all the hectic training

to calm you down, he likes to rub his thumb against your cheek— his quirk slightly activating while he stares into your eyes

a little spicy; but whenever you eat your desert during a date, he will wipe the excess off the side of your lips, and ask you to lick it off.

is he teasing you? or is he serious? we will never know.

bakugou katsuki

SCREAMs

bakugou’s hands are big, and his veins are prominent— but not too veiny to the point it’s concerning.

he sometimes likes wearing rings but.. that’s just sometimes

his hands are strangely soft, especially the palms— but he could say there’s some rough spots here and there, but he’d guess it’s because of his quirk.

bakugou’s hands are always warm and sweaty, which he never actually cared about— until he started dating you

he’s kinda worried that you wouldn’t wanna hold his hand, but you can say it’s actually the opposite?

you really like his hands.. but you’re just scared of getting judged

so when he reaches for your hand, you try to pretend that he wasn’t? you turn your head away— trying to not look the slightest bit of dazed

scenario

“what’s up with you?” bakugou interrogates you, his ruby irises glaring into your eyes— his voice gruff

“what?” you question, the sudden action was out of the blue— and you hold in your breath when his hands cage you in, large hands pressed on the wall behind you

“HAH?” he yells, not amused by your sudden oblivion, “don’t act dumb,” he grits his teeth “spit it out, and tell me what’s wrong.”

“nothing’s wrong, suki— i don’t really follow?” you try to convince him that no, i’m totally not afixiated with something about you, even though you’re my boyfriend; i don’t wanna admit that. however— you’re not very slick.

“tch, fucking liar.” his eyes narrow, “if you hate my fuckin’ hands, then i prefer it if you were honest about it.”

“sorry, but what?” you blink, suddenly appalled by his words, “hate.. your hands?”

“because that’s what it is, huh?” he moves even closer to you, practically inches away; and you can only pray that he can’t hear the rather loud beating of your heart. “my hands are so sweaty that you don’t wanna touch em, is that it?”

you’re agitated by his misunderstanding, and you sigh; finally deciding to come clean. “fine! fine. i like your hands.”

you didn’t mean to make it sound that upfront.

bakugou blinks, the sudden tension releasing into thin air, his expression left almost as equally surprised as you.

“tch. so that’s how it is,” he smirks, and by the way it looks— you suddenly regret telling him that.

well.. not really?

he actually takes advantage of that, making sure you remember his hands nicely.

when he sits next to you on the couch, he’ll throw his beefy ass arm around your shoulders like usual. then, he’ll run his hand up and down, making sure you’re aware of his touch.

bakugou will be THAT BITCH that’ll gesture you to come over so he could kiss you,

and when you’re leaning in— he’ll pinch your cheek, a sly grin on his face.

a little spicy; but he’s the type to rest his hand on your neck when you guys kiss <3 ugh

but overall— he’s really glad you actually like his hands, and it wasn’t like you hated them at all

but GOSH he just wished you told him from the start >:T

midoriya izuku

less veins, but.. DAMN THEY’RE KINDA THICK?? not too thick but.. have you seen his hands in the manga??

of course— his hands are rough, with a bunch of scars from his quirk. which he was kinda conscious about

but he tries hard to take care of them outside of combat things in fights; if they’re damaged then.. oh well

he definitely fiddles with pencils, and when he’s studying— the chance of him having a silver’s hand is likely (the thing where the graphite smeers on the back of your hand) he hates that shit

he definitely has a writer’s callus. PROVE ME WRONG!! that man writes a lot, and so do i so 😌 twinsies

but he tries to keep them clean, and he wants to make them feel less rough— so he will invest in some hand cream

compared to the other two, midoriya’s hands are normal in temperature.

but his grip is firm but he doesn’t really realize it sometimes.

you like his hands because.. the detail on his hands leave you mesmerized

but you don’t really wanna weird him out or make him uncomfortable. since he gets really flustered quick.

and you don’t want him to just stare at his hands and think about your fascination about them. no distractions

but he gets real pouty when you pull away

scenario

“hey Y/N, do you.. hate holding hands with me?” izuku asks one day, when you guys are studying in your room

“what?” you tilt your head, really surprised by his question— since you guys sat in silence for the last few minutes. you can feel the edge in your stomach grow when he mentions his hands.

“you always pull away when i try to hold your hand.” you gesture him to continue what he’s saying, and he continues “ but i get it though! my hands are.. scarred, rough. they’re kinda ugly compared to the rest of the guys.” he’s rambling, and you can’t help but feel really saddened.

“izuku, no.” you shake your head, “your hands aren’t ugly. yeah, they may be scarred and all— but they saved a lot of people, it saved eri, and it helped you get to where you are today.”

izuku’s cheeks flush with red, and he can’t say that you’re wrong. but; though he’s provided with reassurance, that’s not the answer he wanted

“but why won’t you hold my hand?”

“because i..” averting your eyes to the wall behind him, you’re looking for the right words. “i like your hands. i didn’t want to make you feel weird because of me.”

you look at his face after the confession, and it’s just ingulfed in a red shade.

on the contrary, this makes him like his hands more. everytime he looks at his hands, he’ll be motivated by your words.

but he’ll be a little shy with acting on it at first; especially in public

but fear not! izuku may seem innocent, but he also knows what he’s doing so.. don’t be decieved

when he’s studying, he’ll write with his right hand, and feed you little snacks with his left hand— urging you to open your mouth and take the snack

after sparring with you he’ll comment on how you did so good, also while placing his hands on your shoulder— massaging any sore parts

a little spicy, but when you guys are kissing, HIS HANDS WILL ROAM TO PLACES. pulling you closer as he attacks your lips

overall— he might be a little shy at first, but he can say he’s pretty accepting of your interest in his hands. it makes him feel better about the appearance of his hands.

»»————-　♡　————-««

likes and reblogs are appreciated, thanks for reading!

i do not own bnha/mha and it’s characters. boku no hero academia/my hero academia belongs to horikoshi kohei. i only own the writing, and i don’t profit off of my hobby.

do not reupload, translate, and use my work for any reading videos without my consent. do not plagiarize my work :))

[dokifluffs]

Playing With His Hands | Tendo, Tsukishima, Oikawa

Pairing: Tendo X Reader (gender neutral), Tsukishima X Reader (gender neutral), and Oikawa X Reader (gender neutral)

Genre: fluffs 😤 

Author’s Note: My hands are smol also it’s my first time writing for tendou so don’t attack me if it’s bad askjdhaskhd

Suga, Bokuto, Sakusa // Yamaguchi, Akaashi, Ushijima

Tendo: 

You couldn’t help but feel bored and on the brink of falling asleep during the lecture, hearing the professor’s monotone voice drone through the lecture hall

You leaned on Tendou’s arm as he listened half heartedly too while the two of you played a game on his laptop knowing the slide show the professor was taking his sweet time going through would be posted later

So the two of you figured to arrange a study date together to go through them and eat some dinner together

You played the air hockey game for the nth time and lost yet again to Tendou

Turning your face into his arm, you let out a yawn that made him smile down at you

The entire hall was as gloomy as outside, if not gloomier since it rained, water cascading down the tall windows

You wished you could wrap yourself up in bed and fall asleep with Tendou beside you

Tired of the game, you let him win, not giving a care

All you wanted was to feel his touch and warmth

Taking him by the hand, you wrapped his arm around your form as you leaned into his chest and brought your knees up and propped them on the edge of the long bench seat each row was in the hall

The two of you leaned back into the wood wall that was a step up to another long row of a table space and bench

“Are you this bored?” He teased with his voice velvety in your ears

“Mmhm,” you nodded, looking up to him as he shook his head, looking to the slideshow so he didn’t completely miss everything

You played with his long fingers, remembering the days you would watch him block volleyballs that were hit by the opposing team

The name the audience called him: the monster blocker but not in a bad way

He was strong. He was never the fearful monster others saw him as as a kid

You never called him a monster even if it was a good thing when Shiratorzawa was cheering him on

He was Tendou Satori and he was never and never will be a monster to anyone

You rubbed the pad of your thumb over the pads of each his fingers, tickling him with your nails as you traced his prints

But of course tendou wanted to have fun too

He purposefully wiggled his fingers and saw how entertained you were like a cat when you tried to catch his fingers in your small hands

Of course it was easy to just grab all fo them but this was the only entertainment the two of you had besides your laptops

Suddenly, the lecture was more interesting if you were to ask him

Also here’s a view of the seats in the lecture hall so it’s not confusing for anyone adksjhahsd

Tsukishima: 

The bus was filled with light snores as everyone slept soundly, their bodies drained after playing a five set match

You cheered on the team all you could with everyone else in the audience but alas, Karasuno lost by only a few points behind Aoba Johsai

Everyone played so valiantly, doing the best they could but the opposing team played a bit better

Especially with their captain’s serves being on point today

The sun was beginning to set far off in the distance as Takeda drove

The two of you sat towards the back with no one beside your row and Yamaguchi sitting in the row in front of you two

Tsukishima opted to use his earbuds instead of his usual headphones, sharing a bud with you on the bus

The ride was pretty boring to you

You swapped back and forth going on your phone but it could only entertain you for so long

Sitting still, his hands rested right on his knee

His fingers were wrapped with the medical tape to help him avoid any injuries while playing

You never thought he would actually get serious playing since he honestly thought of it as a club

Naturally, you brought your hand to his, your fingertips touching

You glanced up to see if he woke but he didn’t so you continued. You traced your fingers around the edges of his wrappings

Tracing your fingers down the length of his fingers until he suddenly took his hand in yours

You looked over to meet his golden eyes barely open

He gave your hand a squeeze before he opened his palm up to you, resting it on your leg and resting his head on your shoulder, letting you play with his hand

You held his hand, compared your hand size to his, astonishing at how much bigger his were to yours which made you wonder if they got bigger since the last time you compared?

When you arrived passing by the familiar roads and neighborhoods close to approaching the school, you began to unwrap his tape, rolling it into a perfect ball of tape

But little did you know that he was awake, pretending to be asleep when he rested his head on your shoulder, watching you play with his hands, taking comfort in your loving touches

Though he would never admit it

Oikawa: 

The room was filled with darkness, the only light coming from the tv

You laid in Oikawa’s lap as he watched focused on the extraterrestrial documentary

You could practically hear the gears turning and working in his head as he comes up with his own theories on where they are, what the government was hiding from everyone, and so much more

It did interest you but you weren’t as invested as Oikawa

Every now and then, he let out gasps, getting you to turn your attention to the tv

He even played the documentary back if you missed an important part and went off in thorough detail about how crazy it was and how people could believe we were the only life in this entire universe

You loved to see and feel the passion he was emanating from his being whenever he talked about this to you, feeling like the only person who listened to him whenever you two went out on dates to science museums and exhibits

Exactly like how passionate he was about volleyball

You understood his love for the sport he started as a child with his best friend, Iwaizumi

You didn’t blame him for devoting so much time practicing even if it meant him neglecting sleep and his personal health. You didn’t blame him, no, but you made sure he ate well and rested as much as he could on his rest days

He appreciated how much you were able to understand him whereas others couldn’t and eventually left him after not showing enough attention to them

You were quite the opposite for him since you also shared a love for volleyball

It felt like he had the best of the worlds: someone who was on the same level as him, who understood who he was as a person and even helped him grow

Like instinct you polish and talent you bloom, he realized that when he had you beside him, supporting him, he realized you made him bloom too

He rested his hand on your knee but getting a bit tired watching the documentary, you reached for his hand and brought it to you

You played with his hand, essentially massaging his hand but he barely noticed since he was so deep in the documentary

It was fine though since he smothered you in kisses, teasing about how cute you were

He didn’t look over to you when you played with his hand but he felt it and it made his heart flutter

~~~~~ Thanks for reading! Masterlist for more! Please do not repost anywhere else! 

Tags (let me know if you wanna be tagged for all my haikyuu posts): @yams046  @mazey-chan  @sunboikyo00  @kara-grayson04​  @fortheloveofbakugo​ @tsumtsumsemi​ @osamuonigiri @sammy-i-am​ @1-800-wholesome​ @realityisoftendisapointing

[uelden]

Vanity Fair interview translated

Just a side note before the actual translation; I don't know why, but instead of reporting the full questions and answers in full as she should, the journalist decided to report only summarized fragments of what Måneskin said and patch these fragments up into messy clusters. She also worded a couple phrases in a very confusing way (and yes, she's fully Italian). In short, she did quite a poor job, so the final shape of the interview is not that good. I didn't expect top-tier journalism from Vanity Fair but ffs. You'll see what I mean.

I translated it as it is, adding just a couple footnotes to give you insight on Italian pop culture references.

Translation under the cut

Måneskin: "Different from whom?"

by Lavinia Farnese, 09 June 2021

"True justice is being judged for what you do and not for what you are." The ones who are convinced of this are Damiano, Victoria, Ethan and Thomas who, by being the emblem of a generation that is finally free, refuse labels and conformism. In life, in love and on the stage. Where, maybe precisely because of this, they're winning everything

With the still unexpected (first place at Sanremo Festival) and the incredible (triumph at Eurovision) in their eyes, Måneskin are on the sofa of the house-studio they rented - to resume writing songs and rehearsing them - like you are after a won battle: lying in a calm and unreal silence, alert and a bit irreverent, happy.

In the garden there's the tennis table and the pool, the light of summer when it's starting and calming the country all around, and it filters inside from the large windows, and it goes onto the shining black of Ethan's hair, which blends with Thomas' eye shadow and the butterfly he has tattooed oh his naked forearm, which completes the picture of Victoria's golden crucifix hanging between neck and tank top and ends on the black nail polish of Damiano's stretched hands.

It's a human fresco, a Theatre of wrath [translator's note: "Teatro d'ira"] - to call it with the title of their latest album, a platinum record already - where their flaunted 20 years of age, their irregular femininity and virility are grown into proud and challenging custom, a pop glam rock generational manifesto of hard-earned liberties in a finally-unconditional expression of the self.

To watch them from any angle and from another age is to think that a great love will be born in those who'll understand: this new way of being in the world, the true and sovereign realm they hold where "diversity=exceptionality", the power of the artistic and cultural revolution of which they are healthy carriers in establishing in all lyrics and gestures the right to live according to one's own nature past the "people (who) talk, the people (who) unfortunately talk, and don't know what the fuck they're talking about." [tn: "Zitti e buoni" lyrics]

We go where we're afloat, where the air isn't gone. [tn: journalist's own variation on "Zitti e buoni" lyrics]

Miley Cyrus says hi – The numbers of a phenomenon

"The streams of Zitti e buoni are growing by the second, and they bring us above Muse, at the top of English charts, twelfth in the Spotify Global Chart. Followers almost tripled, in the post-Rotterdam period (from 1,4 to 3,3 millions, ed.) Contagious and universal folly: t-shirts and merchandising sold out in 10 minutes. Like the records, the tickets for a tour that keeps adding dates and expanding over geographic maps. They're contacting us even from some festivals were The Rolling Stones went." Thomas

"After the pretextual controversy over cocaine that France built against us, later disproven by my drug test, some graffiti popped up in Spain depicting me as a “No drugs” poster guy. Some tweets made us laugh: "Congratulations, Italy! I've never been more certain that four people have had sex with each other." Miley Cyrus started following us -You're great. -You guys are greater." Damiano

From the garage to the stars – Story of a flight

"It was only 2016, and we played in restaurants, in the streets, in via del Corso. Damiano without even a microphone, Thomas' guitar with wonky strings, Ethan was drumming on a cajón. During Rome highschools' sit-ins (Kennedy, Virgilio, Mamiani) we had our first confirmations and half-hours of celebrity, playing among those who criticized us and those who went "wow they're really cool." One of the rare times when they would have paid us – 50 euros each – we gave the money to the next band in the lineup so that they would make us play in their spot, later in the day, when there would have been more people. We had already realized how things worked. Visibility mattered more than money. And we still think that." Victoria

The intimacy of rock – Choice of a genre

"Music allows us the miracle of extending to others some very personal and private topics, sometimes even difficult and thorny ones. They are and they remain deeply your own, but at the same time they become a confession that reaches a wider audience, and in this passage that is alike a delivery, they find a place in you as well, a processing of them. You overcome them, you accept them. One second it's something aggressive, the next it's a ballad. Cathartic». Damiano

Against panic – The stage as therapy

"I've suffered a lot from anxiety and panic attacks, it's an issue I've worked on thanks to a psychotherapy course, my friends and my family. Playing helped me in not letting myself be paralyzed by my fears, not making myself limited in my private and professional life. I've learned to accept, to live with this side of myself. I don't hide it. I don't feel ashamed of it." Victoria

Analysis as necessity – Relying on someone saves you

"This belief that only madmen go to the psychologist is a widespread ignorance. No-one's born learned. [tn: common Italian saying] And it's often hard to understand the very reason why we're here, let alone the origin and direction of our desires. It's a long and legitimate journey towards lucidity, a kind of backing to become transparent." Damiano

Being out of our minds – But different from them [tn: "Zitti e buoni" lyrics]

"When you feel a strong passion towards something that is not a canonical job but an artistic language, that already puts you on a level of anomaly, which is not superior or inferior to other people, but it puts you in the position of the one who breaks the mold and also works at a loss, the one who sustains great risks while trying to do something that who knows if it will take you anywhere. "Why do it if it doesn't pay?". You want to give this dream of yours an aesthetic, but it becomes "You're dressing so weird! You must be gay!" - now that I'm 22 I laugh about it, but when I was 17 it had an effect on me, too." Damiano

The beauty of uniqueness – Of believing in it and defending it

"And I mean, at the end of the day if we're all different it's not because we want be alternative but because, really, no-one is the same. Justice is being judged on what you do and not what you are. Justice is equality, respect, beauty." Ethan

Fluid sexuality – Pride is freedom

"Heels for men that like themselves in them, kisses among ourselves, we have an open, extended mind, and we're proud of it. The horizons become vast, past the oppression of conservative families. With the information on the web knowledge becomes greater and with it the possibility that minorities will be less and less minorities, because the majority will be less of a majority. This way we'll make insults and bullying grow quieter. If social media get to a village of 50 souls and reveal to a girl who's afraid of the dark that someone has felt her same fear, then there's no reason to give a name to that fear, to mark it with labels which also limit and restrict. Definitions always had this effect on me. You shouldn't even consider the gender when judging someone, let alone their orientation." Victoria

Sexism – A culture to be dismantled

"Emma [tn: Emma Marrone, Italian singer] drops the bomb: “At Eurovision when I was there they massacred me for a pair of shorts, while they said nothing to Damiano – bare-chested and in heels.” The easy judgment against women is more fierce, constant, debasing (if I have a lot of sex I'm cool while Vic is a whore, where I show myself strong I'm a leader while Vic is despotic and a pain in the ass who reached success because she's hot.) As a male I'm privileged, the abuse I get is not comparable to those a woman has to live through, the comments over my aesthetic are centered only on my aesthetic and don't insinuate anything about my professionalism and my competence, while women are victims of this kind of thought in a systematic way. It happened though to find myself standing with a woman who while pulling me to herself to take a selfie, started licking my face out of the blue... I mean, what the hell do you want? Who asked you? Consent exists, and it's due." Damiano

Grow yourself – The only commandment

"To me conformism is the opposite of education [tn: could also mean "politeness"] and is the asphyxia of expression. I fortunately never endured heavy bullying, heavy enough for the the judgement of others to change me. But the mold of the small crumbs of bullying I got and of the kind of aggression that scars is the same. If I'm a kid who dances and likes dolls you have to let me do what I like. I was a kid who wanted to keep his hair long and played with Barbie. As a teen, my friends looked at my hair: " You have to find a girl with short hair to be at your side." My grandparents took away my dolls: "Stop it, they're not for you." Ethan

"When I was six I was already sick of them, the distinctions between masculine and feminine. I've always had strong ideas about how I wanted to be. I refused things that were typically defined as girly, and all around me they mocked me because I went skateboarding, I played soccer, I didn't wear skirts, I was giving myself the chance to be as I wished. I endured it a little, I suffered a little, but I had courage, and now thanks to that courage I know that I could have gotten even much more hurt, otherwise I would have left to others the most important choice: the one about myself." Victoria

Love in progress – Music, girlfriends

"I've been married to music for the last 20 years. I can't wait to celebrate our golden wedding anniversary." Ethan

"Everyone makes their own experiences, sometimes it goes well, sometimes it goes wrong, but it's always not anybody's business." Thomas

"When I first felt feelings and attraction towards a girl it was a bit disorienting because I had never had the courage of going beyond the limitations I had put for myself. For society being heterosexual is the norm and so you often define yourself in that way automatically, depriving yourself of the freedom to live many shades and faces of love. Once I overcame the initial insecurity of having to call into question my certainties I've lived my sexuality in a very natural and free way, as it should be for everyone." Victoria

"I had paparazzi at my door every day and night. So, after four years of relationship, I revealed her name. I still have paparazzi at my door every day and nigh, but at least I don't have to hide anything anymore." Damiano

The worth of the group – Phenomenology of protection

"The true engagement though, the true family is among ourselves, our band. We've believed in it since day zero, even before we called ourselves Måneskin (Moonlight in Danish), even before Ethan drew a giant moon on the flier for the first concert we ever did. We share everything, even the pain for the tragedy of Seid Visin, who committed suicide at 20 because of racism. [tn: I think the journalist asked them their opinion about Seid Visin's death, which was a current events topic in Italy, and then pasted it syntaxically in the middle of Thomas' answer, which was not a great move] A group is what we all should be: stay united and not back down an inch in the face of oppression that is generated by a distorted view of diversity." Thomas

I'm not of the right age – Like Gigliola [tn: Gigliola Cinquetti won Eurovision with her song "Non ho l'età", which means "I'm not of the right age"]

"Before you the only one who won both Sanremo and Eurovision on the same year was Cinquetti (1964). If there's anything I feel I'm not of the right age for? No, honestly no. Maybe having children. Regarding children I'll be honest: I'm not of the right age." Damiano

Having touched the sky – The fears that remain

"We're more than inside the dream, we're in the conquered dream. When you fly high there's the risk of plummeting and hurting yourself, but we'll work hard not to end up like Icarus, who burns his wings with the sun. Everything is in our hands. And this - a bit pretentiously - reassures us rather than scaring us." Damiano

[fromzerotoeuphoria]

So you wanna say that RinHaru is a "tOxiC" ship...

*siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh*

It's 2021, humanity has survived a freakin pandemic and people are still out here calling RinHaru 'tOxiC!!1!'?? Like with their full chests??

Imagine HOW TIRED—

Random blog post:

Also random blog post:

In at number one we have RinHaru, also known as Sharkbait. Everything Free! began and ended with these two. The entire first season is about their relationship, and the final fight in the Eternal Summer Special is between them. RinHaru may not have the years of friendship that MakoHaru and SouRin have behind them - but that’s what makes them such an amazing pairing. Within just a short few months in the last term of their last year of elementary school, Rin and Haru became an unforgettable presence in each other’s lives.

(Come on, you know points were made 😉).

But then ofc, you got people crying in the comments that their ship isn't No.1. Which okay, I totally get that you'd feel your ship should be at the top even though the article is just someone's personal opinion...and they didn't even attack your ship; if anything, they put it at No.2 and only had lovely things to say about it, but seriously?? Calling RinHaru toxic?? In the year of our lord 2021???

Aren't y'all exhausted with your own selves by now? I know the rest of us are.

And so, I'm sharing my response to those comments here, for although I have much more organized and polished essays on my drafts on how RinHaru Is NOT Toxic, I really had to just get these points out for now:

Claiming something to be true doesn't make it true, especially when it's driven by an emotional attachment to an opposing ship.

None of the relationships in Free are toxic except for Ikuya x Hiyori, ugh, especially RinHaru, since this is the one haters love to ignorantly throw the "toxic" label on. The entire series wouldn't revolve around Haru and Rin's relationship if that were the case (and Utsumi, the director, comes out and says that Free! is Haru and Rin's story).

The staff, director, VAs all have POSITIVE and lovely things to say about Haru and Rin's friendship. Utsumi said in the RinHaru Mook interview that Rin was the only one who could do what he did in helping Haru realize his dream in S2. In Ep4 of Take Your Marks, Haru himself literally tells Rin that he is the reason Haru was even able to move towards the future. This is all CANON, not headcanon, not fanon, but actual canon material directly from the words of the Free! staffa and anime.

Explain to me how RinHaru is "tOxiC"?? Because they've argued? Because Rin unknowingly and unintentionally hurt Haru when he only once ever told him he'd never have to swim with him again?? Because Rin was suffering with depression (as Utsumi herself said) throughout Season 1 and sometimes showed symptoms of his depression? Because Rin kicked a trashcan out of frustration in S1E12????

Hahaha like seriously, it's okay if you strongly dislike RinHaru as a ship, but calling it "tOxiC" is such a pathetic stretch as a hater. Especially when doing so, you undermine actual toxic relationships and the victims who live through them.

The entire Free! franchise has multiple movies, 2.5 whole seasons and even a 4-episode film that shows Rin being one of the most supportive, sweet, caring and motivating characters on the show. He drives Haru to constantly improve at swimming, was the only one who was able to breakthrough to Haru in Season 2 about Haru's future dream the way he did (again, as Utsumi herself said), is the reason Haru attributes to being able to step towards the future, is a "dear friend" to Haru whom Haru cares a whole lot about and, as Season 1 shows us, strongly wants in his life.

But I guess none of this exists for antis—nope, in their own 2013-stuck worlds, RiNhArU iZ dA tOxiC sHiP.

(But hey, at least the commenter agreed in a follow-up comment that their claim is "dry, unoriginal ignorant and completely-undermining-to-ACTUAL-toxic-relationship"—acceptance is one of the first steps to recovery :))

[palbabor-writes]

Latibule

Pairing: Sakusa Kiyoomi x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, panic attacks & hypochondria, adult language, eventual SMUT

Words: 9790

His usual spot at the cafe is taken, and he’s already decided to keep walking on, but somehow, somehow, he manages to catch your eye.

His feet are slowing, a stuttering breath stagnating in his lungs, all at once hopeful and bewildered, but before he can examine his fluttering emotions, you’re alongside him on the noisy sidewalk, passing him his usual evening drink, a pleased smile on your soft lips.

Suddenly, the world smells like velvety pine and heady bergamot, and he can’t stop staring down at you.

Notes: hi. this is my first real foray into the world of Haikyuu!! & i’m so excited to branch into this fandom! if this is your first time reading my stuff imma warn you, i take things slow, so expect some slow burn. 

this will be a multi-chapter fic with eventual NSFW/18+ only content. i will post warnings for each update. i’ll also link other chapters on this page and any other pages that come up, so keep in mind that there will be edits to links as things progress - i wasn’t planning on this being anything more than a one-shot, but this first exploration of Sakusa’s character turned into a monster & i wanna really hone in on that sweet, sweet build up. 

big, huge shoutout to @wickedfaerytale & @albinoburrito​ for their edits and suggestions. y’all are amazing and i love you both so much, this fic wouldn’t be what it is without the two of you. 

Latibule /lat-i-bule/ noun a hiding place; a place of safety and comfort 

pt. i: an opening 

[ pt. ii: four set ] ||

It’s a quiet coffee shop. 

He likes that about it. He likes it almost as much as the simple fact that he can tell what day of the week it is by the smell of the disinfectant and bleach that’s being used behind the counter. 

There’s a strange comfort to this place’s consistency and Kiyoomi Sakusa likes to linger here, propping his MSBY issued volleyball bag beside his usual table. He’s already placed his coffee order with the cheerful man who guards the cash register, watching as his paper cup is marked with a fresh sharpie and placed on the bartop, beside the elbow of that barista who always attentively turns to wash her hands before making each new order.

He had stumbled upon the shop his senior year of college and he’s haunted it ever since, content to sip on a smooth cortado as he watches over the latest plays from the MSBY games, mapping out his overestimations, his successes, and his flukes in his notebook– carefully lined kanji listing out what worked and what needs some extra practice. The caramel sweet flavor of the ristretto shots always helps to relax him, his broad shoulders lowering, the ache of self-induced tension and overworked muscles easing as his drink cools between his fingers, finally sinking fully into the plush leather seat of his clean chair.

The young woman, he should know your name, but he’s never caught a proper glimpse of your name tag, because you’re always moving, gives him a familiar lifting of smooth lips and places his completed drink on the handoff plane. You know his personal preferences well enough that you’re already moving the caddy of lids and cardboard sleeves forward, so he can select his own from the neatly stacked row. He gives you a cursory nod and his calloused fingertips pull the frothy beverage into his hands, cupping the curved sides and taking a deep drag of air through his masked nose, inhaling the bright smell of fresh coffee.  

And…vines…or is it a tangy pine? 

There’s something else that’s tickling his senses, and he blinks toward you, dark brows knitting together, a misplaced curl of inky hair brushing against his forehead, trying to make sense of the smell. His chin lifts and his head tilts, eyes watching your polished movements as you move onto the next drink in line. It’s definitely got some floral notes, but it’s not cloyingly sweet, like honeysuckle or gooseberry–no, it’s got some kind of balmy spice to it. It returns when you move closer and he swears he can taste summer when you shift back. 

Odd. 

When you look up at him again, he’s already stepping away, his running shoes squeaking across the slate tiles, making his way back to his bag and table. The aroma of your perfume is half forgotten when he cracks his laptop open, squirting some hand sanitizer across his chapped palms before he starts to clack his fingertips across the dark keys. He needs to get more lotion; he thinks as the sterile solution cools between his splayed fingers, this weather always dries his skin out.

The next time he comes in he spies you at the back of the shop, jotting something down in a large binder before kneeling behind the counter, returning with a sparkling, grated drain top. The white gleams under the accented lighting and he watches as you thumb at the paint, denoting a splotch of rust that rests under the dip of the metal. You return the cover to the ground and immediately twist to the hand washing sink that rests behind the bar, lathering up some dispensed soap and methodically stroking from the tips of your fingers to your wrists. A steady puff of steam is rising around you as he places his order– 

[ a oat milk smoothie, with an extra scoop of protein powder, chia seeds, turmeric, kale, cucumber, dash of dates for sweetener ] 

and by the time he’s paid and padding toward his usual spot, you’re finishing up, yanking a few disposable paper towels from the overhead dispenser and gingerly drying your damp hands. 

He’s seen you wash your hands plenty of times before, but he finds himself distractedly following your movements this afternoon as he waits for his order and his computer to finish booting up. You catch his obsidian eyes when you turn around and give him a brief smile; a flash of teeth peeking through your lips before you move back to your binder. You jot down a few more notes as you move onto the fridges that sit under the countertops, pulling and prying at the gaskets that line the doors of the whirring chillers, speaking softly to a fellow employee, pointing out the missed stains and chipped flecks of ice that like to hide within the folds of the protective plastic. 

You’re not overbearing in your coaching, keeping your tone even and friendly, focusing on what can be done going forward, rather than lingering on the ‘what if’s’ and ‘why wasn’t’ of the situation.

Practical, efficient, thorough with your work, and careful with your craft. 

Those descriptors float to the forefront of his mind as he takes his smoothie from the barista that’s standing beside you. He lets his gaze hold against your half leaning form, watching the lead tip of your pencil mark over the stark red checklist that you’re working your way down. 

He’s not sure why he’s so focused on you. He’s never thought much about you. You’ve been someone that exists in the background, part of his routine to be sure, but he justifies that your attention to detail is likely the reason why he prefers this shop to the dozens of other coffee houses that litter the main street by the MSBY training facilities and stadium. Your head shifts, and he can tell you can feel his gaze, so he swiftly plucks up his icy cold cup, his nose involuntarily trying to seek out that perfume you’d been wearing the other day. 

Strange. His brow furrows, and he hunches into his sports jacket, walking back to his chair and his glowing computer. He can’t smell it today. Maybe you’re too far away, or perhaps you’d forgotten to put it on before coming in.

Pity. He’d liked it.

“Running a little late today, I see,” your voice snaps him out of his stupor, onyx eyes lifting to rest against your open expression. 

“Kind of,” he replies blandly, his deep cadence muffled by the pull of his mask.

“Damn, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be late! Want me to push your drink to the front of the queue? I’ve got the power to do that, you know,” you tease, tilting your head as a mischievous grin settles over your quirked lips. Kiyoomi blinks impassively down at you and shakes his head. How would he even reply to something like that? You were joking, right? You must be. And if you weren’t, the people who are clustered around the handoff plane would certainly realize that he was being given his drink first, clearly ahead of all of theirs, and they’d probably toss him a few disgruntled stares or mouthy jabs, and likely accuse you of playing favorites. 

Wait. Favorites? 

Does he count as a ‘favorite’ here? He looks away, lips drooping into a pursed line. You’ve always been…nice…but there’s no way he’s a favorite of yours. He’s hardly spoken to you in the year and a half that he’s been coming here. But is that all it takes? Just take up space in the cafe a few times a week and get special treatment? 

No. You must be joking. 

All the same, your jovial tone and that welcoming smile is a little intriguing.    

He shuffles closer to the heat of the espresso machines, easily lifting his head over the lip of the bronze metal, watching you. You’re looking down now, fingers gripping the dark handle of the portafilter, holding it under the buzzing grinder to gather a fine sprinkle of dusky espresso grounds into the waiting basket. Then, you lift a lustery tamp to the heaping mound and press expertly against the delicate remains of the arabica, packing them to an even level before clamping the filter under the display of the machine. When you flick the switch that activates the group head you must sense his stare and lift your eyes to his, eyelashes momentarily fluttering against your cheeks when you spy his unabashed observations of you.

For a second, your hands falter, trapped within the unexpected intensity of his curious gaze, and you pat blindly for the cup that’s sitting to the right of your curled arms, embarrassingly disarmed by his transparent focus. But once your grip wraps around the waiting plastic, it seems to ground you and you let out a huffing chuckle, eyes crinkling up at his half obscured face. 

“I’m only kidding about moving your drink up, don’t worry, I won’t get you in trouble. Besides, it’s against our policy. First come, first serve and whatnot,” you assure him, halting the stream of water that’s pouring the carefully timed flow of espresso into the clear shot glass that’s waiting against the gleaming metal of the drip tray. 

“You’re busy today,” he notes, jerking his curly head toward the gaggle of college students sprawled across some of the bigger tables, their laughing voices and overly loud conversations easily drowning out the hum of lofi jazz that’s playing from the recessed speakers.

“Ah, yeah, finals are coming up for a lot of us that go to the university. I know my classes are starting to gear up for that last push and sometimes you just need a pick me up and coffee is great for that. We also get a big boost from the smoothies and frappes that we sell in the afternoons, so we get a little packed. Most of our sales happen during the weeks leading up to finals and midterms, uh, anyways, not that you asked for an economic lesson on a small cafe’s profit margins.”

“You’re a student?” he asks, head dipping back, eyes glittering in the lights. Wait. How old are you? Not that he can boast any sort of seniority on that front, he’s only 24 after all, but you just seemed, hmm, more mature? He didn’t picture you as a co-ed. Not that he’s actively picturing you when he’s not here. Well, he is a little recently, but you’ve always felt sort of timeless? Ageless? Is that the right term? You give off an air of confidence. So he’d assumed that you were older than him. Not in a bad way, in fact he’d sort of like it if you were. Why, that is, he’s not willing to look too deeply into, at least, not right now. Maybe later, when he gets back home and can…oh, you’re talking again.

“I’m a graduate student, but not for much longer. I’m finishing up my dissertation this week! Thank God. This semester has been the pits, I’m so ready for a break!” You sound genuinely happy and he can smell that faint aroma of your perfume each time you move. 

“Congratulations,” he murmurs, unsure if you’d heard him since you’re stepping away from the machines that he’s posted himself behind. He watches you set up two steaming drinks, topping them with a lazy swirl of silky, housemade, whipped cream, a crosshatch drizzle of caramel, carefully snapping a set of black plastic lids on top, before calling out the handwritten names and handing them off to their respective owners. Then you’re back, hands already unhooking the portafilter, knocking out the used espresso pucks into the trash and bringing him back to that spicy smell of summer that sits on your skin.

“Haha, it’s a little early for a congratulations. Don’t jinx me, will’ya? But seriously, thanks, that’s nice of you to say,” you continue, flowing easily back into this half-hearted conversation he’s accidentally struck up with you. He winces at that thought and dips his hands deeper into his jacket, hunching his shoulders into a habitual slouch that he instinctively imposes upon himself when he’s out in public.

“You want a lid?” you question over the hiss of the machine, and he lifts his head, finding your bright eyes through the misting remains of the cleared steam wands. 

“No.” His response is clipped, and he gulps down a sudden burst of hazy anxiousness when someone brushes past him, jostling him closer to the low wall that divides the bartop from the cafe floor. He braces himself against the warming top of the machine, his large palm steadying himself, shoulders caving forward, his dark curls falling over his eyes, obscuring his face further. He clenches his jaw, a scowl blooming over his lips. 

His social anxiety isn’t anything new, and it’s likely exacerbated by the bustle of the nearby college students, who seem to be getting louder by the second. The noise is needling under his skin. He starts his carefully ingrained breathing exercises, tugging in a deep stream of air through his flared nostrils. 

But the smell is coffee is too overwhelming and suddenly his ritual doesn’t help much. 

He can feel blood leaving his fingertips and toes, or as his cousin Komori puts it [ the inescapable dread of some imagined ailment, which is making him think that his body is rushing blood from his extremities to his vital organs, his fingertips cold, hands shaking, when in reality ‘you’re just feeling unsure of yourself, man. It’ll be ok in a minute, promise!’ ] 

But in the end, it doesn’t matter what anyone calls it, or how they think he should feel during these heart pounding moments, he just knows that he wants to get out of here, now. 

His agitation must have twisted the top half of his expression because the feel of your warm fingertips against his wrist jerks him out of his head, causing him to suck in an unsteady breath as he lurches backwards, pulling away from your offending touch. 

“Oh! Sorry! I didn’t think…I just…” you bite your lip, a look of stark worry passing over your usually open features. “Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Are you…are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” he grunts, teeth clenched, right leg bouncing in place against the tiles. Shit. It’s not like he could have predicted that you’d try to touch him, so you can’t really blame him for his misplaced reaction. Just get him his coffee and he’ll be on his way…

Come on…come on…

“Here you go. Sorry for the wait, Sakusa,” you lift on your tiptoes, the stretch of your legs and arms apparent as you hold his cup out, careful to balance yourself against the lever of the steam wand. He takes the proffered drink and nods his thanks at you, his gaze dark. The gesture might be a little strained, and he knows you likely think he’s some kinda freak at this point, but he’s glad to see your customary smile before he turns, shouldering his way out the door and into the promise of open air.  

“Stop being so secretive about this place. It’s not like you can’t search for it online, Omi Omi. I saw you come in with the logo of their shop last week and I wanna try it out. Don’t cha’ gimme that look, I deserve to have good coffee too! And if it’s close by you can’t just keep it to yourself! Think about the rest of us, huh? Besides, I think they’d like to see something other than yer’ prickly face every once in a while.” Golden haired Atsumu Miya, his fellow teammate and setter for the MSBY Black Jackals, has been walking beside him for five blocks, jabbering on about the bland offerings of the big box coffee chains that surround their home gym, and how he hasn’t had a good cup of coffee in days. Tch, he’d said months originally, but that was an obvious lie. After all, Kiyoomi pointed out, slipping his mask on before the two stepped into the strong midday sun, he’d come in with an iced coffee two days ago, proclaiming to the whole team it was the best he’d ever had, bar none. 

“It’s a small shop,” Kiyoomi glumly elaborates, his dark hair soaking up the rays of sunlight as they crossed the bustling pedestrian walkway. “I think it’s run by an American. The staff speaks English, besides Japanese. There’s one barista in particular, a young woman, she has–”

“English? Oh, hell yeah! I can practice! This is perfect! They got any specialty drinks? I couldn’t see any from the menu that they had online, but I told ‘Samu I’d send him a picture of the place.”

Hmph, what’s the use of bothering to hold a conversation with this guy, Kiyoomi thinks, obsidian eyes narrowing as his brows furrow over his scrunched face, watching Atsumu chatter on about the vague sampling that he’d seen on their website. He’s not listening, anyway.

The coffee shop bell dings as the two of them step into the space, greeted by a waft of freshly ground coffee and the sharp tang of disinfectant. “Ahhh,” Atsumu says, propping his hands on his trim hips and fixing Kiyoomi with a pointed look, “totally see why you like the place. It smells like they have a freaking bleach, whaddya call those, ah, an air freshener! Yeah, smells like they have an ‘eu de bleach’ wall plug in.” 

“It’s clean,” Kiyoomi affirms, his own hands sliding into his pockets, fingers wrapping around his wallet as he steps into the line. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Not at all,” Atsumu grins, resting an arm on Kiyoomi’s shoulder as he glances over the chalkboard menu. “Just can tell that must be why you like this place so much. Bet you huff cleaner as soon as you get home.. Speaking of, I still need to see your new apartment, heard you let Ushijima come by and that’s not fair at all. Kinda– ow! Omi, ya’ friggin ass!” 

Kiyoomi jerked his arm upwards as he stepped toward the register and the abrupt displacement sent Atsumu’s hand flying up, managing to perfectly strike himself on his nose as he attempted to counterbalance his sudden shift in momentum. 

“HA-ah, ahem, I mean…hello! Nice to see you again, sir!” the barista calls out, poorly concealing his mirth at Atsumu’s fumbling behind a gloved hand. Kiyoomi nods curtly, his order on the tip of his lips, but before he can utter anything Atsumu is beside him again, leaning against the well lit pastry case and peering over his options critically.

“Hmm, ya’ got any of those little madeline cakes? They’re vanilla, kinda look like a shell? Saw em’ on yer’ website.” 

The barista gives Atsumu a broad grin and twists to talk with someone who’s below the arched dome of the food case, quietly asking a few questions before looking back at the blonde man. “Yeah, we do! We’re actually just putting them out, my manager is checking for the–”

Atsumu steps impossibly closer to the gleaming glass and pops his head over the dome, peering down at whoever is restocking the sweets. “Oh! Hey there!” he chirps, lowering his chin, his face pulling into an exaggerated, cocky smirk. “Ya’ know what I mean, right? It’s kinda like a cake, but it’s small, like a cookie. It’s French. No, it’s not that. Maybe on the next tray? What? I can’t hear ya’. It’s smaller. I can step around, see if–”

A familiar voice pipes up before Atsumu can move closer and Kiyoomi turns, ears instantly pricking up at the sound of your reply. “I said, I know what a madeline is, sir. I’m rearranging and organizing my cart at the moment and, if you’d like, you can order your drinks first. I’ll have the madeline waiting for you on the other side of the bar.”

“Lemme just see one,” Atsumu grins, resting his hands against the glass. Kiyoomi’s lips curl at the sight, watching Atsumu’s hands leave lingering prints behind. Great, now they’ll need to clean and re-polish the display. Besides, you’d said you had them. Why keep pushing the issue? Ugh. If he wasn’t regretting his decision to show his fellow teammate the shop before, he certainly is now. 

“Just wanna make sure we’re on the same page, is all. Ya’ might give me something else by mistake and that’s a waste of time for both of us!” Atsumu’s smile broadens, a shadowed look falling over his angular features. 

You hop up from your crouched position, a wrapped package with bright blue lettering that clearly says [ French Vanilla Madeline ] on the side, clutched between your fingers. “Oh no, I get it,” you begin, mimicking Atsumu’s cheshire grin with startling accuracy. “You just want to double check! I mean, the words on the packaging do say: Madeline. So unless you mean something else, something that’s not called ‘A French vanilla madeline, made with real vanilla extract and buttery goodness,’ I think we’ve got you covered.”

Your voice is saccharine sweet, lilting over the words, a well-practiced smile lifting your lips. You’re still clearly mirroring the one Atsumu is giving you. It’s the snappiest your tone has ever been, and the fact that it’s being used against his annoying teammate is priceless. Suddenly, he can’t help the laugh that’s already snickering its way past his mask. 

“Oi!” Atsumu cries, pushing himself off the case at last, his teeth gritted at Kiyoomi’s obvious amusement. “I just wanted to check! And you, manager lady, don’t be so mean!”

“Pfft, manager lady? It’s (Y/N). And me? Mean? I was not mean, I told you that we had them! I just needed to FIFO some of the other pastries first,” you defend, a surprised exhale falling from your lips. 

“FIFO? What is that? Don’t use that food jargon on me! I get that enough from my brother. He does that crap all the time, like it’s some sorta secret lingo. ‘Don’t do that ‘Tsumu, gotta make sure it’s in date’. ‘Don’t come on the line!’ ‘Gotta wear a hat or a hair net if yer’ gonna be back here!’ ‘Don’t mislabel the rice!’ On and on. What’s with you food people? So uptight. Look, I just wanted to try one. Yer’ reviews said they were good! Here, tell you what, give me two. Don’t laugh! Omi, help! She’s picking on me!”

“Stop it, you’re making a scene. Any other inane questions? Or anything else you’d like to order, because I’m certainly not buying any of this for you,” Kiyoomi replies, sneaking a glance at your bemused expression. You catch his eye and give him a quick wink and he finds that his smile stays with him long after he, and a chastened and satiated Atsumu have left the warmth of the coffee shop.

“Mmm, these are pretty good,” Atsumu mumbles between bites of his madeline. “Ya’ want some?”

He stops by after his evening practice, when the sun has long since fallen past the horizon of the city, but as soon as he rounds the corner he regrets his decision.

The cafe is brimming with people. They’re everywhere; outside, they are clustered on the pavement, sitting on the collection of iron wrought chairs, and gathered in groups. Inside, most are sprawled close to the hand off plane, or draped over the couches and tables. They appear to be animated, with computer screens and voices bright, too bright. His usual spot is taken, and he’s already made up his mind to keep walking on but somehow, somehow, he catches your eye. 

His feet are slowing, a stuttering breath stagnating in his lungs, all at once hopeful and bewildered, but before he can examine his fluttering emotions, you’re alongside him on the noisy sidewalk, passing him his usual evening drink [ a doppio con panna with bitter lungo shots, poured affogato ] a pleased smile on your soft lips. 

Suddenly, the world smells like velvety pine and heady bergamot, and he can’t stop staring down at you. 

“Hey! Glad I could catch you. Wanted to tell you good luck on your upcoming game! I think I saw on the news that it’s tomorrow? Right?”

“Yes, we’re playing Azuma Pharmacy. They have a good starting lineup. It’s entirely possible that we’ll lose.”

“Jeez,” you exhale, cocking your head at his serious expression. “Kind of a pessimist, aren’t you?”

“I’m a realist. I’m perfectly prepared to beat them, but things always play out differently on the court, no matter what your personal expectations are.” 

You give him another smile. This one comes quickly, and it’s bigger than any of the others, the pull of it lighting up your face. It’s different, and he can tell that the way you’re looking at him has shifted; that you’ve liked this answer. He’s not sure why, it’s the truth. Nothing more, nothing less. 

“Good point. Well, win or lose, you’ve got my luck! I better get back inside. Your drink is on me by the way, for the other day…when I touched your hand…well, I’m sure you remember. Anyway, see you, Sakusa!”

He watches you slip past the packed lines of students, already rolling up your sleeves so you can wash your hands. Once you’re behind the espresso machine you’re hidden by the burnished copper and he walks on, shouldering his MSBY bag higher, lifting his coffee to his lips. It’s got a rich flavor, well balanced and expertly poured. Once again, he’s reminded that you’re good at what you do and, despite the balmy heat of early spring, that makes his fingers tingle and his skin break out in gooseflesh.

Later, when he’s falling asleep, he keeps seeing your eyes. Watching as your colored irises come alive in the moonlight, hopeful, shining, and wholly focused on him.

At practice, Atsumu insists on completing his post workout stretching next to him. He’s used to Kiyoomi’s sullen silences and barbed retorts, content to chatter however he pleases, flitting from topic to topic as he eases into his cool down routine. 

“I need to go back to that coffee shop. Ya’ been back lately?”

“No,” Kiyoomi lies, brushing a stubborn wave of curls out of his sweaty face. 

“Too bad. Maybe after Friday’s practice? That girl really knew her stuff. Made some great coffee, too. What was her name? Ah, that’s right, (Y/N). She’s cute, what’s her story?” 

Something twinges against Kiyoomi’s rib cage at the word ‘cute.’ Hmm, that’s not normal. He flips to his left side, facing away from Atsumu’s greedy eyes and leering smiles. 

“How long has she worked there?”

“Not sure,” Kiyoomi replies, flattening his palm against the cool flooring of the gym. “At least a year, maybe more.”

“That other barista said she was a manager. She’s not one of the owners, is she?”

“Dunno.”

“Is she a student? Kinda strange to see an American working in Japan, and she’s definitely an American. She’s good with the Japanese, but her accent is off.”

“Your accent is off, so I’m not sure what your point is. I can understand her, and I can’t say the same for you.”

“Jackass!” Atsumu snaps, flopping up from his splayed stretch to butterfly his muscled legs. “It’s called a regional accent, and it’s perfectly normal. Ya’ got one too, city boy!”

“See? No one says things like that. You sound like a cartoon character. Sometimes I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Yer’ full of it!”

“Hmph,” Kiyoomi hums, curling himself onto his haunches and flattening the tops of his hands against the floor. The satisfying crunch of his wrists as his fingers settle makes Atsumu visibly shudder and Kiyoomi flashes him a quick smirk of his own, hoping it will spook his stretching companion enough that he’ll leave him be. He prefers to do his cool down in silence. 

“She do anything else? Other than diligently slaving over yer’ coffee, that is?”

Tch. It seems that luck isn’t with him today. “She said she’s a graduate student.”

“Oooh, what’s she studyin’?”

“Not sure.”

“Yer’ about as fun to talk to as a stack of bricks, ya’ know? Bet if I’d asked you what her name was the other day all you’d say was, ‘I use’ta just call her barista: first name: cute, last name: girl.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t reply. Something about these questions is bothering him. He doesn’t like that he can’t answer them properly�� it’s frustrating, really. All he can honestly tell Atsumu is that you’re neat and efficient, that you have a smile that he can’t quite shake out of his head, a perfume that he wishes he could place, and that, to date, you’ve given him one free coffee. The fact that he knows that you’re a graduate student is sheer luck, information that you’d happened to share with him, not that he’d asked you about. He uncoils his hands and flips them over, letting his eyes rest against his reddened palms. Oh, and you’d touched his wrist once and the sheer metaphysical weight of that contact had nearly sent him stumbling backwards. 

It’s stupid; he’s stupid. 

It’s not hard to talk with people. It’s just…he knows he’s not good at it. Besides, when would he practice? He’s surrounded by extroverts; extreme extroverts. Extroverts who defy all sense and who usually can’t be silenced unless they’re tucked into a deep sleep, and even then it’s doubtful. Both Hinata and Bokuto have demonstrated that they can, and will, talk in their sleep. Still, it’s frustrating to find himself boxed into a corner, completely at a loss and unaware of the most cursory, mundane, simple, facts about you. For almost two years, he’s seen you at least twice a week, shouldn’t he know more? Why doesn’t he know more?

“Why not give her a ticket to a game?”

Atsumu’s question makes him lift his head, abandoning his musings as he lets the weight of that suggestion sink in. The setter is crinkling his eyes at him now, that all knowing smirk back on his lips, umber eyes hooded, mischievous. “The front office can do that, ya’ know? We’ve got extras. They keep em’ for that purpose. Just say she’s a special guest, or a potential sponsor. They ain’t gonna question you.” 

Kiyoomi looks away, crossing his legs and leaning to his right side, feigning disinterest as Atsumu tells him who he can speak with, where he can see the upcoming calendar, and what seats might be open. It’s a good idea, a great idea, and he can’t help but loathe that Atsumu thought of it first.

The ticket is good for a first row balcony seat.

It’s situated in the best spot. He’d picked it out himself, carefully looking over the colored diagram of the stadium and belaboring the proximity of the sight-lines, wanting to let you have a bird’s eye view of the court. Where would he like to sit, if he could watch a game? What works? What doesn’t? Too high and you can’t catch the movement of the ball. Too low and you can’t see the players. Too far to the right or left and you can’t see the breadth of the court. It’s tricky, and he’s cautious with his selection. He can’t help it. 

Kiyoomi only considers you not even liking the sport when he’s placing his order, watching as you carefully tuck his empty cup down on the polished steel of the bar. Shit.

The cafe is quiet. The students are gone, and when the register barista goes to the backroom it’s only him and you in the well lit space. The click of the burr grinder almost makes him jump, and he compromises with his nerves by shifting toward his usual table, resting his bag in the chair and taking in a deep breath. 

The gentle press of the tamp is audible over the low beats of the music and he hears you knock the side of the portafilter, no doubt leveling off the crushed arabica before you hook the device under the grouphead. Seconds later he sees you flip the switch for his shots, already grooming his heated, foaming, oat milk in the short pitcher, popping the liquid free of any errant bubbles. You’re gentle with this part, and he’s always loved to watch you pour his cortado, liking the raise of your arm and the flick of your wrist as you let the creamy milk flow into the paper cup, swirling a rosetta design through the ochre of the waiting espresso. 

Usually, this well-oiled process of yours calms him, but today he feels fidgety and his head is buzzing. The sooner you finish the drink, the sooner he’ll have to talk to you. Shit, shit. When you move the dark lids forward, his hand feels like it’s heating around the slick paper of the ticket, making it clammy and tacky. He bites his lip and removes his hand from his jacket, wiping his palm against his dark jeans. 

You’re already looking up at him, nodding toward the fragrant cup that’s waiting at the edge of the handoff plane. Automatically, he lurches forward, completely in-sync with his familiar routine. The question [ would you like a ticket to one of my games? ] is resting on the tip of his tongue and his fingers are hovering beside his cup. He can see that they’re shaking and that sight doesn’t ease him. Then you ask him something and he feels everything skitter to a halt. Why is this happening? It’s just a ticket, it’s just a game. 

Wait. You asked him something? 

He does his best to ignore the humming of anxious tension that’s filtering down his fingertips and lifts his bowed head. “What?” he mumbles, lips unsticking at last.

“Just asked how your game went the other day. I tried to record it but my stupid cable box isn’t working. I need to try and see you guys, I know I’ve probably said that before, but it’s pretty pathetic of me to not catch one game when the stadium is only two miles away. Plus, I know y’all are a great team! Heard you made the playoffs last year, that’s so awesome!”

It’s a perfect segway. 

But he feels like he’s rooted to the spot, like his tongue is trapped against the roof of his mouth, and his hands are too heavy to move, content to shake beside his cooling drink as he whittles his time away, too filled with the what if’s to do anything about the here and now. He’s going down a mental checklist, mulling over each possibility, cautiously tampering with that heady rush of excitement that’s threatening to bubble out of his masked lips. Shit. 

He’s gotta check his vitamin intake, maybe he’s low on omega 3s? The team has a general practitioner on standby. He really should call him after this, maybe run by his office before the next practice. 

Something’s off with him.

Wait, that worked. 

That shift in his whirring thoughts broke him out of that suspended state and then, before he completely fucks this up, the ticket is down against the counter and he’s muttering something about unlimited uses, that if you can’t make it now, then you can always switch the date, or add someone on, if you have a [ boy ] friend you want to take; the next game works best with the seat that’s listed, he’s checked. He knows it’s open. Again, zero pressure and no worries if you can’t make it. See you around.

You might have responded, you might have smiled, fuck, you might have laughed at him. He’s not sure.

All he knows is that as soon as he is out of the shop he’s calling the team’s gp and confirming an appointment for tomorrow morning. It’s not natural for his heart to stutter and thump like that. It could be an arrhythmia. 

It could be any number of things. 

He hasn’t felt this nervous about a game in years. Sure, it’s a good team, and they have four players that are of his generation, most of them powerful outside hitters that will probably give the Jackals a good run for their money, but they’re not insurmountable. They can beat VC Kanagawa; they’ll have to if they want to advance further in the lineup for the playoffs. 

It’s just…

He keeps looking for that seat. Your seat. He’d gotten to the stadium early; opting to forgo the first team meeting, saying he needed to practice his wall drills, work on his spin, but that’s not the real reason. The real reason is something that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. At least, not before a game. He steadies himself, reiterating that it’s not practical or helpful for him to worry about things like that. 

Nevertheless, he’s pinned the seat in his mind. He studied it as the lights shuddered on, the maintenance staff flashing him bewildered looks as he stepped into the empty brightness of the court. He’d found it again during the pre-game warmup, onyx eyes committing the location to memory, searching for the little details that he could watch for if he wanted to find it again, later, when the arena was packed with thousands of eyes and waving signs.

As they open the main doors and the seats fill up, he’s still looking at the seat.

“Whatcha looking at?” Hinata asks, his burst of orange hair already slicked with sweat, vivid eyes sharp. 

“Nothing.”

The results of Kiyoomi’s physical had shown no outliers, no cause for worry or concern. Everything was fine. He should just get a little extra potassium in, maybe eat a few more bananas in the morning, or after his practices. He’d been a little miffed when he opened the manilla folder, eyes hunting for abnormalities, for a reason, an explanation. If nothing is wrong, then why does he feel like he’s tingling with adrenaline all the time? It makes him light-headed, sluggish, and that’s detrimental to his playability, to his value to his team. 

He looks away from Hinata and paces past Atsumu’s arched eyebrow, ignoring the implications of that wicked grin that’s resting on the setter’s quirked lips. It’s fine; he’s fine. His eyes look up to the balcony again. He really shouldn’t be doing that, he reminds himself. It’s a distraction, and he doesn’t–

Oh. There you are.

He can’t make out details, not from this distance, and he suddenly feels self-conscious about his face. There’s no mask. He doesn’t wear it when he plays, and this will be the first time you’ve seen him without it. Suddenly, he wishes he hadn’t cared so much about the visibility of the court. Why did he plant you so far away? If he can’t see you, then there’s no way you’ll be able to tell which one he is either…oh…wait…his name is on the back of his jersey and they’ll announce his number. Nevermind. 

The referee calls for the teams to line up and he diligently follows his teammates, standing in his usual spot, ignoring the dull thump of his heart as it beats a ragged tattoo under his ribs. 

They won. 

They won, and he’d racked up a whopping 23 points for himself, a personal milestone. It’ll be something that will go down on his athletic record, that the local and national news reports will chatter about, that he can feel proud of. He’s glad; you always show him your best, so it’s only fair he does the same for you too.

He’d peeked up at your seat during each time out, each break, every time the momentum shifted, and before he hit every serve. You looked like you had your feet propped up, resting against the metal barrier of the balcony, and he could see that your arms were wrapped around your knees. You were paying attention, and that knowledge made his lungs swell and his pulse quicken. 

Now, after he’s finished toweling some of the clinging sweat from his brow and the matted droop of his obsidian curls, he twists back, facing your seat, but you’re not there. An empty curve of plastic greets him and his heavy brows furrow, his fingers dropping the towel onto the bench as they curl up into his palms. 

Did you leave? It would make sense, he supposes. The game is over. He just thought you might come down. Might want to talk. Not that he’d have much to say. He never does. Stupid; what would he talk with you about? See the game? Yeah, duh. 

The distant voice of MSBY’s public relations manager is calling for him. He’ll worry about it [ you ] later, he thinks, he’s still got a job to do.

During his interview he can hear Atsumu’s voice. It’s annoying. While the setter doesn’t attempt to tone himself down, he rarely talks that loudly. Kiyoomi glances over at his straight back, watching as his hand cups against the back of his golden head, an infectious laugh bursting from his turned lips. Strange. It’s not like him to chat with someone for that long, not when he’s got his own post-game interviews to conduct. He usually– 

Ah, it’s you. 

Suddenly, questions like: [ how does it feel to be considered for the 2025 Japanese Olympic team? ] don’t matter. His head is half cocked now, dark eyes following the two of you, his comments to the national reporter falling into clipped monosyllables. This is unprofessional; he should focus on the matter at hand, it’s not like him to be distracted. 

He’s been thinking about that a lot lately. That so many things are suddenly not like him. 

When you push playfully at Atsumu’s shoulder, he lapses into a stormy silence, nails biting into his clenched palms, pressing half moons into his calloused skin. After answering one more question: [ something about his future plans - how’s he supposed to know? That depends on trades, on opportunities. And right now he’s not in the correct frame of mind to answer honestly, not when he can see that you’re right there ] he bows to the smiling face of the reporter, formally concluding his participation in the interview. He knows it’s abrupt; he knows he’ll likely get an earful from the MSBY PR director, from his coach, and from himself, when the full weight of his uncharacteristic rashness hits him, but right now he doesn’t care.

His feet feel like lead and the steps that he’s taking shudder against the gym’s polished flooring. He’s usually smoother than this, more collected, but can’t will himself to stop lurching forward. He tucks his hands into the darkness of his team jacket, coiling his numb fingers into tight balls, and hunches his shoulders. He likely looks like thunder and this suspicion is confirmed when a ball boy scuttles out of his path, eyes wide, but Kiyoomi doesn’t care. 

Atsumu hasn’t noticed his approach, but you do, and that shy wave and familiar smile makes his breath catch in his throat. Damn it. What’s going on with him? 

Atsumu notices your wandering attention and turns, following your gaze. Once he spots Kiyoomi, he gives him a cheeky smirk, dipping his chin, lazily fixing his amber eyes on Kiyoomi’s arched figure. “Look who caaame!” he calls, lacing his tone with poorly concealed glee. “She said you gave her a ticket. What a great, absolutely original, idea! And you had your record breaking scoring streak today too! Hey! Maybe she’s good luck! Watch out (Y/N), pretty soon we’ll be hooking you up with a personal mascot job if ya’ can light such a fire under our stoic hitter’s ass. Must be something special in that coffee yer’ serving him.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at Atsumu’s blatant needling and the setter chuckles, flipping his focus back to you, sensing the rising agitation that is rolling off of Kiyoomi in waves now. “Well, sure was good to see ya’ again! Talk to me next time, huh? I’ll get you a boxed seat. It’s much better than those nosebleeds in the balconies.”

You shake your head, a smile pulling at your lips, and make a show of rolling your eyes. “Flattery doesn’t suit you, you know? And what boxed seats? Feels like I’d see them if you had them,” you tease, earning yourself a last laugh and Atsumu’s back, a friendly hand waving a last goodbye as he finally strides toward the waiting cameras. Kiyoomi watches him go, his shoulders tense, a feeling of unease settling in his gut. Is Atsumu doing this on purpose? 

He almost snaps a retort at his retreating figure, but the sound of your voice immediately snatches his attention toward you. His dark gaze meets yours and the look in your eyes makes his palms feel itchy and his feet scuff mindlessly against the floor.

“This is gonna sound so dumb, but it’s been on my mind since I got here…”

Kiyoomi’s fingers twist in his pockets, coiling over each digit, and his pulse feels like it’s speeding up again. “What?”

“It’s just…well, you look so much younger without the mask,” you let out a small laugh and duck your head, teeth pulling at your lower lip as you face away from his widening eyes. 

“Is that bad?”

“No! You look good! Uh, I mean, not that you didn’t…I just wasn’t sure…not that I’d thought about it…a lot…uh, I…yeah, I’m…No, it’s not bad!” You press your hands against your mouth, steepling your fingers under your nose and fix him with a sheepish grin. “Anyway, I know you’ve got things to do, but Miya was right about one thing, you had a great game. I had a lot of fun and it was so nice of you to get me that ticket, and well…”

You pause, lowering your hands to yank your purse forward, fingers digging into the leather before you right yourself once more, returning with a small, zipped bag, and a plastic card that’s balancing atop the metal teeth. “It’s a…well…I sorta tried to think of some things that you might like. To say thanks! It’s nothing fancy. A nail filing kit, because I read that volleyball guys like to keep their hands in tiptop shape, one of those portable ball pumps and some masks. 

The masks are from a great company, back home, er, in the states. Well, at least I like them, they’re super durable. And the card, uh, ha, um, the card is to the cafe. I know it’s not super original, but I didn’t know if you liked any other places. And I didn’t wanna assume or — Haha, oh God, I am talking your ear off. Just…here! Take this from me so I can get my foot outta my mouth, okay?”

You press the bag forward and before he can tell you he doesn’t accept gifts from fans, his hands are already out of the safety of his pockets, firmly wrapping around your offering. “Thank you,” he bows. He wants to say more, but he’s not sure how.

He didn’t mean to come by the cafe. 

He thought he’d go for a quick run before practice, maybe loop the block, or jog toward the university. None of these things are close to the cafe, but apparently his feet had other ideas. The shop bell rings when he steps inside, wiping some hand sanitizer against his heated palms, onyx eyes alert, already searching for you. 

A male barista [ is it Kane? ] greets him and before he can stop himself, he’s asking if you’re there. “Oh, (Y/N)? Nah, she’s off today. But I can make your cortado, you get almond milk, right?”

“Oat,” Kiyoomi replies, voice muffled by his mask. Damn. Why did he come here? He didn’t mean to and now it’s looking like it was a wasted trip. A useless instinct. He’d wanted to thank you properly for your gift, which had been on his mind a lot the past few days. Perhaps that’s why he felt so compelled to jog the extra mile, why he can��t seem to keep away, why he keeps looking for you as he waits, even though he knows you’re not here. 

Maybe he can text you his thanks. That would make all of this easier. Oh, wait, does he even have your number? He pulls his phone out of his pocket and examines his contact list, searching for you. No, nothing under your name. Maybe he put it under something else? [ barista? cafe? ] Again, there’s nothing. Damn. Why didn’t he ask at the game? Or when he gave you the ticket?

When he picks up his drink and paces back into the sunshine, he’s still kicking himself that he hasn’t asked for your number yet. It would have made things so much simpler, he reasons, sipping at his coffee; now he’ll have to come back. 

But days pass, and he hasn’t returned. 

There’s just too much going on. Too many team meetings and late practices. Too much preparation. The pace of his schedule has never bothered him before, but now he keeps hoping for some kind of reprieve. 

The other morning Atsumu strode into a meeting with a cup from your cafe, proudly flaunting the familiar label. It made Kiyoomi’s blood boil [ did he see you? talk with you? Did he get to see that addictively pleasing smile of yours? ] and later that afternoon he experienced his first scolding. 

“What’s going on, Omi? Five missed digs? This isn’t like you. You look like your head is in the clouds. Come on, get it together. Big game in five days.”

“Sorry, won’t happen again.” It’s all he can say. 

When he’s heading toward the team showers, he catches sight of Atsumu’s knowing leer and he grits his teeth, ignoring the huffed snicker and scoffing head shake that the setter sends his way. 

Finally, two days later, he’s got some free time. There are other errands he needs to run, things he should do, but the only thing he can think about is you. 

He’s walking up from a side street, one he rarely takes, when, at long last, he catches sight of you. You must be on a break. You’re sitting at a bench, facing a small, but well laid flower bed, flipping the pages of your open book languidly as you read under the cool shade of a gnarled tree. 

He’s glad he’s wearing the mask that you gifted him. 

You’d said that they were durable, and their quality had genuinely impressed him. When he got home, after the game, he slipped them out of their individual plastic cases, fingering the thick, well made materials before washing one. He’d left the others in their containers. He’ll use them, eventually, but not right now. He wants to savor them. He wants them to last.  

Kiyoomi is almost to your side when you look up and he bites against his lower lip as soon as you give him that friendly smile of yours, already closing your book and standing, waiting for him to step closer. He comes to a stop in front of you, peering down at you through his dark lashes. 

You always smell so nice, he thinks, unconsciously shifting closer, seeking more. You must have showered before coming into your shift because the crisp scent of peppermint and gentle lavender makes his nostrils flare hungrily under his mask. 

“Hey there!” you begin, tucking your book into your arms. “Long time no see. How have you been?”

“Fine. I have practice later. I came by the other day. I…” he lapses into frustrated silence, dark brows falling, letting his hands grip at the material of his jacket. Why is this so hard? You, all the others on his team, Motoya [ hell, even the notoriously impassive Wakatoshi has come out of his shell over the years ] can slip into a conversation. Damn it, how can everyone else make this look so easy? 

“Saw you’re playing the Adlers soon. They’re the team the Jackals have a sorta rivalry with, right?”

He blinks down at you and lets out a shallow exhale. There you go again. You’re giving him a life raft, a conversation he can fall into, something he enjoys talking about. He remembers his stilted conversation with Atsumu, the one where he did not know about any of the basic things, the obvious things, the things that made you, you. It’s nice that you’re looking out for him, that you’re helping him along, but he doesn’t want to talk about volleyball, not right now.

“We do. How did your finals go? You said you had a dissertation?”

“Oh!” you blurt, your eyes widening, but you’re clearly pleased, even a little excited that he’s asked. “You remembered! Finished it up last week. Now I just need to knock out my revisions and I’ll either go back to committee, or they’ll approve it! I’m hoping they approve it. I’m sick of looking at it, haha.” Your fingers tap against your book and you duck your head, a quick smile passing over your smooth lips. “Uh, did you want to come in for a coffee? Not trying to hold you up, if you’ve got practice to go to.”

“I was the one who came over.” He sounds a little harsh, he thinks, nose wrinkling under his mask. He’s never worried about being blunt, but that doesn’t work here. He doesn’t want to be, not with you. “I mean, I wanted…wanted to say thanks, for the masks and the other things. I like them.” He points to his covered face and you let out a chuckle, gleaming eyes crinkling as you look up at him. Damn, you’re pretty. How has he not noticed that before? He wants to see you laugh again, he’s just not sure how to go about it. Does he even know any jokes? Shit.

“Awe, I’m glad you like them! Speaking of, Atsumu came by a few days ago, I guess you must have worn one around him because he was trying to sniff out if I’d given them to you. He’s a funny guy, but I cannot get a good read on him. It’s almost like he’s doing stuff on purpose, but he’s never blatantly obvious about it. The way he was talking, I was kinda worried he was trying to play a prank on you. Does he like to get under your skin or something? He’s–”

Kiyoomi’s not thinking when he leans down. He’s been doing that a lot lately, not thinking. It makes his skin prickle. Or is that the smell of peppermint on your clean neck, the fragrant lavender in your hair? The kiss is soft; more of a press of his lips than a real caress. But it’s nice, and he actually likes being this close to you, but something feels off and, ah, damn it. 

His dark brows knit together, furrowing his forehead, when he realizes what he’s done. He didn’t take off his mask. How stupid. But that shaky gasp of air that you let out when he pulls away, and the following upward lift of your body, your lips chasing his, clearly wanting him to come back, oh that’s so worth it, mask or not.

Your eyes are the first thing he sees when he looks back down, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so perfect. They’re bright, vibrant, and rich with an excitement that makes his toes curl. 

The smell of lavender and peppermint, of you, is almost overwhelming, and yet somehow it’s all together, not enough. He doesn’t say anything and neither do you. 

What is there to say? 

That one, half-formed, touch said it all. It expressed every frustration that he’s felt over the last few weeks, every faded memory of your voice, of your playful smiles, of those hesitant conversations you’ve helped him through. It’s all there, sitting quietly between the two of you, shimmering in the sunlight as you take a step closer and his hands finally fall out of his pockets, waiting, hoping for yours. 

“(Y/N)! Break’s over! Coffee’s not gonna brew itself!” 

The distant voice of your coworker shatters the euphoria and you tense, pulling away, your head turning toward the barked command as you call out your reply. Kiyoomi huffs out an impatient breath. He wanted to try that again. Do it right this time. How pathetic is he? Kissing you through a mask? But his annoyance dies when you face him again, slipping your hand tentatively into his. 

His digits fall limply around yours and he can’t help but marvel at the softness of you. One of his thumbs lifts and he traces the skin along your knuckles, unsure if he’s even breathing anymore. “Come on,” you say, looking down at his touch before lacing your fingers through his, showing him how to hold you. “I’ll make your coffee.” 

You’re walking forward and he has the inane urge to snatch you back, wanting to see how the rest of you feels, wanting to know how you’ll fit into his arms, but he distracts himself by following you. There’s a budding warmth that’s spreading from his palm, where your hand rests inside his, to his chest. It feels like a low burning fire is coursing along his veins and his heartbeat thuds out of rhythm, but for once he doesn’t care. 

In fact, he thinks he likes it.

He sits in the cafe for too long, his coffee cold, the cup almost empty. But before he leaves [ already so, so late for practice ] he gets your number. 

He taps the unfamiliar digits carefully into his device and you watch from the counter, your chin propped in your hand, a gentle smile kissing against your palm. Then he stands, pausing beside you and you run your index finger down his arm, lingering your touch beside his wrist, making him shiver in the warm sunlight, a pleased grin hidden behind his mask.

notes: this man has what, 10 pages of interaction? idk why and idk how, but he is stuck in my brain - like, seriously send help, i think i’m in love. 

[attllhak]

So I just got settled after getting home from camping, and I had forgotten that I hadn’t posted this before I left. I remembered in the middle of the weekend and felt bad, but I ended up not having time the morning I left. So have it now, since I did promise it!

Also, @tortilla-of-courage I promised to tag you in all the merAU stuff I posted, and so I’m tagging you. We now figure out what happened to Warriors.

--------------------

“Is he alive?”

“Yeah, you can see him breathing,”

“What is he even doing here?”

“I don’t know, I just found him,”

“We should tell Grandma,”

“Obviously, but we can’t leave him either,”

“Oh, I can go tell her, and you can watch him!”

“Oh that’s a good idea!”

“Okay, I’m gonna, hey! He’s waking up!”

“Huh?”

Warriors squeezed his eyes and blinked, squinting at the sun above him.

A pair of round faces appeared over him. Kids, probably.

He groaned, reaching a hand up to his head. He tried to remember what had happened.

He’d been with his pod, and a ship came by. Poachers. They singled him out, and their captain had him fished out of the water. The rest of his pod tried to help, but the poachers had guns and harpoons. He had seen at least one of his pod mates impaled by one of the harpoons through their tail.

His pod had no choice but to flee.

He remembered sitting in a net for hours under the sun until he’d dried and his scales began to flake.

Eventually he was swung onto the deck and dropped there. He had managed to pull himself onto shaking arms when his face had been wretched up, sharp nails digging into his cheeks.

He immediately felt sick when the woman, the captain of the ship, looked at him. It felt like he was being examined, like some kind of object on display. He felt oddly exposed under her gaze.

It was only years of training as a guard for his pod that allowed him to keep from panicking.

“Oh aren’t you pretty,” the human purred, and Warriors struggled to swallow. “You’ll look so pretty in my home,”

I’m going to die, he had thought.

Her plan for him was worse.

This woman, Cia, wanted a pet. Some pretty mer she could dress up in fancy things and put on display for all her guests to awe at.

He learned this after he was shackled to the deck with a thick chain attached to a cuff on his arm. Occasionally someone would be by to dump a bucket of water on him, but only after another woman, who looked very similar to the captain, warned that he’d be dead by the time they got to shore if they didn’t.

By the time the sun finally set, he’d been laid out flat on the polished wood, his skin and scales burned from the sunlight and lack of water, feeling dizzy and unfocused.

Sun sickness, he’d heard some of the merrow in their pod talk about it. He never thought he’d have it.

Once the sun had well set, the woman who had told them he needed water returned with keys.

Had he been stronger, he would have tried to fight her off. As it stood, all he could manage was to bare sharp teeth at her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize she’d be so cruel. I’m going to report her when we dock, but the authorities don’t release poached mer. So I’m getting you out tonight,”

He watched as she undid the shackle on his arm, and he dragged it slowly back to himself, trying to comprehend that.

He hissed and squirmed when she started dragging him, his burned skin and scales awake with pain as they ran over the unforgiving surface.

They got caught by one of the other poachers, and he and the woman argued and shouted. The poacher had some kind of fire, and didn’t hesitate to attack them.

He was thrown overboard, but the fire still hit his arm. He screamed, the first sound since he was brought aboard, and fell.

The cold water was a shock to his sun burned body, and he was out in an instant.

Well, the sun sickness explained his headache. And why his body was aching.

“Who,” he tried to croak, but his throat felt like it was lined with coral and filled with sand, and speaking hurt.

He went to move his hand to it, but cried out in further pain as the fire burns shifted on the sand. He squeezed his eyes shut to beat back tears, all but whimpering in pain.

“Go get Grandma! Now!” One of the kids, the boy, shouted, and he heard a splash as the girl left.

He was on a shore, not land, since he could now feel the water lapping at his tail. He moved his right hand over his body, reaching for where his left arm stung and stabbed with pain.

“Hey! Don’t do that!” Small hands grabbed his wrist and he opened his eyes again, blinking to see around tears at the boy leaning over him. “Don’t worry, help will be here soon,”

He decided to believe that, focusing on the boy’s face to try and distract himself from the pain.

The boy was young, maybe twelve or thirteen. Big, bright blue eyes, and sun bleached blonde hair. The boy was grinning, but visibly nervous.

‘Who are you?’ He flashed, not wanting to deal with his damaged throat.

“Me?” The boy blinked. “My name is Link! Do you have a name?”

Warriors smiled. ‘My name is also Link, but I’m not the only Link in my pod. They called me Warriors,’

“That’s such a cool name!” Link grinned.

Warriors smiled.

It took too long, as far as he was concerned, for help to arrive. Wind, Link’s new nickname since he wanted a cool name too, had done his best to keep Warriors distracted, when a very old mer climbed onto the beach next to them.

She hissed when she pressed a hand to his head, and Warriors found himself following her hand when it pulled away, chasing the cool wetness with a weak whine.

“Sun sickness,” she pronounced in an old, creaking voice. “And some very bad burning. He needs medical help,”

She slipped back into the water and the young girl replaced her.

Not long after he found himself gently, but no less painfully, picked up by a pair of merrow and transported back into the water.

He couldn’t help the whimper of relief as he felt the water around his body again, and did his best to bite back any cries of pain as they washed the sand from his body and burns. His spaulder was removed so they could treat his injuries, but he was promised its return.

He was far too gone to care about his property anymore, gripping the arm of one of the merrow supporting him with his good hand and pressing his head to their soft, cool skin.

They helped him down into the water, and set him up in an underwater cave where the sun couldn’t reach him. It was cool, and dark, and Warriors almost instantly curled up and passed out again.

He was in and out of consciousness for the next few days, hiding curled up in the coldest corner of his cave and letting healers come in and out to treat his burns. His skin peeled and scales flaked due to the sunburns, and they rubbed cooling salves into the burns. They treated the burn on his arm with even more care.

When he finally properly came to, he spent a long moment sitting in his cave and looking himself over.

His left arm had been pretty badly scarred, and the fin was frayed and damaged, but hadn’t been cut short. That surprised him a bit, he knew a few people whose fins were so badly damaged that it was better for their health to cut them shorter and he would have figured that had happened. Maybe this pod didn’t do fin cuttings for some reason?

The rest of his burns had healed well, and his throat didn’t feel like hurting him anymore.

He looked up when a mer snuck in, and he smiled when he saw Wind.

‘Hi, Wind,’ he waved, smiling.

This was when he noticed Wind’s fins were much smaller than his, and his scale pattern was different.

Wind was a coastal mer.

That explained the lack of fin cutting.

‘Are you feeling better?’ Wind asked, giving up all form of secrecy as he approached and plopped down right next to Warriors. He guessed Wind wasn’t supposed to be here.

Warriors shrugged. ‘More aware than I was before,’

‘That’s good!’ Wind grinned. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t fix your fin,’

Warriors lifted his arm, frowning at the damaged fin. ‘You tried to fix it?’

‘Yeah?’ Wind tilted his head, equally confused. ‘Why? What did you expect us to do?’

‘Cut it back,’ he answered honestly. ‘It’s too damaged to save, so back in my pod we would have just cut back the fin and got rid of the damaged parts,’

Wind looked horrified. ‘Why would you do that?!’

Warriors blinked back, not sure what was so bad about what he said.

‘We have very big fins,’ he tried to explain. ‘Dragging around damaged fins can be really annoying, and sometimes detrimental to your health. So anything we can’t heal, we usually cut back,’

Warriors and Wind shared a long look.

They agreed not to talk about it anymore.

‘What happened to you?’ Wind asked instead. ‘Aryll and I found you on the beach and you were really out of it. Gran said you might not remember that,’

‘I do remember that,’ Warriors smiled. ‘Thank you for that, by the way. You didn’t have to help me, but I’m grateful that you did,’

Wind shook his head. ‘Of course I had to help you! You needed help!’

Warriors ruffled Wind’s hair, laughing at the squawk Wind made. ‘You’re a good person, Wind,’

Wind huffed, fixing his hair. ‘So, what did happen to you? We don’t get a lot of tropical mer around here,’

Warriors frowned. Just how far was he from his pod?

‘I, uh, I didn’t leave my pod willingly,’ he didn’t want to scare Wind at all, considering he didn’t know if poachers frequented this area or not.

‘You were kidnapped,’ Wind nodded.

Sure, they could say that.

‘Something like that, yes,’ Warriors nodded. ‘I was on a ship for a while, and the humans weren’t very good at keeping me hydrated. One of them took pity on me, and dumped me over the side once the sun set. I, don’t remember anything after that, until you and your sister found me on the beach,’

Wind reached out and, after a second of hesitation, wrapped his arms around Warriors in a hug. ‘I’m sorry. Usually the bad humans don’t come here,’

Warriors startled a bit, he didn’t usually get hugs from people, but he carefully set his arms down around Wind in turn, not even trying to fight the soft smile on his face.

He liked this kid, he thought.

Wind was chased out by healers not long after, apparently he’d been slipping in and making a nuisance of himself since Warriors arrived, and they looked him over and asked more questions.

After a while, the healers left and the very old mer from earlier returned. Her blue scales had been dulled by age, and her grey hair was pulled up in a bun. She squinted at him through the wrinkles in her face, and he instinctively straightened up. This woman was the matriarch of her pod.

‘My grandson told me you were aware,’ she flashed at him.

He nodded, trying his best to be polite.

‘He also told me you were kidnapped,’ she continued. ‘By humans,’

‘Poachers,’ he confirmed. ‘I got lucky,’

She nodded. ‘Do you know how far you traveled?’

‘I don’t,’ he shook his head, and looked down to his hands. ‘I don’t even know how long I’ve been away from my pod,’

‘A while at least,’ she said once he looked up again. ‘You’ve been out of it for a few days here, and we don’t know when you washed up on the beach. Not to mention that there aren’t any tropical mer pods nearby,’

Warriors nodded, looking down again.

He was probably very far from his pod, and it would take a long, long time to find them again. He wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of heading out into the open ocean with no direction either. Who knows how far he’d traveled. Who knows how far he’d travel in order to find his pod again. If he found his pod again. He might never get back to them.

He looked up when a gentle hand rested on his shoulder.

‘Don’t look so defeated,’ the old mer smiled at him. ‘We’ll help you get back to your pod. And until we find them, you can stay with us,’

Warriors looked at her, kind and helpful and comforting, and smiled back. He nodded.

He could do that.

(---)

Warriors got his spaulder back, and was quickly sussed out by this pod’s, very lacking, guard, and ended up employed. Mostly he was just retraining them, since they needed some help.

He liked having a spear in his hands again. It was a relief to be able to have a weapon.

Wind and Aryll had both attached themselves to him as well, and after a week they were introducing him as their very pretty big brother. Wind had even managed to convince Warriors to teach him how to fight.

Some days Warriors didn’t even mind that he might never get back to his original pod.

He did learn that Wind happened to be friends with a human pirate, however, and that stressed him out immensely.

Maybe he should talk to that therapist Gran had suggested he see. He hadn’t had issues with his podmates speaking to the marine researchers before he was poached.

But, pirates.

It never hurt to be cautious.

[beau-draws-and-cries]

HUNTER CLAWTHORNE AU HUNTER CLAWTHORNE AU HUNTER CLAWTHORNE AU That’s just a rough sketch of him on this au andI hope to polish it more. I am developing this au with @coxinhadoce47​, and basically -Hunter is forgotten at a playground at age 7/8 and Eda founds him alone there and she can’t help but to take him home and wait to someone to put "lost" posts, but it never happened, so he kinda just stuck around, because Kikimora told Belos that Hunter died somehow -This Hunter has serious abandonment issues -On Agony of a Witch he blames Luz for Eda being captured -Then, on the rescue mision, Hunter gets unconscious and separated from the Luz, and that's the last thing they know about him, because when Lilith and King are caught by Belos, he’s caught too, spits on Belos’s face, gets thrown at a wall, faints and gets “absorbed” by the castle ground -Belos, recognizes him as the child he lost years ago, and then he weaponizes Hunter's abandonment issues into making him believe that Eda and Luz abandoned him there -In reality, Luz thought he was dead and so did Eda -Then he gets the mechanical staff, that allows him to practice magic on his own, and also a high rank on the Emperor's coven, but Belos now expects him to follow orders without question -Kikimora hates it so much and gets very aggressive towards Hunter, warning him to not get cocky on being "Belos's little favorite" again  -The scar on his face happened a bit before Eda adopts him, and he remembers in a foggy way, but since he's feeling so much anger at being abandoned, he believes in Belos and accepts his word as truth, that the wound that formed the scar was an accident -He only remembers the face scar when Belos goes for his face -That's when he notices that he can't stay there, but also can't go back home. The cardinal still becomes his palisman and he remembers Eda saying birds are a Clawthorne thing -On Hunting Palisman, Luz realizes it's him and wants to take him home, but he refuses, and still tries to attack Luz -When this happens, she says "You used to be my friend, now you're just the Golden Guard", and Hunter starts to believe they truly loved him, but still, he now is afraid of bringing trouble for Eda because he’s on the Emperor’s Coven now. This would give the second season a very heavy toll, since besides believing that what happened to Eda was her fault, Luz also believes that Hunter died on their rescue mission because of her actions, and Eda would be very much drepressed but trying to repress it. On Eda’s requiem, the picture has Hunter too, and she starts sobbing that one of them died and the other two have real families to come back to.

[jasontoddiefor]

Title: would you be so kind Ship: obikin Second: Ten years ago, Obi-Wan Kenobi met Anakin Skywalker, a charming young mage from Naboo, but as fate willed, they could not be together. A decade and thousands dead later, Alderaan’s High Court Sorcerer meets a Forger and his excited apprentice. AN: I forgot to post this on tumblr apparently, but here’s the first chapter of my second long WIP I am working on!

Then

The ship was crammed, filled to the brim with people clinging to one another, staring either at the home they’d lost or the home they hoped to be sailing to. Hundreds of ships had left Dromund Kaas already, carrying refugees across the ocean to safer harbors. The tension was high and sharp enough to cut as they sailed away from the doomed country and only relaxed when the pressure of the country’s shields finally left their shoulders.

“An awful sight, isn’t it?”

Anakin startled, instinctually pulled his coat around himself. Were he in a better shape, he would have lashed out immediately, winds, bindings, blood—

But the power flowing through his veins was too constricted, caged like a wild beast. Instead, Anakin just turned to look at the person who’d addressed him. An old woman with snow-white markings and long lekku stared at the dying country just as he had moments before, grief and resignation painting a sorrowful picture. “I never thought I’d leave this place. Did you?”

Wordlessly, Anakin shook his head. No, he certainly hadn’t thought he’d ever leave this place again. He’d been ready to be buried under the ashes of marble altars, not see this new dawn.

“I was born here, married too. All my children were born within the boundaries of this country and perhaps that is the reason they all left,” the woman continued. “I am glad that they weren’t here. If I think about what could have happened to them were they anywhere near the capital… I apologize; I hope you don’t mind my rambling. You looked like you needed company. Are you traveling to Naboo?”

He opened his mouth to reply, to give an affirmation, but stopped. He hadn’t quite thought where he’d go, except as far away from this place as he could. Naboo was certainly an option; Padmé would be glad to see him, he was sure. She’d take him in without asking a single question and defend him against the storms that were sure to come.

But Padmé was his friend and Anakin couldn’t allow her to shoulder his burden.

“No,” Anakin heard himself saying. “I’m not traveling to Naboo.”

“They are quite defenseless right now, yes, you are right. The fact that it’s the first stop of this ship is tempting enough for most to disregard what troubles might find them there.” The woman nodded in understanding. “I’ll be going to Alderaan myself. My eldest lives there, and in a country as strong as that, a tragedy like this can’t strike.”

She turned to look at the remains of Dromund Kaas again. The coastline used to be covered by beautiful large trees; his Master used to tell him how vital they were for its defense.

Now there was nothing but ash and darkness. Even here on the outskirts, where it had taken the longest for the remains of the catastrophe to reach, nobody was safe from it. Dromund Kaas had been in a pitiful state after the last war, which had made it an easy place to hideaway in. Alderaan might be stronger, the blooming center of magical education, but Anakin doubted they’d be able to defend against an attack like this. Nothing could save them from an attack such as this.

But Alderaan’s distance to this cesspit of disease was enough to provide a different kind of security.

Thousands of refugees would search for safety there, and Queen Breha was as cunning as she was kind. No one would be turned away and Anakin could slip in just right with them.

“I’m going to Alderaan as well,” Anakin replied.

The woman looked him over, then she beamed as if she were a young child and not already among the older members of her species.

Her smile was the first Anakin had seen in weeks. “Looks like we’ll be traveling companions then! You must tell me your name, young friend. I’m Raya Tano.”

She held out her hand and Anakin awkwardly shook it with his own left.

“My name is—”

Now

“Anakin Skywalker! Your automaton is ruining my kitchen!”

Sighing, Anakin let the spell sink back into the metal and settle into it. So much for working on his commissions today. A quick glance around the workshop told him that it was not one of his automatons running wild. Artoo was currently charging up and Threepio was keeping himself busy cleaning up. All the other small automatons Anakin crafted when he was bored were either asleep and charging or hurrying around the workshop, washing up the floors and putting away the tools Anakin had been using.

Anakin tugged off his gloves and threw them to a tiny and eager little automaton before picking up his softer everyday gloves. The leather was still quite resistant and had more runes stitched into it than most people dared to weave into one cloth, but they were nowhere near as excellently crafted as his work gloves. The dragonhide gloves were worth a fortune and so they never left his workshop unless Anakin had to. Anakin watched the little automaton put the gloves in their usual compartment until he could hear the click reassuring that the lock was in place. At first, that had only been a measure against thieves as he hadn’t had much to his name, but by now, it was a habit.

And it discouraged Ahsoka from stealing them for her own projects.

Anakin walked out of his workshop and crossed the courtyard to the small cottage he called his home, finding a kitchen in disarray, Raya standing on a chair with a small red automaton attempting to clean the floors.

“Look what a mess it’s making!” Raya said accusingly. “Instead of polishing my floors, it’s dirtying them!”

“I can see that,” Anakin hummed. He waited until the small automaton had reached his feet, then he bent down and pressed his hand flat on its small back, stopping it. Ahsoka’s handiwork was getting better; this little guy had kept moving for a while despite her absence. Anakin had no idea what the formal apprenticeship for forgers entailed, when they ought to hit what milestone, but he was willing to bet that Ahsoka was years ahead of her peers. Her spells were strong, her rune work fantastic, and very few actual weaknesses were left to explore in her automatons.

But Anakin was still a Master and Ahsoka only an Apprentice. Her work was not yet good enough to keep out foreign interference. Without much thought, he deactivated the automaton completely.

“This was your granddaughter’s handiwork,” Anakin commented. “She’s improving in leaps and bounds.”

Raya huffed and stepped from her chair. “I’m glad to hear that, but weren’t you meant to teach her control?”

“I am,” Anakin said, the argument an old and fond one. They returned to it frequently, mostly to annoy the young Apprentice. “And were she still as much of a mess as three years ago, she hardly would be able to craft such a fine automaton. Can’t do anything about her manners.”

Especially since she’d become a teenager. Anakin didn’t remember being as much of a pain as Ahsoka could be.

“And here I was thinking Masters were supposed to teach their Apprentices a medium of decorum.”

Anakin snorted. “Yeah, well, that’s what she has you for, doesn’t she?”

Raya’s expression softened. “That she does.”

Anakin sometimes wondered how Raya managed to stay so kind and calm when the world had taken so much from her. Her husband, country, her children— and yet she still stood straight, caring for the fellow traveler she’d never allowed to leave and the granddaughter that had been dumped on her with just a warning for Ahsoka’s generally explosive tendencies.

“Where is Ahsoka anyway?” Anakin asked, looking around the kitchen as if she would jump out in the open any moment. “I sent her on an errand earlier this morning, but she hasn’t returned yet.”

Unfortunately, Raya couldn’t tell him either. “I have no idea where that girl is running around—”

“Anakin!”

Speak of the dark and it shall appear. The door was thrown open and Ahsoka rushed inside, tracking even more dirt all over the floor, causing Raya to throw up her arms in defeat in a way Anakin knew meant Ahsoka would be left with all her favorite chores for the next week.

“Welcome back, Ahsoka,” Anakin said. “You’re late.”

“Yes, yes,” Ahsoka replied and rolled her eyes, obviously disinterested in what he had to say. “I got all you asked for and ordered the new metals, but look at this!”

Ahsoka raised her hand, revealing a ripped-off poster. It was tasteful in design, fine cursive writing on light blues, gold ornaments in the corners and, of course, the royal crest right in the middle of it.

Her Majesty the Queen of the Kingdom of Alderaan, Breha Organa, invites all Alderaani Practitioners of the Mythic Arts to attend the festivities in the capital of Aldera—

“Absolutely not,” Anakin said before he could even read the rest of the text. “We’re not going to Aldera to some festival.”

“Why not?” Ahsoka shot back. “It’s no summit, but it would at least be something.”

Her bitterness did not go unnoticed. Ahsoka had begged for months to attend this year’s summit. Every five, all magic practitioners gathered on Tython to exchange notes on their craft and pretend they were not also discussing the politics of their respective countries, forging alliances and the like. Anakin hadn’t been to the last summit, it having been just after Dromund Kaas, and the one before were tainted by the memories that followed, no matter how sweet the time had been. Ahsoka, of course, had begged to attend this year’s one, but it would only be foolish and reckless. He couldn’t just walk into the biggest gathering of mages in the whole continent and expect to get out of it without anyone realizing who he was, asking questions, concluding what he’d done.

Anakin had too much to hide, too much to lose, and he wasn’t going to risk his little Apprentice for it.

Not that Ahsoka knew any of that and wasn’t in the least satisfied with Anakin’s reply and immediately made her displeasure known.

“What would you even want to see there?” Anakin asked, trying to downplay how entertaining such an event was. “It’ll just be all the posh court sorcerers showing off with their fancy focusing crystals. It’s utterly boring and uncreative.”

“Like you wouldn’t use a focusing crystal if you had one,” Ahsoka muttered, arms crossed. “It’s just— there’s nobody else around here who can do magic. And all you ever do is work on machines.”

“Which requires a lot of concentration as it’s not just the manipulation of one aspect, but—”

“—but many, yes, yes, I know the speech,” Ahsoka said and dutifully listed all elements that went into their craft. There was a reason why not many forgers existed. Most mages lacked the talent, patience, and education to learn this craft, or were just plain afraid that they’d permanently damage their ability to use magic at all.

And with the speed technology was evolving and magic weaponized to terrifying new heights, not too many people still had use for forgers. Where two-hundred-years ago, you wouldn’t have gone out to hunt a dragon with a simple sword, but only with one crafted by a Master forger, nowadays you didn’t necessarily need one. Battle magic was on the rise again, especially with more and more countries growing uneasy, peace treaties falling apart. Combined with the threats from the northern continents, it was no wonder people cared less and less about expensive forgers when they could mass-produce and enchant simpler items.

“I just hoped you’d allow at least this,” Ahsoka finished. Her shoulders dropped. “Should have known better. I’ll go finish my readings.”

Ahsoka turned around, her shoulders still hanging, her head low.

Damn it.

Anakin knew that she was doing it on purpose. His Apprentice was cunning and had learned how to play into his every weakness. Slowly she marched into the direction of the door, dragging her feet behind her for effect and dramatics.

Raya raised a brow at him. She usually stayed out of Ahsoka’s tutelage, knowing next to nothing about magic herself, but even with his past being little more than a mystery to her, she could read him better than anyone else.

“Urgh, fine,” Anakin heard himself say. “Fine, we can go to the festival.”

Ahsoka turned around quicker than light and jumped up. “Yes!”

“But that means you’re not going to bring up the summit again!”

“Yes! Of course!” A moment later, Anakin had an armful of an apprentice. “Thank you so much, Master, you’re the best!”

Once she let go of him, she went to hug Raya and hug even her dirty automaton to her chest, still radiating happiness. “I need to go pack my bags immediately!”

“The festival is not for another week—”

Ahsoka obviously didn’t care. So caught up in her joy, she rushed upstairs, heading to her room to start packing. It shouldn’t surprise Anakin that she was so motivated. Ahsoka was a person who thrived on interaction, being surrounded by other people. While the people of their village were friendly, none of them were mages or even just sensitive to magic. It was one of the reasons Anakin had decided to stay without too much fight. But growing up so far removed from other mages had made Ahsoka twice as curious to meet others.

The thought made his stomach churn. He’d have to give Ahsoka formal lessons about their trade now, just if somebody asked questions that were too pointed. She’d also need a bit of the know-how on how you usually interacted with other mages and which pretentious bastards to call sorcerers before they threw a hissy fit. All these capital folks were much too sensitive about terminology after all. Anakin had never bothered to tell her the differences before, but Ahsoka would kill him if she accidentally embarrassed herself because he hadn’t seen it fit to instruct her properly. Forget teaching Ahsoka how to improve her automaton, the next week would be full of etiquette lessons. Skies, there’d be people trying to steal their spellwork too. Had he even mentioned that kind of theft before? Anakin honestly couldn’t recall.

“Already regretting it?” Raya asked, her voice just a touch amused.

“Just a bit,” Anakin replied.

“It’ll be good for her,” Raya said, convinced and confident enough for the both of them. “And good for you as well. I’ve known you for years now and you’ve never even brought a friend over. I’m not going to be young forever, you know. I do expect to be introduced to your future spouse at some point.”

“And this is my cue to go packing as well,” Anakin announced and followed Ahsoka up the stairs with Raya’s laughter following him.

He had no intention of being with anyone, ever, unless he could find glamours that held up even when majorly distracted. On his way up the stairs, Anakin caught a look of himself in the window, saw black vines curling around his neck, inviting someone to take a closer look.

It was better this way.

[sollannaart]

Hello, I've scrolled through your blog to make sure, this question wasn't asked before, but it would seem that it wasn't (though I could've missed it). Can I please ask you of prince Poniatowski's attitude towards Napoleon?

No, this question has not been asked yet, and thank you very much for sending it! It will be my please to write a answer to this.

Relationship between prince Józef Poniatowski and the emperor Napoleon Bonapart

I am sorry, this turned out to be a very long read, and on the topic a little bit wider than asked, so I had to specify the title and give the short answer for those who aren’t interested in details.

So in brief - Poniatowski respected Napoleon, but wasn’t a blind worshipper of the emperor. And in situations when in the balance there might have been Napoleon and Poland, and only one thing was to be chosen for prince Józef this one definitely would be his motherland.

Bronisław Gembarzewski, prince Józef and Napoleon

Emperor Napoleon, as all fans of the epoch knows, first arrived to Warsaw in December of 1806. But to start the long-read about relationship between the emperor and the prince properly we need make a step backwards, to understand what these two thought about each other on the moment of their first meeting.

Prince Józef, in comparison with many of his country men, participated in none of general Bonapart’s campaigns. What’s more - when the count of Provence, future king Louis XVIII resided in Warsaw in 1801-1804 he was an often visitor of Poniatowski’s palace. (So it may be said that before 1806 prince Józef was kind of a “royalist”.)

However, with Napoleon’s victory over Prussia and the emperor’s arrival to the former Polish lands chances of Poland rising from the dead skyrocketed! And prince Józef realized that he couldn’t have stayed away any longer, that if he wanted to participate in his motherland reappearing on the map of Europe he had to join the French.

As for Napoleon - in 1806 the emperor of Frenchmen didn’t have any warm feeling towards the nephew of the last king of Poland. One of the reason was that Claude Carloman de Rulhière, with whose book Histoire de l’anarchie de Pologne Napoleon had studied history of lands he was going conquer, wasn’t sympnathising the Poniatowski family. As other reasons there may be named a fact, that that time in French Army there were other Poles, whom the emperor knew better, like generals Jan Henryk Dąbrowski and Józef Zajączek.

Nevertheless, because when leaving Warsaw the Prussians kinda left the city “in charge” of Poniatowski, Napoleon had to meet prince Józef on entering the city. And from the data I was able to find it looks like the first meeting of the emperor and the prince happened on the 19th of December.

Prince Józef with Napoleon during the war campaign - drawing by Wacław Lipiński

With this image I am obliged to make a small digression. Napoleon, as recent investigation show, was not that short as he was thought to be because of English cartoons. Józef Poniatowski, on the other hand, was described by the contemporaries as a man of the middle height. So, in my opinion standing side-by-side these two must have looked like as people of the same height.

With the emperor so prejudiced against prince Józef, you may ask, how did it happen that less than a month later, on the 14th of January 1807, the latter was appointed as a Director of War? (In October of 1807, after the Duchy of Warsaw was created, Poniatowski’s post acquired the name of “Minister of War”.)

The answer is that behind the event there was a long and complicated intrigue, in which were involved such people as Joachim Murat (with whom, as you may remember, prince Józef quickly became friends) and Charles Maurice de Talleyrand, that time Foreign Minister of France. (As for the latter - his protection was asked by Pepi’s sister, Teresa Tyszkiewicz.)

And I can’t help but mention that Poniatowski’s nomination nevertheless had some advantages, because in comparison with his “rivals” he was a representative of the aristocracy, what might have provided support to Napoleon from the Polish high-society.

And speaking of high-society I can’t help touching a rather delicate topic, related with Napoleon’s love life, with which Poniatowski - in comparison with what is thought about him - had nothing to do. Yes, I mean the story of prince Józef (and other Polish dignitaries) supposedly forcing Maria Walewska to give in to the emperor in exchange for “Poland’s resurrection”.

SCREENSHOT FROM THE MOVIE “MARYSIA I NAPOLEON”. From left to right - Zdzisław Makłakiewicz as prince Józef, Gustaw Holoubek as Napoleon, Beata Tyszkiewicz as Maria Walewska, Ignacy Machowski as Duroc, Kazimierz Rudzki as Talleyrand, Juliusz Łuszczewski as Anastazy Walewski

Many people believe in it because it is written in so-called Walewska’s memoirs, but the investigations of Polish historians (like, fir example, Marian Brandys) prove that not everything might have happened like it was described in the memoirs. And prince Poniatowski’s involvement in the story is one of the facts. (The closest connection he might have had with this is that Mme Henriette de Vauban, his mistress, might have tried to influence Mme Walewska. But this is definitely a topic to continue in - if at all - a separate post.

So, let’s return to relationship between Poniatowski and Napoleon.

In 1809 the Duchy of Warsaw was attacked by the Austrians, and the Army of the Duchy showed its combat strength, winning the war and taking back from the enemy a huge a part of former Polish territories. The emperor was impressed by prince Józef’s inferiors’ performance, till such a degree that he awarded the latter with the highest imperial order of merit, the cross of the Legion of Honour.

But this was done “by proxy”, and the next, after year 1807, meeting of these two happened only in 1811 in Paris, where Poniatowski was invited to attend the christening of Napoleon’s son, the king of Rome.

Prince Józef arrived to Paris on the 23rd of April, and in the evening of that very day received an invitation from the emperor to appear next day in Saint Clou. What’s more, Poniatowski’s visit was to be happen at once, without an obliged advance as the ceremony of representation by the Saxon ambassador.

Prince Józef with Napoleon during the ceremonial audience at the Tuileries Palace - drawing by Maria Artwińska

And this is the image I like, because both - the prince and emperor - seem to have there the “correct” height!

Why was Napoleon so eager to see prince Józef? Well, at least because the latter brought with him news, which was dangerous to trust to paper. Namely - about planning Russian invasion of the Duchy and the tsar attempts to persuade the Polish Minister of War to switch sides and join the anti-napoleonic coalition. (Can’t help but mention there that Poniatowski revealed Napoleon mere facts, but not the names of the people communicating with him, in order not to put them in danger.)

And what about christening? Of course, prince Józef participated in the ceremony, and was even allowed to have an audience with the child-king. And, no doubts, there followed other court events, huntings, balls, etc. Old friend, Murat, and Poniatowski’s sister’s love interest, Talleyrand, introduced Pepi to the highest Parisian society. Also Pepi paid a visit to the ex-empress Josephine.

Prince Józef in conversation with Napoleon and the French Minister of Foreign Affairs, Talleyrand - drawing by Andrzej Zarzycki

And though initially prince Józef’s stay in the French capital was planned to be a couple of months, in fact it prolonged to four, till the emperor’s birthday. And leaving finally on the 27th of August Poniatowski received as a farewell gift a beautiful snuffbox planted with diamonds and a loan to… pay the debts of his sister Teresa.

And then there came the year 1812. Prince Józef was made the commander of the 5th Corps of the Grande Armée, and with the rest of the Army went to Russia.

However, above “The Polish corps” there was a commander not very competent and lucky, emperor’s younger brother Jérôme. And when it happened that the Russian Army under general Bagration managed to escape from the “second center” corps led by Jérôme, Napoleon blamed on this... prince Józef. 

In the battle of Smolensk, however, the Vth Corps managed to distinguish to such a degree, that together with its commander it was mentioned in a bulletin of the Grande Armée.

Jean-Charles Langlois, The Battle of Smolensk, 17th August 1812, detail

But after that battle there happened a very dramatic scene between the prince and the emperor. Because, as you might know, the city of Smolensk was the most eastern town ever belonged to Poland. So, if Napoleon’s goal was, as it had been proclaimed in the beginning of the war, to restore Poland, the Grande Armée should have stopped there, at Smolensk. Not to go further east.

And Poniatowski, as a witness of the scene, count Ostrowski, recalled, “begged Napoleon on his knees if not to direct the whole French Army to the south, to the former Polish lands, then at least to separated the Polish corps and send it along the Dnieper river, in the direction of Kiev...”

But emperor was implacable. 

What happened next we all know. The battle of Moscow, fire, retreat…

In December Napoleon left his army and speeded to Paris. Prince Józef returned to Warsaw, to rebuild “the Polish corps”, to reenforce the people left with new conscripts and to be ready to join with these people the emperor. When the latter comes with fresh forces, to fight the coalition back.

But the emperor of French didn’t hurry to return to the East of Europe. Failing to wait him Poniatowski had to leave Warsaw, going with his soldiers to Kraków. And was waiting here, for almost three month.

To no avail.

At the beginning of May all the territory of the Duchy of Warsaw, except Kraków, was occupied by Russians. A lot of Polish officers, acquaintances and even friends of prince Józef, resigned from the army. A lot of them were persuading the Polish commander-in-chief to follow, to join the anti-napoleonic coalition.

And… well, here I can’t write that Poniatowski rejected these propositions, all and at once. No, he was listening, thinking over… Asking for terms and thoroughly pondering on what would have been better for his motherland - to stay with France or not.

And on the night from the 6th to the 7th of May, on the eve of his 50th birthday the decision was made.

Prince Józef sees “the White Lady of the Poniatowski Family” on the night on 6/7 May 1813 in Krakow (drawing by Ludomir Ilinicz)

Having obtained no written guaranties from the other side, feeling that unconditional surrender - the only thing they were ready to accept from him - was not compatible with the soldier honor, the Polish Bayard decided to stay with Napoleon.

Although to make such a decision was for prince Józef extremely hard (especially if to take into account that he still had not got clear instructions from the emperor what to do). As Poniatowski confided next day to one of his colleagues that night thinking was so difficult to him that he even thought about shooting himself. Twice.

What is not proved - so this fact still stays a kind of legend - that that night prince Józef saw a ghost, the famous “White lady of Poniatowski family”. The fantom that was said to announce with its appearance very bad things to come…

And in 5 month there came… the battle of Leipzig.

Jean-Charles Langlois, The Battle of Leipzig (?)

This image is often signed as „the battle of Leipzig” though judging by the emperor’s, the prince’s and their horses’ poses I suppose it might be another version of “the battle of Smolensk”.

Of course, before Leipzig there was truce, then the battle of Dresden, then retreat and preparations. And in the beginning of the battle there was a moment when French victory still looked possible. But soon it turned out that it was an illusion.

And then the emperor… named general Poniatowski a marshal of France. Thus making him the only foreigner among that cream of French military elite.

Prince Józef Poniatowski receives the marshal baton, French engraving from the XIXth century

How did Poniatowski react to such a promotion? Did he become happy? Or, at least, glad?

No, not at all. (It looks like he felt that this appointment has more with his future attachment to France, than with military achievements.)

So prince Józef continued to call himself a general, sign documents according his old position. Furthermore, in the written explanation that Poniatowski sent to Warsaw it was stated that “if there was not war for Poland, no one would ever see him in uniform”. Which literally meant resignation. (In the very same letter, though, prince Józef announced that before leaving the army he had to escort Napoleon back to Paris.)

So, dear friends, who was interested in what might have happened with prince Józef had he not been killed at Leipzig - this is the answer. He would definitely retreat with Napoleon to Paris, than resigned and… here the certainty is a little bit less, but something tells me that he would have preferred exile to going back home. But I am not one hundred percent sure.

January Suchodolski, Napoleon and Józef Antoni Poniatowski at the Battle of Leipzig

And what about Napoleon? In his memories dictated on St. Helene he wrote that he should have made prince Józef the king of Poland (ha-ha, what would he have done if the latter rejected the crown?), regretted not doing this.

But what is, in my opinion, more interesting, is to learn what the ex-emperor thought on other Poniatowski-related topics? Did he regret blaming prince Józef for Jerome’s mistakes? Had he doubts on not listening the Polish commander’s pleas to take back former Polish land instead of going to Moscow?

Alas, I am afraid, this is a thing we’ll never know…